Chapter 393: To Be My Enemy Is Your Greatest Misfortune
Frieren looked at the man, spreading her hands. Even shackled in heavy iron, she managed the gesture with a weary grace.
"I'm out of options," she said.
Aura panicked. "Frieren-sama! Think of something! Anything!"
"Think of what?" Frieren asked, her face a mask of placid indifference.
"Save me!"
Aura was spiraling. She was a demon; these were humans, and the bloodlust radiating from them was thick enough to choke on. She could almost visualize the blade falling onto her neck in the next heartbeat.
Frieren tilted her head, considering this for a few earnest seconds. She looked toward the old man, probing him with a suggestion. "How about… you take her back with us as a captive too?"
The man arched a brow. "And what use would that be?"
Their target had always been Frieren—or rather, the Elf. This demon girl, Aura, was an unforeseen anomaly; he hadn't the faintest clue why Frieren would be consorting with such a thing. But the man was not one to be distracted by idle curiosity. If he secured Frieren, half their objective was complete. The demon was entirely beneath his concern.
"Surely she could be used to threaten Rhodes-sama?" Frieren suggested, perfectly serious.
The man's expression flickered. He looked from Aura to Frieren, trying to gauge if this was a desperate ploy or madness.
"Are you saying," he asked slowly, "that this demon has a connection to Rhodes-sama?"
Even he could not help but feel a prick of curiosity. Could it be that the God-slayer's longevity had ties to the demon race? He turned the thought over in his mind, only for Frieren to dismantle his theory with a single sentence.
"Probably not," she replied honestly. "I doubt Rhodes-sama even knows who she is."
"…Then why would I kidnap her to threaten him?"
"What if it works?"
The man let out a strained, humorless laugh. Not far off, the other mages exchanged bewildered glances, unable to comprehend why their leader was laughing at such a moment.
"Frieren," he wheezed, his eyes darkening with sudden, sharp anger. "Are you mocking me? Or are you truly so naive that you believe any random demon could threaten the God-slayer?"
Frieren pondered this. "Perhaps… a bit of both?"
The teleportation relic's activation was still lagging. The Divine Strike had been so devastating it had siphoned the ambient mana from the very air, leaving nothing for the device to draw upon. She had to wait for the local mana flow to stabilize, and she had to be subtle enough that the old man didn't catch her in the act.
She threw a subtle glance at Aura, calculated the distance, and ultimately decided to abandon the rescue. It was too far to reach her in an instant, and she had no idea if the relic could carry more than one person. It was better to cut her losses. It was a shame, though—the Obedience Magic cast on the demon was a high-level mental art she hadn't yet had the chance to study.
"Interesting," the man said. "That someone like Flamme would raise a disciple like you… no matter."
He clearly wasn't listening. He couldn't imagine a world where the God-slayer would ever be swayed by the life of a single demon. It was an impossibility. If anything, he suspected that if Rhodes learned his grand-apprentice was fraternizing with demon-kind, he would be the first to prune the rot from his lineage.
He waved a hand, dismissing his men. "Dispose of the demon."
"Understood."
Two mages stepped forward, staves raised. Aura's legs turned to jelly. She wanted to run, but she was a tapestry of open wounds. Even resistance was a luxury she couldn't afford. She could only watch as they drew closer, watching the mana coil at the tips of their staves.
It's over! This is really the end!
She squeezed her eyes shut, bracing for the killing blow—but a voice cut through the silence.
"Actually, you could try using her to threaten me."
There was no warning. No build-up of mana. No tremor in the air. The space before them simply parted like a torn curtain.
A figure stepped through the rift.
Jet-black hair, dark eyes, dressed in unassuming clothes. He carried no air of intimidation, no pressure, not a drop of leaking mana. He looked entirely, devastatingly ordinary. Yet, the dangerous spatial turbulence behind him didn't dare touch his silhouette; it parted for him, allowing him to walk as if through his own home.
He stepped out, stood still, and glanced at the wounded Frieren. His gaze lingered on Aura for a fleeting second—a hint of surprise—before he turned his attention to the mages.
The old man's expression locked into stone. He knew that face. Everyone present knew that face.
The Founder of the Continental Magic Association. The God-slayer. The Progenitor of Human Magic. The First Great Sage. The apex of all who walked the path of the arcane. The source of every ancient legend.
Rhodes.
He had come.
The mages in the encirclement froze as if struck by a paralysis curse. Even though the man before them radiated no pressure, the mere sight of him casually commanding the spatial currents broke their will to fight.
The old man stood rigid. He had lived for nearly a century, walked the edge of the abyss a thousand times, and slain monsters that haunted the dreams of kingdoms. Yet, as Rhodes's gaze touched him, he felt like a child. He felt small. He felt the terrifying, hollow impotence he had felt when he first picked up a staff as a boy.
"Rhodes… sama," he rasped, the words forced through a dry throat.
Rhodes did not respond. He turned his eyes to Frieren. She still held her hands in the air, the shackles still dangling from her wrists. As their eyes met, she blinked.
"…Rhodes-sama," she said, her tone as casual as if she were greeting him in a quiet corner of the Association.
"Hold out your hands. Let me heal you."
Frieren looked at her wrists, then back at Rhodes, looking quite innocent. "I'm locked."
Rhodes raised his hand and flicked his fingers. The magical shackles shattered into dust, hitting the ground with a crisp, metallic clatter.
Frieren flexed her wrists, eyeing the debris on the ground with a thoughtful look. "The craftsmanship on these seems… subpar."
The old man standing nearby nearly choked. Subpar? Those were forged specifically to bind archmages! They had high resistance to magical disruption—it should have been impossible for anyone to break them so effortlessly!
Across the way, Aura swallowed hard, stealing a glance at Rhodes.
He stood there, unassuming, radiating no malice, yet everyone in the clearing felt their breath hitch. The pressure was suffocating. Aura had heard the title "God-slayer," but she had dismissed it as human hyperbole. How could a mortal kill a god?
But seeing him stand there, she finally understood.
It wasn't a legend. It was a fact.
She realized why she hadn't detected his mana at first. It wasn't because he was hiding it—it was because his mana was the very space itself. He had merged so perfectly with the environment that he was invisible to the senses. And the moment one realized the truth, despair was the only rational response.
Rhodes's gaze drifted from Frieren to her. Aura felt her entire body shudder with primal terror.
"Missing a horn? I didn't recognize you at first," Rhodes remarked, a note of nostalgia in his voice.
The little demoness was barely born—her features were soft, her mana pool pitifully shallow. He wasn't sure why she had ended up with Frieren, but since she was here, he might as well take her back to keep Solifra company.
"I did it," Frieren said.
Rhodes looked at her.
"Residual damage from the Divine Strike," she added.
"I see." Rhodes nodded, satisfied.
He had sensed the wake of the Divine Strike the moment it was cast; that was how he had tracked her coordinates. He had felt the trigger of the protective spells he'd woven into her robes. He knew those clothes were more than simple fabric—they were layered with spatial anchors meant to weave rifts, the very defense that had allowed Frieren to stabilize and fire the Divine Strike without being vaporized by the backlash.
Rhodes turned his attention back to the old man. The man stood trembling, his lips moving, but no sound emerged. His underlings were even worse; some were visibly shaking.
"Five hundred years ago, when Flamme left, I gave her a promise."
The air grew heavy. A weight of pure, absolute mana descended—not a blast, but a crushing gravity. Every mage in the circle, save for the old man, was forced to their knees, their heads bowed into the dirt.
The old man remained standing, though his spine bent like a bow under the sheer load, and cold sweat streamed down his withered face.
"I said: Her disciples are my disciples."
"..."
"..."
The weight of his mana robbed them of the capacity to speak, but Rhodes didn't care for their answers.
"Whoever touches her… touches me."
"So," Rhodes's voice was soft, cold as the void between stars. "Have you prepared yourself to be my enemy?"
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