Inside the tent, an unconscious figure lay sprawled on the bed in a horrific state. Both hands were crushed, a gaping wound tore through his right side stomatch, and a deep slash ran from his neck to his chest—a grim sight for anyone who looked upon him.
This man was Terran, General of the Demon Race. As Leon and Garan entered, they approached him in silence.
Seeing his friend and comrade in such a state, Garan felt a deep sadness well up within him.
“When I found him, Terran was already in this state. I was terrified he might not make it,” Garan said, his voice weighted with sorrow.
He deeply regretted not arriving sooner to prevent Terran from ending up in this state. The guilt weighed heavily on him, bringing a sense of distress every time he thought about Terran’s condition.
Leon examined Terran closely, noting the severity of his wounds. Given their fatal nature, he knew that Terran’s survival was solely due to his unwavering will to live.
After a moment, Leon sighed, turning to Garan and giving his shoulder a gentle pat.
“Don’t worry. Even though the wounds are severe, I can heal them,” Leon said calmly yet with confidence.
Hearing this, Garan’s eyes widened, filled with disbelief.
“You can heal him? Are you serious?” Garan asked, his voice trembling.
“Yes,” Leon replied simply.
Garan stood in stunned silence, processing the shock. Then, snapping out of his daze, he bowed deeply.
“Thank you! Please save Terran, and I promise to do whatever you ask!” he said earnestly.
Since they were chosen as Demon Generals to lead in the war and work closely as a team, he had come to see Terran as both a trusted comrade-in-arms and a close friend. Losing him was unthinkable.
Leon waved his hand casually as he turned toward the unconscious Terran, his voice tinged with a hint of helplessness. “I’ve told you, there’s no need to be so formal.”
With a slight shake of his head, he continued, “Alright, I’ll begin healing Terran. You can wait in the next tent.”
Garan lifted his head and gave a brief nod. Without saying another word, he cast one final glance at Terran before walking out of the tent, leaving Leon alone.
Once Garan was gone, Leon immediately ceased his transformation technique. His white hair slowly returned to its natural black, his purple eyes shifted to a golden hue, and his previously pale skin brightened.
Where his transformed form had carried a cold, indifferent aura, his true appearance radiated calm and gentleness, still sharp and focused like a sword.
After deactivating his transformation technique, Leon removed his mask, revealing his strikingly handsome face.
Unfortunately, none of the women could enjoy the sight of his handsome face, as only the unconscious Terran lay nearby.
“Every wound is marked by sharp cuts and traces of holy power. It seems the hero who attacked Terran was exceptionally ruthless,” Leon murmured, his gaze sharp as he examined Terran’s condition.
Folding his arms, he spoke again, his tone thoughtful: “However, none of these wounds seem to come from arrows or spears, meaning it wasn’t Valen or Luna who struck him. The attacker must be the fake sword hero.”
After finishing his analysis, a cold glint flashed in Leon’s eyes, and a palpable killing intent radiated from his body.
He hadn’t forgotten the one claiming to be the sword hero, wielding the Holy Sword of Zenith. Though he couldn’t understand how that person could possess holy power and control his holy sword, Leon was certain they were connected to Velix and the Imperial Palace.
He took a deep breath, shaking his head slowly as his expression became increasingly indifferent.
“No matter how much I ponder it, I won’t find the answer. I need to focus on Terran now,” Leon murmured, closing his eyes.
*Buzz*
Holy power began to condense around him as Leon placed his palm gently on Terran’s forehead.
*Whoosh!*
Moments later, the holy power surged into Terran’s body, causing him to glow with an intense light.
Leon’s holy power flowed through Terran’s veins, gradually healing the damage within.
Although holy power was known to be the most destructive and dangerous force against demons, its effects ultimately depended on the will of the heroes.
If they willed destruction, holy power would be devastating. But if they did not wish for it, the power would be harmless.
After ten minutes, Terran’s condition began to improve. His shattered hands were restored to their original state as if they had never been injured. The hole in his stomach and the deep slashes from his neck to his chest had completely healed.
“Phew… It’s finally done,” Leon murmured, a faint smile crossing his lips as he slowly opened his eyes.
He scanned Terran’s body one last time, nodding with a soft sigh.
“His wounds are healed, but his consciousness may take some time to return,” Leon noted quietly.
He then reactivated his transformation technique, his appearance reverting back. Putting on his mask, he left the tent.
…
In a large tent next to Terran’s, Garan sat on a chair with a calm expression, though his anxiety remained visible.
“Can he really heal Terran?” Garan silently wondered, still doubtful.
Though he trusted the mysterious man in the half mask, a lingering unease gnawed at him. After all, he had never seen this masked figure in the outer palace. Moreover, the man claimed to be a friend of their Demon Emperor, but Garan was certain that Her Majesty Liliana, known for her cold demeanor, didn’t have friends—especially not men.
Just then, the sound of footsteps broke the silence, and Leon entered the tent.
Upon seeing him, Garan’s heart raced, and he quickly stood up.
“Has Terran been healed?” Garan inquired, his voice filled with worry as he hurried toward Leon.
Leon smiled and nodded. “He’s fine. All his wounds have been healed, and in the next day or two, he should regain consciousness.”
“Thank goodness…” Garan exhaled in relief, the weight of his worries lifting.
Leon chuckled softly at the contrast between Garan’s current expression and the brave image he had shown during their past battles. However, he said nothing and simply turned to leave, waving his hand.
“I know you must be exhausted and haven’t rested since we set up the tents. Go rest and recover; if you don’t, it’ll only harm you,” Leon said lightly before walking out.
As Leon disappeared from sight, Garan stood still for a moment, then sighed.
“He’s right… I should rest.”
…
Flashes of red lightning streaked across the sky, followed by the deafening rumble of thunder. The rain poured down in relentless sheets, showing no sign of letting up.
Outside the tent, Leon walked away from the Demon army’s encampment, stopping a hundred meters away. Despite the torrential downpour, his clothes remained dry, as though the rain itself couldn’t touch his mantle.
He took a deep breath, casting a detached glance at the overcast sky.
“Now, can you explain everything to me, Miranda?” Leon asked, his tone flat.
Suddenly, a flicker of purple light appeared beside him, growing brighter until it materialized into the figure of a strikingly beautiful woman.
Miranda, with a faint smile playing at the corners of her lips, turned to him.
“Explain? What would you like to know, Master?” She inquired, her voice laced with curiosity.
Sensing her feigned ignorance, Leon rolled his eyes and shot her an exasperated glance.
“Of course, it’s about that fake sword hero,” Leon said casually, his tone dripping with disdain. “I’m genuinely curious how that person can wield holy power and control my Holy Sword of Zenith. It’s absurd, don’t you think?”
In every era, only three heroes were born, making it impossible for another to exist. Yet, seeing someone else use holy power and wield his Holy Sword of Zenith shattered everything Leon had believed.
At that moment, he could hardly believe his eyes, almost convincing himself it was a hallucination. But deep down, he knew it was real—everything had happened without question.
Miranda was silent for a moment, then sighed, shaking her head.
“I’m sorry, master, but I’m not aware of this either,” she said softly.
Leon’s brows lifted slightly at her response, and a flicker of doubt passed across his face, hidden behind the mask.
“You don’t know about it? How is that possible? Haven’t you been investigating the reason for the disconnection between me and the Holy Sword of Zenith? I thought you already knew,” Leon said, confused.
“I did look into the issue with the Holy Sword of Zenith and found an answer: something forcibly severed your connection with it,” Miranda replied, her brow furrowed. “However, I never anticipated that all of this would be caused by the emergence of a fourth hero. The appearance of a fourth hero was never supposed to occur, as the Hero of Mankind, Luminus Troya, had only split the true Holy Sword of Zenith into three holy weapons.”
As Miranda explained, Leon fell silent, his expression betraying a complexity of emotions he struggled to conceal.
“If Miranda herself doesn’t know, then who can I turn to?” Leon muttered silently, feeling helpless.
This unexpected issue was completely unfamiliar to him; in the entire 7,000-year history of heroes, nothing like this had ever occurred.
“Even if I don’t find any answers, I’m certain everything is connected to Velix,” Leon murmured, his voice laced with a murderous intent that he couldn’t conceal.
He suspected that Velix’s conspiracy to kill him was somehow tied to this fourth hero. While he lacked proof, his conviction was unwavering.
“Damn it! Velix, we’ll see who outlasts the other,” Leon whispered, a cold glint in his purple eyes.
Taking a deep breath to steady himself, Leon turned to Miranda.
“If we encounter the Fourth Hero again, can you help me reclaim the Holy Sword of Zenith?” he asked seriously.
Miranda hesitated for a moment, then gave a faint smile. “Of course, that’s easy for me.”
A cold smile tugged at Leon’s lips as he turned his gaze back to the dark clouds above.
“Good. In the next two days, let’s set everything in motion—including taking my revenge.”
