BOOM—!

A torrent of magic power blasted into Mephistopheles’s chest like a battering ram. The entire world seemed to reject his presence, trying to banish him back to his home plane!

Normally, an archdevil’s strength made resisting this level of banishment trivial.

But when that milky purifying light seeped into his flesh, probing at his soul, he stiffened in terror—he could feel his very spirit shudder!

For a moment, he couldn’t marshal the willpower to fend off the magic’s banishing effect, he had to fight with everything he had just to keep his soul from being wiped out.

"Ugh—Bastard!"

Forced to the brink, Mephistopheles—always the picture of elegance—couldn’t help but curse.

He realized: this was the same power that had erased Regolas’s soul, and it was so overpowering that even he couldn’t withstand it!

He had to get rid of Charles—now!

The archdevil lashed out at Charles, slamming a hand into his chest and chanting a note. A blast of crystalline frost erupted, smashing Charles and Theresa away!

It didn’t stop there—the freezing wind coiled around Charles, encasing him in a block of ice like a coffin, sealing him in solid.

This interrupted the force of purification’s onslaught on Mephistopheles’s soul—but it also left him no time to resist the Banishing Smite’s effect!

Behind him, a swirling vortex of magic formed, tugging Mephistopheles’s body relentlessly. He was trapped—he wouldn’t be able to escape for a full second!

But among legendary spellcasters, who would ever give an opponent a whole second to recover?

Across from him, Vajra’s pupils suddenly shrank.

This is it—an opening!

Not even glancing at Charles below, Vajra moved—

WHOOSH—

Blade of Disaster tore through the air. This time, Mephistopheles didn’t have the strength or focus left to defend himself.

SIZZLE—!

The terrifying rift carved straight through his chest. The devil’s eyes went wide—yet the real damage hadn’t even hit.

"Sunburst!"

Sunburst!

Vajra could cast it too—and through the legendary Blackstaff, her spell packed far more punch than any casting before!

Blinding radiance, as bright as high noon, lit up the entire city. From the tip of the Blackstaff, a blazing orb shot forward, slamming into Mephistopheles and exploding in a pillar of pure light.

BOOM—!

The deluge of burning light swallowed the archdevil whole. Already exiled by the world’s will and battered by mortals’ attacks, Mephistopheles couldn’t take any more. The vortex sucked him in, and in a blink, he was gone—no trace left.

It was over.

"Whew..."

Seeing her overwhelming foe erased at last, Vajra let out a long sigh, all the tension in her body easing. Only now did she glance toward the reckless young man who had, staring death in the face, dared to strike at Mephistopheles’s avatar.

Nigel Charles.

He was still sealed inside a block of ice, flung hard to the ground, eyes wide as saucers—a slightly comical sight.

But with a single look, Vajra could tell he wasn’t in serious danger.

Those ice crystals Mephistopheles conjured were lethal to the vulnerable—but to anyone who could survive being frozen solid, they weren’t just harmless, they could even be a benefit.

The extreme cold could essentially "pause" the life of anyone encased, halting thought, metabolism, even the aging process entirely—putting them into a kind of suspended animation until thawed.

So as long as it wasn’t smashed open, Charles could be left like that for a thousand years and he’d be unchanged.

Nearby, the beautiful girl in opulent nun’s robes was working a desperate Light spell, trying to melt the ice. But she was barely making any progress.

Looking at her lovely face, Vajra couldn’t help but muse: this priest has even more admirers than I thought.

Still, Vajra was not the type to pass judgment on someone else’s relationships—especially not someone who had just risked their life to help her.

She walked gracefully over and said, "That won’t do. Let me handle this."

Raising a hand, she silently chanted a new spell. A gentle red flame appeared, encasing the frozen block. The ice melted rapidly, and soon Charles was free, returning to consciousness.

"Ah—hah..."

He gasped for breath, shivering all over. Theresa hurriedly slipped out of her nun’s cloak and wrapped him in her arms, sharing her warmth.

Vajra quietly watched, heart moved by the honest affection between them.

Her gaze lingered on Theresa for a moment longer, then narrowed—something felt off. Or perhaps I’m imagining things, she thought. Maybe just a highly gifted warlock, not a witch...

She dismissed the doubt and said, "Lord Charles, on behalf of Blackstaff Tower, I thank you for your efforts in locating, confronting, and banishing Mephistopheles."

Still trembling, lips purple, Charles was so cold he barely cared about appearances; he dried his clothes with Create Water/Destroy Water magic and hugged Theresa close to warm up.

Hearing Vajra, he managed a stiff smile. "Just doing my job, Madam Vajra."

She remembered his brave attack on the archdevil’s avatar and couldn’t help but reflect: While a lot of today’s youth are presumptuously reckless, some are truly extraordinary.

Satisfied he was in no serious trouble, she nodded gently. "Looks like you’ll be fine. I’ll leave the cleanup to you."

She held herself to high standards—unless she was unconscious, she was always ready to work. By habit, she expected others to have the same stamina.

And with that, she vanished—teleporting away in a flash of light. After all, if an archdevil showed up here, there might be more threats lurking. She had to be on guard.

Watching her depart, Charles couldn’t help thinking, She really knows how to delegate...

But he was regaining strength by the minute. With Theresa’s help, he got up slowly and looked around.

The blaze was out—Vajra, multitasking even during the battle, had used Create Water to douse the flames. A steady night wind swept away the smoke, so at least the air wouldn’t choke people any longer.

He was just wondering about Sephera’s whereabouts when a clear, anxious voice rang out from the distance. "Countship—! Lord Charles—!"

He and Theresa turned, spotting Sephera running toward them, lugging a heavy figure in tow.

"Sephera!" Charles gave a relieved wave, and she hurried over, dropping the massive body and grabbing his other arm. "Master, are you alright?"

Only now, up close, did she allow herself the original endearing address.

Charles quickly assured her he was fine—then noticed who she’d been dragging along.

It was Ammalia Cassalanter.

The woman now lay on the ground, her makeup streaked with soot, frozen rigid and unable to move, glaring hatefully at the trio. Far from frightening, she actually looked a bit ridiculous.

Charles looked her over, then finally realized—"She can’t talk now?"

At his side, Sephera clung to his arm and said meekly, "Yes. She’s paralyzed from my poison. She can’t speak at all."

Her voice gained a note of pride. "She thought I was just an ordinary, helpless girl—went on and on slandering you, Master, right to my face."

"But the moment she tried to attack, she found her tongue seized up. She couldn’t say or cast a thing. Oh, you should’ve seen the look on her face—it was hilarious!"

Her mockery was utterly unrestrained. On the ground, Ammalia trembled with humiliation, grief, and rage, wishing she could bite her own tongue and die.

Charles narrowed his eyes at her, waited a moment, then shook his head.

Enough. She’s done for—there’s no point in wasting another second on her. My time is better spent with the living.

He looked around. "Sephera, are there any other survivors in the manor?"

"Don’t worry, Master!" Sephera said quickly. "While you were fighting, I evacuated everyone to safety—almost no one’s seriously hurt, though... well..."

She hesitated, and Charles felt a surge of foreboding. Lighting a spell, he glanced around—there were indeed several burned bodies lying amid the debris. No hope for those guards.

Charles frowned, looking mournful. "Still, some people died..."

Theresa glanced at the corpses, then turned to Sephera. "You knocked them out?"

Sephera lowered her head, sounding aggrieved. "While I was unconscious, some guards tried to get handsy..."

Charles pulled her closer. "It can’t be helped—they were in the wrong place at the wrong time, that’s all."

As they spoke, the Central Guard responsible for the South Harbor District finally arrived. It wasn’t that they were slow; it was just that beams of light piercing the sky, ten-meter ice walls, and firestorms were so far outside their experience they hadn’t dared intervene. All they’d managed was to call for backup and wait for things to calm before moving in.

Seeing new arrivals, Sephera quickly propped up the paralyzed Ammalia, pretending to be her helpful attendant.

Spears in hand, chainmail gleaming, the guards encircled Charles’s group. But once they saw his face, their expressions wavered— "Is that... Lord Charles?"

At this point, almost no one in Liberl Port didn’t recognize Charles. The nobles who oversaw the safety of Mithril District admired him deeply—many counted themselves as true fans.

A tall, middle-aged male warrior in crimson plate armor strode forward. Charles didn’t recognize the face, but the gear identified him as the Guard Captain responsible for order at Mithril Palace.

The man stared at Charles, shock flickering across his face. "Lord Charles, why are you here? Did you cause all this damage and uproar?"

Charles shook his head. "Not at all. I was only here for the banquet. My magic can’t cause that much chaos—this was all the Blackstaff Madam’s battle with a powerful devil."

"If you need the details, just wait for Blackstaff Tower’s official announcement tomorrow. It’ll all be clear then."

As he spoke, more guards streamed in, shouting their reports: they found burnt colleagues, discovered House Cassalanter’s master, even found traces of fiends.

The guard captain’s expression grew complicated as he looked at the paralyzed Ammalia in Sephera’s grip. He bowed to Charles: "Countship, my lord, it’s not that I doubt you, but this incident happened in Mithril District and with so many casualties, it’s beyond my authority to decide."

"So—I’m going to have to ask you and Ammalia Cassalanter to accompany me to the Mithril Palace and remain there until morning, when we can report to the Open Lord. After that, everything will be settled openly."

Translation: you’re being put on soft house arrest for the night.

Charles nodded, understanding it was the man’s duty. "That’s fine. Uh, is Ammalia Cassalanter coming with us?"

Sephera pressed down firmly on Ammalia’s head, forcing her to nod, then turned to Charles: "She’s agreed. Let’s go together."

Ammalia could only glare, her hatred burning as bright as ever—but paralyzed, she couldn’t even blink, making the scene look even more ridiculous.

The guard captain gave the once-mighty matriarch a slightly pitying look, then maintained his formal demeanor. "Come with me."

Charles, Theresa, and Sephera followed, heading for the palace district across from the Mithril Palace.

It was a massive, six-story castle nearly twenty meters tall, built in gleaming silver and surrounded by five magical watchtowers set in a pentagon, imposing, majestic, and unyielding.

This was the residence of the Open Lord—the safest place in all Liberl Port.

Looking up at the towering turrets, Charles couldn’t help but marvel. In the game, the background graphics never did justice to the awe and pressure of standing before this castle in person.

They entered alongside the captain. The interior was just as he remembered it as a player—immaculate white carpets, always attended by expert cleaners.

The captain arranged guest rooms for them and invited them to rest. Charles had no intention of stirring trouble, arranging Ammalia’s room next to theirs under Sephera’s watch, and collapsed into a familiar-yet-foreign soft bed for a night of quiet rest.

...

The next morning.

Charles awoke, washed up, and soon a maid knocked on his door: "Countship, my lord! The Open Lord is in the dining hall and invites everyone to join her for breakfast."

He replied, "Understood," then stepped out. Hattie and Sephera emerged at the same time. Exchanging glances, the three followed the maid to the dining hall.

Laeral Silverhand was already waiting. At home, she was dressed in a long, rose-purple silk nightgown, her feet resting in warm velvet slippers.

Except, at that moment, her feet weren’t even inside: bare, snow-white and crossed atop the slippers, her toes painted deep purple-red, her skin pale with a blush of pink, alluring and delicate.

Charles didn’t dare linger, quickly looking up at her face. Silver hair cascaded over her flawless, makeup-free features; long lashes veiled emerald eyes that shimmered with lazy, mysterious light.

~~~

Get early access to 360+ advanced Chapters on Patreon!

patreon.com/PokemonStoryWeaver

~~~