Under the night without light, the pitch-black tide continuously pushed the Bloodthirsty towards the shore. They required no rest, and at the moment of contact with the land, driven by the alchemy device on their bodies, they exploded with unimaginable power and charged tirelessly towards the Fortress of the Morning Wind.

Simultaneously under attack, the Condensers of the Clarks were also mobilized. Although initially at a disadvantage, they still struggled to resist. The roaring bombardment and surging Ether repeatedly washed over the coast, piling up countless corpses.

Gradually, they realized that not all Bloodthirsty were self-destructive. Most were only highly aggressive, while those with tremendous explosive power were mixed among them.

Under this frenzied assault, the Night Race gained the upper hand, continuously pouring into the Fortress of the Morning Wind through breaches created by the Wind-Eroded Birds, extending the melee into the interior of the castle complexes.

Countless Bloodthirsty fell one after another, among them scarlet figures used them as cover, silently infiltrating the castle. Unlike these sacrificial cannon fodders, she had more important tasks.

Zefirin lightly leaped to the window edge. Here, the area was not yet covered by the flames of war, with sparse Ether reactions, making it a suitable point for infiltration.

She cautiously traversed the corridor, her ruby-like eyes scanning each door, sensing the breath of the living and the waves of Ether.

Unlike the lowly Bloodthirsty, given the purity of Zefirin's bloodline, she could be considered a High Tier Night Race and regarded as one of the commanders in this battle.

Her eyes emitted a bright red light, and the Alchemy Matrix surfaced on her pale skin.

As Zefirin advanced, a mist vaguely spread from her body. She seemed like a butterfly in motion, with every wing flap releasing a sweet and intoxicating butterfly dust.

The intoxicating aroma spread, swiftly covering the entire area, seeping even through the doors. Some zones were protected by the Void Realm, with Ether surging within.

The light red mist surged forward as if unobstructed, reacting violently with the Ether of the Void Realm, flashing arcs and sparks but soon, like a strong acid, gradually corroded and dissolved the defenses of the Void Realm.

Some guards stationed here detected the eerie mist, but before they could realize Zefirin's location, the absorbing mist, like a potent hallucinogen, incapacitated the guards without any direct conflict.

When Zefirin arrived, the spreading mist had already resolved all the defensive measures for her. She moved freely within the Fortress of the Morning Wind as if holding a master key.

But damn it, the Fortress of the Morning Wind was too large. Zefirin paused, taking out a yellowed map from her pocket. It depicted the designs of the Fortress of the Morning Wind, a relic from a hundred years ago during the Dawn War as noted in the corner.

Over these hundred years, the Clarks have expanded and rebuilt the Fortress of the Morning Wind several times, rendering this damn map utterly useless.

"Damn it! Can't there be some reliable assistance?"

Zefirin cursed softly. She wanted to tear the map apart but considering the importance of the mission, she put it away.

From now on, everything relied solely on herself.

Zefirin told herself that with the map being unreliable, she needed some captives, preferably those in high positions within the Clarke family, for only they knew the secrets of the castle complexes.

An arc of Ether flashed across her crimson eyes, and Zefirin began adjusting the nature of her emitted mist, shifting it from causing fainting and hallucinations to paralysis.

Zefirin continued to recall in her mind the list related to the Clarks family. Fuen, as the Patriarch, was certainly not someone she could handle. She started searching for suitable targets along the list, quickly moving within the building, heading towards the suspected mission target locations.

Reaching a segment of the corridor, Zefirin abruptly stopped. Her mist was not only her offensive tool but also her expanding limb, enabling her to observe enemy movements within the mist.

Given the current Ether intensity she exerted, ordinary people would instantly lose resistance, and even First Stage Condensers would become completely incapacitated after a brief struggle.

Yet, in her perception, she detected a target unit being eroded by the mist, but her mist failed to penetrated it, while the other party remained in place without any resistance or movement.

This strange reaction puzzled Zefirin. It indicated the other party's resistance to the mist was at least that of a Second Stage Prayer Believer.

Out of caution, Zefirin did not act recklessly. Her hands were covered with sturdy hand armor, reaching behind her to grab a folded weapon. With the twist of metal joints, the weapon unfolded into a lethal Great Scythe, a chainsaw added on the blade.

When it hits flesh and blood, there is almost no difference from being hit by a power saw. Zefirin gripped her weapon tightly. The target was below her, but instead of breaking through rashly, she quietly advanced from the window.

...

Palmer's current state was very bad, extremely bad.

He lay on the bed, his consciousness wavering between wakefulness and dream. He vaguely felt his body was very tired, but in comparison, his mind was even worse off.

The fatigue of the last few days?

In the fog, Palmer had such a thought, but he also remembered that he seemingly did nothing these past few days, so why was he tired?

Mental exhaustion?

That could be possible. After meeting Vasilina, his emotions fluctuated greatly, and as he gradually began to understand his deeply buried thoughts, all of these left Palmer not knowing how to face himself, even less so how to face Vasilina.

Palmer felt this was his own problem.

He had realized this issue early on but didn't know how to solve it, so he chose to avoid it—an enchantment extending from his childhood to the present.

Separation.

Palmer was not good at goodbyes, but the world is always full of them. When you possess something, you're destined to lose it.

Just like Vasilina.

Palmer had Vasilina, but with the passage of time, one day Vasilina would also leave and turn to dust.

Everyone has their shortcomings, and Palmer became incredibly anxious at the thought of such inevitable death.

Gradually, Palmer felt he could completely solve these issues by avoidance, trying his best to avoid forming close relationships.

No gain, no loss. This way, his heart could be much calmer. But he couldn't completely suppress his feelings for Vasilina. Every deliberate distancing only intensified his emotions.

Constantly oscillating between close contact and avoidance, he exhausted himself.

"This is terrible."

Palmer said in his sleep. He was very tired and still wanted to continue sleeping, but a clear abnormal sensation gradually forced him to wake up.

He turned over and saw the figure standing by the bed. For an ordinary person, this scene would be quite horrifying, but Palmer was used to it.

In the past, Vasilina often sneaked into his house like this, giving Palmer a fright and then an intense wrestling hug, questioning why he ignored her.

"Vasilina?"

Palmer rubbed his eyes; his sluggish awareness gradually returned. He reached out to touch the figure standing by the bed, but in that instant, he found he couldn't feel his arms.

Not just his arms, but his entire body was paralyzed, disobeying commands. The Alchemy Matrix was dull and numb, and the Ether no longer responded to Palmer's call.

The Ether enveloped Palmer, the toxic mist spreading wildly, completely wrapping around Palmer's body and blocking his nose and mouth.

Every breath allowed the potent poison to gradually erode Palmer's body. Red rashes appeared on his skin, the poison corrupting his Alchemy Matrix and breaking through the Rectangular Soul Critical, completely dominating Palmer's body, the fierce poison rampaging inside.

Only then did Palmer tilt his head back, realizing he might have slept too soundly. The roaring explosions clearly entered his ears, and the Fortress of the Morning Wind trembled unceasingly.

While he slept, the Fortress of the Morning Wind had been dragged into the flames of war.

A pair of crimson eyes shimmered before him; Zefirin slowly raised the Chainsaw Scythe, and Palmer screamed in horror.

"Help!"

Before poor Palmer could even shout the word "help," Zefirin kicked him in the face, sending him tumbling off the bed, rolling several times on the floor.

Dizzy and dazed on the ground, Palmer immediately displayed the tenacity of a Field Staff.

Now completely captured by Zefirin's poison, Palmer summoned his remaining strength, crawling laboriously on the floor like a caterpillar.

But before he could move far, the Chainsaw Scythe violently struck the ground in front of him, and in the dimness, the shiny metal surface reflected Palmer's terrible face.

Zefirin flipped Palmer over, grabbed him by the collar, and hoisted him up with one hand. Palmer, like a shy girl, struggled to avoid Zefirin's gaze, but after several loud slaps, even the shy Palmer submitted to the violence.

Bologue was right; in communication, violence is often the simplest and most effective means.

"Oh? Caught a big fish."

Zefirin scrutinized Palmer's woeful face, matching his identity from a mental list.

"Palmer Clarks!"

Zefirin nearly laughed out loud. Palmer turned his head, on the verge of tears, muttering continuously.

"No... I'm not. I am Bologue, Bologue Clarks."

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