The owner reached into her stola and retrieved a bundle of silk. Under the scarlet light, the thread appeared transparent, before turning into a golden and purple colour when it met with the wind. Its colour was especially light, but it looked especially strong.
The cloth was unravelled, then attached into a needle.
A hand moved the needle along with the thread to her abdomen, not quivering in the slightest.
The owner of ‘North Weave’ was a sage unable to use mana.
The needle moved especially steadily, unable to be seen by an ordinary pair of eyes due to the speed it moved at.
The owner was sewing the flesh and bones at her shoulder.
She was well known for the best needlework in the world. Aside from her, there should be no one who is able to do this. Moreover, the thread she used was the famous velvet gold silk, which was harmless to a human body.
The hand moved at a steady but swift rate, using the silk to sew up the cracks in the owner’s body at an inhumanly high speed.
Not half a minute later, the severed shoulder on her body had been reconnected.
After making sure she won’t die, the owner gripped the metal pole and started walking toward the northern sections of the city. To the north was where Margrethe was.
She was not walking, it was more akin to dragging her feet forward.
---
Julia’s preaching to Anna and the owner’s fight by the church were all major events that would shock the world for years to come. But all these things had happened so quickly, and most important, and Ovid and Margrethe battle was the most eye-catching event to have happened in countless years. Despite the significance of those two things, very few actually knew it happened. That includes Ovid and Margrethe.
Behind the curtain of flame, Margrethe’s dress floated slightly, and her scarlet hair danced in the air. The feeling of arrogance and immaturity slowly disappeared, and only a wildness that was inherent in the most primal of animals remain. Powerful mana dispersed into the surrounding of her small body. Dozens of white flames fluttered around her akin to ribbons.
Ovid had never underestimated this young yet powerful phoenix princess. Not to mention that she was personally tutored by Ulrika, it was obvious her foundations were far beyond her present age, so even if he forced Margrethe to expose all the cards in her hand, he was cautious. Perceiving this powerful mana fluctuation, he knew he cannot allow this situation to continue. With the slightest movement of his legs, he surged through the flames.
The weapon, dense with sword intent chopped towards Margrethe, cutting silently through the air.
Margrethe would lose her life like this; even if others like Julia had hostile intentions… even if she had to abandon her morals as a saint and attack a junior, she had to strike at this moment. Ulrika lifted her finger into the air, concentrating her mana before shooting it out with a soft swoosh. In a moment, it pierced toward Ovid’s heart.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.
At this moment, Ovid had concentrated all his spirit on this strike. His whole body other than his hand was trembling from the stress. Even if he wanted to, he cannot block the arrival of this dangerous mana, for it can scatter and gather at will.
A gust of wind travelled through the air and made no sound. The owner, who had travelled from one end of the city to another in seconds, sighed softly. Pushing herself off the ground, she silently floated through the air and arrived before Ovid. The owner used the metal pole to change the direction of the mana and absorbed the impact into her body. With a squelch, the terrifying mana pierced through the chest of the owner. Fresh blood squirted out, tainting her velvet silk stola.
A sage could not die so easily - even though the owner was heavily injured from taking the blow intended for Ovid, she should not die. However, that did not stop her from falling towards the ground.
The corner’s of Ulrika’s temple was a bit wet, soaking her hair. Although Irene had blocked her mana for a moment, Ovid had not yet cut through Margrethe, providing Ulrika with an excellent opportunity. She extended her hand and chopped toward the sky from half a mile away,
Within the whirlpool of flames, there was a sudden second surge of fire.
The embers flickered, and the fire mana burst forth. The flames, despite its appearance, produced a bitter, cold aura.
Ovid had shown himself able to extinguish Margrethe’s scorching flames with easy, so Ulrika had acted cautiously to prevent Ovid from taking advantage of the strange pearl within his body. Yet before it slashed through Ovid, Ulrika suddenly felt a sign of danger in her perception. This danger made her redirect the cold flames to the direction of that mana fluctuation.
The next moment, the cold flames trembled violently in the air outside the city, flicker as if it will extinguish at any moment.
Ulrika bit her lower lips. She had already expended much of her mana in that first strike… perhaps were it not for her bloodline talent, those flames would have been suffocated.
Where did the attack come from?
She had made sure Irene had been heavily injured against the Pope. There were only so many saints on the continent, so how could Ovid have aligned himself with another bigshot?
Before long, Ulrika’s perception noticed an arrow crafted from Aeon Pine.
The best archer on the continent came from Aeon forest.
Ulrika gazed at the faraway wilderness she was native to.
Squinting her eyes, she saw that behind the dense ocean of trees, a woman with ethereal beauty was holding an outstretched bow.
---
This figure was one Ulrika was familiar with.
She was the Cal matriarch - the only saint other than Ulrika herself who reside in Aeon forest.
Ever since the invasion of Alexander, the Aeon forest that had been the heartland of elves had been dominated by the phoenixes. Only relatively recently did the elves reestablish themselves as a force on the continent, and it was through the effort of one woman.
The Cal matriarch had lived under exile for the earlier days of her life. Only after she became a bishop did she return to her clan, taking advantage of the power vacuum left by the destruction of Alexander’s empire, she murdered the original matriarch of the Cal clan, and took her position. The current Cal matriarch is uniquely terrifying, to the degree that even Julia had to be somewhat cordial to the woman. The reason for this was that she was the only saint who was skilled with long-ranged attacks.
The hands of the Cal matriarch was as slender as a viper, and despite her body gaining practical immunity to physical harm from her sainthood, she wore a vambrace on her left arm.
Many did not understand why the Cal matriarch still wore a vambrace and assumed it was out of habit, but Ulrika was aware of the cal matriarch’s reasoning. The seemingly fragile bow was made of Steelbark wood, and its’ string, dragon tendons so fine yet strong a touch would draw blood. The final result was the treasured bow able to precisely shoot over a thousand miles, able to pierce through mountains and forests. The arrows were as firm as steel, as fast as lighting, simply impossible to avoid.
With her arrows able to travel to the end of the continent coupled with the prowess of a saint, the Cal matriarch had assassinated countless political rivals, even killing a clergyman from the northern papacy. The presence of the Cal matriarch was what any use to scare their child’s into behaving, for she was more muddled in the mundane world that any other saint. If Glafx had learnt the civilized and lawful elves had become so murderous, he would no doubt be somewhat shocked.
“Let the next generation solve their issues among themselves.”
The Cal matriarch’s gaze crossed hundreds of miles, passing through the mountainous lands as her arrow had, she said these sharp words.
The leaves by the Cal matriarch’s side fell from those weak branches.
---
Margrethe’s eyes were closed while her scarlet hair madly danced behind her petite body. She paid no attention to the sword in Ovid’s hand, no, she didn’t even perceive it.
The flames before her emitted a milky white, causing her small face to seem even paler.
Ovid’s sword brimmed with demise and frost, an exceptionally pure sword intent.
It pierced through the flames, giving off a shrieking screech. From up high, it directly chopped at Margrethe’s neck, using the simplest and most direct of actions.
In an instant, Ovid’s sword came into contact with Margrethe’s neck.
But there was no wound with fresh blood flowing out.