Corrupted blood lord

The hunters, guards, and Thomas stood frozen like statues.

Shock, disbelief and awe written all over their faces.

None of them had ever witnessed power like this. They had heard stories, legends whispered around campfires, fairy tales told to children before sleep. But seeing it with their own eyes was something else entirely.

A human was not supposed to command the world like that.

Father Pella extended his free arm.

Mana surged outward, forming a translucent bubble that engulfed the entire group. Warmth washed over them. Wounds closed almost instantly—bones knitting, torn muscles mending, pain dissolving into numb relief. Arms and legs straightened. Breathing became easier.

Within moments, they were basically whole again.

The only proof that a desperate battle had taken place were shredded armor plates, cracked shields, and deep claw marks carved into metal and stone.

"There," Pella said calmly. "You did well. Now rest. I’ll take it from here."

The words carried authority—final and unquestionable.

Thomas stepped forward anyway, giving the old priest a respectful nod.

"Thanks for the help, sir. Before we go rest, though, I should tell you where that banshee—"

Pella turned his head slowly and met Thomas’s gaze.

"I already know where it is," he said, voice low and edged with fury. "I can smell the stench of the undead from here."

He looked past Thomas, toward the ruined heart of the village.

"Go. Rest," Pella ordered. "Follow the path I made. You’ll meet the others."

Thomas bowed without another word.

As the group began to turn away, Pella spoke again, almost absently.

"Oh. And take this idiot with you."

With that, he grabbed Talmir—fully healed now—and unceremoniously tossed him into Thomas’s arms.

"Oi—!" Thomas grunted, barely catching him.

Pella was already walking away.

Step by steady step, he moved toward what remained of Ragla’s center—toward the shattered guildhall, where the banshee waited.

Deep beneath the ruins, the banshee hissed.

Her grotesque face twisted with fury, the air around her vibrating with barely restrained malice. This was supposed to be a careful, controlled harvest—one meant to summon her master—she wasn’t expecting a close battle.

Then the two wraiths emerged into the chamber.

Joe rose from the dungeon entrance, his form flickering erratically. The eldest wraith descended from the ceiling, shadows clinging to it like rotting veils.

Both bowed instinctively, seeking their masters guidance.

They knew.

Against that man, they stood no chance alone.

The banshee’s claws dug into the stone beneath her. Rage pulsed through the chamber as she tightened her control over the remaining undead.

She hissed orders at her wraiths and servants.

Meanwhile, Father Pella walked on.

Leisurely.

As though he were strolling through a quiet village road instead of toward a nest of horrors.

Behind him, the last standing defenders of Ragla finally met up with Kolma’s forces.

Relief spread instantly through the exhausted group.

Thomas let out a sigh he hadn’t realized he was holding. "Gods, am I glad to see you lot. And your absurdly overpowered old man."

A few laughs broke out.

Many of Kolma’s hunters had seen Father Pella fight before—some during their training years, others during hunting campaigns long past.

"That’s because he’s not just a priest," Kosak said. "Father Pella was once a commander of a Paladin Order from the Dawn Church."

That made the few of them wide-eyed.

Ulmak stepped forward then, scratching the back of his head. He saw the tired faces and thought it was a good idea to bring some laughter.

"Ah... sorry if Talmir’s behavior caused any inconvenience during his stay. We’ll be escorting you out shortly, after we wipe out a few undead...you can relax by the tree line and sip some tea, we’ll show this dumb oaf of ours how it’s really done if he wakes up."

Silence.

Long—uncomfortable—silence.

Ulmak coughed. "Khm. Tough crowd."

Obin chuckled. "Looks like you are the dumb one Ulmak."

Darnel snorted. "He’s trying to compete for the title of stupid oaf, it seems."

Ulmak frowned. "Like you two are known for being the smart ones in any group you’re part of."

Thomas stepped forward." Thanks for trying to cheer us up lad, but next time don’t try to put the one who almost scrifised himself, as a punch line."

Finnaly few tired smirks appeared.

Kolma’s hunters began tossing spare tents and supplies onto the ground.

Ulmak—who was beet red—gestured toward them. "Basic gear for you. You’ll actually head toward Kolma now. Pella’s magic healed your bodies, but mental fatigue and mana exhaustion don’t vanish that easily. Right now, you’re more of a liability than help."

Thomas nodded. "Understood. No worries—and thank you."

He hesitated, then asked quietly, "Did you... meet any other survivors on the way by chance?"

Confusion crossed Ulmak’s face.

"No."

Thomas’s expression fell.

Still, he forced a nod. "I see. Thank you again."

As they turned to leave, Thomas cast one last glance toward the village ruins.

He wanted to believe Father Pella had just missed them.

But deep down... he wasn’t sure that man could miss anything.

"All right, where were we..." Ulmak said, his voice cutting through the lingering tension. "We’ll go through the plan one last time. While Father Pella holds that abomination back, we support him from the outside with long-range spells—"

"Oh, come on," Darnel groaned. "We already know. It’s the fifth time you and Pella explained it."

Sera shot him a sharp glare. "Could you just shut u—"

"Now, now, Sera," Ulmak interrupted calmly. "The man can apparently count—and even remember things on top of that—so don’t yell at him."

Darnel opened his mouth to retort, but Kosak stepped in first, his tone suddenly serious.

"Enough. I don’t want to stop your useless comedy act, but if Father Pella sees anyone not following the plan, he’s going to rip your head off."

A brief silence followed.

"Khm... you’re right," Ulmak cleared his throat.

"Yeah," Darnel muttered. "Sorry."

Ulmak nodded and continued. "As I was saying—long-range spells only. Two-man teams. Signal flares if anyone’s in trouble. And retreat if it gets too much."

This was not a battle to the death.

Their objective wasn’t heroic glory—it was stalling the enemy.

They only needed to contain the undead until reinforcements from Lupos arrived. Father Pella had reassured them that once the clergy learned undead were involved, even their corrupt asses would move in full force.

The goal was simple.

Prevent summoning. Prevent escape.

That was all.

Father Pella walked alone down the center of the road.

Ghouls lined the streets, crawling from alleys, rooftops, broken homes—but none dared approach. Even under the banshee’s forced control, fear rooted them in place.

He did not hurry.

Each step echoed like judgment.

When he reached roughly two hundred meters from the dungeon entrance, something changed.

The ghouls shuddered instinct was taking over.

Protect the master. And onece one of them moved—their hesitation shattered—into a full onslaught.

Pella’s axe ignited in golden radiance.

With a single, effortless swing, he cleaved the first ghoul cleanly in half. Another step forward—another strike. Bodies fell apart as though made of paper, life mana tearing through corrupted flesh.

He didn’t slow down

Each swing was precise.

Golden arcs flashed through the night as ghouls were reduced to ash and severed limbs, their screams drowned beneath the hum of his mana.

Around the village, the hunters and guards were already in position.

The encirclement wasn’t perfect—they covered too much ground for that—but it didn’t need to be.

As long as Father Pella reached the banshee, there would be nowhere left to run.

If the master fell—

Everything else would follow soon after.

Father Pella finally reached the dungeon entrance.

The ground around it was blackened, cracked, and steeped in death mana. Ghouls poured from the shadows, yet none could slow him. Each step forward was accompanied by the dull thud of his axe cleaving flesh and bone apart.

"Seems you have a master, you abomination," Pella said calmly as he split another ghoul in half. "Otherwise, you wouldn’t have stayed after I unleashed the first strike."

He stopped.

Then released a pulse of pure life mana.

The air flashed green and gold.

Every ghoul within dozens of meters simply ceased to exist—their bodies unraveling into dust and light as the life mana erased the necromantic bindings holding them together.

Pella lifted his axe overhead.

Life mana surged into the weapon in violent waves. The blade blazed brighter and brighter, runes along its edge igniting like small suns. The earth beneath his feet cracked outward in a spiderweb pattern. Stone buckled. His muscles swelled, veins glowing faintly beneath his skin as the air itself began to tremble.

The banshee noticed immediately.

She hissed—long, shrill, furious.

Her skeletal arms spread wide as she gathered mana of her own. Death mana coalesced around one hand, black and roiling like a void. Sound mana formed in the other, dense and vibrating so violently that it warped the air around it. The spheres spun faster and faster, grinding the ground beneath her feet into decaying sludge.

Pebbles lifted into the air around both of them, shattering under the pressure of their condensed power.

The two wraiths fled instantly.

One retreated out of sheer terror, sensing the annihilation that was about to follow. The other obeyed the banshee’s silent command—supporting from afar would be far more useful than being erased in the crossfire.

Then—

They released their attacks at the same time.

Life mana met death and sound.

The earth between them vanished.

A deafening explosion ripped through the village, a shockwave tearing outward in every direction. Buildings collapsed. Walls crumbled. The wraiths were ripped from the ground and hurled hundreds of meters away like discarded dolls. Hunters and guards were thrown off their feet, ears ringing, vision swimming as the world went white for a brief, terrifying moment.

When the dust settled—

Both were still standing.

Then they vanished.

Pella closed the distance in a single blur, his axe carving a golden arc through the air. The banshee shrieked, sound mana exploding outward to deflect the strike, but the impact still sent shockwaves rippling through the ground.

She countered instantly.

Her claws slashed forward, death mana trailing like black smoke. Pella twisted aside, the attack grazing his armor and leaving corrosion sizzling across the silver surface. He responded with a knee to her torso that sent her flying through what remained of a stone wall.

She recovered midair.

A scream tore from her throat—weaponized sound compressed into a focused lance. Pella planted his feet and raised his axe horizontally, life mana flaring as the scream shattered against his defense, splintering into destructive waves that flattened nearby ruins.

They clashed again.

And again.

Each collision shook the village.

Pella fought with terrifying efficiency—no wasted movement, no hesitation. Every swing of his axe carried overwhelming force, every step perfectly placed. He advanced relentlessly, forcing the banshee back inch by inch.

The banshee was faster.

More feral.

She darted around him, vanishing into the ground and reappearing at impossible angles, claws raking, screams bursting forth in concussive blasts. But each time she struck, Pella was there—blocking, countering, punishing.

Golden light and black decay tore chunks from the battlefield.

The fight became a storm of motion—high-speed exchanges where even brief contact sent shockwaves rolling outward. Windows shattered miles away. The ground split open repeatedly, swallowing corpses and rubble alike.

This was not a battle of attrition.

It was a collision between absolutes.

Life.

And undeath.

And slowly—inevitably—the balance began to tip.

The banshee adapted.

Her movements grew sharper, less erratic. Each scream was more focused, each burst of death mana heavier, denser. Where before she lashed out in fury, now she pressed forward with intent, chaining attacks together, forcing Pella to give ground step by step.

The earth beneath them sagged and decayed under her influence, patches of stone turning brittle and gray. Her shrieks no longer scattered uselessly—they struck like hammers, testing Pella’s guard from every angle.

And beyond them, the battlefield stirred.

The wraiths tried to intervene.

They slipped through shadows, reached outward with spectral claws, summoned bone projectiles and waves of fear—but each attempt was met with disciplined resistance.

"Left flank—now!"

A flare shot into the sky.

Ulmak’s voice cut through the chaos. Hunters unleashed coordinated volleys of spells and arrows, forcing one wraith back into the ground. Earth spikes ruptured beneath another, water blades carving through its incorporeal form just enough to disrupt its casting.

Ghouls surged forward, only to be cut down before they could close the distance.

The plan held.

Ulmak watched the battlefield with clenched fists, eyes darting between Pella and the undead reinforcements. "That old man really is terrifying," he muttered. "Predicting this far ahead..."

Despite the pressure mounting around him, Father Pella did not look discouraged.

If anything—he looked calmer than ever.

The banshee now clearly held the advantage in raw output. Her mana reserves were vast, her attacks relentless. If this continued without interruption, she would win eventually.

And Pella knew it.

Yet he did not push harder.

He retreated when needed. Deflected instead of overpowering. Let blows glance off his armor rather than meeting them head-on. Occasionally, he countered—never lethal, never reckless—just enough to remind the banshee that she could not overextend without consequence.

He was buying time.

The banshee mistook this for weakness.

Her movements grew feral again, intoxicated by the sensation of dominance. She pressed harder, screams overlapping, death mana surging wildly as she tried to break him outright.

Pella welcomed it.

Each reckless charge, each overcommitted strike, fed directly into his rhythm. He gave ground only where it suited him, keeping the battlefield shaped to his advantage, always centered, always aware.

’If I were in my prime,’ he thought calmly, parrying a shriek with the haft of his axe, ’this creature wouldn’t last a minute.’

Once, long ago, he had fought liches—true masters of undeath—on even footing. Compared to those days, this was nothing.

Age had dulled his body.

Around them, the hunters held firm.

The wraiths were stalled. The ghouls culled faster than they could regroup. The lock-down held. Unded were detained.

Everything was going exactly as planned.

Father Pella held the banshee.

The hunters held the field.

And somewhere beyond the horizon, reinforcements were already moving.

For now—

The world held its breath, watching it unfold.