RoleplayNovel Chapter 17 The Queen's Struggle
Chapter 17 The Queen's Struggle
Portma laughed.
The laughter didn't seem to come from a throat—it came from all directions at once, from the stone walls, from the air, and from underground.
A sharp, piercing laugh, filled with centuries of pent-up anger and maniacal laughter, pierced Chen Mo's eardrums like ten thousand needles.
"You ants—" Her voice echoed through the laughter, each word carrying a chilling resonance, "You dare to try and enslave me?!"
She raised her right hand, fingers spread, palm facing the group of necromancers.
A deep blue light shot out from her palm, transforming into countless tiny threads of light that spread in all directions like a spider web.
The rays of light fell onto the stone slabs of the platform, onto the railings, onto the walls of the tower—
Then, those places started to move.
Something was climbing up from the cracks in the stone slab. It was a grayish-white, slender, jointed thing—a bone.
Finger bones, metacarpal bones, carpal bones, ulna—one by one, they squeezed out from the cracks in the stone slab, like seeds sprouting from the soil, slowly but irresistibly.
The bones were pieced together in mid-air, snapping and clicking as they snapped together to form human-shaped outlines.
Skull.
These weren't the tattered, stiff patrolling skeletons at the cave entrance—their skeletons were much thicker, their surfaces covered in a ghostly blue glow, and their eye sockets burned with two bright blue flames.
They held ancient, rusty but still sharp swords summoned from beneath the stone slabs, facing the necromancers in an attack stance.
"Protect me!" the necromancer's leader shouted, taking two steps back. A crack finally appeared in his voice—a crack torn open by fear, one that could not be concealed.
The remaining necromancers had to devote some of their energy to dealing with the skeletons.
The two necromancers turned to face the skeletons, drawing short swords from their waists, their fingertips glowing with the ghostly light of necromancy, and engaged the skeletons in battle. The sounds of clashing blades, breaking bones, the necromancers' curses, and the skeletons' silent attacks mingled together, creating chaos on the platform.
Only the officiant of the ceremony remained standing, facing Potema, with his hands outstretched forward.
His fingers were trembling, the threads of light at his fingertips as thin as spider silk, as if they might break at any moment. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth, veins bulged on his forehead, and he looked like a bowstring stretched to its limit—ready to snap at any moment.
But he did not give up.
His lips moved rapidly, chanting in some ancient language that Chen Mo couldn't understand. The syllables were short and forceful, each one like a nail being hammered into a stone slab.
Portma's laughter stopped.
Her spirit body jolted violently—as if something had pulled her from below. She looked down at her feet—several pale red threads of light extended from the host's fingertips, wrapped around her ankles, and were slowly spreading upwards.
"You—" For the first time, her voice betrayed an emotion beyond anger—surprise, and a faint but undeniable fear. "How could you—"
The host did not answer. He took something out of his pocket—
A small bottle.
The bottle was made of deep purple glass, and the liquid inside was blood red, gleaming eerily in the ghostly blue light. The bottle opening was sealed with black wax, and on the wax seal was a rune that Chen Mo did not recognize.
A look of pain flashed in the host's eyes, and his fingers clenched tightly on the bottle until his knuckles turned white.
Then he tilted his head back and poured the bottle of blood-red liquid into his mouth.
In that instant, Chen Mo saw his face—in the eerie blue light, that face contorted for a moment, as if swallowing a mouthful of molten iron. His throat convulsed violently, and then—
His body suddenly stiffened.
Veins bulged from his forehead, spreading down his temples to his neck.
His eyes—which were originally dark brown—turned blood red in that instant, the pupils shrinking to pinpoint black dots. His hands stopped trembling—they were as still as if welded to the air.
His magical power surged.
A massive, oppressive energy erupted from the host's body, like a bomb exploding in a sealed room. The air became heavy, breathing became difficult, and Chen Mo felt as if an invisible hand was pressing on his chest.
The host pushed his hands forward.
Pale red threads of light shot out from her fingertips—no longer thin spider silk, but thick, chain-like strands of light. They coiled around Potema's spirit from all directions, binding her ankles, calves, knees, thighs, and waist—
Portma let out a sharp scream.
Her body was suddenly pulled downwards by the light chains. She struggled, her arms outstretched, her long hair whipping wildly, and a ghostly blue energy erupted from her body as she tried to break free of the light chains—but the chains only trembled slightly before tightening again.
"Don't even think about it!" Portma roared, her voice filled with anger and resentment. Her spirit body suddenly swelled up for a moment, like a star about to explode—the light strands creaked and cracked as she stretched them.
A mouthful of blood seeped from the host's mouth, but he did not retreat. He poured all his magic into the light chains, and the cracks slowly healed.
The two people—or rather, one person and one spirit—were locked in a stalemate.
Portma is expanding. The host is contracting.
Neither side was willing to back down.
Then--
Portma's gaze suddenly shifted away from the host.
She turned her head.
She looked in Chen Mo's direction.
Those eyes, burning with blue flames, locked onto Chen Mo across the rift, across the eerie blue light and the swirling energy ripples.
Chen Mo's heart clenched suddenly.
The feeling—the feeling of being locked onto by the gaze of an incomprehensibly powerful being—was like an icy hand reaching directly into his chest and gripping his heart. His breath stopped, his blood ran cold, and his fingers on the bowstring stiffened like stone.
Portma looked at him.
There was no anger, no hatred in those eyes—only a cold, condescending scrutiny, like someone examining a tool, assessing whether it was worth using.
Then she moved.
Her spirit suddenly broke free from the entanglement of the light cables—not by breaking free, but by sliding out of the gaps in the cables in an incredible way, like a snake slipping through a mesh. The light cables tightened behind her, but only managed to entangle a wisp of air.
The host was stunned.
Potema's spirit traced an arc in the air, leaving a long, eerie blue trail like a falling meteor.
It lunged towards the tower where Chen Mo was located.
Chen Mo's brows furrowed.
He only had time to do one thing—
Loosen your fingers.
The arrow—the third arrow he had been nocking on the bowstring—released. He hadn't even aimed; driven by instinct, he had simply fired it at the lunging, dark blue figure.
The arrow pierced through the rift, passing through the eerie blue light—
Then it passed through Portma's spirit.
There was no resistance. There was no impact. The arrow passed through her body as if through a cloud of smoke, embedding itself in the wall of the opposite tower, the arrowhead embedded in the crack in the stone, the fletching still trembling slightly.
Physical attacks are ineffective against spirits.
Chen Mo's heart sank to the bottom.