Spirit Pact Hundred Scenes Record

Chapter 7, First Roar

The sword tip pierced the air, and pale flames condensed at the tip of the blade into a point of extreme light, like a small falling star, shooting straight toward Xiguang's head.

Time has indeed slowed down.

Karen could see every detail of the swirling flames—the outer layer was pure white, while the core was an almost transparent dark red, the color of the Azure Flame Spiritual Energy compressed to its limit, a color capable of scorching the soul. The ripples created by the blade tearing through the air spread outwards like ripples on water, pushing aside the floating dust in the archives and clearing a path of death.

He could see Xiguang's reaction—the cub's amber eyes widened with fear, its pupils shrinking to pinpoints, reflecting the approaching death. Its hind legs instinctively tried to push off the ground and retreat, but the burns on its abdomen made its movements sluggish, and a sharp pain shot through the tear at the base of its wings, forcing its body to lean back slightly, with no way to escape.

He could see Roland's expression—his angular face was devoid of any emotion, his light gray eyes held only pure focus, like a craftsman completing a precise sculpture. His wrist was steady, the tip of the sword did not tremble in the slightest. The trajectory and power of this strike had been honed through countless trials, with a clear purpose: to kill instantly, giving the spirit creature no chance to resist or self-destruct its spirit core.

Karen's mind went blank.

All thoughts, all fears, all distractions were cleared away in that instant, leaving only the most primal instincts. He saw the sword, the flames, and the despair reflected in Xi Guang's eyes. Then that thought exploded like a volcanic eruption, filling every corner of his consciousness, squeezing out all sound, all reason, everything:

Don't kill him!

This wasn't even a complete sentence, but a pure surge of emotion, a mixture of protectiveness, anger, despair, and something deeper, something he himself couldn't comprehend. It burst forth from the deepest recesses of his soul, pouring out without reservation along that invisible bond connecting him to the dawn.

Don't kill him! Don't kill him! Don't kill him!

hum.

Something resonated.

It wasn't a sound, but something deeper. Karen felt a sharp, burning pain in his right wrist—not a burning sensation from the outside in, but a piercing pain that seemed to explode from the depths of his bone marrow, as if something was tearing through his flesh and trying to burst out. He looked down and saw a silver light surging beneath the skin of his wrist.

The light initially resembled the glow of blood in veins, flowing rapidly along the paths of veins and arteries, making the skin appear translucent. Then it began to converge, coalescing into a single point three finger-widths above the wrist bone—where the contract runes should have appeared, if Karen had any spiritual veins.

That spot exploded.

It wasn't an explosion, but a blossoming. Like a silver flower completing its entire life cycle of growth, budding, and blooming in an instant. Dazzlingly intricate patterns extended from that point, like living vines, like flowing mercury, like the starry sky projected onto the skin. The patterns weren't flat; they had thickness and layers, some parts sinking beneath the skin, others slightly raised, refracting a mesmerizing halo in the air.

Karen had never seen such a spirit rune in any encyclopedia.

It is not an elemental rune—it lacks the flickering of flames, the ripples of flowing water, the heaviness of rocks, or the lightness of wind. It is not a life-related rune—it lacks the vitality of plants or the wildness of animals. It is not even like any known contract rune—those patterns are usually symmetrical and regular, reflecting the characteristics of the spirit or the nature of the contract.

This pattern is... chaotic.

Yet it possesses a precise order. Thousands of fine lines intertwine, branch, and merge, forming countless tiny runes, each slowly rotating and changing, as if breathing, calculating, or whispering. The silver of the patterns is not the cold silver of metal, but a warmer silver, like the silver of a stream under moonlight, carrying the texture of life.

All of this happened in an instant.

Roland's sword was less than half a meter from Xiguang's forehead. The heat from the pale flames had already scorched the few strands of downy hair on the cub's forehead.

Then, the silver runes on Karen's wrist shone brightly.

There was no sound, no explosion, only a membrane of light spreading out from his wrist. The membrane was extremely thin, almost transparent, like a thin film stretched from the purest crystal. But the moment it appeared, the air in the archives froze.

It's not a metaphor; it's truly frozen in time.

The floating dust motes hung motionless in mid-air. Sunlight streaming through the arched windows was frozen into beams of light. The dark red energy patterns flowing across the soldiers' armor ceased flashing. Even time itself seemed to have been paused—only thought continued to operate.

The light film expands outward gently and irresistibly.

It touched Roland's sword.

There was no sound of impact, no sparks, nothing at all. The pale flame at the tip of the sword extinguished silently, like a candle flame doused with water. The blade itself began to tremble—not a tremor from being knocked back, but a tremor originating from its internal structure, at the molecular level. Fine cracks appeared on the metal surface, spreading along the energy loops, emitting an extremely faint groan, like glass about to shatter.

Roland's pupils contracted for the first time.

A flicker of genuine astonishment crossed his pale gray, perpetually cold eyes. He tried to withdraw his sword, but his hand wouldn't obey—no, not that it wouldn't obey, but rather that the light membrane expanded faster than the nerve conduction could. Before his brain could issue the "retreat" command, the light membrane had already enveloped his wrist.

There was no pain, no burning, nothing at all.

It was just cold.

A chill that penetrated to the bone, freezing the soul. Not a chill of temperature, but a chill of existence—as if in that instant, all his power, all his will, all his sense of being had been stripped away, turning into absolute nothingness. His proud Azure Flame Spiritual Energy, his swordsmanship honed through countless battles, his "Spirit Vein Devouring" ability, powerful enough to suppress most Spirit Contract Masters, all melted away like frost in the sunlight before this thin membrane of light.

The light membrane continued to expand, sweeping over the six soldiers.

They didn't even have time to react. The pale crystals at the tips of their staff-like weapons went out one by one, like candles being extinguished. The psionic circuits within their armor overloaded, emitting short, crackling sounds, and the dark red windows flickered a few times before going completely black. The six men froze in place like puppets with broken strings, maintaining their attacking postures, but their eyes were vacant, and they had lost consciousness.

The light film expanded onto the walls of the archive room and then dissipated.

It didn't shatter, nor did it disappear; rather, it receded like the receding tide, sinking back into Karen's wrist and disappearing into the intricate silver runes. The runes dimmed, but remained clearly visible, like a delicate silver tattoo imprinted on his skin.

Time resumed its flow.

The dust continued to fall, the sunlight continued to move, and the air began to circulate again.

But the scene in the archives has completely changed.

Roland knelt on one knee, his right hand hanging at his side, the longsword lying on the ground—the sword that had once burned with pale flames, now covered with spiderweb-like cracks, as if weathered for a thousand years, it would crumble to dust at the slightest touch. He lowered his head, his short, iron-gray hair soaked with sweat and plastered to his forehead. His shoulders trembled slightly, not from fear, but from some deeper, more instinctive shudder—just now, in that instant, he had truly felt the terror of "non-existence."

Six soldiers lay unconscious on the ground. Their armor was charred black, as if struck by lightning, and their internal psionic devices were completely burned, emitting wisps of smoke.

Xi Guang was still standing at Karen's feet.

The cub raised its head, its amber eyes filled with confusion and shock. It looked at the silver markings on Karen's wrist, then at the soldiers lying on the ground, and let out a confused, low whimper.

Karen herself wasn't much better off.

He stood before the bookshelf, leaning against the wooden plank, all his strength drained away. A continuous, gentle burning sensation emanated from the spiritual runes on his right wrist, like a warm piece of jade against his skin. But he felt an even clearer emptiness within his body—something that burst of power had consumed, something he had never possessed, something he had never even known. His vision blurred, his ears rang, and warm liquid welled up in his nostrils again, this time not blood, but some kind of translucent, shimmering liquid.

He raised his hand to wipe it away; the liquid shimmered on his fingertips and then disappeared.

The archives were deathly silent.

The detection array outside the window was still running, its hum coming through the walls, but in the eerie silence of the room, the sound seemed distant and unreal. Hurried footsteps echoed in the corridor—other soldiers had heard the commotion and were rushing over.

Roland raised his head.

His face was pale, but his light gray eyes had regained their coldness. He stared at the silver spirit rune on Karen's wrist, at Karen's bewildered face, his gaze complex and unreadable: astonishment, doubt, wariness, and even a hint of...greed?

"I see." Roland's voice was a little hoarse. He stood up, supporting himself on his knees. He swayed slightly but steadied himself. "The venous vein closure was fake. Or rather, it wasn't an ordinary closure."

He bent down and picked up the cracked longsword from the ground. With a gentle squeeze of his fingers, the blade shattered into dozens of pieces, which clattered and fell to the ground.

"The legendary 'Resonance Body'..." Roland murmured, as if talking to himself, or as if confirming, "It can establish a deep connection with any spiritual entity, is not limited by the attributes of the spiritual veins, and even... can simulate, replicate, and enhance the abilities of spiritual entities."

He looked at Xiguang, then at Karen.

"The psionic energy of this winged lion cub, combined with some kind of 'foundation' of your own, created that protective force field just now." Roland's analysis was frighteningly calm, as if he wasn't the one whose existence had just been almost erased. "Interesting. Very interesting."

The footsteps in the corridor grew closer.

"Captain!" came a shout from outside the door.

Roland did not respond. He stared at Karen, his eyes assessing the value of a rare treasure—not the value of a person, but the value of an object.

"That's enough for today," he said suddenly, then turned and said, "Take them and retreat."

The soldiers who had just arrived were stunned. "Captain? But it's a spirit creature—"

"Execute the order." Roland's voice was not loud, but it left no room for argument.

The soldiers quickly carried their unconscious comrade out of the archives. Roland was the last to leave, stopping at the doorway and glancing back at Karen.

Karen will never forget that look in her eyes.

Cold, focused, like a hunter marking fleeing prey.

"We'll meet again, Karen Everett," Roland said, "until you're fully 'awakened'."

The door closed.

The footsteps faded into the distance.

Only Karen and Xiguang remained in the archives, along with the mess on the floor and the fragments of that longsword.

Karen slumped to the floor, leaning against the bookshelf, panting heavily. The silver spirit rune on his wrist was still slightly warm, as if reminding him that what had just happened was not an illusion. Xiguang sidled up to him, gently touching his knee with the top of her head, her amber eyes filled with worry.

Karen reached out and stroked its fur, her fingers trembling.

He won—or rather, he survived for now. But he was exposed. Roland knew of his special abilities, knew of the existence of the Dawn, knew of that incredible power he had just witnessed. The Order would not let him go, nor would they let the Dawn go.

Outside the window, the hum of the detection array suddenly increased in frequency, becoming sharp and rapid. Immediately afterwards, the engines of the three black iron airships started simultaneously, emitting a deep and violent roar—the sound of full power operation, the prelude to the pursuit.

Karen struggled to her feet.

He had to leave, now, immediately. But where could he go? The town was under lockdown, airships were watching from the sky, and Roland and his soldiers could return at any moment—

A soft sound came from the arched window.

Karen turned her head sharply.

The black cat was perched on the windowsill.

Its deep black fur gleamed like satin in the sunlight, and silver specks shimmered faintly deep within its pupils. It looked at Karen, at Xiguang, its tail tip swaying gently, as if in thought.

Then it opened.

It wasn't a meow, but clear human language—a neutral sound with a strange rhythm—that resonated directly in Karen's mind:

"As expected... the resonator has awakened."

Karen opened her mouth, but no sound came out.

The black cat leaped down from the windowsill and landed silently on the floor. It walked towards Karen, its deep black eyes fixed on the silver spirit rune on his wrist.

"There's no time to explain." The black cat's voice rang out again, this time with a hint of urgency. "The cult's airships are activating their tracking protocol and will lock onto this room in three minutes at most. If you want to live—"

It turned around, its tail pointing towards the arched window.

"Jump down."