Re: In My Bloody Hit Novel - Chapter 549

Chapter 549: Timothy’s sacrifice.
The man on the chair was Deamon. As he slowly rose from his seat, his fierce expression softened into one of measured curiosity. He walked toward Dylan with an air of authority, each step resonating with the silent command he held over the room.

Black Arrow stepped forward, her movements fluid and precise, and handed Deamon Dylan’s sword. Deamon examined the blade with a nod of appreciation. “Interesting,” he murmured, his voice carrying a hint of the camaraderie they once shared. “You leave us and then come back with a cursed blade. This is really fine stuff.”

These two had known each other since childhood, a time when they would have killed for one another as brothers. But their paths had diverged, their opinions and allegiances now starkly different.

Dylan frowned, concern etched on his face. “Where is Timothy?”

Deamon nodded, acknowledging Dylan’s question. “Commendable. Even in such a situation, you still care about him. Come with me.” He turned and left the room, with Dylan following close behind. Black Arrow trailed them, her presence a silent reminder of the shifting loyalties and hidden dangers.

As they moved, Dylan noted Deamon’s aura. Though Deamon had barely grown in cultivation, still at the middle stone rank, Dylan had advanced to the early copper rank. However, Dylan could sense the latent power in the room they had just left. At least fifteen of the men and women there were at the peak of the copper rank, yet they all listened to Deamon. This was a testament to Deamon’s unique ability and charisma, which secured his leadership despite his comparatively modest rank.

The corridors they traversed were narrow and dimly lit, with walls lined with old, cracked stone. Their footsteps echoed softly as they climbed higher and higher through a series of winding staircases and narrow passageways. The air grew colder, and the scent of earth and damp stone became more pronounced.

Dylan couldn’t shake the feeling that he was no longer meeting an old friend but a general. Deamon’s presence exuded a controlled strength and strategic mind, qualities that had undoubtedly earned him the loyalty of his formidable followers.

Eventually, they reached a wooden hatch at the top of a steep staircase. Deamon pushed it open, revealing a ladder leading upward. One by one, they climbed out into the open air. The hatch led to a secluded spot within a dense forest. Tall trees surrounded them, their leaves rustling softly in the breeze. The ground was covered in a thick layer of fallen leaves, and the scent of pine filled the air.

The transition from the underground hideout to the forest was jarring. The forest seemed serene and peaceful, a stark contrast to the tense atmosphere below. The moonlight filtered through the canopy, casting dappled shadows on the ground.

Deamon turned to face Dylan, his eyes reflecting both the moonlight and the weight of their shared past. “Come,” he said, his voice a mixture of command and invitation. “There’s much to discuss.”

The three of them walked up the mountain, the air growing thinner and colder as they ascended. At the peak, Deamon waved his hand to Black Arrow, who approached him with a small crystal ball. Deamon pointed in a particular direction where little lights flickered in the distance.

“Put your spiritual energy into the ball and look in that direction,” Deamon instructed Dylan.

Dylan did as he was told, holding the crystal ball close to his eyes. It was a yellow core, functioning like magical binoculars. The more spiritual energy he infused, the closer and clearer the image became.

The lights in the distance sharpened into view. It was a village, the same one where Timothy and Dylan had been hiding. At the center of the village, someone was tied to a pole, seated and appearing to be in pain. Dylan’s eyes widened in surprise. “Timothy!?”

He turned to Deamon, his voice urgent. “It’s Timothy. Why is he down there? We need to go get him. We need to—” He looked again and saw men in white robes advancing from all sides, members of the Holy Church. They were led by a man who moved with precise composure, riding on a flying core beast, his hands behind his back.

Dylan panicked. “They are going to get him. We need to help him out. We need to—” He was desperate to rush out and save Timothy. However, Deamon nodded at Black Arrow, and she immediately grabbed Dylan, pinning him to the ground with surprising skill and strength. Dylan struggled, even trying to use his spiritual energy, but it was futile. She was like a heavy boulder on his back, immobilizing him completely.

“Shut up and watch!” she instructed firmly.

Deamon walked forward, his expression stern. “I want you to see it. What our fate has become without Prince Chiron under the rule of King Victor. Look well.”

Dylan, pinned down and helpless, watched as the scene in the village unfolded before him.

The first man in robes rushed over to Timothy, his movements quick and purposeful. Deamon, watching the scene with Dylan still pinned to the ground, began to explain. “There is one amongst the Holy Church who can track the origin of a cut on any person. And with the blade, track the individual it last wounded. For this reason, unless it’s a special treasure, the Holy Church has resorted to using only swords.”

Dylan’s eyes were wide with recognition and fear. He pointed to the man on the flying core beast. “That’s the one.”

The person on the flying core beast was none other than Dona, Chiron’s uncle. With a wave of his hand, the sword that had given Timothy the cut on his side was thrown to him. In Dona’s hands, the sword glowed with spiritual energy, shimmering as if alive. Dona, once the chief of the most powerful sword clan in his area, had knowledge of old sword techniques passed down through generations. One of these techniques allowed him to track the person who had been cut by a sword, provided he had that sword in his hand and the wound was still fresh.

As the sword shimmered in Dona’s grip, Timothy’s head was bowed, tears falling steadily from his eyes. His breathing was labored, each inhale and exhale coming in harsh, ragged bursts, a testament to the pain and the weight of what he was about to do.

Dona’s voice cut through the tension. “Where are the others? Where is your foolish rebel army?”

Timothy raised his head, his eyes burning with a mixture of grief and defiance. “I really wanted to take revenge for my father on my uncle for killing him. But to take you instead is STILL not a bad trade.” As he spoke, he revealed a string in his mouth connected to a series of bombs underneath the platform he was tied to.

Dylan’s heart pounded as he watched, the gravity of the situation sinking in. Timothy’s breathing grew even more strained, his chest heaving with each breath as he prepared to make the ultimate sacrifice…