Free Web NovelChapter 546: Chapter 546- Returning Back to the Town
The parasite stared at the sword.
The blade quivered in the stone. The silver steel sang a low, hungry note that cut through the mountain wind. The vertical pupils inside Jacob’s eyes dilated, the black slits expanding as the thing behind them calculated the weight of its choices.
It reached down.
The hand moved with mechanical precision. The fingers closed around the grip. The moment the skin touched the steel, the sword flared — bright, silver, angry. The blade had been waiting for a hero, and it had found something that was not a hero but would serve.
"Swing it," Raven said.
The parasite lifted the blade. The puppet’s arm raised the Sword of the Hero in a high arc. The silver cut the air with a whistle. The swing was awkward, too fast, too mechanical — the movement of a thing that had never held a human weapon.
"Again," Raven commanded.
The arm swung again. The blade sliced a wider arc. The wind parted around the steel with an audible hiss. The parasite’s eyes trembled. The puppet’s jaw tightened.
"Again."
The sword moved faster. A third swing. A fourth. The silver became a blur, the arm moving with inhuman speed, the blade cutting nothing but air yet leaving pale slashes in the atmosphere where the edge passed.
Raven raised his hand.
Black light pooled in his palm. It did not pulse. It simply existed, dense and heavy and wrong. He pressed the light against the puppet’s chest.
"Enhance."
The word was a key turning in a lock.
The wind exploded around them. The mountain air shrieked as invisible forces wrapped around the sword. The blade’s speed tripled. The silver became a solid arc of light, a continuous ring of cutting edge that spun around the puppet’s body. The sword sang louder, a scream of steel, a wail of hero-song corrupted into service.
Raven watched the puppet’s eyes tremble.
He raised his other hand.
"Defend."
A shell of black crystal formed around Jacob’s skin. It was thin as a breath, invisible except for the way the light bent around it. The parasite moved inside the shell, testing the sword against its own arm. The blade bounced. The shell held.
"Heal."
Ninth-circle magic.
The word was not spoken in any language the mountain understood. It was spoken in the tongue of Raven’s kind, the original language of the contract between life and death. The air turned green. The light sank into the puppet’s flesh. The body convulsed. The chest heaved. The heart that had stopped began to beat again — not with blood, but with the green light of forced resurrection.
The parasite gasped.
The sound came out of Jacob’s throat, a wet, clicking inhalation. The eyes widened. The pupils dilated. The body’s aura shifted. The air pressure dropped. The ground beneath the puppet’s feet cracked.
Level thirty-five.
The number appeared in the air as a flicker of gold script, hanging above the puppet’s head like a brand. The base-village measuring system registered the change. The weak body of a failed knight had been flooded with the power of a ninth-circle mage and the stamina of a parasite that had cheated death across timelines. It was not a true hero. But it was close enough for the provinces.
The puppet’s hand closed tighter around the sword.
Raven lowered his arm.
The black light faded. The green healing mist evaporated. The wind settled. The puppet stood in the center of the cracked stone, the Sword of the Hero glowing in its hand, the level thirty-five aura shimmering around its shoulders like a thin cloak of gold. frёewebηovel.cѳm
Raven turned.
He looked toward the south. Toward the distant edge of the dead zone where the first minor town sat. Toward the guild that controlled passage into the auction houses and the slave markets.
"Rank up in the guild," he said.
His voice was casual. The instruction was not. He turned his head back toward the puppet and the vertical pupils that watched him with the cold patience of a thing that had learned to fear.
"Reach the platinum rank. Join a team with the guild master. The moment you do, come find me."
The puppet blinked.
The jaw moved. The voice that came out was dry and clicked. "Yes. Master."
It bowed.
Ninety degrees. The spine bent with the precision of a machine. The sword was held out in front of the body, parallel to the stone. The gesture was absolute. The parasite had accepted the chain.
Raven smiled.
"Train."
The parasite straightened. The sword rose. It began to swing — not at the air, but at the stone. The blade struck the mountain. The rock shattered. The puppet moved, relentless, mechanical, a machine of cutting and destruction. The healing magic sealed its wounds. The enhancement magic drove its speed. The defense magic protected its form. It would not stop. It would not tire. It would swing until the mountain was dust.
Raven stepped back.
He looked at the puppet once more. Then he turned toward the cliff’s edge. He walked to the drop. He did not jump. He simply stepped into the air.
The abyss accepted him.
He fell. Then the wind caught him. The crimson cloak snapped wide. The demon energy in his core spread through his back in a pair of invisible wings. The descent became flight. He shot forward, a dark streak against the bruised sky, leaving the mountain and the puppet behind.
The wind tore at his face. The clouds parted around him. He passed through layers of gray and mist and rain. The dead zone appeared below — a patchwork of brown fields and a cluster of huts that pretended to be a village.
He slowed.
He landed at the edge of the town. His boots touched the dirt road. The impact was soft. The dust did not rise. He stretched his back. The armor was gone, replaced by the simple clothes of a traveler. The cloak was dark and unmarked. The sword was gone. He looked like a man who had walked from the next valley over.
Two guards stood at the town gate.
They wore leather armor. They held pikes. They were bored. They were looking at the horizon. They did not notice him until he was three steps away.
"Halt," one said. The older one. He raised his pike. "ID proof. You need to register to enter the town."
Raven looked at him.
He chuckled. The sound was warm. He snapped his fingers.
The sound was small. A click. It entered the guards’ ears and traveled to their brains. It wiped the memory of his presence from their minds. It rewrote their perception. It placed a thought in their skulls that said: ’no one is here. The road is empty. Return to your posts.’
The guards blinked.
They lowered their pikes. They turned. They walked back to their posts with the slow, heavy steps of men who had just forgotten why they had moved.
Raven walked through the gate.
The town was small. A dirt road. Wooden buildings. A market square with three stalls. The smell of bread and horseshit and sweat. He walked with the unhurried stride of a man who had nowhere to be and no one to answer to.
A child ran around a corner.
Small. Four years old. A boy. He was chasing a ball of knotted yarn. He did not look. He did not see. He collided with Raven’s leg.
The impact was soft.
The child fell backward. His bottom hit the dirt. His face crumpled. He opened his mouth. The scream came out as a high, piercing wail that cut through the morning air.
"Waaaah—!"
