Chương 97: Beelzebub's Curse

Time stopped for another second that felt like an eternity before Okonnor made his decision. With extreme, calculated slowness, the legendary commander eased the pressure of the "Moon-silver" blade from Dex's carotid artery. The withdrawal was not quick or flustered; it was like the slithering of a venomous snake retreating from its prey to study it from another angle.

Okonnor pulled the dagger back but did not sheathe it; the serrated blade remained dangling at his side, dripping a thin line of the human youth's blood, reflecting the silver light of the Void emanating from Lumia. Okonnor took only a single step back, leaving Dex an infinitesimally small space to breathe and draw the cold air into his burning lungs. Yet his green gaze remained as sharp as a starving hawk, piercing Dex's features in search of any speck of deceit or hesitation.

"Marcus Williams... is dying?" Okonnor tasted the words as if they were a tasteless joke. Suddenly, his broad shoulders shook, and a short, harsh laugh ripped from the depths of his throat, as cold as the ice of the highlands. It was not a laugh of amusement; it was pure mockery, carrying the bitterness of a century.

"A man at the peak of the (SS) rank, possessing a mana core as solid as diamond, dubbed in your military councils as the 'Iron Wall of the West'... does not die easily, boy," Okonnor said, his tone dripping with derision, his eyes narrowing cunningly.

"I have seen your father take a direct hit from the tail of an Earth Dragon and rise to continue the fight as if nothing had happened. Are you trying to sway me with a cheap, touching sob story, little one? Or has despair blinded you to the point that you think I will shed a tear and unlock my vaults to save my mortal enemy?" Dex stood resolute, despite the searing pain in his neck. He raised his hand and wiped the warm streak of blood from his throat with the back of his hand.

He looked at his own blood on his skin, then raised his blue eyes, which burned with the suppressed flame of the Phoenix, to meet Okonnor's gaze with genuine, unfakeable bitterness.

"It's no ordinary death, Okonnor," Dex said, his voice coming out hoarse and deep, heavy with the weight of the ugly truth.

"It is not a wound from a cursed sword on a battlefield, nor a poisoned arrow from your assassins, nor even a spell from a rogue mage. Had it been, his body would have healed in days thanks to his rank. It is...

'Beelzebub's Tear'." The moment the name of the poison was spoken, a terrifying phenomenon swept through the square. If you come across this story on Amazon, it's taken without permission from the author. Report it. It was not merely silence; it was a sudden severance of the current of life itself. A heavy, absolute, suffocating silence reigned over the entire hanging village.

Even the elite Dark Elf warriors, the fearless assassins hidden in the shadowed corners and high branches, collectively and audibly held their breath. Drawn bows lowered slightly, and some blades trembled in their wielders' hands.

"Beelzebub's Tear" was not just a poison studied in herbal medicine books. It was a black myth, internationally forbidden across the realms of humans, elves, and beasts alike. Ancient records claimed it was concocted from the sap of the saliva of the first Underworld demons, mixed with the tears of tormented souls.

It is not a poison that merely kills the physical body; it is a malicious magical parasite that dissolves the primary mana channels, dismantles the magical core atom by atom, and sadistically and slowly eats the "soul" before finally permitting the heart to stop beating. Its use was considered a crime against existence itself. Dex continued speaking, watching with intense focus the effect this forbidden word had on Okonnor's face, whose mockery froze and morphed into a dark scowl.

"The poison has permeated his deep veins, reaching his magical core," Dex said grimly, recalling his father's wretched state from the novel.

"The Royal Physicians in the capital, with their advanced magic and exorbitant medicines, stood powerless as children. The priests of the Great Temple are peddling illusions and prayers. My father... the Iron Wall of the West... is melting alive in his bed. His body is turning to black ash while he still breathes, and his soul is torn apart every second. All the painkillers in the world are useless." Dex took a half-step forward, ignoring the dagger still gripped in Okonnor's hand.

"You know, as well as I do, that the only antidote on this planet for this kind of biological and demonic curse is not found in the Emperor's vaults, nor in the hoards of dragons... it is found in your possession. It is the 'Nectar of the World Tree'." Okonnor looked at Dex with an entirely new gaze.

It was no longer the look filled with contempt for a spoiled human youth; it had become a gaze of profound assessment, the look of an ancient warrior evaluating an opponent, or perhaps an ally possessing dangerous information.

"You ask the impossible with unparalleled audacity," Okonnor said, his low voice making the fog vibrate.

"I sacrificed everything... my position as Supreme Commander, my reputation among my kind, and my future along with the future of thousands of my followers, just to steal this Nectar. And now, after a hundred years of bloodshed and being hunted, the son of the 'Executioner' himself comes to ask me to hand it to him on a silver platter to save his father?" Okonnor shook his head slowly, his eyes reflecting an ancient pain.

"This is an irony of fate I cannot fathom. It is an absurd cosmic joke." The irony was stark, sharp, and painful as broken glass. The theft of the "Nectar" was the grand crime that had destroyed Okonnor's life, branding him a "traitor" in the eyes of all and rendering him eternally hunted. And now, the son of the family that had long spearheaded the campaigns hunting him, stood before him demanding the fruits of that very "crime" to save the life of their patriarch.