The fate of Konola City now rests entirely on Menezi's battle. In terms of conventional combat power, its fall is inevitable. The only remaining hope lies in the victory of high-end combat power. If Menezi can defeat Lunka, the city will be safe—at least until Prince William dispatches another official-level powerhouse.
However, if the two remain locked in a prolonged stalemate like yesterday, the enemy's conventional forces will inevitably breach the crumbling walls, burn the city to the ground, and uncover the hidden princess. At that point, Menezi's victory or defeat will become meaningless.
The worst possible outcome, of course, is Menezi losing while Lunka remains unscathed. In that case... escaping from the vast, chaotic city of Konola will be all but impossible.
As the first rays of dawn touched the city walls, the enemy's war horns blared. With the granary they had used as bait now destroyed, the enemy forces were under immense pressure. They had to break through Konola City and plunder its wealth and food—without it, starvation awaited them on their return march.
This time, far fewer professionals remained to defend against the assault on the walls. Soon, siege ladders, inscribed with faint red runes, were placed against the ramparts. With the enemy's war cries echoing, the first wave of attackers began their ascent. From above, bodies—mangled by blades and magic—began to fall, painting the walls with fresh blood.
Meanwhile, Lunka and Menezi clashed once more in midair. Their battle was even more intense than the previous day. Shockwaves from their strikes rippled visibly across the sky, and the ground trembled violently—so much so that even those several streets away could feel the reverberations.
In a dimly lit alley, a group of refugees huddled together, clutching their belongings in fear. On the Faerun Plane, nobles in a defeated city could often ransom themselves with gold, but the poor... would all be reduced to slavery. Though they knew their chances of escaping the enemy's inevitable slave hunt were slim, desperation still drove them to flee.
Punk stood quietly at the edge of a street near the refugees. His clothing, though magically disguised to appear tattered, failed to conceal his demeanor. Unlike the trembling commoners, he showed no fear. He didn't expect his crude disguise to fool experienced professionals, but he didn't need it to. Once the enemy broke through the city, their focus would be on looting wealth and knowledge, not picking fights with a clearly formidable stranger. Because of that, Punk was confident in his ability to slip away unnoticed.
His gaze shifted toward the distant battle between Menezi and Lunka. Both had already unleashed their full strength, pushing their abilities to the limit. However, if the fight continued on its current trajectory... Menezi's situation would only deteriorate further.
Lunka, seemingly invigorated, wielded his warhammer like a crimson blur, forcing Menezi into constant retreat.
If this continues...
Just then, a loud and arrogant voice interrupted Punk's thoughts.
"Hurry up! Hand over your valuables!"
Two city guards—deserters, judging by their bloodshot eyes—blocked the street, sneering as they brandished bloodstained sabers.
"Or else we start killing!"
To emphasize their point, one of them kicked a corpse—a woman's body, already cold on the ground.
A crude, predictable display of lawlessness.
Yet, what irritated Punk wasn't the guards' behavior—it was the pathetic cowardice of the refugees. A crowd of thirty or forty, terrified into submission by two ordinary deserters. If they swarmed, even if these guards had an AK-47 instead of sabers, they'd still be overwhelmed in an instant. But instead of fighting back, they could only cower, whispering useless prayers to indifferent gods.
Punk sighed and shook his head.
He stepped forward, moving lightly toward the two deserters—not out of some misplaced sense of justice, but because he had just thought of an interesting way to turn the situation to his advantage.
One of the guards sneered at him.
"Hey, you little—if you don't kneel right now, you're asking to—"
A pale blue glow flickered beneath Punk's hood.
The man never finished his sentence.
With a mere gesture, Punk conjured an ethereal, translucent hand—his Mage Hand—and wrapped it around both guards' throats. Their bodies lifted off the ground, kicking and flailing helplessly as their spines creaked under the immense pressure.
Punk tilted his head slightly, watching them struggle.
"Such pitiful fools. Did greed make you lose your ability to judge reality?"
Foam bubbled at the corners of their mouths. Their limbs twitched in vain. They were like rabbits caught in a steel trap.
Punk's expression remained indifferent.
"Visceral divination... Coordinates aligned with my trainee-level soul... And…"
He glanced at the men, as though evaluating them.
"...plenty of high-quality spell materials."
Without acknowledging the wide-eyed, horrified stares of the refugees, Punk dragged the two suffocating men into a quiet alleyway. The refugees could only watch in frozen silence.
A flash of silver.
The blade of Punk's magical scalpel gleamed as it slid effortlessly through flesh.
Like carving a piece of meat, he opened the first deserter's belly. Blood splattered onto the alley walls, pooling at Punk's feet. Amid the steaming viscera, strange runes—glowing with an eerie, blood-red light—etched themselves into existence, forming an intricate magical array.
Without hesitation, he lifted the second deserter. He placed the man directly above the formation—like setting bait in a hunter's snare.
Tears streamed down the soldier's face. His expression contorted with pure terror, but his struggles were pointless.
Punk raised his knife.
"How did I come up with such a brilliant idea?" he murmured to himself.
In the distance, Konola City burned.
As enemy forces poured into the streets, fresh screams filled the air, and blood splattered across walls and cobblestone. Even the sky—painted by twin suns—seemed to take on a crimson hue.