Chapter : 1001
In her slender, elegant hands, she wielded a vicious, three-pronged harpoon, a weapon that seemed to be forged not from metal, but from a dark, black, and coral-like material that seemed to absorb the very light around it.
Her presence was a suffocating, crushing weight. She radiated a spiritual pressure so immense, so profound, so utterly, terrifyingly powerful, that it dwarfed the Monolith Bear, it dwarfed their own combined powers, it dwarfed everything they had ever known. It was a pressure that bordered on the King-Rank, a force of nature that had no right to exist in this spirit-sealed, god-forsaken land.
Her eyes, the same soulless, molten gold as her children, fixed on them. And from her beautiful, perfectly formed lips, a sound of pure, unadulterated, and heart-stopping fury erupted. A high-pitched, keening wail, a shriek of a grieving mother and a territorial queen, echoed through the valley, a sound that promised not just a battle, but an execution.
The true guardian had awoken. The true trial had just begun. And the hunt, they now knew with a cold, soul-crushing certainty, was far from over. It had just, in the most terrifying way imaginable, begun.
The Lamia’s wail was a physical entity, a concussive wave of sound and spiritual pressure that slammed into Lloyd and Rosa, threatening to shatter their very bones. It was the sound of a mother’s grief weaponized, of a queen’s rage given form. They were frozen, not by ice or by magic, but by a primal, instinctual terror that locked their muscles and stole the air from their lungs. This was not a predator; it was a force of nature, a primordial god of the mountain, and they had just desecrated its sanctuary.
The creature, her lament of fury subsiding into a low, menacing hiss that was somehow more terrifying, began to move. She did not slither across the vast, frozen expanse of the lake; she flowed, a river of iridescent scales and impossible grace. But her passage was not silent. The magnificent, miles-thick sheet of ice that Rosa had forged with the last of her power, the beautiful tomb of the serpent army, began to protest. With every fluid movement of the Lamia’s colossal tail, a network of deep, resonant cracks spiderwebbed across the surface, the sound a series of sharp, percussive reports like distant rifle fire. She was not just moving over Rosa’s greatest work; she was contemptuously destroying it, her very presence a declaration of the absolute, unbridgeable chasm in their power.
She reached the shore, her massive serpentine body flowing up the black, rocky slope of the caldera as if it were a gentle stream. Her iridescent scales, which had shimmered with a hundred colors in the pale light, made a soft, dry, and utterly horrifying sound against the volcanic rock, a sound like a thousand whispers promising death.
She stopped, a mere twenty feet from them, her colossal form coiling upon itself, her elegant, feminine torso rising to its full, terrifying height. She was a goddess of death, a beautiful, perfect, and utterly alien executioner, and her molten gold eyes, utterly devoid of soul or mercy, fixed upon them.
Her gaze was not one of pure, mindless rage. It was worse. It was a look of cold, analytical, and profound contempt. She was not seeing two warriors who had defeated her children. She was seeing two insects, two insignificant, warm-blooded pests who had blundered into her sacred garden and made a mess.
Lloyd’s mind, which had been paralyzed by the sheer, overwhelming force of her presence, rebooted into the cold, hard calculus of the soldier. The diplomatic gambit he had briefly, foolishly considered—appealing to her as a mother—died before it could even form. There was no mother here. There was only a queen, a predator, and a judge.
He saw the situation with a stark, brutal clarity. They could not outrun her. Her speed was a liquid, impossible thing. They could not fight her head-on. Her power was an ocean, and theirs were two small, flickering candles. Their only hope, their single, fragile, and almost certainly suicidal chance, was to do something so unexpected, so completely at odds with her narrative of them as helpless, pathetic prey, that it might, for a single, precious instant, create an opening.
He saw the subtle shift in her golden eyes as they moved from their faces down to the cluster of luminous, jade-green lotuses still clutched in his hand. Her beautiful, perfectly formed lips curled into a silent, venomous snarl.
She did not speak. She acted.
She raised her free hand, her fingers long, slender, and impossibly elegant. She made a single, sharp, beckoning gesture.
Chapter : 1002
In Lloyd’s hand, the Heavenly Jade Lotuses, the very prize they had fought and bled for, began to hum, to vibrate with a new and alien energy. The warm, life-giving light they radiated intensified, becoming a frantic, desperate pulse. They were not just flowers; they were a part of her, an extension of her will, and they were trying to answer their mistress’s call, trying to rip themselves free from his grasp.
He tightened his grip, his own Steel Blood power flaring to life in his hand, a dull, metallic hum that fought against the pull of the Lamia’s will. He was in a silent, desperate tug-of-war, not for a simple plant, but for the very key to their mission.
The Lamia’s eyes narrowed, a flicker of genuine, reptilian surprise in their golden depths. The insect was fighting back. The insignificant pest had the audacity to deny her.
She raised her other hand, the one that held the vicious, three-pronged harpoon forged from black, light-absorbing coral. She did not aim it at him. She aimed it at Rosa.
It was a brilliant, cruel, and perfectly logical tactical move. She had, in a single, silent instant, analyzed their dynamic, seen Rosa’s wound, identified her as the weaker of the two, and targeted her to force Lloyd to release his prize. She was not just a monster of overwhelming power; she was a cunning, intelligent, and utterly ruthless strategist.
The hunt, Lloyd realized with a cold, sinking certainty, was not a simple, straightforward execution. It was a game. And the Lamia, the beautiful, terrifying, and ancient queen of the mountain, was a grandmaster.
But so was he.
He knew he could not save Rosa and hold onto the Lotus. He had to make a choice. And in that split-second of impossible, agonizing decision, the soldier, the pragmatist, the man who had sacrificed pawns his entire life to win the war, made his move.
With a silent, inward curse, he opened his hand.
The Heavenly Jade Lotuses, freed from his grasp, shot through the air, a streak of glowing, green light, and settled gently into the Lamia’s waiting, elegant hand.
He had surrendered his prize. He had conceded the objective. He had, in the eyes of his enemy, utterly, completely, and pathetically capitulated.
The Lamia’s lips curled into a slow, cold, and triumphant smile. She had won. The insects had been taught their place. She looked from the reclaimed Lotuses in one hand to the harpoon in the other, her gaze settling once more on Rosa, her expression one of a predator deciding which piece of her meal to savor first.
And it was in this moment, this single, perfect moment of her arrogant, triumphant distraction, that Lloyd acted.
He had not just surrendered. He had created an opening.
He did not charge. He did not shout. He did not unleash a grand, flashy display of power. He made a single, quiet, and absolutely decisive move.
He took one, single, silent step. A [Void Step].
He did not move to attack the Lamia. He did not move to a more defensible position.
He moved to Rosa.
In the space between one heartbeat and the next, he was gone from his position and was now standing directly in front of her, his body a living, defiant, and utterly outmatched shield.
The Lamia’s triumphant smile froze on her face, replaced by a new, and far more dangerous, flicker of genuine, reptilian rage. The insect was not just defiant. It was noble. It was foolish. And it had just, with its final, pathetic act of selfless courage, sealed its own doom.
She raised her harpoon, her aim shifting from Rosa to the man who now stood before her. The game was over. The time for toying with her prey was done. The air grew thick, heavy, the very atoms seeming to scream in anticipation of the violence to come.
The true guardian of the Serpent’s Garden had been awoken. The true trial of Mount Monu had just begun. And the Lamia, the grieving mother, the avenging queen, the beautiful, terrible, and absolute god of this place, prepared to deliver her final, and utterly inescapable, judgment.