Chapter 58: Confrontation

The black dragon landed with a thunderous crash, as if a towering building had suddenly collapsed. Its expansive black wings unfurled like the sails of a warship, and its limbs were as robust as twisted iron blocks. The swirling gale it generated dispersed the fog within a hundred-meter radius, causing the bodies crushed by the Magistrate to quiver and lift into the air by the invisible giant wave.

Its eyes, resembling quicksilver, flickered with a subtle light, and its jaw, massive as a fortress gate, gradually parted, releasing a metallic scraping sound that, unexpectedly, bore a trace of intricate emotions.

"Bonecaster—why do you stand here?"

"Huh?" Astolfo had just drawn his sword when he came to a sudden halt, "You know each other?"

"Each T'lan Imass, each Shapeshifter, each Mutator, doth share a hidden bond. This pervasive connection engendereth a sense of kinship upon our encounter. Even should he be a Shapeshifter fashioned by thy human empire, this bond endureth," Isa slowly explained, stepping forward.

The gray-horned beast let out an impatient roar, its sound like thunder from the depths of the earth: "You know I serve the Empire, Bonecaster! Then why do you stand before me to obstruct me? Your alliance should not include such actions!"

"Merely a personal action, Notella," Isa bowed to him and stepped forward again. The Bonecaster remained calm, "As is the deed thou art presently undertaking—a personal action of thine own."

The heavy limbs, covered in scales, thudded against the earth with the force of cement pillars crashing into a wall. The teeth, more resilient than steel, gnashed together with the harsh grating of rough metal saws. With a roar, he expelled hot breath from lungs akin to a furnace, the black dragon's roar akin to a thousand wolves howling together under the full moon.

"The nascent technology of the human empire hath engendered a flaw within thy soul, Notella. Thou ought to comprehend this; it is incumbent upon thee to seek a means to redress thy sanity, rather than progressively surrendering to incessant wrath and frenzy,"

As Isa spoke, he approached step by step, his broad golden hands resting on the black dragon's chin.

The immediate contact left Notella with the sensation of a drowning person, desperately flailing for air... He retreated slowly on all fours, then with determination shook his head and silently unfurled his wings to take flight. Beneath his outstretched wings, the swirling dust surged into Astolfo's helmet, causing him to sneeze several times in a row.

"Verily, it appeareth that the attempt at persuasion hath faltered, a lamentable outcome," Isa casually shrugged, "The fidelity of this Shapeshifter to the human Empress is indeed unyielding."

"Resolving a futile conflict, that's the whole point," Taxar shook his head.

...

The crimson long sword flickered with an unnatural light, as if reflecting the moonlight of the night sky above.

Otataral ore, Jeanne had heard of this mineral.

Otataral ore is a prized commodity of the Seven Cities continent, said to be as common there as iron ore. Positioned between Genabackis and Lether, the Seven Cities continent is divided from each by comparable stretch of oceans. Jeanne was aware that the Church had its sights set on that territory, just as the heretical Empress Nero of this continent was also keeping a watchful eye—this was not speculation, but intelligence gathered by their spies.

The protective barriers the Dark wizard had erected around Jeanne shattered one by one beneath the blade's edge, akin to oil paper confronting a raging inferno, rendered virtually nonexistent before a weapon with the power to suppress magic.

The blade pierced through mortal steel as easily as it tore through flesh; the only relief was that—the weapon Salser had given her did not originate from mortal steel.

Jeanne felt the pressure. The Hound's strikes were like a torrential rain, completely unlike her slender limbs, even forcing her back step by step, distancing herself from Salser by over ten meters. The pair of wildly swinging arms appeared as if they were tightly coiled springs, exhibiting inhuman agility, swift enough to bewilder, yet as weighty as projectiles launched by a catapult, thrusting the crimson long sword against her own black longsword. The clashing blades whipped up storm-like gusts, with brilliant sparks cascading in every direction.

At the same time, the air reverberated with the clashing of spells, with shadows and white flames dispersed throughout, the sound akin to thunder rumbling from the bowels of the earth. A white cobra with six blood-red compound eyes swelled furiously within the Dark wizard's mouth, clinging to the wall and spewing forth fire; white fire bats fluttered their wings from the Dark wizard's hands, launching suicidal attacks, weaving around obstacles and barriers, detonating in every inch of air in front of the priest; heated air formed a violent whirlwind, intertwining with writhing shadows, churning up scorched moss, the intense fire and explosions causing everything in the vicinity to begin peeling away, withering, and shattering within the swirling shadows...

But between them, there was only air and breath.

The breath of two women.

The longsword and the crimson blade continuously sliced through the air, kissing, parting, and kissing again, as she searched for ephemeral opportunities amidst the screeching metal clashing.

During the confrontation, Jeanne keenly observed the openings in her opponent's weapon, her longsword meticulously occupying every inch of space before her, weaving continuous or interrupted trajectories—much like branches extending under sunlight, seeking the precise moment to pierce flesh with her sword. She had to survive, this was just a small, insignificant obstacle, nothing compared to usual. She had hunted down hundreds of vile cultists, destined to eradicate those disgusting kinfolks and madmen who dared to contact the Outer Gods; she hailed from a small village in France, and she had commanded a full-scale war, though that was merely an act of vengeance... She was Jeanne, the Inquisitor, the zealous Scorcher who made those creatures in the gutters weep and fear.

Jeanne could clearly see the identical serene murderous intent mirrored on the other woman's face. She knew this woman was calm, as calm as herself, a trait essential for any warrior, unless she was a barbaric Barghast, or a mere low-ranking soldier devoid of true combat finesse.

Jeanne stared at her movements, took a step back, adjusted her breath, and shook off the sweat from her hair.

"You'll find fear before this concludes," the woman smirked at her, "Care to wager on whether it's you or your dear husband and child who'll meet their end first?"

Fuck off with your husband and child!

She cursed in her heart.

Jeanne took a deep breath, then leaped, crouched, and charged, swift as lightning—sweeping upwards towards the gap between the woman's legs. It was a despicably underhanded sword strike.

"Where is your manner?!"

The woman shouted, leaping back with incredible agility. With a deft press and push of her slender, flexible fingers against the ground, she effortlessly propelled herself five meters away, as if she bore no weight, akin to a lark in flight.

This woman was like an elegant beast, but she was also a beast—a bloodthirsty beast.

Who even cares about manners on the battlefield!?

Jeanne mirrored her adversary's movements and surged forward, the collision of swords resounding like thunder before they disengaged once more. It was a test of both might and skill, with both combatants nearly matched in agility and bearing strength of nearly equal heft.

"I know why you love him so much," the woman attacked Jeanne while laughing with a clear, lark-like voice, "A month spent together in this wild dream, escaping the dungeon while supporting one another—it even brings me to tears. Such a romantic love, wouldn't you agree? And you even managed to give birth to a ten-year-old girl for him in that time! Perhaps I should sever your head and send it to him, allowing him to love you anew..."

Too talkative.

The next instant, Jeanne's sword struck her cheek—her wrist turned, followed by a slicing and chopping motion. Jeanne cut open her jaw, blood splattering, while her blade also slashed across Jeanne's left arm—the armor covering her forearm was no stronger than a sheet of paper before that sword.

Jeanne's left arm artery was severed, blood gushing out.

Both women jumped back simultaneously.

Translator's note: Changing some titles and names, like many cases immortal are now Ascendant (kinda like the demi-god of this setting), the Russell continent is now Lether continent, since they are from the Malazan series. 

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