Lord of The Mysterious Realms Chapter 902

"This is no time to be thinking about destiny."

Jenkins chided himself, patting his cheeks. He took a step forward, then froze, pulling the black cat off the shoulder it had just leaped onto.

"It's about to get very dangerous. Extremely dangerous."

Chocolate's eyes widened as it stared at the man before it.

"Go back and wait for me."

Its claws began to scratch at Jenkins's clothes.

The cat hesitated, its frantic scratching coming to a halt. Jenkins finally breathed a sigh of relief. He patted Chocolate's head and projected it back to the church.

With Chocolate gone, a burden was lifted from Jenkins, allowing him to fight without reservation.

He glanced one last time at the collapsed gravedigger's cottage, then muttered, "Twin Demons." Black smoke billowed from his back, coalescing into a jeering humanoid figure that shot straight for the cliff face at the edge of the cemetery. It smashed into the rock, blasting open a gaping hole and revealing the figure hidden within: Skryu Pomphey, his entire body rotted away.

He wasn't worried about his hiding spot being discovered; on the contrary, he laughed with abandon. With the flesh of his throat rotted away, the sound was unnaturally hoarse, almost comical.

But what was even more ridiculous was the tattered nun's habit he wore. It looked more absurd on him than Jenkins's dream of Papa Oliver in one of Miss Stuart's dresses.

The reason Jenkins had contrived for Pomphey's appearance here—to conserve his own Spirit for the coming battle—was his search for the Bestowal, C-12-1-3011, the Corpse-Wrapping Nun's Habit.

Of course, this was tantamount to arming his enemy—an incredibly foolish act, in some respects. But Jenkins trusted the guidance of fate. As long as he could obtain that weapon, every other problem would resolve itself. Besides, dealing with the undead might just be easier than dealing with the living.

"I wasn't looking for you, but you came to find me."

Jenkins had changed his appearance again, but Pomphey still recognized him as a follower of the God of Lies. Becoming undead seemed to have filled him with confidence. He certainly hadn't been this arrogant when they'd met at the clock tower half an hour earlier.

He swung the wide sleeve of his right arm, and the familiar white bone armor materialized at his waist, spreading piece by piece to cover his entire body. The armor and the Corpse-Wrapping Nun's Habit seemed to resonate strangely, gradually fusing into one.

When Skryu Pomphey was fully encased in the armor, he looked less like a knight in heavy plate and more like a swordsman in light metal.

The once-plain armor was now etched with black runes. An inverted ankh, a symbol of necromantic revival, adorned his chest. A spiked white belt encircled his waist, its central buckle holding a quietly burning sphere of ethereal blue flame.

Pomphey now radiated an aura of power. Jenkins guessed he'd come up with this new look after losing to him in close combat time and again.

Without even summoning the Skull Sword, Pomphey charged. Their fists met head-on, the tremendous force of the impact stamping four deep footprints into the soft ground.

Red fire and black necromantic energy flared at the point of contact. The collision of physical might and elemental power erupted with a deafening crack.

After the blast, Jenkins stumbled back a step, clutching his right arm to mend the fractured bone. Pomphey, however, returned to his original spot, seemingly unscathed.

"He's stronger... and faster."

Jenkins concluded, his figure flickering out of existence before reappearing.

"Why is it taking so long? How much longer do I have to wait?"

He retreated as he thought, backing up until he was under the elder tree. Pomphey reached into the air and produced the Skull Sword. A thousand wailing souls instantly swarmed toward Jenkins.

The thought had barely formed in his mind when a golden light erupted from his body. He pressed his right hand flat against the tree trunk beside him, and as a torrent of green life energy flowed into it, the branches began to tremble in the ghastly wind.

When the surging life force reached its peak, the rigid branches transformed into long whips, dancing through the air. The golden radiance clung to them as they lashed out, parting the tide of souls to strike at Pomphey.

The sword danced, sending a crescent of black energy slicing through the air. It struck the arboreal whip with the clang of metal striking stone.

He charged at Jenkins again, sword in hand. But Jenkins didn't move from his spot, one hand still pressed to the trunk, feeding the great tree even more life energy. Time and history can make the mundane extraordinary, and a tree resurrected from the heartwood of a thousand-year-old elder was bound to have its own wonders.

But it was far from enough. The Skull Sword's history stretched back much further than a mere millennium.

Pomphey broke through the lashing branches with ease and appeared before Jenkins. The sword, imbued with the ultimate power of death, sliced through the air and plunged into Jenkins's body. The skull on the hilt cackled madly as black lightning split the sky, the thunder rolling in seconds later.

Jenkins retorted. He endured the agony of the blade piercing his heart as he shot out a hand and seized Pomphey by the throat. The bone armor was tough, but at such close range, it couldn't fully protect its wearer from the Bestowal's fire.

"Why aren't you dead? Are you also one of the undead?"

Pomphey's voice echoed, muffled, from behind his faceplate. New ɴᴏᴠᴇʟ ᴄhapters are published on novel-fire.ɴet

"Why should I be dead?"

A hazy green energy, the very spirit of life, flowed from Jenkins's right hand along with the flames and into the man he held. This life essence was harmless to the living, but Pomphey was now one of the undead.

For the first few seconds, Pomphey didn't understand what was happening. He just kept driving the sword deeper into Jenkins's body. The Skull Sword's deathly curse corroded Jenkins's flesh, turning the wound a putrid gray, but Jenkins simply would not die.

Soon, Pomphey noticed something was wrong with his own body. His armor was peeling away in chunks, and his strength was draining away at an alarming rate.

The rotted flesh around his throat disintegrated, rendering him speechless. He immediately struggled to pull the sword free, but Jenkins's other hand shot out and clamped down on his sword arm.

Summoning all his strength, Jenkins unleashed the full, riotous power of his life spirit. The Skull Sword, as if provoked, retaliated with an even greater surge of death energy, refusing to be outdone.

Streams of black and green energy swirled around them, trapping them in a violent cocoon. A harsh sizzling filled the air, like the sound of the very earth being eaten away.