Endless Debt Chapter 1116 - 122: Clear Skies

The brutal combat reached its conclusion with Xilin's departure. Bologue's body, taut with tension, finally sagged as he dropped to the ground, his breaths ragged and deep. Each fleeting second of the engagement had felt like an eternity, with peril and survival locked in a constant embrace.

Nesanel rose, turning his attention to the wounded state of Geoffrey and Lebius. Both bore grievous injuries of varying severity; Geoffrey's eyes streamed with blood, and the extent of his fractured bones was impossible to gauge. Lebius, however, presented a far more harrowing spectacle than his companion.

Despite Lebius having achieved the rank of Defender, the ferocious combat had pushed him to the brink, nearly shattering his spine. He lay prone and motionless, his limbs contorted at unnatural angles, his survival indicated only by the faint rasp of his breathing.

While the others were occupied with their disengagement, Palmer struggled to lift his head. Others might not have registered the sound, but for Palmer, it resonated with profound familiarity.

Squinting towards the minuscule figure suspended in the air, Palmer stammered, "F...Father?"

Fuen, seemingly oblivious to Palmer's query, continued his ascent, riding successive currents of air. His gaze fixed upon the colossal, swirling vortex of energy that churned above the Great Rift. Then, he unfurled his arms as if orchestrating a grand symphony.

A searing white luminescence ignited within Fuen's eyes, and an intricate, radiant Alchemy Matrix materialized on his skin, creeping up his neck and shrouding much of his face.

With deliberate slowness, Fuen raised his arms, as if intending to lift the very world.

A noticeable chill descended upon Palmer, accompanied by a rapidly intensifying wind. Nesanel, supporting Geoffrey with one arm and cradling Lebius with the other, spoke.

"They require immediate medical aid. I shall return them first."

With these hurried words, Nesanel channeled the combined might of a Seeker of Glory and the Extreme Realm, vanishing in an instant. Only a spiraling distortion in the mist marked his swift trajectory.

"Take some of us with you!"

Palmer's desperate cry went unheard, unable to match Nesanel's incredible speed.

At this moment, within the ravaged heart of the battlefield, only Bologue, Palmer, and Aimou remained. Nesanel's decision not to escort them was understandable; they were among the least afflicted in this extraordinary conflict.

Bologue required little special treatment. As an Undead, even grievous wounds like decapitation inflicted no lasting harm, merely leaving him with a gruesome appearance. Then there was Aimou, whose reliance on Heart Overlapping Shadow allowed her to navigate the battlefield's rifts like a spectral phantom. Protected by her Steel Body, even a broken limb could be mended with a simple repair.

Palmer... fortunate Palmer, whose persistent Blessing had finally, it seemed, proven its worth. He possessed an uncanny knack for evading the most lethal moments of conflict, only to resurface at opportune junctures, thus accruing a measure of battle merit.

Yet, Palmer himself held no such rosy assessment of his fortune.

He slumped onto the fractured, dust-laden earth, clutching his chest, the chaotic turbulence of his blood churning within.

"G...God... We've plunged headfirst into a battle between Seekers of Glory, and even witnessed the demise of one."

Palmer's initial exhilaration rapidly gave way to sheer terror; without Nesanel's protection, a single errant strike from the Age-Stealing Mist would have been sufficient to annihilate him. Even if survival were possible, his body would have undergone rapid, irreversible aging.

Palmer could vividly picture Fuen's sardonic remark upon seeing his vastly aged form.

"Now you finally look like your father."

Fuen would undoubtedly utter such words.

Swallowing hard, Palmer blinked fiercely, momentarily Pushing aside the profound impact of the First Seat's death – a devastating blow to the King's Secret Sword – to grapple with more immediate concerns.

"So... I wasn't mistaken, was I? It wasn't an illusion conjured by Red Dog, nor the First Seat's power, right?"

Palmer directed a gravely serious question towards the severely injured Bologue.

"Did Xilin... come back to life?"

Bologue managed a weak nod.

Overlord Xilin had been resurrected, or perhaps more accurately, he had never truly perished.

A tempest raged within Bologue's mind; for a time, his thoughts became an unmanageable jumble, his head swimming as he passively awaited the passage of time.

Observing Bologue's unresponsive state, Palmer felt his own composure fraying at the edges. Bologue had a disconcerting habit of spouting nonsense under extreme duress.

"Bologue, you expert! Say something!"

Palmer implored, giving Bologue a nudge. Seeing his near-lifeless condition, Palmer gathered his resolve and turned to Aimou.

"Why don't we hurry this along?"

"Hurry what along?" Aimou appeared bewildered.

Palmer tightened his jaw, making a throat-slitting motion.

"Huh?"

Aimou still failed to grasp Palmer's intended meaning. At this precise moment, everyone shared a similar state of stunned disbelief, their minds utterly fractured by Xilin's return, rendering them as dazed as the living dead.

In comparison, the unfolding conspiracy and subsequent collapse of the King's Secret Sword seemed a matter of secondary importance.

Bologue sensed an impending tempest, one that ignited the resolve of all, pulling them into its furious blast and annihilating all in its path...

Yet, a storm was, in truth, on its way.

The winds surrounding them intensified, swirling the ever-present mist.

Bologue felt a slight improvement, having reached the realm of a Negative Power User; his resilience was now significantly enhanced, granting him sufficient time for his body to mend.