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"Wha…" Crimson's voice faltered as his head turned in disbelief.

The teleportation talisman slipped from his trembling fingers, tumbling end over end before landing on the stone floor with a brittle clink.

His lips parted, coughing out a fresh stream of blood that dribbled down his chin, the coppery scent flooding the air.

And then his eyes went wide.

"You…!"

Standing behind him was John, alive, breathing, and wearing an expression that was cold as tempered steel. There was no hint of relief or triumph in his face, only grim resolve. His black sword was already buried deep through Crimson's chest, its edge glinting faintly with a wet sheen of blood.

"Killing me," John said, his voice low but cutting through the tension like a blade, "isn't that easy."

With a sharp twist of the sword, Crimson's body jerked forward violently. His knees buckled, and his breath came out in a ragged gasp. The strength seemed to pour out of him as though someone had pulled the plug from a basin of water. Blood bubbled in his mouth, and his gaze dropped, only to fixate on something that made his blood run colder than the steel in his chest.

The John whose corpse had slumped forward moments ago… was gone. It shimmered faintly, like mist under sunlight, before dissolving completely into the air. All that remained in its place was a single spatial bag lying on the ground.

"A clone…" Crimson wheezed, his voice hoarse. "Such a high-level one…" He coughed again, this time bringing up more blood, but even so, a crooked grin twisted his lips. "Hahaha… I underestimated you, boy! Hahaha…"

He threw his head back and let out a deranged laugh, the sound echoing through the hall like something out of a nightmare. His hand shot into his spatial bag, fumbling before pulling out a strip of dark paper laced with red ink and ancient symbols that seemed to writhe on their own. With a sudden movement, he slapped it against his own forehead.

"A devil possession talisman!" Clark's voice cracked with alarm, the recognition hitting him instantly. "John, step back!"

Benneca, who had been silently watching the events unfold with a predator's stillness, let her eyes linger on John. For the first time, a faint, almost imperceptible smile tugged at the corner of her lips. She sheathed her dagger and quietly stepped back, her gaze never leaving the scene.

Crimson's body began to tremble violently, steam pouring from every pore as if he were being boiled alive. The puddle of blood that had pooled beneath him began to writhe, reversing its flow and streaming back into his mouth in long, crimson strands.

John's frown deepened, and without hesitation, he lunged backward, giving himself space while his hand shot into his own bag. His fingers wrapped around the familiar hilt of the Silentsword. The moment it cleared its sheath, the blade seemed to hum with quiet malice.

Crimson's voice grew deeper, warped, as his feet left the ground. "Hahaha… This talisman will burn my life away, but not before I tear you apart, John!"

His skin flushed an unnatural crimson, thick veins bulging purple beneath the surface. His nails lengthened into black claws, his teeth sharpening into jagged points. The air itself thickened with a choking pressure, and a metallic tang coated John's tongue.

But before Crimson's transformation could complete, John acted.

"Soul Piercing Gaze!"

A beam of concentrated golden light shot from the center of John's forehead, its aim true and unwavering, striking directly at the talisman. The ancient paper sizzled violently, the symbols upon it writhing like dying snakes before bursting into a spray of ash.

"No...!" Crimson's scream was cut short as his levitating body dropped to the floor with a lifeless thud.

From his fallen form, a white, mist-like shape tore itself free, a ghostly spirit, its face warped in hatred, black eyes burning with malice. With a screeching hiss, it shot toward John, claws outstretched.

John didn't flinch. He simply shifted his focus, the golden beam of his Soul Piercing Gaze swiveling mid-air to intercept the creature. The moment it touched the light, the spirit's hiss rose to a shriek, its form boiling away into nothingness, leaving behind only a faint chill.

Silence claimed the chamber. The oppressive weight lifted, leaving only the faint crackle of burning talisman ash on the stone floor.

"Stupid…" Benneca's voice cut through the stillness like a cold blade. "He should have known that if your technique can burn talismans that have survived centuries, then a mere devil possession talisman would never work." She gave the corpse one last, dismissive glance before turning toward the looming doorway. Her boots echoed softly against the stone floor.

Clark's knuckles were white as he clenched his fists, his eyes fixed on Crimson's lifeless body. There was no satisfaction in his face, only a hard, simmering anger. Slowly, he turned to John, resting a firm hand on his shoulder.

"He deserved it," Clark said in a low, final tone.

John met his gaze and gave a single, short nod.

"Since you are one of us now," Benneca's monotonous voice floated back without her looking over her shoulder, "you can come with us… if you want." She began walking into the vast, shadow-filled hall, each step deliberate and unhurried.

John hesitated, his mind quickly weighing the pros and cons. Trusting her didn't feel wise—yet his curiosity burned hotter than his caution. Finally, he gave a slight nod.

Clark caught the gesture and smiled faintly before turning to follow. John took one last look at Crimson's crumpled form, then bent down and slipped the man's spatial bag from his side. He wasn't about to leave that behind.

The moment they stepped past the threshold, a deep, resonant boom echoed as the massive gates swung shut on their own. Dust drifted from the ceiling with the impact. A heartbeat later, rows of torches along the walls flared to life one by one, casting long, dancing shadows across the hall.

It was like walking into the court of some ancient, long-forgotten monarch. The air felt heavy, tinged with the faint scent of burning oil and something older—something metallic, almost like dried blood. The walls and floor were adorned in deep crimson tones that seemed to swallow the light, and high above, the vaulted ceiling glimmered faintly with gold-inlaid patterns. At the far end, raised on a dais, sat an enormous golden throne. Its polished surface gleamed beneath the torchlight… but it was empty.

The three of them stood in silence for a long moment, their eyes shifting from the sealed gates to the vacant throne.

John's voice broke the quiet. "What exactly is it you were looking for?"

Without answering, Benneca extended her hand slightly. "Give me the crown."

John reached into Crimson's spatial bag, pulled out the black crown, and tossed it toward her without ceremony. She caught it effortlessly.

Clark's eyes lit up the instant he saw it. He stepped forward, his tone sharp with urgency. "Benneca… give it to me."

She turned slowly, her gaze flat and emotionless, yet her words carried a cutting edge. "Pathetic. How could you possibly think I'd hand this over to you? You're not worthy of it. Only I can have it."

Clark's brows knitted into a deep frown. "What do you mean? The clan elder himself decreed that only a true blood should sit on that throne. Your mission was to get me to that throne."

Her lips curved into a faint, dangerous smile. "Shut up. I don't care about the clan's policies. Once I sit on that throne, they'll have no choice but to accept me."

Clark's face darkened. His voice rose in anger. "You! How dare you betray the Silentsword Clan? What is happening today? First Crimson, and now you? Have you all gone mad?"

"Just shut up and help me if you two don't wanna die by my hands," Benneca's voice cut through the hall like a blade, dripping with venom and certainty.

In one smooth motion, she pulled out her dagger, a cruel, curved thing with runes etched along the edge, the steel gleaming faintly in the torchlight. This time, she didn't bother to hide her strength. The air around her rippled violently as she released all the pressure of her cultivation.

Peak of Spirit Tree Realm.

A wave of oppressive force surged out from her body, making the torches flicker and the faint dust drifting in the air swirl violently as if caught in a storm.

Clark's eyes narrowed, his jaw tightening. The veins in his temples pulsed as he resisted the pressure. He had seen Benneca fight before, but never when she was truly serious. If she's willing to release her full cultivation here… she's ready to kill both of us.

John instinctively stepped back, boots scraping against the crimson-stained floor. His Silentsword materialized in his hand with a low hum, the blade trembling slightly, not from his grip, but as if sensing the killing intent saturating the room.

The atmosphere thickened, every breath harder than the last. In the dim torchlight, shadows stretched unnaturally across the hall, making Benneca's figure seem taller, more monstrous. Her eyes were locked on them with icy precision, her lips curved into a faint smile that didn't reach her eyes.

"You two are standing in my way," she said, her voice low but sharp enough to slice through the oppressive silence. "And I never let obstacles live."

Clark's fingers twitched near his storage ring, ready to draw his weapon, but he didn't move yet. His gaze flicked to John for a split second, silently asking if they were about to fight side-by-side—or against each other.

John tightened his grip on his sword, every instinct telling him that one wrong move would turn this tense standoff into a bloodbath.