Chapter 96: The Wrath Of The Assassin Maid!

With her breakthrough, the world bent to her will. Her speed almost doubled her original level —she blurred like a streak of vengeance wrapped in lightning.

Before the gateman could blink, Lola was gone.

Before he could react—she was everywhere.

In Circles...

She ran circles around him—her whip dancing like a divine noose. In a blink, it had curled around his neck, slithering like judgment incarnate.

Then—

ZAAAAAAAP!

She unleashed the full fury of her whip's electric core—

Thunder surged.

Lightning screamed.

And the gateman's body convulsed, his limbs jerking in wild, inhuman spasms as smoke began to rise from every pore.

He opened his mouth to scream—

But sound failed him.

His voice disintegrated.

Lola's eyes held no pity.

With brutal precision, she spun, a mid-air side somersault, using her full strength to land a devastating kick into his ribs.

CRACK.

The sound was like stone splitting.

The gateman flew like a ragdoll flung from heaven's gates, slamming into the wall so hard the brickwork buckled.

He dropped like a stone.

Coughing. Trembling. Dying.

Lola stepped forward—her boots carving grooves into the ash of the fallen.

"I told you…"

Her voice was low, sharp as a blade unsheathed under moonlight.

She walked, slowly. Purposefully. Each step like a funeral drum.

"I will make the last seconds…"

Step.

"Of your miserable life…"

Step.

"Feel like a century…"

Step.

"In hell."

She reached down—her whip still tightly coiled around the man's scorched neck—then yanked him closer like a lamb before the slaughter.

"Now," she whispered, her face inches from his, the thunder still crackling in her palm,

"It's time I reunite you with the devil."

The gateman gasped—eyes wide with the clarity of a man staring at his grave.

He tried to speak, but coughed up blood first, then the words stumbled out like loose teeth.

"Please... don't kill me… I—I can help you! I know a way out! A hidden path… a shortcut through the swamp the Golden Toad can't trace! I swear... I swear on my life—"

He realized the irony.

There wasn't much left of it.

He reached a trembling hand forward, hoping pity still existed somewhere behind that mask.

But Lola didn't move.

Her hand tightened on the whip.

Her eyes didn't flinch.

And the air around her crackled with a single unspoken question:

Would she show mercy?

Or was justice already decided?

Unfortunately for him, the moment he'd decided to kill those innocent prisoners,

when he turned a rescue into a blood sport,

when he laughed at the death of a child—

he sealed his fate.

Lola had already marked him for death.

There would be no deals.

No shortcuts.

No bargaining.

Just judgment.

Without so much as a flicker of hesitation—

Without a breath wasted—

she yanked the whip.

A violent, fluid pull—charged with the raw strength of her breakthrough,

a strength now coursing through every limb like fire in her veins.

SNAP!

The whip sang through the air,

and the man's head—once filled with filth, cruelty, and twisted desires—

was ripped from his body like rotten fruit from a dying tree.

It soared—graceful and grotesque—spinning like a bloodied comet.

Up into the sky.

Past the smoke, past the cries, past the flickering sunlight.

Until it vanished into the horizon with a final, haunting arc.

Silence.

The prisoners stood stunned—

and then, slowly…

a wave of cheers erupted.

Not loud at first.

Just a whisper of relief,

a soft murmur of justice,

that grew into a full-blown roar of gratitude.

Many of them had thought—just for a moment—that Lola might listen.

That she might choose caution.

That she might ask about the hidden passage and let him live.

But she didn't.

And because she didn't,

their hearts lifted with something they hadn't felt in a long, long time—

trust.

She didn't hesitate.

She didn't play god.

She avenged them.

Their pain, their losses, their dead—had been answered.

"She didn't even flinch," one of the former captives whispered in awe.

"She's more than a general," another said. "She's our reckoning."

And still, Lola said nothing.

She turned—slowly—her whip dripping sparks and silence.

At her side, Ralia Amia followed, equally quiet.

They didn't need to speak.

Lola's silence was thunder in disguise.

Every step she took forward now was a message.

To the Golden Toad.

To every twisted cultist still breathing in that cursed swamp.

To the empire beyond.

Justice is coming.

And it wears a lightning whip.

And a storm behind its eyes.

------------------------------------------

While Lola was rescuing prisoners and pressing forward with Ralia Amia, the battle outside had transformed the Ruma swamp base into a battlefield of legends.

Josh Aratat and the Golden Toad—Xerm—had torn through walls, shattered sigils, and obliterated floors. The once-mighty inner sanctum was now a landscape of ruin and debris, with fires dancing on broken altars, collapsed columns groaning under their own weight, and magic still crackling violently in the air like trapped thunder.

Everywhere had been blown apart.

The ruins were now just scattered bones of the old fortress—

and the war of wills was far from over.

Xerm panted heavily in his human form, bruised and bloodied, one eye swollen shut. He spat gold-tinged phlegm onto the cracked stone as he leaned against a half-toppled arcane pillar.

His breathing was ragged—not from weakness, but from unanswered questions.

He looked across the battlefield, eyes narrowing at the lone figure standing amidst the chaos.

Josh Aratat.

Sword in hand. Hair damp with sweat. Shirt torn at the shoulder. A lone storm, unwavering, focused, powerful. A figure so calm in his destruction that even silence seemed to fear him.

"Who… are you really?" Xerm snarled.

He wiped blood from his lip and straightened.

His voice turned curious, almost amused.

"If you had that golden staff… I'd think you were the one everyone fears—the Black Dragon, that relentless scourge of the north. But you're not him, are you?"

"No. You move differently… you burn differently."

Xerm's eyes gleamed with suspicion, then fascination.

"So tell me… are you his shadow? Or his successor?"

But Josh didn't speak.

He didn't even blink.

To him, this was a pathetic attempt to buy time… or lure him into a slip.

He'd seen this tactic before—talking through pain, baiting the ego, fishing for information through flattery. Xerm wanted to hear his voice, to weaken his resolve.

But Josh wasn't biting.

Instead, he took a step forward—quiet, unshaken. His sword buzzed faintly, humming with Kingly Aura, the magic that now coursed more violently than ever through his limbs.

The Kingly Awareness Skill was fully active.

And within that 50-meter radius, nothing escaped him.

Xerm shifted forms again.

One blink—toad.

Another—man.

Back to toad.

The flickering was dizzying, a disturbing strobe of flesh and slime. But Josh read every shift. Anticipated every twitch. As if he'd been born for this fight.

The air around them rippled with heat, tension, and exhaustion.

Josh was sweating profusely, his brows furrowed as a bruise darkened his jaw and thin scratches lined his left arm.

But he smiled.

This was the kind of battle that awakened something deeper.

Every strike pushed him further.

Every moment of pain made his strength sharpen.

This wasn't just combat. It was refinement.

He welcomed it.

Across the broken sanctum, Xerm began another chant, something ancient.

A summoning?

Josh's sword flared with light.

He had one phrase flickering strongly in his mind:

"This insane bastard nears collapse. Maintain pressure. Do not allow a second wind."

He didn't need to be told twice.