When the plot-skips players into the game world-Chapter 1298 - 23: Scáthach’s Request

After the first two people leading the charge were killed in succession, the remaining four or five seized the opportunity to swarm forward. The numerical advantage caused Ares considerable trouble.

He had to take it seriously, yanked the warrior off the spear and then faced six opponents alone, wielding the spear which continuously flared into flame.

Warriors, hands itching for a fight, stood up one after another—at the banquet, standing signified joining the battle.

When the fourteenth warrior stood, Ares finally showed signs of collapse.

An elf, graceful in appearance, somehow approached his back, crouched on his left shoulder, and stabbed his dagger into Ares’ neck!

Ares was about to reach back, but a strong, shirtless human warrior suddenly hurled a massive leg bone over half a meter long — the leg bone, with half-cooked meat still on it, pierced through Ares’ chest, forcing him back two steps.

At this moment, the elf assassin nimbly stood up.

In a gravity-defying movement akin to walking on eaves and walls—his body nearly horizontal, he circled around, directly slicing Ares’ head off!

Ares’ headless body toppled to the ground, while the slender elf assassin roared fiercely, holding the massive head aloft, drenching himself in its blood. Even his neck reddened... not from the blood, but from sheer exhilaration.

"Good, good!"

"Showing off, are you? Still showing off now!"

The crowd cheered for him, while others mocked the arrogant Ares.

Even if it was a gang fight, a win is still a win!

Arsene stood dumbfounded—though he had fought others before, he had never taken a life; he had seen battles, but never such a bloody confrontation!

This was truly a divine feast... yet he hadn’t had a bite of meat, and already felt half-full.

"Alright, alright... the guests are here, don’t make it too bloody! If you really want to fight, try wrestling!"

The Shadowy Celestial Marshal laughed and called out: "Everyone, continue eating and drinking! Luke, Fergus, come, sit here."

With the Shadowy Celestial Marshal’s words, all those who had died instantly revived.

The crowd continued to eat and drink amicably, while some, with itchy hands, headed to the center to wrestle. Soon there were takers, and they organized a match where two wrestled under the watchful eyes of the others.

The elf man named Luke, covered in blood, sat with Ares, the one whose head he had just taken.

These two blood-soaked individuals sat at the table, with Arsene seated uneasily between them. The thick scent of blood made him somewhat nauseous.

Arsene felt he truly had his eyes opened this time!

The two who had just fought raised their glasses in camaraderie, while Arsene leaned back to make space for them.

The human giant known as Fergus unceremoniously took a seat beside Vinesse, closer to Aiwass.

He leaned forward, looking at Aiwass with interest, "You must be Aiwass! My name’s Fergus, I heard Lancelot mention you before!"

Saying this, he extended his hand for a handshake with Aiwass.

Aiwass also reached out directly and shook Fergus’s hand.

It was a hand hot as fire, hard as iron—this warrior from the Shadow Nation likely had a strength above the Seventh Level, and with the right opportunity, might even ascend to a Celestial Marshal.

His body was covered in scars, as if scorched, acid-burned, or torn by beasts.

If these wounds were incurred in the Shadow Nation, they would heal in a breath, leaving no scars; and in the Material Realm, injuries wouldn’t affect the soul.

Thus, the terrifying scars on Fergus were imprinted on his soul.

—Most likely from the ascension ritual.

Only soul injuries from the ascension ritual would carry on after death.

"Married?"

Just a handshake, yet he asked this directly.

Aiwass raised an eyebrow, nodding in acknowledgment, "Soon."

"Oh, newlyweds. I heard your wife is a descendant of Lancelot... must be a good woman, treat her well."

Fergus smiled mischievously, "Then this will be handy. Otherwise, with your delicate skin, it might not work out."

Just then, Aiwass felt something firm in his hand.

He didn’t notice any magic trick from Fergus—when they first shook hands, there was nothing. But now, something was silently given to Aiwass.

Aiwass opened his palm to find a crystal bottle resembling wind oil essence.

Inside was a liquid as red as blood...

No, Aiwass shook the bottle. From the clinging walls and foam, he quickly confirmed, it was indeed blood.

"My secret formula," Fergus chuckled, "Demon Dragon Blood, Shadow Thorn. Plus some secret medicine... just a third each time. I’m telling you, this is an ancient alchemist’s lost art—certified by the Queen, the best of the best!"

"...Do I drink it?" Aiwass confirmed.

"Of course. Or do you plan to give it to a little girl? For whatever reason, drugging women isn’t what men should do!"

Fergus reprimanded.

...Doesn’t seem necessary.

Aiwass’s expression was somewhat subtle, but he still pocketed it. As Fergus said, it might come in handy someday.

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