I Died and Became a Noble's Heir

Chapter 541: Desth refused to arrive

The water evaporated twenty feet from Ren’s position, the massive volume reducing to nothing in the space between one heartbeat and the next.

As if the torrent had encountered some invisible barrier that unmade its existence rather than simply stopping its forward momentum.

Warren’s enhanced perception registered what happened with growing horror.

The water hadn’t been destroyed through opposing force or superior magic.

It had been negated, prevented from existing within a certain radius of Ren’s position through means that transcended normal defensive techniques.

He tried again, desperation fueling increased output despite his depleted reserves.

High-pressure bullets, water whips, freezing waves, every offensive technique in his considerable arsenal was deployed in rapid succession toward the approaching figure.

All of them vanished before reaching their target.

Each attack dissolved at the same distance, twenty feet from Ren’s position, creating an invisible sphere within which Warren’s magic ceased to function.

The phenomenon was absolute, showing no variation based on technique complexity or power output.

Everything Warren threw at the hooded figure disappeared with equal efficiency.

Ren continued walking, his pace unchanged, his posture relaxed.

The distance closed with terrible inevitability as Warren’s attacks proved completely ineffective against whatever protection Ren possessed.

"You will die a slow death," Ren’s voice carried across the diminishing space between them. "I’ve had three hundred years to plan this, to imagine what I’d do when this opportunity finally arrived. Quick execution would be... unsatisfying. You deserve to experience what you put me through, multiplied across timeframes that will make you beg for release that won’t come."

He paused his approach about eight feet from Warren’s position, close enough that enhanced perception could register details despite the hood’s shadow.

"A side effect of being banished to this tower," Ren proceeded, his demeanor adopting a more instructive quality. "I was gaining certain capabilities I didn’t possess before my imprisonment. One of them is particularly relevant to our current situation."

The hooded figure’s hand rose, gesturing vaguely at the space where Warren’s attacks had been vanishing.

"I am immune to magic. Any spell, technique, or mystical effect deployed against me ceases to function when it enters my immediate vicinity. The tower’s corruption elevated me beyond normal limitations, transformed me from a skilled warrior into something truly terrifying."

Within Warren’s soul space, Glacius stirred with growing alarm.

The Mythical Spirit’s consciousness had been observing the encounter with increasing dread, the entity’s ancient awareness recognizing patterns that Warren’s tactical mind was still struggling to process.

’This is wrong,’ Glacius’s voice cut through their shared mental space with urgency that transcended its usual arrogant confidence. ’That immunity shouldn’t be possible. Magic negation on that scale requires power that exceeds Emperor-class by significant margins. We need to leave. Now. Before...’

The spirit’s presence suddenly withdrew, consciousness retreating from Warren’s body.

Warren felt the Contractee state collapse as Glacius fled, the entity abandoning their centuries-old partnership without hesitation or explanation.

His enhanced capabilities dropped dramatically; the three-hundred-percent damage multipliers and defensive bonuses vanished as the Mythical Spirit severed their connection and departed toward the distant horizon.

"GLACIUS!" Warren’s scream tore across the pasture, and desperation kicked in as he watched the blue energy that represented his contracted spirit race away from his position with speed that made pursuit impossible, even if his leg wasn’t destroyed.

"YOU TRAITOR! WE HAD AN AGREEMENT! YOU CAN’T JUST ABANDON ME!"

But the spirit was already gone, disappearing into the distance while Warren stood alone before his executioner, stripped of the enhanced capabilities that had defined his combat effectiveness for decades.

Ren’s hand moved to his waist, fingers closing around a sword hilt that Warren recognized with cold certainty despite three centuries separating him from the last time he’d seen that weapon.

The blade emerged from its sheath with a whisper of metal against leather, the sword’s edge catching sunlight in ways that made it appear to glow.

The weapon was beautiful in its simplicity.

A perfectly balanced steel forged by someone who understood weapon craft on a fundamental level.

Warren had observed this sword penetrate reinforced armor with remarkable ease, deflect advanced techniques that ought to have overcome any physical defense, and enable its wielder to neutralize targets that would typically necessitate the deployment of entire squads.

"You know this blade," Ren stated, the sword held casually in his right hand. "You watched me use it often enough during our partnership, back when you pretended loyalty while planning my betrayal."

Warren’s jaw clenched, his remaining hand curling into a fist despite knowing physical resistance would be futile.

"Everyone knows there are three abilities bound to that sword. Three techniques that made you dangerous enough to warrant Council attention. I studied them, learned their limitations, prepared counters that..."

"No," Ren interjected, his tone conveying a blend of amusement and profound satisfaction. "There are seven abilities within this sword. Three that I demonstrated publicly, creating the reputation you mentioned. But four that I never revealed, keeping them secret specifically for situations where showing my full capabilities would be... disadvantageous."

He took another step closer, the sword’s point lowering toward Warren’s chest with casual precision.

"The King himself didn’t know about the remaining four. I never told him, never demonstrated them, never provided any evidence that this weapon possessed capabilities beyond what the public record documented. Call it insurance, or paranoia, or simply tactical thinking. But those secrets kept me alive longer than public knowledge would have allowed."

The sword’s tip pressed against Warren’s chest, directly over his heart. The pressure was light, barely noticeable through his remaining defensive enhancements, but the implicit threat was absolute.

"Would you like to learn about one of them?"

Warren tried to back away, his water manipulation propelling his battered body backward in desperate evasion.

But his injured leg compromised his balance, causing him to stumble and nearly fall before he caught himself.

Ren followed with a single smooth step, maintaining distance, keeping the sword’s tip pressed against Warren’s chest. With one quick strike, he could have ended this at any moment, but was deliberately drawing out the encounter.

Then Ren drove the sword forward.

The blade punched through Warren’s chest, penetrating flesh and bone and the heart that had been beating for three hundred years behind his enhanced physique’s protection.

The weapon emerged from his back, the full length passing through his torso in a single, smooth thrust that should have been instantly fatal.

Warren’s breath caught, not from pain, but from shock at feeling cold steel buried in his chest cavity where vital organs resided.

Then Ren turned the blade. Rotating it like a key in a lock, twisting the weapon ninety degrees slowly, that made the grinding of metal against bone audible across the silent pasture.

Warren’s heart ruptured completely.

The organ that had sustained his three-century existence burst under the twisting pressure, cardiac tissue tearing as the blade’s edge carved through muscle and chambers that had been maintaining circulation just seconds ago.

But he didn’t die.

His consciousness remained, vision stayed clear, breathing continued despite the destroyed heart that should have ended all biological function immediately.

He could feel the sword embedded in his chest, could register the catastrophic damage, but death refused to arrive.

Warren’s enhanced perception registered that something was wrong beyond the obvious impossibility of surviving a destroyed heart.

Ren’s movements looked strange.

They were too slow, as if the hooded figure was moving through thick liquid rather than normal air.

His words, which had been conversational moments ago, now stretched and distorted, syllables dragging out across timeframes that made comprehension difficult.