The containment formation’s outermost ring finally gave out, but by then, the vast majority of Third's would-be suicide technique was spent. The burst of power that escaped was so small that Bishamonten's avatar drew it in without any apparent effort, leaving only a pitch-black, elongated corpse on the ground. Next to it, the giant Oculus formed of aura also stood, the bulk of its constituent aura now golden, with the veins in the shaft and the metallic components made of silvery-white, while the smaller, jade rings were still gold. Despite its beauty, the power it radiated was humbling even to the Witch and the Wizard who were still watching.
Over the next several minutes, he was surrounded by the Newman Sect's other members, as well as a pair of supremely brave Hellhounds. Strake joined them last, with Zero approaching at a pace more befitting of a human than a walking tank. The machine looked more like a moving wreck than the screaming, devouring iron demon from before, with its bright red paint completely overtaken by thick layers of dark, crusted something. When it reached the partial circle, its diameter being a little over fifty meters, it opened its frontal plating, with Strake leaning forward, hanging by the cables that were still stuck into him.
"If anyone has any Witch's Brew, or even just water..." he began with a weak, chainsmoker-like voice. Zero replayed his words a moment later, amplified and clarified. Once a few eyes were on him, he gestured to the Third Truthseeker's body, which most of all resembled a mass of coal.
"Please. I feel how he looks."
"You don't look much different, either," Zel said. She held out a hand to Zefaris, who was still aiming Pentacle at Third’s lifeless form. Without missing a beat, the blonde used her free hand to pass her tablet. Zel decided to split the Witch's Brew between herself and Strake at a 1:2 ratio. She wasn't worried about asphyxiating, since she could, if need be, break down water in her stomach to get oxygen in a roundabout way, but she still hated the feeling of not being able to breathe.
Zelsys had been the first to dare approach. She saw him draw no breath, felt not heartbeat from him, and, indeed, he had no aura either. And yet, her gut wouldn’t let her be. There was another thrice-damned trick, there had to be.
“DO NOT REST YET, RIGHTEOUS ONES,” Bishamonten’s thunderous voice echoed inside all their heads. “I YET REMAIN HERE BECAUSE THE DEMON IS NOT YET EXPUNGED. A SIMPLE TRICK. FALSE DEATH.”
As if on cue red light pulsed within the not-quite-dead man's chest, and the Third Truthseeker stood up, emitting a cackling, hateful laugh.
"Fine! You got-"
He didn't get to speak the next word, as a ghostly, green anti-cultivator round smashed into the side of his head. A burst of aura sprayed out the other side, giving the appearance of blood. He froze in place for a few seconds, seemingly dead, only to shake his head as if he'd just been slapped.
"Oh, I hate that," he uttered, the gravity of his situation seemingly not having sunk in yet.
Only minutes earlier, Zefaris was genuinely considering whether the Third Truthseeker could even be touched, let alone killed, whether it would be better to retreat.
Looking at him now, even as he defied death, the Third Truthseeker didn't feel so untouchable.
Suddenly, he was just a man.
An overwhelmingly powerful man.
A man who could, even now, cast down a small army of mortals with a thought.
A man who could annihilate a city on his own.
When he rose up to his feet, he was cast back down in an instant. An unexpected cannon-shot from an unexpected angle. The Nameless Revenant. It smashed into the side of his head and sprayed burning-red aura into thin air. Bishamonten drew it into its waiting maw and expelled a stream of white flame in return, melting the stone around Third but leaving him untouched; not for lack of effect. The pure aura-flame and Third's own personal aura obliterated one another on contact as one attempted to purify the other and the other attempted to corrupt the first, forcing him to flare it to protect himself.
The Third Truthseeker was an incredibly, nearly transcendently powerful and resilient man. He was also man who lost his limbs to a simultaneous barrage of ten dragonshot bullets; three each for his legs, two for his arms.
He was a man whose soul was torn open by two more comets fired from Death's Lieutenant, deathly skulls of ghastly green with gold burning in their eyes.
Indeed, the Third Truthseeker was terribly, overwhelmingly powerful. Zefaris held no doubt in her mind that, given the sliver of a chance, he could still turn things around on them or escape.
For that reason, he couldn't be given the honour of a fair fight, of a warrior's death.
He didn't deserve what Ubul had earned.
Before he could recover, he was knocked down once again by a whip-strike so forceful its impact produced not just shockwave, but a flash of light. Again. And again. And again. The Newman Sect's elder, still in the process of coughing up her own lungs, continued striking the Third Truthseeker, and with each strike, she tore away a piece of his cultivation as a starveling beast would tear away the flesh from still-living prey.
With each strike, the sacrifices of Eberheim were ripped from him, purified by the Avatar of Bishamonten, and consumed to fuel her onslaught. By orthodox standards, it was downright demonic; a type of aura that could tear away someone else's cultivation. But then, she was sure she could find things a hundred times worse the Sangers and Black Horses were guilty of. Her predecessor's archives promised that much.
Zel approached him without fear or malice, feeling only pure, caustic revulsion for this creature. Even now, Third's presence was immense, but it couldn't spread out as aura, it couldn't weigh down on her as it wanted. She felt him trying. Physically he was motionless, but his soul was thrashing and howling in effort, murderous fire burning behind his gaze.
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