Pirate Phantom
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Chapter 45: Duel to the Death
🕑 Added 2025-07-29 21:03:19 +0000 UTCThe warrior clad entirely in menacing, pitch black armor an Abyss Bound clearly excelled in raw strength, his massive greatsword gripped in both hands and swung down with brutal force. Yet that overwhelming strike was parried head-on by the war axe of none other than Sister Dolores, the Steel Nun.
The collision between their weapons sent out a visible shockwave of white mist, cutting through the air like feathered blades!
Even the trembling air itself seemed to wail in protest at the sheer force of their clash.
“Hm?”
Dolores tilted her head slightly, eyeing her opponent with a curious look.
“You’re not evil,” she declared, voice calm but firm.
It was an astonishing statement. The man wrapped in abyssal power from head to toe, a classic picture of corruption, should’ve been a textbook case for an evil-aligned enemy. Yet the famed inquisitor, who could sniff out wickedness with terrifying clarity, stated otherwise.
"Why do you say that?"
The voice that rumbled from within the blackened armor was deep and low, its cadence unhurried. It seemed even he was intrigued by her declaration.
“If your heart were truly wicked, you wouldn’t have merely stepped back after that last clash,” Dolores said, lowering her axe and gently closing her Iron Scripture.
Sister Dolores was no mere soldier of faith. She was a walking inferno of divine judgment—the flame of salvation that burned all that was unclean. Her very presence was a bane to evil, and her axe, an extension of holy wrath.
But her power wasn’t blind. It required more than appearance or instinct to judge someone as evil. It was something deeper.
Her unique ability performed multiple checks upon an enemy’s soul—probing for deceit, cruelty, guilt. The darker the soul, the stronger the burning compulsion of her flame.
The more evil she faced, the more her Soulflame Will would rage, until either the enemy was destroyed—or she herself perished from the blaze.
“Maybe it’s because I still hold on to a noble ideal,” the black-armored warrior replied, a thin wisp of smoke curling out from the seam of his helm like a sneer.
“Such nobility,” Dolores murmured with a sigh, “cannot mask the sins you carry.”
The man before her was that rare kind of contradiction—an idealist who’d fallen to corruption. A martyr who still clung to the belief that his actions served something sacred. The world of Fractured had no shortage of such beings. They weren’t uncommon.
In fact, it was not rare for evil-aligned classes to shift into the good faction if their conviction was strong enough. And vice versa: many who started as virtuous would gradually drift into darkness by the weight of their actions.
But it was always easier to fall than to ascend.
“Let me redeem that hypocritical soul of yours.”
Redemption—by axe.
Sister Dolores flipped rapidly through her Iron Scripture, searching for a fitting verse for this apostate. The black-armored man, hearing this, couldn’t decide whether to admire her unshakable faith or resent her arrogance. Regardless, he had already made peace with his fate.
If it would serve the Kasath Reclamation Army, then so be it—even death.
The clashing plates of his heavy armor rang out like distant bells as he stepped forward.
He would kill Sister Dolores right here.
“My friend… how many years has it been?”
A voice called out to him. The man in black robes, leaning on a cane, had returned—silently taking his place beside the Abyss Bound. They now stood united, blocking the Steel Nun’s path.
Ever since they entered Torrent City, they had known this day would come.
Everything, for the lost glory of Kasath!
Clap!
Dolores snapped her Scripture shut.
She had found it—the perfect passage to send them off.
"To plead innocence wastes my light—
and thus, is a sin."
A voice echoed in the shadows:
“Moll, my most loyal and tender-hearted subordinate—do not stop. Fly forward like a falcon.
Remember, trust no one. The Root Serpents can only be entrusted to you.
We will enter the tomb of our ancestors ahead of you.
Live on and carry our sacred mission.
Return as a hero of the Sandborn, laden with honor.
Go now… go, with all our hopes.”
Through the shadowed corridors, Captain Moll darted forward like a beast possessed.
His face—a warped fusion of man and insect—was twisted in pain.
He had always been merciful.
As a Sandborn, he was born under the shadow of misfortune. Just like the Steel Nun had said—he detested the sacrifices demanded by the Kasath Reclamation Army.
But life rarely cares about what you want or don’t want to do.
Perhaps today would be his atonement—through death.
Yet even in the face of despair, Moll had finally made up his mind.
He would carry out the Sandborn’s dying wish.
Even if it meant death.
Even if many others would die along the way.
In the deepest recesses of the sewers, he finally came upon a Root Serpent. His grotesque features twisted into a vicious resolve. Without hesitation, he lunged.
Shhhhlk!!
In an instant, the undulating Root Serpent was torn to pieces—its body shredded by Moll’s insectoid limbs. His gnashing, erratic teeth tore into the creature’s skull, extracting something precious and swallowing it in one gulp.
A guttural, pained moan escaped his lips.
He faded once more into the darkness.
Only three Root Serpents remained.
As he darted toward the next junction, his thoughts drifted again… to the black-robed nun, Maria.
A strange sensation clawed at him—as if her gentle voice was whispering at his ear. As if they were destined enemies. He could feel it in his bones: unless she died by his hand, he would never be able to move forward.
If only—if only he had cast away his compassion the first time they met…
Would things have turned out differently?
Just then, a shockwave rippled through the concrete beneath him—almost throwing him out of his shadow-cloaked stealth!
And then came the explosion—so loud it drowned out all thought.
Streams of radiant fire surged through the sewer tunnels, twisting like dragons and boiling the foul waters. The holy fire of Sister Dolores was purging every inch of Abyssal filth in its path.
Meanwhile, the two Abyss Bound operatives combined their powers—summoning forth a monstrous avatar cloaked in jet-black flames. The creature loomed over the battlefield, at least five meters tall, its bestial armor brimming with berserker rage.
It charged straight at Sister Dolores, unleashing a frenzied assault fueled by desperation.
This was no longer just a skirmish.
This was a war on the scale of Silver-tier combat.
And with it, the battle for Torrent City—and the Abyssal plague known as the Root of Man—was finally reaching its crescendo.
