The Struggle

Falling Star cast a sidelong glance at Azazel. "Oh? Is that so? What if they knew this was all your machination? Would the people in the castle still come charging out if they knew this was a plot?"

Azazel smirked, "Hey, you can't tell them. If you did, that would be cheating."

"Of course, of course, I won't tell. But she might," Falling Star said, pointing at the suffering Alice.

Suddenly, Alice found her voice again. The paralyzing sensation in her throat vanished in an instant. Though still immobile and surrounded by a stench, at least she could cry out for help. But the dilemma was whether to call out or not. She had heard the entire conversation between the two adversaries. Now, Alice had two choices: call for help, potentially leading her comrades into a trap, or warn them not to come, sacrificing herself.

Falling Star and Azazel watched the Archangel's struggle intently, both the cloaked mage and the devil delighting in witnessing such human turmoil.

The essence of good and evil was laid bare in this struggle.

Alice didn't have much time to hesitate. The drawbridge of the castle slammed down, and a battalion of warriors marched out, led by a fully armored Templar Knight who proceeded with utmost caution against an enemy that had slain two Templars and captured an Archangel in the blink of an eye.

Azazel, growing impatient with the script he had written, had expected the humans to storm out en masse, for only then would they stand a chance of defeating the enemy. If they maintained their cautious formation, even he would have trouble dealing with a full troop of adversaries.

And thirty calamity coins were not a small sum, considering he had only earned three for his own virginity.

So Azazel decided to cheat. But this wasn't really cheating, for even the Eleven Iron Rules stated, "Without proof, there is no crime." By the same logic, cheating undetected is not cheating at all.

Azazel's gaze lingered on Archangel Alice, his malevolent aura subtly influencing her.

"Help me! I'm here, save me!" Before long, under Azazel's discreet influence, selfishness and evil took root in Alice's heart. She cried out desperately, "Anyone, save me from this accursed magic, this foul stench. Please, I just bathed!"

The human formation in the distance stirred, highlighting the difference between mercenaries and true soldiers. Mercenaries often acted more independently and less disciplined, driven by their own ways rather than strict adherence to orders. A single Templar Knight could never fully restrain them.

Some warriors broke ranks in the commotion, screaming as they charged toward Azazel. The sight of a beautiful Archangel struggling and crying in the clutches of a demon was enough for them. They sought to emulate the knights of legend, to strike down the fiend and rescue the angel in distress.

Azazel shook his head at Alice, his face twisted with disgust. "I'm surprised, little angel, that you didn't spill our little secret and just cried out for your own life. How vile. That's enough, silence her. Her heart is as filthy as that stench she emits." With that, Azazel turned away from Alice, unsheathing his sword, and advanced on the charging warriors. "Falling Star, remember, you owe me thirty gold coins."

Falling Star, looking at the weeping Archangel, was puzzled. "It shouldn't be. How could today's Archangels have fallen so far? Strange. Is it the influence of Hell?"

The elven mage could only lament her misfortune as she cast a Sleep spell on Archangel Alice, plunging her into slumber, and prepared for battle.

She pulled two small pieces of cat's skin from her pouch and, after chanting the spell, bestowed Azazel and herself with the grace of "Cat's Elegance."

"Friends, come forth!" Azazel surged forward, charging into the crowd.

With steps as nimble as a cat's, he moved with a rhythmic elegance, narrowly evading the enemies' swords, while his own blade artfully traced their flesh, drawing forth sprays of blood.

There were no pierced hearts, no severed throats, just minor cuts inflicted by Azazel. Yet, those who were touched by his blade invariably fell, their bodies still warm but devoid of life. Their fragile souls were snatched away in an instant by the "Soul Blade."

This was the first power Azazel had imbued into the Soul Blade—soul reaping.

If the soul of one struck by Azazel's blade lacked the will to resist, it would be taken in a flash. Even the smallest nick could seal their fate, their soul stored within the blade for Azazel to use as he pleased.

In just a few breaths, over twenty men lay fallen behind Azazel, who seemed to have merely brushed past them, leaving behind only the empty husks of those bereft of their souls.

The so-called Soul Blade harmed more than just the body.

The remaining Templar Knight felt as if the air he breathed was turning to ice. He could hardly believe he faced such a formidable devil. Twenty warriors, though not the strongest, should not have been dispatched so effortlessly.

Without a roar, without splattered blood, without death's cries, without severed limbs, and even without vigorous motion. Everything happened in silence, in the elegant steps, with just a few droplets of blood, and over twenty warriors lay down for eternity.

How eerie it all was.

In that moment, the Templar Knight felt fear, a desire to retreat. But as he saw the single devil, Azazel, calmly approaching with his blade, the scorn in the devil's eyes—mockery and disdain—ignited something within the knight. His blood boiled with the fury of a warrior.

To fear a devil was shameful. To be looked down upon by a devil was disgraceful.

The honor of a warrior must be defended with one's life!

"Lower the bow! I'll show this devil who dares to underestimate me," the Templar Knight declared, spurring his horse into a charge. Hooves pounded the scorched earth, stirring dust, as the knight leveled his lance, invoking the holy name "Pharis," which suddenly glowed with blinding golden light. The horse's speed surged, as if it had sprouted wings.

The knight's charge was fierce and decisive, an unstoppable force. Who could stand against such a thundering steed? Even Azazel thought, if there were a hundred such knights charging together, even dragons might falter.

Azazel did not dodge. He raised his blade, seemingly waiting for the Templar Knight's assault. The two warriors appeared ready for a face-to-face confrontation.

It seemed like a fair duel between warriors, with no room for evasion.

But that was just an illusion. In the next instant, the Templar Knight met the same fate as the previous two, his horse collapsing without warning. The knight, flung into the air, managed to thrust his lance into the ground, but the force was too great, and the lance shattered. He fell heavily to the ground.

Groaning in pain, the knight knew he could not fall yet; the battle was not over. Shaking his head to clear it, he opened his eyes only to see Azazel's blade descending from above, and cold death came swiftly.

The knight convulsed, his eyes filled with indignation as they fixed on Azazel. His last thought flashed through his mind: How foolish I was to hope for a fair duel with a devil.