Chapter 18: Demon

Wade examined the sword in his hand, observing its blade by the faint glow emanating from the pirate souls and Mia.  

On the hilt was engraved a name and an emblem.  

“Borsol Forge”—likely the name of the swordsmith—and the emblem depicted a simple anvil, resembling an anti-counterfeit mark.  

At first glance, the sword appeared no different from an ordinary double-edged longsword. The blade measured about 1.3 meters, with a dark hue and a thickness comparable to a palm. Yet its weight far exceeded that of the straight swords he had scavenged before, indicating entirely different materials.  

Wade had no professional knowledge of swordsmithing.  

But the fact that the Viking had concentrated so much flame into the blade without it warping or distorting during battle spoke volumes about its extraordinary nature.  

The materials used in its forging must have included some rare ore, and the craftsmanship employed was undoubtedly supernatural.  

To Wade, this was clearly a masterwork. Along the blade ran a full row of engraved runes, though he had no idea what purpose they served. Lacking the expertise to appraise supernatural weapons, he could only deduce that this sword was a treasure—at the very least, a rare-grade weapon of significant value.  

For comparison, a standard iron sword for common soldiers cost about eight silver coins, equivalent to the price of a cow.  

A high-quality steel sword used by knights or nobles would cost three to four times that amount, and if adorned with gemstones, its price would skyrocket further.  

This supernatural weapon had to be far more valuable than a noble’s ceremonial steel sword.  

As for exactly how much more, Wade couldn’t say.  

His knowledge of the supernatural world was limited. Truth be told, in life, he had made his living baking bread.  

His profession had been that of a baker—a baker had no need to venture beyond city walls to fight monsters or purchase an expensive sword as decoration.  

Judging from the limited perspective of a baker, selling this sword would likely yield a fortune sufficient to last an ordinary person a lifetime.  

This was an absolute “luxury item.” With that thought, Wade tightened his grip on the sword.  

Good things were not to be missed.  

He planned to wait until Mia finished absorbing the pirate leader’s soul, then climb out of the reservoir with the sword and retrieve his severed left arm to reattach it.  

After that, he would leave the village, putting distance between himself and the villagers whose homes had been destroyed.  

He had done all he could. Rebuilding homes and mourning the dead were matters for the villagers themselves.  

He had come to this village to kill pirates, not expecting gratitude or reward from the villagers.  

Once outside, his first priority would be figuring out where this place was.  

Tania—the name rang a faint bell, but he couldn’t recall its exact location. The continent had dozens of countries; he couldn’t be expected to remember them all.  

Still, Wade could understand their language. Since they spoke the human common tongue, Tania was likely a human-dominated nation, so he needn’t worry too much about communication or writing.  

After all, he was a skeleton. He didn’t need to eat, nor did he fear the cold. Wandering alone in the wilderness posed no issue.  

The only thing that puzzled him was what had become of the version of himself that had lain down to rest in the wasteland.  

As he pondered this and made plans for the future, Mia finally swallowed the crimson soul whole.  

She returned to Wade’s side, pausing as her gaze lingered on his broken ribs and missing left arm.  

Suddenly agitated, Mia darted to the gaps in Wade’s skeletal frame.  

The soul she had consumed must have demanded her full attention, as she hadn’t noticed the extent of Wade’s battle damage until now.  

But now that she saw it, her emotions fluctuated intensely.  

To her, the missing arm and shattered ribs seemed like grievous injuries.  

Wade noticed something unusual—frost began forming around Mia, and ice crystals materialized in the water around her.  

Was this anomaly caused by her emotional turmoil?  

Is the little one worried about me?  

I’m fine.  

Wade projected this thought to her, but Mia remained unsettled. After a moment’s consideration, Wade set the sword aside and reached out with his right hand to gently stroke Mia’s forehead.  

Under his touch, Mia calmed. The abnormal magical fluctuations around her ceased, and she simply nestled against Wade’s damaged frame, clinging to his bones.  

Two undead beings, two souls of the departed, huddled together in the dark depths of the cellar.  

“Don’t worry, I’ll be alright.”  

Wade communicated with Mia. If a skeleton couldn’t coexist with the living, at least it could keep company with a phantom.  

He patted Mia’s head again, then bent to pick up the sword.  

But at that moment, something strange occurred.  

Bubbles began rising around the Viking’s corpse.  

Not ordinary bubbles from displaced water—these were caused by heat, forcing dissolved gases out of the liquid.  

The water around the corpse was boiling.  

Wade was stunned. Was this some kind of death curse?  

He hadn’t considered that supernatural beings could wield such powers. A crimson vortex formed on the corpse, and molten lava began seeping out.  

Not metaphorically—actual lava was flowing from it.  

A small, hunched figure emerged from the vortex.  

The creature was short and wiry, standing about half a man’s height, with a stooped back and spindly limbs like dried branches. Its skin was dark red, crisscrossed with fissures.  

Its legs were bent like bows, its feet resembling bird talons, while its hands were broad with long black claws extending from four fingers.  

Most striking was its tail—thin and pointed, with a tip that burned with a wine-red flame even underwater, vivid as the hue of Nidran estate wine.  

This was an imp, a flame imp—a low-tier demon.  

Wade had seen depictions of such demons in church illustrations. Legend said flame imps dwelled in volcanoes and magma, their very breath reeking of sulfur. Merely touching one could reduce a human to charred remains.  

This was Wade’s first time seeing a demon in the flesh. The flame imp’s sickly yellow eyes darted erratically as it surveyed its surroundings, finally settling on Sven’s corpse.  

Then its mouth split open to its ears, a fireball brewing within as the reservoir’s temperature skyrocketed.  

An immense energy gathered around it, and Wade saw the fluctuations of magic. The flames locked onto Wade and Mia—this attack held enough power to obliterate the entire space.  

All of this happened in seconds. Wade had no time to react.  

He could only watch as the fireball hurtled toward him. If he’d been alive, he would’ve reflexively shut his eyes—but as a skeleton, he couldn’t.  

Then he saw the fireball stop. No—more accurately, it froze.  

Mia had positioned herself in front of him, unleashing a magical surge far more potent than the imp’s. The water began freezing, encasing everything around them in ice.  

Even the flame imp was frozen solid, its body encased in ice, the fire on its tail extinguished. Then, like shattered glass, its form cracked apart.  

Mia had unleashed unimaginable power, but her own form grew unstable, turning translucent.  

“Stop!”  

Wade commanded, and Mia’s magical output ceased.  

Freed from suppression, the fireball detonated.  

A blinding white light filled Wade’s vision as he shielded Mia’s soul, but everything around them was inevitably erased.  

In an instant, he could no longer sense water, fire, or magic.  

Then consciousness returned. His soul fire reignited within his skull.  

Silence. Oppressive darkness.  

Beside his skull lay the scales he’d collected.  

He sat up. Above him was the bone framework he’d built.  

This was the small home he’d dug in the wasteland. He had awoken here.  

Yet something was different from when he’d lain down.  

Looking down, he saw a small soul curled against his ribs.  

Instinctively, he reached out to stroke its forehead.  

Cold and soft, like the touch of water.  

Eager to leave the cramped space, he pushed aside the stone blocking the entrance and stepped onto the wasteland.  

Above him hung the same unchanging pale moon.  

But unlike before, this time, another soul gazed up at it alongside him.  

The once-pale, dull moon now reflected a sinister blood-red in his eyes.  

So, the moon was crimson after all.