RoleplayNovel Chapter 15 Enslaving Potema
Chapter 15 Enslaving Potema
The leading necromancer did not respond to Potema's gaze. He lowered his head, stretched out his hands, palms facing Potema, and the blue filaments at his fingertips became even brighter.
His lips moved rapidly, and the content of his chant changed—
The tone changed. The rhythm changed. It transformed from a summoning call into something more urgent and commanding.
The other necromancers followed him, their voices perfectly synchronized, as if they had rehearsed countless times:
"When we summoned you with our voices, we also bound you with the blood of the innocent, Queen of the Wolf."
Chen Mo's fingers tightened sharply on the bowstring.
coming.
Portma reacted faster than he had expected.
Her body jolted violently—not in retreat, but in an offensive, furious tremor.
Her long hair exploded in an instant, like countless angry snakes. Her eyes, burning with blue flames, widened abruptly, flames overflowing from their sockets and streaming down her cheeks, leaving scorched marks in the air.
"What?!"
Her voice was no longer a low, echoing sound coming from all directions—it had become a sharp, tearing roar.
"What are you doing?! You idiots! Don't try to control me!"
Her spirit body trembled violently.
The tremor wasn't from fear—it was from anger.
It was the kind of furious, insane rage that comes from someone who has been imprisoned for hundreds of years, has just gained freedom, only to find themselves trapped again.
Her arms stretched outwards, her ten fingers curled into claws, and a ghostly blue energy shot out from her fingertips like eight glowing blades, slicing towards the necromancers surrounding her.
But the energy blades stopped a few steps away from the necromancer—as if they had hit an invisible wall.
Pale red light membranes appeared in the air, connecting to the palms of each necromancer, forming a huge, inverted bowl-shaped barrier that enveloped Potema.
"Spell summons, blood ties bind us!" the leading necromancer shouted, his voice taut and strained with unwavering determination.
Sweat beaded on his forehead, and his hands trembled slightly, but he did not take a step back.
The other necromancers repeated in unison: "Spell summons, blood ties bind!"
The pale red light membrane became even brighter.
It began to shrink—not rapidly, but slowly, inch by inch, like a net tightening.
Potterma's spirit struggled within the light membrane, her arms pushing outwards, her long hair dancing wildly, and she uttered a series of ancient curses that Chen Mo couldn't understand—
But the membrane of light was contracting. Slowly, but irresistibly.
Potema's spirit began to deform—her outline was compressed by the light membrane, like a bird caught in a net, the more it struggled, the tighter the net tightened.
Her roars grew sharper and more piercing, but also...weaker.
"You ants," her voice trembled, but anger still overflowed from every word like lava, "how dare you presume to try and restrain me!"
Her body suddenly swelled up for a moment—like an inflating balloon trying to burst through the membrane of light.
The light membrane vibrated violently, and a tiny crack appeared. The leading necromancer groaned, a trickle of blood seeping from the corner of his mouth, but he gritted his teeth and thrust his hands forward with all his might—
The film has been restored. The crack has healed.
After that outburst, Potema's swollen body seemed to have exhausted its last strength and began to slowly and irreversibly shrink.
Her struggle continued—her arms were still pushing, her long hair was still dancing, and her mouth was still uttering those ancient, angry curses.
But the force was diminishing. Each struggle was weaker than the last, each roar lower than the last.
Chen Mo could feel the oppressive aura weakening. Potema's power was being suppressed, gradually drained by the light membrane. If left unchecked, if no one interrupted the ritual—
Potema will truly be enslaved.
A former imperial princess, Queen of Nord, the dark ruler of Solitude, and a wolf queen whose soul was so powerful after death that it was almost comparable to a demon god—was enslaved by eight necromancers using blood magic.
Chen Mo and Benjamin exchanged a glance.
Benjamin's face was expressionless. In those grey-blue eyes, Chen Mo saw something he had never seen in this old bastard before—not fear, not tension, but a cold, almost cruel clarity.
The old man knew what was going to happen next. He knew what they were about to face. He knew the consequences if they failed.
He did not back down.
Chen Mo didn't have any either.
"It's time," he said.
Benjamin didn't answer. He tucked the spellbook under his arm and reached into a hidden pocket inside his robe, pulling something out—
A small bottle.
The bottle was made of dark brown glass, about the same size as a poison bottle, but the liquid inside was golden, gleaming warmly in the pale blue light. The bottle opening was sealed with wax, and a label bore a line of text that Chen Mo couldn't understand.
Benjamin handed the bottle to Chen Mo.
"Drink it," he said calmly.
Chen Mo took the bottle and glanced at the label: "What's this?"
"Archer's Potion," Benjamin said, his eyes already back on the tower opposite, his finger resting on a page of the spellbook.
"It can temporarily improve your eyesight, reaction speed, and stability. It's something archers use. I found it at the academy and took it with me before I left."
Chen Mo looked at the bottle of golden liquid in his hand, then at Benjamin.
The old man didn't look at him. His gaze was already fixed on the necromancer on the opposite tower, his lips moving slightly as he silently chanted something.
His profile looked exceptionally aged in the dim blue light, his wrinkles as deep as if carved by a knife.
But he stood there. The spellbook was open in his left hand, and a fireball was gathering in his right. His gray hair was ruffled by the wind, and his grey robe billowed slightly in the energy fluctuations.
Chen Mo uncorked the bottle and gulped down the golden liquid.
The taste was worse than he had imagined—spicy, bitter, like swallowing a mouthful of red-hot iron filings.
The moment the liquid slid down his throat, a burning sensation spread from his stomach, coursing through his veins to his limbs. Goosebumps rose on his skin, not from the cold—but from some kind of energy surging within him.
His perspective changed.
It's not the kind of change brought about by "enlightenment" as before—it's a more direct and violent change.
His vision sharpened, and the outlines of the necromancers on the opposite tower became so clear they seemed magnified.
He could see the beads of sweat on their foreheads, the frequency of their lips moving, and the pulse of light on their fingertips.
He saw the blood at the corner of the necromancer's mouth. He saw the trembling of his hands. He saw the pale red membrane in his pupils, shrinking.
He saw Potema within the membrane of light. Her spirit body had been compressed to only half its original size, and her struggles had turned into weak, intermittent twitches. Her mouth was still moving, but the sound was so low it was almost inaudible.
Chen Mo took a deep breath.
He nocked the first arrow and drew the bowstring.
The sensation of the bowstring against his fingers was clearer than ever before. He could feel the curvature of every inch of the bow, the tension of every fiber of the bowstring, and the frequency of the arrow's subtle vibrations against the bow.
His gaze pierced through the wide chasm, through the deep blue light, through the dancing wisps of light and ripples of energy—
It landed on the back of the head of the leading necromancer.
At that location, in the gap between the skull and the cervical vertebrae, an arrow shot from this angle could directly sever the connection between the brainstem and the spinal cord.
He could see the gap. Clearer than ever before.
Chen Mo held his breath.
Loosen your fingers.