The Breath Camouflage spell had its advantages.
As an apprentice-level spell, its ability to mask one's aura could even deceive some lower-level investigative techniques. However, its flaws were just as obvious—it only concealed breath.
In actual combat, if the enemy was knowledgeable, they would immediately recognize the possibility of a spell that produced such an effect. Even an ignorant fool, when faced with life and death, would find it highly suspicious if an enemy's aura suddenly changed.
Any creature with an IQ above fifty would feel something was amiss, and the natural response would be to strike first and investigate later.
Relying on this spell to stop attacks, let alone turn enemies into allies, was nothing more than wishful thinking.
However, against these undead, it was the perfect choice.
The undead's perception was crude at best, and their discernment was even worse. They had no hope of seeing through the flaws in Punk's fabricated undead aura.
Their intellect was pitifully low, relying solely on breath to differentiate friend from foe.
Now, with Punk's aura disguised as one of their own, their perception shifted—the enemy had vanished, and a new "comrade" had joined them.
They would not question this unreasonable situation.
They had only one thought:
"Let another enemy disappear."
The priestess, now surrounded, was completely unable to escape.
Within seconds, the relentless attacks of two apprentice-level skeleton warriors had caused the once-radiant Holy Light Armor on her robes to dim and flicker.
The sacred inscriptions etched upon it weakened under the corrosive black aura radiating from the skeleton warriors, barely holding on.
Desperately, she reactivated another Holy Light Armor, but all it did was prolong her inevitable demise by a few fleeting moments.
The undead, driven by their hatred of the Holy Light and the living, attacked with endless ferocity.
Some stabbed with weapons.
Others clawed with bony fingers.
Some, in their mindless frenzy, even bit at her with skeletal jaws.
Five more seconds.
That was all she had.
Her divine robes, reinforced with apprentice-level enchantments, could not endure the relentless onslaught.
She, a spellcaster, had been forced into close-quarters combat with a horde of tireless, fearless undead.
The only reason she had survived thus far was due to the superior craftsmanship of her magic-infused vestments.
Yet even those had limits.
Her defensive magic could only be activated twice in succession, but the skeleton warriors struck her Holy Light Armor with frenzied fervor, their blades a blur of pale black streaks cutting through the dim air.
The rhythmic clashing of weapons against divine protection rang out in relentless succession—
clang, clang, clang—
as black energy and golden sparks flew in opposing directions, painting a hauntingly beautiful contrast in the darkened sky.
The battlefield beneath them bore the marks of their clash:
One side covered in crisscrossing blade marks,
the other a ruined wasteland littered with fragments of shattered Holy Light.
Even the lesser skeleton soldiers who wandered too close were mercilessly struck down by their own kin in the frenzy.
As the final layer of divine armor began to shatter, the priestess futilely activated the few remaining purification spells embedded in her badges.
It was a pitiful effort—one that only delayed her demise for a few more seconds.
Left with no other options, she resorted to hurling curses at Punk, her voice filled with righteous indignation.
Punk, unimpressed, simply chuckled to himself.
"To think a so-called lady would spew such elegant and poetic insults even in her final moments.
How very refined."
Her tirade, however, was nearing its end.
Even the best apprentice-level magic could not withstand the relentless onslaught of dozens of undead warriors.
Finally, with a sound like shattering porcelain, her last protective barrier crumbled into golden fragments, scattering into the wind like dying embers.
A flash of black steel followed.
And just like that—
her world faded into pure white, never to awaken again.
Punk watched as the priestess's body crumpled, her beheaded corpse collapsing lifelessly onto the blood-soaked ground.
The skeleton warriors, driven by their hatred for the Holy Light, did not stop.
They tore her remains apart, venting their loathing and rage upon her still-warm flesh.
He did not bother looking at her final expression.
After all, the moment her head had been severed, it was diced into countless pieces by the skeleton warrior's relentless blade strikes.
"Serene and elegant? Or twisted in despair? The latter seems more likely—but what does it matter to me?"
Punk shrugged indifferently.
The only thing that concerned him was his trophies.
If she had not insisted on "purifying" everything in her path, he would not have had to ensure that she was the one purified first.
Since she refused to consider his interests, there was no room for compromise.
In conflicts of irreconcilable goals, strength determined the victor.
Her loss was simply the most natural outcome.
Besides, no matter what divine prophecy the church used to track down the priestess's murderer, all clues would lead to the skeleton warriors.
A perfectly clean kill.
No loose ends.
With his plan executed flawlessly, Punk's expression remained calm.
"On my path to glory, none shall stand in my way."
The blue light in his pupils pulsed, growing more intense, almost tangible.
Two piercing azure flames burned beneath the hood, their brilliance cold and merciless.
Now, it was time to clean up.
The skeleton warriors were still hacking and slashing at the lifeless corpse, their minds devoid of thought, their actions fueled only by mindless aggression.
However, the fourth-level skeleton warrior—stronger and smarter than the rest—was the real concern.
As the leader of these undead, it had already begun issuing commands.
Once a unified strategy took form, even these brainless creatures would become far deadlier foes.
Right now, they treated Punk as "one of their own."
But if he so much as touched their weapons—
if he even approached—
they would turn on him instantly.
Even if he had the breath of their dearest father, it would make no difference.
Punk had no interest in getting swarmed by these mindless husks.
Weighing his options, he quickly decided to use the Apprentice-Level Plastic Energy Spell—Gakafei Flame Surge.
A spell contained within his wand, its destructive power far exceeded anything he could cast on his own.
Against these skeletons, which lacked any form of magical defense, it would be an absolute massacre.
Of course, this meant their already fragile equipment would be utterly destroyed in the process.
But it was still better than being ripped apart by a horde of undead.
Safety always came first.
Once the threat was eliminated, he could leisurely sift through the remnants, looting whatever was left intact from the robed skeletons.
With a cold glance, Punk gestured toward his summoned brown bear, ordering it to handle the stray skeleton soldiers that had begun to drift too close.
Then, he raised his staff, the ruby at its tip glowing ominously.
Violent elemental fluctuations surged within the gem, an oppressive force radiating outward.
Even Punk himself could feel the terrifying power contained within.
The skeletons, oblivious to their impending doom, continued their mindless slaughter.
Punk smirked, whispering a mock blessing under his breath.
"Poor souls… may your journey be swift."