novelraw Chapter 211: Weakness
Chapter 211: Weakness
Weakness.
It surged like a tide from her marrow, threatening to drag Pandora’s consciousness under.
It wasn’t just physical exhaustion.
That sword strike had killed the Third-Rank “Blighted Hand” Wilbur, sure, but it had burned through nearly all the power Elsa had converted from Pandora’s drained blood.
Pandora was in a bad way. Severe blood loss on top of critical trauma.
Every breath made the fractured ribs in her chest throb with a dull ache, while her lungs felt like they were being pricked by countless tiny needles.
As for Elsa…
The scarlet greatsword was dead silent.
She was empty. Her condition was no better than Pandora's, too weak to even respond.
Pandora could only feel her state through the slight, pulse-like trembling of the blade and the faint, warm feedback of blood flowing through the hilt.
Wilbur’s corpse was shriveling. It was withering at a speed visible to the naked eye.
Elsa was feeding on instinct.
Pandora didn’t sit around.
She raised her right hand, trembling slightly, and made a gesture.
A few seconds later, her Palmfiend crawled down from the projection room and slipped through the side door, returning to her side.
Pandora dipped her fingers into the potion pouch at her waist.
Her fingertips hovered over a few vials before she carefully drew out an amber reagent glowing with pale blue light.
A Perfect-Grade Second-Rank Potion. The Amber Mixture.
Pandora’s injuries were severe.
Worse, some of the damage came from the Third-Rank Sloughing Decoction she’d taken to shake the tracking mark. The violent effects of that potion were still lingering in her system, jumping around like dormant embers.
In that unstable state, Pandora had to be careful with potions.
A strong, fast-acting restorative might trigger the residual power, causing a backlash or a total systemic collapse.
So, a slow-release potion like the Amber Mixture was the right call. Mild potency, but stable.
Gulp.
Pandora uncorked the vial and tilted her head back, drinking the warm liquid.
There was no shock. No surge of power.
Just a moist warmth, like gentle water flowing over a parched riverbed.
Pandora knew it was working.
It would take time to see real results, but the dizzying feeling of imminent fainting had eased.
“Squeak...”
Her Palmfiend chirped.
The large eyeball growing from its severed wrist rotated to the side.
It looked curiously—and with a hint of innocence—at the creature nearby.
Wilbur's.
It had fallen out of his ruined chest and was cowering beside the withered corpse. Its single eye was wide with terror, its body shivering.
It looked small. Pitiful.
It knew what was coming.
Pandora stared at the trembling monster. She paused.
If this were a year ago, if she were still the girl living in the dream of the orchard, she might have felt a twinge of pity.
She might have spared it, just like she couldn’t watch the knights kill the fawn standing next to its mother’s corpse.
But she wasn’t that Pandora anymore.
The hesitation vanished.
Her gaze went cold.
She reached out, bringing her own Palmfiend close to Wilbur's. Without hesitating, she stripped all the wealth bound to Wilbur’s account.
Especially the Academy’s currency: Contribution Points. Indispensable.
Done, she placed the now-valueless Palmfiend beside its master.
She didn’t give it another glance.
Bang!
A crisp sound.
The gun in Pandora’s hand fired again.
Wilbur’s Palmfiend exploded into a blur of flesh and blood.
Just like a fawn orphaned by its mother, Palmfiends were specialized lives. Tools refined by the Academy.
They existed for that purpose.
No independent skills. No survival instincts.
Without a master, they didn’t survive on their own.
If Pandora hadn’t killed it, it would have languished, dying slowly amidst hunger and terror.
That would have been crueller than the bullet.
“Squeak.”
Pandora reached out and stroked her own Palmfiend.
The creature nuzzled her palm, docile. Comforting her, or maybe celebrating its own luck.
Because they were engineered tools, Palmfiends rarely felt strong emotions after watching their own kind die.
They might feel fear, but they quickly reverted to their calm, tool-like instincts.
Compared to the death of a peer, the master’s touch meant everything.
..................
By now, Wilbur’s corpse was a dried husk. A mummy.
Elsa was nearly finished.
“My Lady...”
Elsa spoke, her voice ringing in Pandora’s mind.
It was weak, but tinged with a strange excitement.
She usually sounded composed and cold. Now, she trembled, like she was intoxicated.
The weakness was from her injuries.
The excitement came from absorbing the massive amount of blood from a Third-Rank.
The power was too vast, too dense. She was suffering from a momentary bout of “indigestion.”
As Elsa’s power recovered, the connection between them cleared.
Pandora felt a wash of warmth.
She had finally managed to scrape together a tiny bit of strength.