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The giant, crimson-boned skeleton hand trembled above the throne for a moment, its massive, eight-foot-wide palm radiating a malevolent aura. Then, without warning, its fingers curled into a loose fist and, with a sound like stone grinding against stone, it swung back.

Benneca's smile faltered.

BANG!

The hand slammed into her chest—not hard enough to kill her outright, but with a vicious, dismissive force. Her body flew off the throne like a ragdoll, crashing into the far wall with a heavy thud. Dust exploded from the ancient bricks, and she slid to the ground, coughing blood.

The hand didn't linger. Its red glow dimmed in an instant, and the moment its skeletal knuckles touched the ground, the entire monstrous limb dissolved into nothingness—fading as if it had never existed, leaving only a faint echo of power in the air.

Clark's eyes narrowed.

"That's my chance."

Before John could even blink, Clark was already charging forward, his sword flashing in the bloody torchlight. His boots pounded against the cracked marble floor, the echoes sharp and fast.

"Die, you bitch!" he roared. "You really thought I'd cooperate until the end?!"

Benneca staggered to her feet, her legs shaking from the backlash. Her once-flawless breathing was ragged, and her aura had noticeably dimmed.

Spirit Tree Realm, peak stage… but weaker now. Still dangerous.

Clark's blade came in with a horizontal slash aimed at her neck. She twisted her body at the last moment, the steel cutting a thin line of red across her collarbone instead of decapitating her.

Her hand shot down to her thigh, pulling a dagger from a hidden sheath. The small blade gleamed wickedly under the flickering light.

Clark didn't slow. He turned his slash into a fluid spin, swinging again from the opposite side. She stepped back, parrying with the dagger, sparks flying as steel clashed against steel.

Benneca struck first after the clash, lunging forward with a low stab aimed at Clark's abdomen. He knocked it aside with his sword hilt and countered with a thrust toward her face. She ducked, her hair brushing the blade's edge, then kicked him in the shin.

Clark grunted but didn't falter—he brought his sword down in an overhead strike. Benneca sidestepped, the tip of the sword missing her shoulder by inches, and slashed across his forearm. Blood welled, and Clark snarled.

"You're not as strong as before!" he taunted, pressing forward. "That backlash ate half your strength!"

"And yet," she hissed, her eyes glinting with cruel amusement, "you still can't kill me."

The two circled each other, blades twitching in small, controlled motions—feints and micro-adjustments, testing for openings.

Clark feinted left, then suddenly lunged right. Benneca reacted late, his blade grazing her ribs. She retaliated immediately, swiping her dagger in a diagonal slash that caught his cheek, leaving a thin red line.

Both fighters were bleeding now, their breaths quick and shallow.

John stood several paces away, sword in hand, watching the duel unfold. His grip tightened on the hilt.

Clark's losing too much ground. She's injured, but still faster… sharper.

Clark's voice broke his thoughts. "John! A little help here!"

John's jaw clenched.

Helping Clark now could tilt the fight, but… Benneca's earlier confidence still haunted him. She had walked into this trap knowing there was a risk, and even after the backlash, she didn't panic. What if she's hiding something? A trump card?

If he stepped in and she revealed it, he could end up dead alongside Clark.

No. Wait it out. Let them bleed each other dry.

But as Clark stumbled back from a particularly vicious slash to his thigh, John's chest tightened. He wasn't fond of Clark, but the man had stood by him earlier.

Damn it…

Benneca slashed again, her dagger missing Clark's throat by a hair's breadth.

Clark yelled, "If she kills me, you're next, John!"

John's knuckles turned white around his sword hilt. His feet shifted forward a fraction—then stopped.

And if I help you, maybe she kills us both.

Clark roared in frustration and attacked with renewed ferocity. His sword became a blur, forcing Benneca onto the defensive. She blocked and parried, her weakened state showing in the slight delay of her movements.

Sensing an opening, Clark feinted high and swept low, the blade slicing into her calf. She stumbled, her knee hitting the ground.

Clark grinned savagely and raised his sword for a killing blow.

Benneca's eyes narrowed. She twisted her torso, rolling to the side, the sword smashing into the stone floor where her head had been a moment before. Chunks of marble scattered.

She popped back to her feet, though her stance was lower now, more guarded. Her breathing was rough, but a strange gleam danced in her gaze.

"You're persistent," she said with a mocking tilt of her head.

"I'll be the last thing you see," Clark spat, lunging again.

Their blades met with a ringing clang, locking together. They strained against each other, faces inches apart, teeth bared.

John's gaze darted between them. His instincts screamed at him to move, to strike while they were locked, to end this with one clean thrust.

One move. That's all it would take.

But then he imagined Benneca turning that cruel smile on him, her hidden weapon flashing before he could react.

No. This isn't my fight… yet.

The deadlock broke when Benneca suddenly shifted her weight, letting Clark's strength push her backward just enough to disengage. She stepped away, panting, her dagger hanging loosely at her side.

Clark smirked, thinking she was done. "Tired already?"

Her free hand slipped into her robe.

John's eyes narrowed. What's she pulling—?

Benneca withdrew a small, unassuming silver bell no bigger than a clenched fist. It gleamed faintly in the red light, and the moment she held it up, John felt an unnatural pressure wash over the room.

Clark hesitated for a fraction of a second.

That was all she needed.

She shook the bell once.

DING.

The sound wasn't loud, but it hit like a wave inside their skulls. Clark froze mid-step, his eyes going wide, sword half-raised. His limbs twitched, but no movement followed—his body had betrayed him.

"You…" he growled through clenched teeth. "What… did you—"

Benneca didn't answer. She stepped in close, almost tenderly, and pressed the tip of her dagger against his chest.

"For thinking you could kill me," she whispered. "Die."

She drove the blade in, the steel sliding between ribs with a wet schlkk. Clark's breath hitched, then gurgled. Blood poured from his mouth.

She twisted the dagger once before pulling it free, letting him collapse to the ground.

John didn't move. He kept his sword raised, eyes locked on Benneca as she stood over Clark's body, chest heaving.

She wiped the dagger on her sleeve, the small silver bell still dangling from her fingers. Its faint metallic shine seemed almost alive.

When she looked at him, her smile was slow and deliberate.

"You made the right choice not to interfere," she said softly. "You might still be useful."

John didn't reply. His mind was still replaying the fight, the sound of the bell, Clark's frozen expression.

Useful… for now.

Benneca's chest rose and fell heavily, a faint trace of blood at the corner of her mouth from the backlash she had endured earlier. Her dagger was still in hand, but her eyes had shifted back to John. The crimson hue in them was sharp and commanding, even in her weakened state.

"Now," she said, her voice rough but dripping with authority, "you're going to use that cloning technique of yours… and we're going to recite the chant again."

John's gaze hardened, but he didn't move immediately. "You think I'll just—"

She stepped forward without hesitation, her dagger pressing lightly against his chest—not deep enough to pierce flesh, but enough that he could feel the cold bite of its edge. "If you try anything funny," she said in a low, lethal whisper, "I will carve your heart out before you can blink. I've lost one pawn already… I won't hesitate to replace him with a corpse."

Her tone was not theatrical—it was deadly certain.

John's sword hand itched, but his mind was already racing. In a fight, she might be weakened, but she wasn't crippled. And if she had other tools—like that small bell from earlier—then gambling here would be suicide.

She lowered the dagger slightly and smirked. "Help me, and I'll help you. You want to grow strong in the Blue Cauldron Sect? I can give you that. My aim is simple—I will become the head of the Silentsword family. When I do, I'll give you anything you want. Resources. Status. Women. Power."

John's eyes narrowed. "And I'm supposed to believe that?"

Benneca tilted her head, as if amused by his skepticism. "Believe it or don't. Either way, you'll help me… because right now, I'm the only one in this hall who can guarantee you leave it alive."

The unshakable confidence in her tone almost made it believable—but John had met enough cunning people to know she was likely wrapping truth and lies into the same silk thread. Even so, she wasn't wrong about one thing: at this moment, she held the advantage.

"…Fine," he said finally, his voice even.

She smiled faintly—coldly—and stepped back toward the throne. "Good. Summon your clone."

John breathed out slowly, drawing on his cultivation. Qi surged within him, and with a faint shimmer in the air, his clone materialized beside him—an identical copy, its expression neutral, eyes blank yet attentive to his will.

"Place it there," she instructed, pointing to a spot slightly off-center from her throne.

John obeyed without comment, his eyes flicking briefly to the throne itself. Even now, the carved black stone seemed to hum faintly with an unsettling energy, as though the skeleton hand from before had left a lingering stain in the air.

Benneca moved with poise, lowering herself into the throne once more. Her earlier exhaustion seemed hidden under a thin veil of pride and control. She crossed her legs elegantly, as she had before, her posture flawless despite the blood she'd coughed up minutes earlier.

She looked at him one last time. "Remember, don't stop mid-way. If you break the chant… I break you."

John met her gaze evenly, but said nothing. He already knew the risk.

Taking a slow breath, he began to chant—the same strange, two-line invocation they had performed earlier. His clone joined in, the unison of their voices creating an eerie, almost echoing effect in the hall.

The atmosphere shifted almost immediately. The torches flickered, casting longer shadows across the crimson-stained walls. The air thickened, heavy with that same suffocating presence from before.

The ground beneath the throne trembled faintly.

The red light returned—deeper this time, almost liquid in its hue. John didn't know where it came from, and he didn't care to. His mind was sharp, calculating, watching Benneca out of the corner of his eye in case she revealed any hidden move.

The chanting grew louder—John's own voice mixing with the flat, unwavering tone of his clone. The sound seemed to press against the very walls of the chamber.

And then—

From the black stone floor, the skeletal hand emerged again. Massive, easily towering over them, its crimson-tinted bones gleamed faintly in the red light. The air grew colder.

The hand hovered directly above Benneca's head. Its sheer size made her seem impossibly small beneath it, yet her expression was one of hungry anticipation, not fear.

John's grip on his sword tightened unconsciously, even though it remained at his side. His heart pounded—not from panic, but from the gnawing uncertainty of what might happen next.

The hand lowered slightly, its eight-foot palm casting a shadow that swallowed her entirely.

Benneca's lips curled into a faint smile as the red particles began to fall again—shimmering like drops of blood, staining the air around her.