Chapter 72: Demon Mother

Sven Freud, that deceased Viking, had returned to this world in a form of frost and ice.  

Wade hadn’t anticipated Mia possessing the ability to create ice puppets. No one had taught her how to do it, yet she had learned to channel magical energy on her own, using snow and ice to reconstruct the soul she had devoured.  

The entire necromantic core’s magic had been poured into the ice puppet’s body. The magical crystal lost its power, becoming nothing more than an ordinary stone. In its place, the ice puppet stirred to life as if granted true vitality.  

The towering construct of ice and snow took a step forward like a living human.  

It didn’t seem like Mia was directly controlling this puppet—the construct possessed its own combat instincts.  

Its movements felt eerily familiar to Wade. He had witnessed them thousands of times in his dreams. The ice puppet perfectly replicated Sven’s habits and fighting style. Mia had imprinted Sven’s “soul imprint” onto lifeless snow and ice.  

She hadn’t just recreated his appearance—she had restored something deeper within. She even crafted a weapon for the ice puppet—not a sword, but an oversized version of Wade’s round-headed mace.  

Apparently, she preferred the mace Wade had wielded in the wasteland over swords.  

The ice puppet bearing Sven’s likeness raised the massive mace high and brought it down upon the frozen zombies.  

The heavy ice hammer smashed their skulls apart like watermelons, sending bone fragments flying into the distance.  

Its terrifying strength rivaled that of the sewn beast Wade had encountered in Bronte Village. Even Sven himself in life likely couldn’t have struck harder.  

Its durability proved equally reliable. When a zombie exploded beneath its feet with a thunderous blast, scattering rotten blood everywhere, the ice puppet only suffered minor cracks.  

Those cracks could still be repaired. Under the influence of magic, they absorbed surrounding snow and refroze seamlessly.  

Until its magic depleted, this ice puppet would remain a fearsome war machine—kicking away hellhounds approaching Wade, smashing zombies aside with its massive hammer, using its towering frame to shield Wade from corpse explosions.  

The ice puppet protected Wade exactly as Mia willed it to.  

The little ghost floated to Wade’s side, perching on his left shoulder and wrapping her arms around his neck while making faces at the zombies and undead.  

She seemed somewhat angry. The ice puppet’s movements mirrored her emotions—brutally stomping on a hellhound before flattening it with a vicious hammer blow.  

The tremendous impact crushed even the steel muzzle around the hound’s neck, causing it to burst like a tomato can.  

The scene was rather gruesome.  

Wade mused that the little ghost might have innate violent tendencies. Those who angered her would surely meet terrible ends.  

Thanks to the ice puppet’s assistance, Wade managed to eliminate most of the undead minions before the flames completely died out.  

Even he hadn’t expected such formidable combat prowess from himself and Mia working together.  

They owed much to favorable circumstances—Radiance’s demon-slaying properties, the necromantic core obtained from Bronte Village, the combat experience gained from nightly dream battles with Sven, and Sven’s intrinsic battle skill Starfire as a Silver-rank warrior…  

All these factors combined had unleashed combat power beyond their normal limits.  

Yet this wasn’t mere coincidence—it was inevitable.  

Having successfully repelled the first wave of undead forces, the still-powerful ice puppet stood guard before Wade, who remained largely unharmed aside from some debris stains.  

As Wade attuned his senses to nearby living presences, he noticed Lucas emerging from York’s alchemy workshop, waving excitedly while holding aloft the milky-white swirling Mist Stone.  

“Sir Wade!” Lucas called out enthusiastically.  

Wade didn’t respond. Another life force approached. He whirled around.  

Darkness gave way to crimson illumination as fiery light bathed Wade’s helmet.  

The ice puppet glowed translucent under the radiance, revealing through its icy form an enormous fireball barreling toward them.  

The massive projectile, trailing black smoke like a boulder tumbling down mountains, exploded against the ice puppet with terrifying force. The shockwave kicked up dust while meteor-like burning fragments ignited corpses and ruined buildings alike.  

Instantly, a gaping hole vaporized through the ice puppet’s abdomen, white steam dispersing the dust cloud.  

A pale, hoarse voice spoke through the settling haze:  

“Graveyard soil, lilies, and tobacco—the scent resembles my modified Ash Potion. No wonder you infiltrated my domain.”  

“Only York in Alvado could brew such a potion. Did he send you?”  

“That sword—does it belong to the Church?”  

“Are you from the Church?”  

“What did you come here to obtain?”  

“Where is York hiding?”  

“Perhaps you’d be willing to answer… Never mind, I’ll simply ask your souls directly.”  

“After all, nothing in this world speaks more truthfully than the dead.”  

From the smoke emerged a figure—pale complexion, neatly pressed black robes, jet-black hair spilling over his epaulets with stray locks dancing in the wind.  

His face appeared remarkably young—far younger than Lucas—with handsome features that suggested a man in his twenties.  

In his left hand he cradled a crystal skull, while his right gripped a staff fashioned from bones.  

Visible dark wraiths circled his form—Casimodo Vic, the necromancer, had finally arrived on the battlefield.  

Pointing his staff at Lucas standing before the workshop, he sent several shrieking wraiths flying toward the adventurer while the skull in his left hand emitted a sinister glow.  

Lucas found himself paralyzed—ears ringing, vision swimming—realizing Casimodo had cast some soul-based spell upon him.  

Though he clenched his spear with desperate willpower, his legs remained numb and unresponsive. The power gap between a fifth-circle necromancer and an iron-rank professional warrior was no different from that between a man and a chicken destined for slaughter.  

Helpless, he watched the death-reeking wraiths approach—until a flash of sword light cut through his despair.  

The wandering knight swung his glowing blade through the wraiths, their piercing, skull-splitting shrieks filling the air upon contact with the radiant steel.  

Frowning, Casimodo recalled the wraiths with a wave of his staff.  

As Lucas regained control of his body, he saw Wade gesturing urgently at him.  

Gritting his teeth, he turned and ran with all his might—the only thing he could and should do.  

Only a conceited fool would remain.  

He knew his own weakness, his mediocrity, his powerlessness all too well.  

Weak and powerless, he could only flee for his life without reservation.  

If possible, he would have preferred to die fighting like a true warrior.  

But such a death would be worthless—wasting the time and opportunity that knight had bought him.  

“I must deliver the Mist Stone!”  

Never in his life had he run like this—as if trying to snap his own legs—charging through alleys and passages.  

Night owls and hellhounds pursued him. When a night owl exploded against his back, leaving his flesh torn and bloody, he simply kept running—away into darkness and distance.  

“Foolish Tanians, did you truly believe you could escape after I’ve spotted you?”  

“My eyes shall guide the war party to capture that reckless fool.”  

Casimodo turned his attention fully to Wade.  

“That leaves you, knight. You’ll regret opposing me. I’ll show you true pain and torment—hellfire shall deny you peace for eternity.”  

As the smoke fully dispersed, the enormous shadow behind Casimodo stood revealed at last—  

That flaming, unbearable-to-behold form, that horrific demon—massive as a hill, obese and bloated, its abdomen split by an irregular maw revealing flame imps curled in slumber within, its swollen, malformed face twisted in a grotesque smile.  

A mid-tier demon—the Demon Mother.  

Not just the Demon Mother—a three-headed sewn beast stood beside Casimodo, wreathed in purple demonfire, vastly superior to the flawed creation seen in Bronte Village.  

This time, Casimodo hadn’t limited himself to magical beasts and humans—he’d incorporated actual demon flesh into this abomination.  

Standing between these two monstrosities, his frosty expression alone could make souls tremble.  

Wade remained silent, simply raising his sword in response.  

The ice puppet, slowly regenerating its massive wound, took position beside him. The two sides faced off—no words, only a battle to the death.