Hastur subtly rotated the sword hidden inside his staff, tilting its tip. If she dared to pounce directly, he would let her understand what true bone-deep coldness meant.
"Such a handsome face. I wonder how many innocent young girls you'll ruin in the future. Perhaps I should kill you now, so no naïve maiden ends up heartbroken because of you."
Her voice was still dripping with seduction. Words that should have sounded like threats and murderous intent came out soft and sultry from her lips, gaining an alluring charm.
Wisps of temptation that scratched at the bones, tugging at the heart.
Hastur's evaluation of this was: Not bad. She has a bit of that ghost-story fox spirit charm. But still too raw, she needs more practice.
If it had been Saintess of White, Katarina, her charm would never be so blatant. She would simply talk to you normally, and before you even realized it, both your body and soul would belong to her.
"You want to kill me? With what? Your beauty or your body?"
Hastur's calm tone carried a touch of disdain, making Molaka, lying against the ceiling, curl her lips into a cold smile.
She slightly shifted her posture, eyes fixed on the unguarded back of Hastur's neck.
All she needed was a close approach, and her nails could pierce his skin, tear open his muscles, and with just a bit of force, snap his neck.
Of course, before he completely stopped breathing, she didn't mind giving him a bloody kiss.
Originally, she had only come to take a look. But when she truly saw this Baron Hastur Campbell, jealousy surged uncontrollably inside her.
It felt like her entire body was being burned alive.
So she changed her mind. She wanted to kill this young and handsome noble, and dig out his heart!
If she brought that heart as a "gift," what kind of scene would that be?
But just as she was about to act, a fierce sense of foreboding erupted in her heart, danger.
It was as if that supposedly defenceless prey below was actually holding a vast net open, waiting for her to leap into it.
She decided to be cautious. "I'm feeling a little shy. Could you turn off the lights first?"
"Sure." With that response, the lights went out, and the room once again fell into darkness.
But this level of darkness was pointless for a witch who used to be an assassin.
"You lie down on the bed first. I'll come find you, and take you into a world of pleasure."
With a flip of her right wrist, a two-finger-wide dagger appeared. With a weapon, she could ensure that she slit the prey's throat within an instant, skin, flesh, and bone all severed cleanly.
"You talk too much. Are you here to seduce me into bed, or chat about life in the middle of the night?"
The crude remark stunned Molaka for a moment, and then anger flared!
She no longer waited or hesitated. Her body drifted down like a falling leaf, waist twisting mid-air. Her dagger flashed, slicing toward Hastur's throat.
Pfft! The sound of flesh being pierced.
But it wasn't her dagger cutting the prey's throat. It was the prey's sword, stabbing straight through her abdomen.
Then the blade twisted inside her, ripping apart her internal organs.
"Ah!"
A scream burst out involuntarily. She pulled away, leaping back into the shadows, diving out the window, landing lightly on the grass like a falling leaf.
Clutching her abdomen with her left hand, ice spread from her palm, sealing the wound to prevent blood loss.
Molaka gasped rapidly, not daring to stay another second. She sprinted down the street.
From the window above, Hastur watched her fleeing form. He didn't jump out.
With his body size, if he tried to jump through the window, the stained-glass panes would shatter again, and that cost money.
Besides, even with physical speed, he couldn't outrun this unknown Beyonder from the Witch Sect. A pathway of assassins known for agility.
Having confirmed her escape path, Hastur closed the window, returned to bed, let his spirit leave his body, took the War Emblem, and pursued.
In the dark alleyways, Molaka fled like a stray dog, merging into the shadows, moving fast.
The harsh wind howled past her ears as she finally regained a bit of calm.
She couldn't understand why her meticulously prepared assassination failed, why he stabbed her first.
He shouldn't have been able to see her position.
This was the invisibility unique to a Sequence 7 Witch. How could it just… fail?
She couldn't figure it out.
After running a long distance, Molaka looked back. Seeing no pursuit, she let out a breath and slowed down.
She glanced at her abdomen, ice was melting, blood mixed with water dripping down, dying her black lace dress red.
It was her favorite dress. She wore it tonight for a special occasion. Now it was ruined.
She stared at it, dipped her fingers into the blood, rubbed it in a circle, and tasted it.
A little sweet, but mostly metallic and foul. She didn't like it. She only liked sweet blood.
After calming herself, she re-froze her wound. She would treat it once she got home.
…No. Not her home. Her "dear sister's" home.
Let her see how much pain she had endured for her. Would she feel distressed… or only ridicule her?
"What an interesting question." Molaka changed direction, walking with unsteady steps.
After only a few steps, sheer terror and despair overwhelmed her.
Instinctively, she rolled across the filthy ground, just as a massive golden greatsword slashed down where she had stood!
If she hadn't dodged, that sword would have bisected her proud body.
Had Hastur Campbell chased her down?
She hadn't even found him yet when the golden sword turned mid-air, chopping toward her again!
She had nowhere to run. She closed her eyes and accepted her fate.
"Heh. Interesting."
A familiar voice sounded beside her. Molaka opened her eyes.
The golden great sword was gone. Someone held her in their arms.
She didn't need to look up. Only one person in Backlund could arrive in time and save her.
Her mother.
Molaka felt her chin being grabbed and forced up. A face similar to hers appeared, almost identical to her sister's.
"You are useless." The tone was full of disgust, eyes devoid of emotion.
Molaka's anger surged. "Heh, I never begged you to save me."
Smack!
A slap sent her crashing into the muddy ground, her treasured red gown now filthy with sludge and dirty water.
"If you weren't my daughter, you'd have died countless times already. And you dare act defiant in front of me?"
Molaka wiped the blood from her lips, got up silently, and walked ahead without a word.
"Childish resistance." The voice behind her didn't stop her steps.
"Who did you offend tonight?"
"You actually care?"
"To avoid my avatar's pursuit, that wasn't an ordinary Beyonder."
Molaka remained silent for a long moment before answering slowly:
"A noble. Baron Hastur Campbell." Back in the room, Hastur's spirit returned from the Hall of Stars and merged into his body.
"Whew… that was close." Sitting up, Hastur wiped the cold sweat from his forehead.
Just as he was about to finish off the witch, his spirituality sounded a violent alarm. Without hesitation, he vanished from the spot.
A phantom figure emerged from the witch's body and chased after his spirit relentlessly.
To escape, he severed the connection and returned via the Hall of Stars.
He exhaled in relief. Thankfully, he had chosen to pursue in spirit form. Otherwise, he wouldn't have escaped safely.
The newcomer was at least a Sequence 4 demigod.
And not Saintess Katarina, another Beyonder from the Witch Cult.
Possibly even a Sequence 3 powerhouse.
She had clearly left a protective measure on the witch, allowing her to travel across the spirit world and arrive instantly.
"Sigh, must be nice to have someone watching your back."
Hastur sighed. It was a pity he hadn't killed the witch. She practically delivered herself.
"Blessing in disguise. If I killed her at home, that powerhouse would definitely track me down. That'd be dangerous."
This situation wasn't good, but not the worst either.
For now, he needed Will's protection.
After thinking for a while, Hastur went to the study, took down the string of wind chimes, brought them to his bedroom, and hung them by the window.
Before, he didn't want Will peeking at him while he slept. Now, he no longer cared.
He also took out a paper crane, glanced at the time, just past four a.m.