Chapter 303

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The battered and broken body slowly rose to its feet, limbs twisting at unnatural angles like a marionette manipulated by invisible strings into a grotesque form. Countless crimson threads swayed within Samuel's wounds like tendrils of seaweed, pulling and knitting his flesh back together. He smiled, as if untouched by the pain that should have accompanied such an ordeal.

Things had taken a turn for the worse. Lloyd's gaze was locked onto him. As a demon hunter, Lloyd knew well that their strength fluctuated with the rise of secret blood. Before reaching the critical threshold, where demonification begins, fatal wounds could still kill a hunter. For instance, if Lloyd were to be beheaded before his secret blood surged, it would be the end for him.

But when the secret blood boils over, infusing the body with forbidden power, conventional attacks become nearly useless. As long as a single breath remains, a hunter can push the secret blood to its limit and fully transform into a demon.

Samuel's secret blood hadn't yet reached that critical point, which was why fatal wounds still held him in check—a fact Lloyd had counted on. But it wasn't just that. Samuel had also invoked his authority, the same extraordinary gift granted to demon hunters when they draw their blades against one another.

"The Undying Yanar."

Lloyd murmured as the countless crimson threads thrashed wildly in the air like some unknown beast. Severing the head, piercing the heart—these methods could effectively end a demon hunter, demonified or not. But those of the Yanar faction were a different story, much like the Shanda branch, a highly specialized offshoot.

Raising his shotgun, Lloyd fired a scatter of rounds directly into Samuel's body. Yet, after revealing his authority, Samuel didn't even bother to dodge. The damage was inconsequential to him. The crimson threads writhed within his wounds, rapidly regenerating flesh and forcing out the embedded pellets.

This was the power of Yanar—unlike scorching flames, impenetrable armor, or glimpses of the near future. Yanar's strength was simple: the grotesque maximization of demonic vitality. No matter the injury, as long as there was even the faintest breath left, that overwhelming life force would restore them.

It was a power verging on immortality.

Lloyd's caution was well-founded. The terrifying vitality made it nearly impossible to kill them with mere heart-stabs or beheadings. Complete annihilation was the only solution.

"His Grace called it a power of honor."

Samuel stared at his now-healed hands, with only the remnants of crimson threads clinging to them. This was a power born of honor. The crisis of the Night of Sanctity was far beyond what the Medanzo hunters could contain. At the critical moment, the Yanar hunters arrived. With their immense vitality, even after succumbing to demonification, they remained difficult to kill.

The slaughter raged on within the Stagnant Sanctuary where sin had been born. Hunters battled demons, and when the demons were slain, they turned their blades on their demonified comrades. Many hunters fell, yet the Yanar hunters endured with their monstrous resilience, continuing the endless carnage. It wasn't until the last of the Yanar hunters finally succumbed that the nightmare truly ended.

Blades flashed, iron armor clashed, and blood splattered.

The spiked sword pierced Samuel's chest once again. As Lloyd drove it deeper, the crimson threads surged like wild vines from the wound, coiling around his sword. Simultaneously, the punctured flesh rapidly mended itself.

Samuel showed no intention of defending—because he knew Lloyd couldn't kill him.

Seething flames erupted, cleansing fire blazing on both their bodies, signaling that the secret blood was nearing its final surge.

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"The hunters..."

Shermans muttered under his breath as he watched the burning figures, seemingly lost in thought. Slowly, he reached for his flintlock pistol. He was a man of nostalgia, clinging to the memories of a golden age long past. The pistol in his hand was a relic from that time, an artifact of lethal craftsmanship adorned with elegant curves by master artisans.

But all those splendors faded with the passing of Lloyd Medici. Shermans could no longer witness those glories. All that remained was this outdated weapon, kept as a keepsake of better days.

"Jag, lend me a hand!"

After a brief moment of reminiscing, Shermans' face twisted into a snarl as he shouted at the paralyzed Jag. The once-devout elder was now a ghost of himself, his expression contorted into a demonic grimace.

Jag snapped out of his terror just enough to inch closer to Shermans. Like Shermans, Jag was a devout believer who had followed the elder even before their exile. If events hadn't taken such a grim turn, Shermans had once intended to groom Jag as his successor.

"My lord, we should flee while we still can!" Jag stammered in panic.

The battle between Lloyd and Samuel in the wine cellar had escalated to monstrous proportions. Both were nearly invincible creatures—Lloyd with his impenetrable armor and Samuel with his near-immortal body. Threads and flames intertwined, and if Lloyd hadn't deliberately confined the fight near the cellar doors, they would have been caught in the chaos long ago.

"Flee? Why would we flee?"

Shermans chuckled as he gazed at Jag, a gleam of insanity dancing in his eyes under the flickering firelight.

Straining, Shermans reached into his pocket and retrieved two finely crafted cylinders, storage containers of some sort.

"Help me load it."

He tossed the flintlock pistol over to Jag. Such weapons were notoriously slow and cumbersome to reload, which was why Shermans always carried gunpowder and lead shot with him.

In truth, the weapon was more like an ornate sword—an emblem of status. If the day ever came when a Cardinal like Shermans, surrounded by guards, had to personally fire his flintlock, that would likely mean the end was near.

Just like now.

"My lord, we still have time!"

Jag pleaded one last time, but Shermans only shook his head stubbornly. With no other choice, Jag obeyed.

As the battle raged, flames soared higher and the wine cellar grew stiflingly hot. Jag was drenched in sweat as he poured gunpowder down the barrel and prepared to load the lead shot. Just as he was about to push it down the muzzle, Shermans stopped him.

"Lead won't kill that thing. Use this."

Shermans opened the second cylinder. It had been a long time since he'd opened it—since fleeing from Florence, he'd carried it just in case, never expecting to actually use it.

"What is it?"

Jag took the cylinder and shook out a few strange, silvery bullets.

"The Cardinal's privilege," Shermans replied.

Jag didn't ask further. He simply followed Shermans' instructions, loading the eerie silver bullets into the muzzle, then used the rod beneath the barrel to push them deep into the chamber.

"Jagger, I'm done running."

Shermans spoke abruptly as he picked up the reloaded flintlock. It was only then that Jagger noticed the old man, leaning against the wall, had managed to stand up.

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