"!!!"
Gendry's breath suddenly hitched, as if someone were clutching his throat.
He stared blankly at Corleone, his eyes wide with extreme shock beneath his helmet; he even wondered if he was hallucinating due to blood loss.
Cut... Cut down Melisandre?
This book was first published on the entire network.
The woman who had shared intimacy with him, the first woman to break into his world when he was still ignorant?
Even though he knew it was deceit, that it was exploitation, but...
Seeing that Corleone's gaze was serious and cold, without the slightest hint of jest or humor, Gendry's heart felt as if it were being squeezed hard by an invisible hand.
He stiffly turned his head and looked at Melisandre once more.
It was only at this moment that he seemed to truly "see" her.
The woman in red, who was always calm and transcendent as if burning with some kind of flame—at this moment, deep within her usually indifferent crimson eyes, there was a slight flicker.
Her body still stood straight, but that absolute indifference that seemed to place her above all living beings had developed cracks.
"I..."
Gendry opened his mouth, but only a dry syllable came out; it felt as if his throat were blocked.
I'm just a blacksmith's apprentice!
His heart was screaming frantically.
He should have been in King's Landing, following his master Tobho Mott, sweating profusely in a spark-filled smithy, forging farm tools and repairing armor.
His greatest worries should have been nothing more than his master's scolding, an empty stomach, or perhaps some occasional arousal toward the bare-breasted women on the Street of Silk.
But the torrent of fate had swept him in without rhyme or reason.
The "protection" of the Brotherhood Without Banners had turned into betrayal in the blink of an eye; the Red Woman's eerie seduction and exploitation; the bloody battle of Dragonstone; this heavy antlered helm on his head; the warhammer in his hand stained with brains and bone fragments; and this cold, powerful, and unpredictable Sir Corleone before him.
All of this was too crazy, too heavy, far beyond what a blacksmith's apprentice could understand or endure.
Especially Melisandre... Gendry panted heavily as memories of that night surged up uncontrollably.
The strange fragrance in the dim stone chamber, the pale skin when the red robes fell, those crimson eyes so close they seemed capable of sucking out his soul, and that mixture of pain, shame, and an indescribable, completely controlled palpitation.
It was a powerful sensory impact he had never experienced before, as if he had completely detached from reality.
Even though he already knew it was a scam, a ritual to extract "King's Blood," how could the touch branded deep in his memory be easily erased?
He was to use this warhammer, which had just crushed Sangras's head, to smash that face, that body?
At this moment, Gendry only felt as if the hammer in his hand weighed a thousand pounds; his arms were so sore he couldn't lift them at all.
"It seems,"
"You haven't made up your mind."
Corleone's voice rang out again, very flat, yet it wore away the last trace of hope in Gendry's heart.
He shook his head slightly, and deep within those pitch-black eyes, a very clear flash of disappointment appeared.
Indeed, rotten wood cannot be carved; even in dragon robes, he doesn't look like a prince.
Even wearing this helm and holding a hammer, he was far from the young Robert Baratheon.
Seeing this, Gendry's heart felt as if it had been struck hard, suddenly tightening.
Although Corleone didn't say the words, the meaning conveyed by that look stung him more than any words could.
An inexplicable panic surged up; it seemed he was very afraid of being looked down upon by Corleone.
Why?
Gendry couldn't say for sure.
Perhaps because he had lost his father as a child and lacked guidance and recognition, crawling through the bottom of society alone, he had long been used to being ignored, exploited, and treated as a tool or a bargaining chip.
And while Corleone was strict, sometimes even cruel, he would teach him how to survive on the battlefield, tell him straightforward survival truths that were almost brutal, and step in to save him at critical moments.
In Gendry's life of wandering, Corleone was the first person to display great strength while also giving him guidance and having expectations of him.
Just like a father.
He didn't want to see disappointment in Corleone's eyes. Not even a little bit.
"No... Godfather!"
In his urgency, the title escaped his lips.
Gendry took a deep breath of the blood-scented air, his hands tightly gripping the sticky, blood-stained handle of the hammer, and said in a low voice: "I will do it!"
With that, he no longer hesitated, lifted the heavy warhammer, and turned to walk toward Melisandre.
The hammerhead dragged across the stone floor, making a dull sound of metal friction that was particularly jarring on the silent platform.
"Stop!"
A sharp shout suddenly rang out.
A knight with shattered armor but fanatical eyes suddenly rushed out from the crowd, spreading his arms to block Gendry's path.
He had a wound on his face so deep the bone was visible, and blood was flowing, but his eyes were frighteningly bright as he stared straight into Gendry's eyes beneath the antlered helm without fear.
"I don't know who you are, Ser, even though you wear the late King's armor and even though you just helped us repel the traitors!"
"But you are not allowed! Never allowed to do anything untoward to Lady Melisandre!"
The knight's voice was hoarse yet high-pitched; he puffed out his chest as if to block all threats with his body, stating with certainty: "She is the messenger sent by the Lord of Light!"
"She is the beacon leading us out of the darkness to face the Eternal Winter; her body carries the fire of the True God, and her words reveal the path to the future!"
"She is the one guiding His Majesty forward, her prayers give us the courage to fight; without her, we would have lost our way at the Blackwater Rush long ago; without her, how could His Majesty's banner of justice be held high in this foul world!!!"
The knight became more excited as he spoke, light burning in his eyes: "You can kill me, you can kill all of us!"
"But the messenger of the True God shall not be defiled by you; the fire of the Lord of Light will eventually purify all evil that dares to touch his apostle."
"If you want to do anything to her, then go through my corpse first..."
Whoosh—whoosh—
Before the knight could finish his words.
The warhammer whistled through the air; Gendry didn't waste any words and struck with a simple, horizontal swing!
The heavy hammerhead traced an arc full of violent aesthetics, slamming solidly into the side of the fanatic knight's helmet!
Bang!!!!
The knight's roar came to an abrupt halt.
The helmet caved in; he didn't even have time to make a sound before his limbs twitched twice and he became completely still.
From the gaps in the deformed helmet, red and white matter slowly seeped out.
Gendry didn't stop, dragging his warhammer as he stepped over the knight's corpse.
"Don't block the way."
An emotionless voice came from beneath the antlered helmet as he continued forward.
He finally reached Melisandre and stopped, his tall figure casting a shadow that completely enveloped the woman in red.
Silence fell over the platform.
Stannis's lips were tightly pursed, his hand holding his sword trembling slightly; everyone still alive held their breath.
Gendry looked up, staring through the slit in his visor at the face so close to him.
Those crimson eyes clearly reflected the image of his blood-stained antlered helm; at this moment, they were finally no longer as indifferent as before, filled with some inexplicable emotion.
It was as if only at this moment did her eyes truly contain him.
Gendry inexplicably had such a thought.
"Hah!"
He took a deep breath, with no nonsense.
The warhammer cut through the air, smashing straight down toward the top of Melisandre's head!
Melisandre didn't dodge, she didn't even blink.
Her gaze seemed to penetrate Gendry, penetrate the hammer, and look toward a much more distant place.
Her fiery red lips moved up and down silently at an extremely fast speed, like the vibration of a dying butterfly's wings, or perhaps like she was praying.
However, just as the hammer was barely an inch from the top of her head, it stopped abruptly.
The muscles in Gendry's arms tightened as he forcibly checked the downward swing, maintaining the posture and staring fixedly through the visor slit at the face right in front of him.
Melisandre's crimson eyes clearly reflected the hideous hammerhead suspended above her head.
Yet, strangely, the previous slight flicker caused by the threat of mortal death had now vanished without a trace.
In those eyes, what burned again was a nearly transparent calmness, like that of a martyr.
"Why don't you dodge?"
Gendry's voice came from under the visor, muffled.
He would have preferred her to scream, to struggle, even to try to seduce him with that eerie gaze again; anything was better than this absolute calmness, which was unsettling.
Hearing this, Melisandre's lips stopped moving.
She slowly raised her eyelids, her gaze finally seeming to focus on Gendry.
"Because I am not afraid."
"Why are you not afraid!"
Gendry growled, his hand holding the hammer trembling slightly, whether from exertion or from the other's irrational reaction.
However, facing his questioning, the corners of Melisandre's mouth actually curved upward slowly.
She smiled.
That smile was not mocking, nor was it despairing; it seemed more like the relief of having understood some grand truth.
The firelight danced on her face, making her smile look like those of prophets on murals who had learned of a divine oracle.
"Because, I have seen it."
"The shadows of the Long Night are gathering, faster than anyone expected; the cold tide of death will swallow the fields."
Her gaze seemed to pass through Gendry, pass through the terrace, and look toward the far north.
"But the fire never goes out."
"I see the dragon has three heads, flapping its wings in the ashes and smoke; I see ice and fire intertwined on the spindle of fate; the blood of the king and the lost wolf will meet again in the long darkness."
As she spoke, her voice suddenly rose, becoming very excited: "Light will eventually win the victory!"
"Though the path is winding and sacrifice is everywhere, the fire of the True God will surely dispel the eternal winter; this is my mission, my end, and also... a new beginning!"
These words were obscure and difficult to understand, yet they were filled with a heavy sense of destiny, causing every living person on the platform, including Stannis and Gerald, to feel an inexplicable palpitation.
This was not just her personal last words; it was more like a glimpse into the future fate of all Westeros.
Gendry listened, and the expression under his antlered helm went from anger to confusion, and finally became bitter.
He understood, yet he didn't seem to fully understand.
But he knew one thing, and that was that in her eyes, the brief, absurd physical entanglement between them had been based on deceit and exploitation from the start; it had never occupied even the slightest bit of space in her heart.
This woman had long ago dedicated everything to the Lord of Light, and he... was just a tool, a container that could be used to draw blood at any time.
So in your eyes... I was never there.
Perhaps it couldn't even be called hatred.
Suddenly, Gendry smiled, a smile hidden under his helmet that no one could see.
He slowly moved the hammer away from Melisandre's head, letting it hang by his side, and looked at those crimson eyes that had regained their luster, letting out a deep sigh of helplessness.
There seemed to be a hint of relief in that sigh.
Perhaps he was moved by that mysterious prophecy, or perhaps he simply couldn't harden his heart after all.
The remaining members of The Rear Party felt a spark of hope rekindle in their eyes.
However...
Just when everyone thought Gendry had given up.
Without warning, the heavy hammer swung upward from below!
Bang!!!
This strike slammed solidly into Melisandre's waist!
The fragile spine and internal organs were instantly subjected to a heavy blow!
"I will never..."
"Let my Godfather be disappointed again!!!"
Crack!
Accompanied by a roar, there was the clear sound of bones shattering.
Melisandre's body was as light as if it had no weight, like a red fallen leaf swept up by a gale, suddenly flying backward off the ground!
The distance she flew was much farther and faster than anyone else who had been hit by the warhammer before!
Boom!!!
Her back slammed heavily against the stone wall, and she even hung there for several seconds before slowly sliding down, collapsing at the base of the wall, leaving a striking bloodstain on the stone.
Melisandre lay on the ground, her red robes spread out messily beneath her, like a suddenly withered flower of flame.
Her body was twisted in an unnatural posture; obviously, that strike just now had shattered at least her spine and most of her ribs, and dark red blood began to seep from her mouth and nose.
Her crimson eyes were still open, staring at the pitch-black sky, her life force fading rapidly at a visible rate.
Only her lips were still twitching very slightly, as if trying to spit out one last syllable to complete that unfinished prayer.
Gendry was panting heavily, his heart churning with intense emotions.
But he didn't look at the dying woman in red again; he turned around, dragging his warhammer, and stepped over the blood and bone fragments on the ground one step at a time, walking back to Corleone.
Under the horrified gazes of everyone, the warrior in the antlered helm bowed and said devoutly: "I did it, Sir Corleone."
"As per your instructions."
Corleone looked at him, his black eyes still showing little emotion.
He reached out and gently patted Gendry's shoulder, much like a mentor praising him after a brilliant experiment in his past life: "You did very well, Gendry."
"You learn quickly; recognizing reality, cutting off burdens, and executing decisively—these are very excellent qualities."
Gendry's body shook slightly; he looked up, his eyes beneath the antlered helm meeting Corleone's, and he grinned.
However, Corleone's tone immediately shifted.
"But."
"I have to teach you one more thing."
Under Gendry's puzzled gaze, he began to walk slowly and unhurriedly toward where Melisandre had fallen.
"And that is..."
Corleone stopped a few steps in front of Melisandre, leaned over slightly, and carefully examined the seemingly lifeless body on the ground, saying each word clearly: "Before you are sure the enemy is truly dead, never, ever let your guard down!"
With that, he leaned over slightly and then did something that made everyone present feel their skin crawl...
Corleone actually grinned at the "corpse," showing a very warm smile.
"I'm right, aren't I, Lady Melisandre?"
As soon as these words were spoken, Stannis furrowed his brows, his eyes full of confusion.
Ser Gerard and the remaining knights looked at each other, their faces filled with disbelief.
What crazy talk was this man saying?
To be hit in the waist by such a warhammer and slammed into a stone wall—how could she not be dead?
Let alone a defenseless woman; even a knight in heavy armor, as strong as an ox, would have absolutely no chance of survival!
Hearing this, Gendry was also stunned, his eyes under his helmet looking at Corleone in confusion.
He had already done as instructed, using all his strength; the feeling of that strike had been real.
Could it be... not enough?
On the ground, Melisandre's body lay quietly; the blood flowing from her mouth and nose had already gathered into a small puddle, and her crimson eyes had completely lost focus, staring hollowly at the sky.
There was no reaction to Corleone's question, as if she really were just a corpse gradually cooling down.
Seeing this, Corleone raised an eyebrow and shook his head, as if talking to himself: "It seems I overthought it?"
But the actions of his hands were the exact opposite of his words.
Not only did he not sheathe his sword, but he also crouched down again.
Pfft.
The tip of the sword gently pierced a sensitive area on the inside of her forearm; the area was rich in nerves, and even someone who had fainted would produce an instinctive twitch when stimulated.
There was no reaction.
The arm was limp, without even the slightest tremor.
Corleone's gaze narrowed slightly as his wrist moved, the tip of his sword piercing toward another pain-sensitive point on the outer side of her lower leg.
Puchi.
Still no reaction.
Hoh~~~ She can really endure!
Corleone thought to himself, the interest in his eyes deepening.
This level of endurance had already exceeded the physiological limits of an ordinary person; even a specially trained death soldier wouldn't be able to achieve this.
Impressive!
However, it was said that the 'Unsullied' across the Narrow Sea would regularly drink something called 'Wine of Courage' from a young age to reduce their sensitivity to pain, with the sensation of pain weakening year by year.
It couldn't be ruled out that she had also drunk it.
While Corleone was enthusiastically conducting his experiment, Ser Gerard Gaul, who was by his side, finally couldn't help but speak up: "Even if this woman bewitched His Majesty and committed many sins, now that she is dead, please do not insult the remains any further, Ser!"
It wasn't that Ser Gerard was soft-hearted; after all, he had witnessed the disaster brought by Melisandre's fanaticism and had long wanted to kill her with a single strike.
But as a knight, the sight of this near-desecration of a 'female corpse' touched upon the deeply rooted principles in his heart.
However, Corleone turned a deaf ear to Gerald's words, his attention completely focused on Melisandre.
The sword tip roamed over other parts of her body—shoulders, flanks, thighs...
Every time it pierced, it landed precisely on nerves or acupoints that could trigger intense pain, as if he had returned to his previous life during an anatomy experiment.
He was truly curious about how much this seemingly fragile body could endure, or what secrets it was hiding.
"Please stop!"
Gerald watched as the sword tip pierced the lifeless body time and again, a mixture of anger and pity welling up in his heart.
"This is not the way of a knight; she has already paid the price!"
He took a step forward, attempting to stop what he saw as a meaningless and cruel act.
However, a blood-stained warhammer suddenly slammed down onto the ground in front of him.
The hammerhead sank deep into the cracks of the stone slabs, blocking Gerald's path.
"Don't move."
Gendry's voice came from beneath his helmet, sounding muffled and stubborn: "Sir Corleone has his reasons for doing this!"
Although he himself didn't fully understand why Corleone was treating a 'corpse' this way, the recent experience had already led him to form a near-blind trust in Corleone.
Corleone wouldn't do anything pointless. Since he insisted on doing this, there must be a necessary reason.
Gerald was first enraged; as a confidant of Stannis, when had he ever been blocked like this?
But when his gaze met the majestic and fearsome antlered helm on Gendry's head, he forced his anger back down.
Now was not the time for knightly rules.
Dragonstone was on the verge of falling, the King was heavily wounded, and they were surrounded by enemies. These two figures who had suddenly appeared, their allegiance unclear but their strength formidable, were the greatest variables.
He couldn't bring unpredictable risks to His Majesty because of a moment's impulse.
Gerald took a deep breath, stepped back half a pace, placed his hand on his sword hilt, and watched vigilantly, saying no more.
Seeing this, the other guards also fell silent.
The platform was deathly quiet, save for the faint 'puchi' sounds of the sword tip occasionally piercing flesh.
Corleone had been 'busy' for quite a while.
Dozens of small wounds had been added to Melisandre's red robes, and in some places, he had even used the sword tip to pry them open to check the condition beneath the skin.
But from beginning to end, the body showed no signs of life returning; there was no rise and fall of breath, no muscle spasms, and the pupils remained in a deathly dilated state.
Even Corleone himself began to waver. Was he really overthinking it?
Does the Lord of Light really not care about this woman?
Frowning, he was about to withdraw his sword and stand up when his gaze unconsciously swept over Melisandre's neck again.
Her red robes were already in disarray, revealing her pale neck and a small portion of her collarbone, white and prominent.
But Corleone was in no mood to admire it; instead, he looked at the necklace on her chest, ancient in style and set with a massive ruby.
Previously, due to bloodstains and the obstruction of her clothing, Corleone hadn't paid it special attention.
But under [Insight Lv3], Corleone discovered that this fiery red gem seemed to flicker with a faint light almost imperceptible to the naked eye, as if flames were flowing inside it.
With a thought, he withdrew his longsword.
Then, under everyone's confused gaze, he reached out his left hand toward Melisandre's chest.
Just as his fingers were an inch away from the gem.
Suddenly!
A fair and slender hand reached out from the side, tightly grabbing Corleone's wrist. Immediately after, a familiar voice sounded: "Don't... Ser."
As soon as these words were spoken, everyone on the terrace widened their eyes, looking at this eerie and terrifying scene in disbelief.
Even Stannis felt his scalp go numb.
She's... still alive?
Corleone looked up and saw Melisandre on the ground. Her red eyes, which had been hollow and vacant, were now staring at him solemnly. Deep in her pupils, the extinguished flames seemed to reignite, though they were somewhat weak.
But he wasn't as surprised as the others; instead, the corners of his mouth curled up slightly as he said teasingly: "You're quite close with Brother Light."
Melisandre's hand tightly gripped Corleone's wrist, and under everyone's horrified gaze, she stood up from the ground with poise.
She didn't bother to straighten her blood-soaked red robes, letting them hang in disarray, revealing more of her pale skin.
But eerily, her posture was upright and her breathing steady. Aside from her face still being pale, there was no sign of a dying person in her eyes; instead, they held a sliver of reignited, almost inhumanly cold divinity.
"I am the messenger of the Lord of Light, Ser."
Melisandre's voice regained some of its ethereal quality, echoing clearly on the terrace: "I do not need the protection of common steel and flesh, for my King's eternal flame will protect His servant."
"Secular force, swords, hammer blows, and even death itself... are but a few earthly thorns that must be crossed on the path to a higher mission."
These words were meant for Corleone, but even more so for all the remaining knights and soldiers on the platform.
The effect was immediate.
Those followers who had fallen into panic and confusion because Melisandre had been 'killed' now had eyes that instantly erupted with a light even more fanatical than before!
A miracle!
This is a true miracle!
To survive such heavy wounds—what is this if not the protection of the True God!
"Praise the Lord of Light!"
"Immortal! Lead us through the darkness!"
"The True God protects! Fire purifies everything!"
Excited shouts rose one after another. The remaining members of the Queen's Men seemed to forget their pain, their gazes toward Melisandre filled with fanaticism.
It was as if the existence of this woman itself was the firmest proof of their faith.
The shouts of the faithful seemed to grant Melisandre more intangible power. She slightly tilted her neck, her red eyes locking onto Corleone again, her voice carrying a condescending tone: "Ser, the victories and losses you and those behind you fret over are but children's games compared to the true war that is about to sweep the world."
"The ancient Great Other is gathering the power to annihilate everything in the heart of the Lands of Always Winter. The Long Night is no metaphor."
"When it truly descends, all the grudges of the Seven Kingdoms, all the crowns, all the laws, will be easily wiped away like an ant's nest."
She leaned forward slightly, her voice becoming more piercing and provocative, as if she were delivering a sermon to everyone: "We must all make a choice. Right here, right now, regardless of whether you are man or woman, old or young, flowing with noble blood or born from humble dust... the choice we face is essentially the same."
As she spoke, she spread her blood-stained hands: "Do we choose light, or darkness?"
"Do we choose justice, or evil?"
"Do we serve the True God, or bow to false gods?"
These words seemed to carry magic, burning the hearts of every survivor present.
Even Ser Gerard and the others, who were not part of the Queen's Men, couldn't help but hold their breath, looks of struggle appearing on their faces.
After all, the scene before them was just too impactful!
Finally, Melisandre slowly extended her open palm toward Corleone.
It was a gesture of invitation. Her fair fingers were still stained with her own blood, yet they seemed to carry a holy shimmer.
"Join the light, Ser."
"Your strength, your wisdom—they should not be wasted in children's games. Contribute your power to the true war, find purification and eternal life in the flames. The Lord of Light needs all warriors willing to resist the darkness."
Her gaze was focused and persuasive, as if she could already see Corleone fighting under the banner of flame.
On the platform, everyone's eyes were focused on Corleone, waiting for his answer.
However, under the tense gaze of the crowd, Corleone suddenly laughed.
He didn't take that hand.
Instead, his fingers shot out rapidly, clamping tightly onto Melisandre's slender neck!
The force was so great that her pale skin instantly turned red, and her throat made a faint rattling sound.
At the same time, his left hand had already gripped the necklace on her chest, ready to tear it off with just a little more force!
This sudden violent reversal left everyone's minds blank.
"Speak," Corleone's voice was terrifyingly calm.
Speak?
Speak what?
Melisandre's red eyes were filled with confusion.
She had anticipated he might refuse, perhaps requiring a debate, but she had never expected Corleone to be so direct and brutal.
"About your prophecy."
Corleone leaned in closer, the distance between them so small they could feel each other's breath. His cold eyes pierced into the depths of Melisandre's: "I'm curious."
"That messy stuff you see in the flames... is there anything about me?"
Melisandre was completely stunned.
She had seen countless attitudes toward prophecy—Stannis was skeptical, Selyse was fanatically submissive, and the believers were worshipful...
But she had never seen someone like Corleone.
He was asking her for a prophecy, not as a prayer or a trade, but so matter-of-factly, as if he completely lacked the basic reverence one should have for the mystical.
"Speak."
Corleone applied pressure to both her neck and the gem simultaneously: "Or I'll tear this thing off."
"I'm curious to see if you can still stand up so 'miraculously' without it."
At these words, Melisandre found it increasingly difficult to breathe. That gem... it was the core of her power, her window into the flames. In some ways, it was even more important than her life.
She gritted her teeth. Under the fear of being threatened, her pupils began to dilate uncontrollably, her red eyes reflecting the remaining firelight on the platform.
"I... see it."
""
"Ice and fire intertwine in the Long Night, a cold wave sweeps across the fields, and dragons cry out in vain under a frozen sky."
""
Her description was urgent, revealing some details from the previous prophecy that hadn't been voiced.
"The powers of ice and fire clash to the extreme, about to decide the outcome, determining whether the world falls or is redeemed..."
""
Suddenly, her eyes widened as if she saw something extremely terrifying, her tone abruptly becoming hurried and suspicious: "No... this... this is impossible!!!"
"Ice and fire, light and dark."
"Everything is shrouded by a palm reaching out from the darkness, My King!!!"
"Aaaagh!!"
Melisandre suddenly let out a shrill scream. She stared fixedly at Corleone, who was inches away, pointing a trembling finger at him as if she had seen some unacceptable, horrifying truth.
Her words were a mess, but it seemed as if something she firmly believed in had cracked.
Listening to her chaotic screams, Corleone's brow furrowed sharply.
What is this woman saying?
A hand in the darkness?
Is she talking about me?
Just as he was completely baffled, Corleone's heart suddenly skipped a beat!
He seemed to see, through Melisandre's red eyes, a massive eye composed of the purest void, floating in an endless abyss, slowly turning and then casting its gaze... upon him!
That gaze held no emotion, as if it were merely watching him.
Woni-ma!!!
Corleone's back was instantly soaked in cold sweat!
It was as if an instinct from the deepest part of his life was frantically jumping!
Danger!
Without any hesitation, driven almost entirely by instinct.
Puchi!
He violently tore off the necklace while simultaneously drawing his sword, piercing Melisandre's chest without warning!
Then he twisted his wrist, completely shredding everything that might remain in her chest cavity!
"Aaaah!"
The ruby necklace torn from her neck suddenly became scalding hot in Corleone's hand. The red light flashed violently for an instant and then quickly dimmed.
And Melisandre's body underwent a terrifying change visible to the naked eye.
Her smooth skin quickly lost its luster, becoming covered in deep wrinkles. Her long black hair turned grey and brittle, and her upright body hunched and shriveled.
It was as if she had completed several decades of aging in just a few seconds.
Finally, this aged and frail body slid from the tip of Corleone's sword like burnt ash, collapsing to the ground. It then began to shatter and weather away piece by piece, turning into a pile of lifeless grey dust, with only the tattered red robes still barely maintaining a human shape over it.
Only a hoarse voice seemed to drift from that pile of ash, lingering on the terrace for a long time: "Black hand... the hand in the darkness..."
""
After a long while.
Corleone finally exhaled a breath of turbid air and loosened his grip on the sword hilt.
He casually tossed the ruby necklace, which had become cold and lost its luster, into a nearby brazier that was still burning.
The flames licked at the gem, making a faint popping sound, with no further anomalies.
He turned around, his face having regained its usual calm, though deep in his eyes, a trace of almost imperceptible shock remained.
He hadn't pressured Melisandre out of religious curiosity, but to obtain some information.
But he hadn't expected...
Taking a deep breath, he looked at Gendry, who was standing there in a daze. The boy clearly hadn't recovered from the series of unimaginable events.
Or rather, Melisandre's appearance before she died—looking like aged, withered bones in a tomb—had left a psychological shadow on Gendry.
But none of that mattered.
Corleone casually patted his armor as if dusting it off, and spoke flatly: "Now, she's dead."
"Lesson over."