The Paladin in the Abyss

Everyone followed Lancelot's gaze, staring intently at the ceiling above. After a wait that felt long but was actually only a few minutes, the ceiling suddenly became transparent, and ripples like water began to emanate from it.

A few seconds later, the once solid rock ceiling had completely turned into an illusion. Accompanied by a whistle, the attackers leaped in from the rooftop. Lancelot took a closer look and realized these creatures had hyena heads, humanoid bodies, and an appalling stench — they were a band of gnoll robbers.

Whatever their reasons for launching the attack, it definitely did not include the possibility that their opponents would be fully armed.

Lancelot's longsword thrust out, and a gnoll hadn't even touched the ground before it became a corpse, a huge bloody hole gaping in its chest.

The others also had a bellyful of anger during those unbearable minutes of waiting. Bruto even threw his hammer the moment the first gnoll poked out its head, then, holding his shield, knocked another leaping gnoll to the ground. Without waiting for his hammer to return, he started pounding the enemy pinned beneath him with his fists.

While he was passionately swinging his fists, Kalalin was dueling another gnoll with a cold iron spear.

These humanoid beasts created by the Abyssal Lord Yenogu possessed agility and strength that Scholars couldn't match. Under normal circumstances, he wouldn't stand a chance against such ferocious enemies, but these were not normal circumstances.

Before the battle began, the Scholar had ample time to prepare. Now, surrounding him were three illusions identical to himself; all, including his own body, appeared blurred, like a portrait smeared with water.

The Scholar had cast Mirror Image and Blur on himself in advance, a golden combination of Second Circle spells for those spellcasters who liked melee combat. The former created three illusions with movements completely synced with his, the latter made the spellcaster and the illusions more elusive and harder to hit.

Kalalin's opponent was a brute waving a large cleaver. Though utterly baffled by the situation, it swung its weapon regardless.

It was a badly misplaced hit, missing not only Kalalin's clothes but even his illusion, while the Scholar's sharp cold iron spear poked a hole in its left arm.

The gnoll howled in pain, and under the torment, its weapon lashed out again.

Although occasionally trained by Lancelot, the Scholar still lacked real hand-to-hand combat experience. This time, the gnoll's large cleaver struck an illusion, passing through it without resistance, as it was striking nothing but an illusion. The illusion that was hit vanished into the air, yet its shoulder was stabbed once more.

The gnoll told itself that the pain was like the spellcaster's illusions, nonexistent. It let out a deep growl, pleased to see the Mage in front of it looking tense and evidently scared of it. Just two more attacks, and there would be no more illusions to protect the Mage.

Then, a hammer suddenly coming from behind smashed the gnoll's head into its chest cavity.

"You all right?" Bruto called out to Kalalin across the gnoll's corpse. From the Scholar's perspective, it looked as though the gnoll's body had grown a Dwarf's head.
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"I could have handled it," Kalalin shrugged.

In another room, Koula and Alamir were also working together in a unique way. Whether it was the Elves' shining hammers or their elegant, noble Elf aura, both aroused the most intense revulsion in the ugly and filthy Werewolf creatures. They recklessly swarmed the Priest, who relied on his Shield and the set of fine Full Body Armor to stubbornly fend off their attacks.

In stark contrast, they couldn't help but overlook the presence of another enemy, a Halfling woman with cute twin tails who seemed utterly harmless. The Werewolves almost subconsciously averted their gaze—an insignificant Halfling, what's there to worry about?

Then they would busy themselves attacking the delicious-smelling Elves, treating the Halfling as if she had been completely forgotten. Only when a Dagger sliced across the throat of a Werewolf, its grubby and wart-ridden neck leaking life, would the victim wonder why they had ignored an armed enemy.

Koula moved through the shadows in the corner of the room, easily reaping the lives of her foes. Direct combat was indeed not the Halfling's strength, but this clever, short-statured race always found their way to coexist with the world.

In the spacious living room, couches, chairs, and coffee tables had long been overturned, and Elothysia was fighting on one side of the room. Her Cold Iron Longsword, decorated with Angelic wings, dazzled with holy Spiritual Light, and any Werewolf foolish enough to think this Succubus was easy to handle soon fell before her.

The only one not participating in the fight was a certain Vampire. This was her first real battle in the truest sense. Little Isha had slipped into the shadows before the start of the fight, excited for the upcoming battle. However, when limbs and blood actually began to fly, she tensed up as if Paralyzed, completely unable to move her body.

The shock of real combat far exceeded her expectations. Exposed white bones, blood splattered everywhere, the death-rattle of Werewolves—all of these made the court-raised girl dizzy and short of breath.

A Werewolf was hit hard in the face by Cromwell, stumbled backwards towards her, then tripped over the body of a comrade and fell heavily in front of her. All she needed to do was to pull out the Short Sword from her waist to easily end the life of this enemy; Isha was well aware of this, but she simply couldn't control her body.

Luckily, the Werewolf was unable to notice the Vampire Wanderer behind it. From the perspective of stealth, Isha was flawless—if a Vampire needed not breathe and added a Petrify-like stillness, she had already blended with the shadows perfectly, so much so that even her companions couldn't find her.

This meant that Cromwell was completely unaware that the young girl was there. The skull, like a flying bowling ball, careened between Werewolves' Spears and Large Cleavers; after another vicious collision, yet another Werewolf flew towards where the Vampire girl was.

Before Isha could react, the Werewolf had already crashed into her. The beast seemed to sense that it had encountered something soft and couldn't help but turn its head to look.

The girl's beautiful and delicate face reflected in its murky eyes, and the Werewolf instinctively swiped its filthy claws at her.

But that collision had finally given Isha back control over her body. Her hands instinctively drew the Short Sword from her waist, the right hand blocking the imminent blow, while the left hand swiftly stabbed under the enemy's chin, then quickly retracted to protect her chest.

The Werewolf retreated in panic, helplessly trying to cover the gushing wound on its throat, but quickly choked on the blood that flowed into its trachea. Its brown-gray skin swiftly turned purple due to lack of oxygen, its eyes bulging, and any violent motion only intensified its agony.

Isha threw her Short Sword, accurately driving it into the beast's heart, ending its struggle.

Feeling someone's gaze upon her, she looked up and caught Lancelot's encouraging eyes, but he immediately averted his gaze and lunged at another adversary.

"Maybe this isn't as hard as it seems," the Vampire murmured to herself. She still disliked the feeling of killing and was certain she would never enjoy such acts, but she would no longer stand still like a statue while her companions were fighting.