Lord of The Mysterious Realms Chapter 541

Falling from such a height would normally have been fatal. But as if by a stroke of luck, the man landed in the alley, onto a pile of trash, and right on top of the other man Jenkins had left there.

"This doesn't count as my kill, right?"

As expected of a highly-trained member of the Orthodox Church's combat forces, the man didn't pass out, even after taking multiple hits and a nasty fall.

Lying on his back, he let out a violent cough—a wretched sound, as if he were about to hack up a lung. His head flopped to one side, his eyes landing on a portly, indistinct figure in the deepest shadows of the alley. The man was sitting there, knees drawn to his chest, arms wrapped around them.

When the man's gaze fell upon him, the portly figure in the corner craned his neck, peering at him inquisitively. Bathed in the blood-red moonlight, his ugly, lumpen face was a truly bizarre sight.

"Damn it, there's someone else here..."

He fought through the searing pain, trying to focus, wanting to cry out and warn his comrades. But all that escaped his lips was a gurgle of bloody bubbles.

Jenkins simply watched, hesitant to offer healing for fear of revealing his identity. But to the injured man, Jenkins's hesitant expression was transformed into a quiet, chilling stare that made his skin crawl.

The man struggled where he lay, trying to crawl toward the mouth of the alley. He had to warn his partners there was someone else here, even if it cost him his last breath. Jenkins couldn't watch any longer. He got to his feet, moved to the man's side, and placed a hand on his shoulder. His mind raced. He could heal him now, quickly, before the man turned around. But he was terrified that a single moment of compassion could shatter the life he'd built.

"What the hell is he trying to do?"

The man couldn't speak. Another string of bloody bubbles escaped his lips. He reached out a blood-soaked hand, trying to pull himself forward, but he was too weak. The gentle pressure on his shoulder was more than enough to hold him in place.

"Why is someone else here, at a time ... Don't tell me he's one of the New God Cultists."

Without a single divination-related ability, he had miraculously stumbled upon the edge of the truth.

Jenkins didn't have to hesitate for long. The man's severe injuries soon claimed his consciousness. That simplified matters. He let a faint wisp of green vapor drift over the man's body, just enough to ensure he wouldn't die anytime soon. This way, he could protect his secret without having to watch a man die before his very eyes.

But Jenkins had still given himself away. He'd forgotten that more powerful vampires were acutely sensitive to the scent of blood. When the fight began, Baideweierte Linkesboge hadn't been sure if he was dealing with an unregistered Benefactor caught in the arcane lock by chance, or just another dog of the Orthodox Church. But when the fallen man's life force didn't fade, and in fact grew slightly stronger, he knew for certain an enemy was hiding in the alley.

The moment the crimson moonlight fully illuminated the trash-strewn alley, Jenkins looked up, as if sensing a gaze upon him. There, on a distant rooftop, a pale-skinned man steadied himself against a spire with one hand. Their eyes met.

The man had brilliant golden hair and wore a black formal suit. The lapels were cut in a deep V, revealing a shirt adorned with intricate lace. His black leather shoes were polished to a mirror shine, and what little skin his clothes didn't cover was paper-thin and deathly white.

Despite the battle, his clothes remained immaculate. Even from a distance, Jenkins could see the two layers of his collar were still perfectly aligned. If Miss Stuart were to see him, she would undoubtedly praise his impeccable sense of style.

"I thought they said he was hideous."

he thought, holding his position as he watched Linkesboge. The vampire offered a smirk, drew a finger across his throat in a cutting motion, and then turned back to face his other assailants.

Jenkins thought, stunned. He reached for his own neck, and his fingers came away slick with blood.

Only then did a piercing pain lance through him. He tried to speak, but only a gurgling sound escaped.

Chocolate poked its head out from inside his coat, a look of concern on its face. The fur on its head and neck was stained crimson.

Wheezing, Jenkins pressed his right hand against the massive gash on his neck.

"Damn... that was dangerous."

He leaned against the wall, his face grim, and looked up again at the figure on the distant spire, now brandishing a whip of blood,

"Fine then. You think I can't fly?"

Baideweierte Linkesboge now faced a difficult choice. With the red moon hanging high in the sky, he had believed his plan for the night was foolproof.

But he had never imagined the Orthodox Church in the Nolan diocese possessed such strength. He didn't know how his two companions were faring, but here, even with the moonlight empowering him and all the blood he'd consumed, he no longer felt he had a significant advantage.

Deep within the distant white mist, a few stars were becoming visible in the sky—a sure sign that someone outside was working to break the arcane lock. He was well aware of how terrifying this city's demigod-level Benefactors were, but the blood he'd collected was still far short of the minimum he required. Deciding when to retreat had become an agonizing choice. Thıs text ıs hosted at novel⁂fire.net

A howling gale, thick with shards of ice, swirled toward the figure on the spire. But with a mere wave of his hand, Baideweierte Linkesboge bathed everything before him in a crimson glow, and it instantly began to decay.

He glanced down. The ant-like figures below were gathering again for another assault. He still held the upper hand, for now, but he couldn't let this drag on. After all, he had yet to cross the threshold into the realm of demigods.

A peculiar aroma drifted from the distance—the scent of the most exquisite blood. His carnal thirst for blood stopped him from launching the sphere of gore in his palm. Steadying himself against the spire with his left hand, he stared into the distance, baffled. Higher up, silhouetted against the red moon, a portly man on the back of a unicorn was looking down at him.

The two stared at each other in the silent, crimson world. The scene was so bizarre, so utterly ridiculous, that even the three-hundred-year-old Linkesboge couldn't decide what was more absurd: the unicorn's appearance in the material world, or the ugly, corpulent man riding atop the noble beast.

Time seemed to freeze for a second. What set it in motion again was the dark figure that materialized right behind the portly man.