Chapter 101: The Dead End of Malgash

Just as the Abyssal Lord tore through space and frantically surged toward the fissure churning with filthy energy near the shore, a voice he utterly refused to hear at this moment drifted lazily through the salty sea wind.

The voice was not loud, yet crystal clear, like a whisper pressed against the ear—casually amused, yet as piercing as an undercurrent beneath ice.

“Malgash, in such a hurry… where are you off to?”

The wind seemed to freeze for an instant. “We’ve known each other long enough. To meet and not even offer a greeting… isn’t that a little heartless?”

On the distant hilltop stood the demon’s old acquaintance—tall and upright, longer-limbed than an ordinary Night Elf, standing still like an ancient silver tree rooted in time.

His skin bore the characteristic pale purple of Night Elves, yet faintly shimmered with an almost imperceptible glow, like stardust—unconscious outward manifestation of his demigod essence.

His face blended the elf’s delicacy with the detachment of endless ages: high cheekbones, an elegant yet unmistakably sharp jawline; elongated ears, their tips nearly lost within his flowing, liquid-silver hair.

The hair was loosely gathered by a few living shadow-vines interwoven with starstone ornaments, left to ripple freely in the wind, each strand seeming capable of slicing light.

His eyebrows were slender, slightly arched at the ends, carrying the detached scrutiny of one long accustomed to supremacy. But most arresting were his eyes—pupils like molten gold, not the chaotic fire of a red dragon, but the glow of ancient stars sealed within amber, as if capable of piercing through the veils of soul and time.

He wore armor that appeared light, forged from star-silver and silver dragon scales, flowing with a faint glow, its patterns a fusion of ancient Elven Royal insignia and natural runes. A short purple cloak draped over his shoulders and neck, studded with tiny glimmers like real stars.

“Canothua Winterthorn…” Malgash’s voice ground out from the churning sulfurous smoke, each syllable like chewing crushed iron and hatred, “you truly are… an unshakable specter.”

The Abyssal aura swirling around him surged violently with rage, tearing through the surrounding sea wind and light.

“If I’d known you’d be this much trouble…” His bone wings snapped open behind him, casting ominous shadows. “Back then, beneath that withered starry dome, I should’ve torn off your arrogant head myself and turned it into a drinking cup.”

“Heh…” His light laugh brushed over ice. “Malgash, your boasted skills have grown more vigorously than your Abyssal fire.”

He tilted his head slightly, a few strands of silver hair sliding over his shoulder armor, his posture calm, as if recalling some trivial afternoon.

“Defeat? Perhaps. But to kill me…” He lifted his gaze, calmly piercing the opponent’s raging fury, “your memory seems flawed. That time, you merely… won a temporary round.”

“Canothua, why waste words with him? This villain killed many of our people—today, his head must be offered to honor our fallen kin!” A five-meter-tall demigod Druidic Thornstag emerged from the shadows of the shattered shore.

His antlers resembled a living ancient forest, entwined with thorned vines and flowing emerald radiance; his voice did not come from his mouth but echoed like the low roar of a forest before a storm, vibrating directly through air and soul.

Malgash’s throat rumbled a wet, guttural chuckle, sulfurous fumes spreading with the sea breeze. His burning pupils turned toward the lumbering stag—a flicker of genuine surprise mingled with boundless malice.

“Lodak Leafmark…” the Abyssal Lord hissed, his bone wings slowly retracting, as if savoring a forgotten moment, “you old root, still stubbornly clinging to this world… truly, I’m slightly surprised.”

His voice dropped sharply, slithering like a serpent through the air. “Last time, I plucked out your thumping ‘Heart of Nature’ myself and tossed it onto scorched earth, where it still pulsed hotly… still savoring that taste?”

Lodak Leafmark’s hooves slowly crushed the broken stones, his voice carrying the crushing patience and mockery of an ancient forest.

“I won’t deny that,” his eyes flashed a cold, desolate gleam. “But a so-called ‘Lord of a certain Abyssal Layer’ who cowers behind another Abyssal Lord, dares not face me directly, and steals victory through vile ambushes… truly admirable.”

A furious growl rumbled in Malgash’s throat; his bone wings burst open violently, sulfurous dust rising—debate was useless; the logic of the Abyss always ended in primal violence.

The great sword in his hands, “Kiss of Catastrophe,” erupted in filthy flames; before the blade even moved, its terrifying pressure crushed dozens of meters of surrounding rocks into powder.

The strike came without warning, swift as a thought from the Abyss, aimed straight at Lodak Leafmark’s ancient torso. Where the blade passed, space screamed as if burned and torn.

“CLANG—!!!!”

A metallic detonation, loud enough to shatter eardrums and shake the soul, exploded outward—a wild shockwave rippling in a ring, hurling sand, stones, and seawater from the entire shore.

A massive spiked club, as tall as a siege pillar, stood like a mountain across the path of the great sword. Its iron body was wrapped in primal runes, each spike gleaming with anti-magic frost.

Gripping it was a colossal figure nearly equal in height to Malgash—dark bluish skin, muscles knotted like granite, curved fangs jutting like scythes, eyes burning with battle-lust, blending wild ferocity with the cold wisdom unique to demigods.

A demigod troll had intervened at the last instant. The ground beneath his feet cracked in every direction, yet his form stood firm as a rooted cliff, blocking the sword capable of cleaving mountains with sheer brute force and divinity.

“HAHAHA—!”

His wild laughter exploded like rolling thunder, drowning out the lingering clang of metal. The demigod troll didn’t grow angry—he grinned, his massive mouth splitting open to reveal a savage, mocking smile.

He even used the momentum to shove the club forward slightly, then stepped half a pace back, his motion fluid as a choreographed dance.

“Hey, buddy!” His voice was coarse and hoarse, yet brimming with almost cheerful energy. “I haven’t even introduced myself yet—why the rush to attack?”

He tilted his massive head, the battle-lust in his eyes burning brighter.

“What, not welcome me to join the party?” The troll demigod held the club in one hand, the other casually thumping his thick chest with a dull thud. “But I’ve got a habit.”

His grin sharpened abruptly; a primordial, ancient pressure surged around him.

“Where I want to go, I never wait for permission—and I like to take a souvenir along.”

Malgash slowly sheathed his sword, the filthy flames flickering uncertainly on its blade. His gaze passed over the club, settling on the troll’s wild face; the whisper of the Abyss seemed to seep from the void:

“Troll… in my memory, I’ve never fought your kind.”

His voice dropped low, making the surrounding air grow heavy, tinged with the sting of sulfur.

“Think… very carefully.” Each syllable dripped with poison. “Projecting your shadow into the Abyss’s gaze… the cost… far exceeds your capacity to measure.”

His bone wings fully unfurled behind him, casting a shadow of malice over the battlefield.

“We will remember you. From this moment, your breath, your bloodline, all you protect… will be permanently marked by the will of the Abyss.” Malgash’s pupils narrowed into crimson slits.

“This isn’t merely a battle. This will be… eternal pursuit.”

“Then listen well!”

The troll demigod Moges Bloodmallet slowly grinned, not with amusement, but with the pure, monstrous excitement of a predator locking onto prey. His voice lowered, rumbling like thunder over the shore.

“My name is Moges Bloodmallet.” Each word hammered into the air like a blow. “That name… may soon be carved onto your tombstone—if you’re lucky enough to have one.”

He spun the club idly in his hand, the wind shrieking with a scalp-crawling whine, his gaze locked unyieldingly on Malgash.

“As for ‘letting you live and return’?” Moges let out a throaty scoff. “Brother, you’ve misunderstood something.”

He leaned forward slightly; battle-lust surged around him like an earthquake before a volcano.

“From the moment I stepped into this place, I never intended for you to ever smell the stench of the Abyss again.”

First to move was Canothua. The Night Elf demigod didn’t even draw his bow—he simply raised his right hand gracefully, fingers gently closing in midair. Instantly, the space around Malgash froze, countless chains woven from starlight and shadow materializing.

They emerged silently from the void, coiling around his bone wings, limbs, and neck. The chains bore not only physical restraint but also order-binding seals targeting demigod essence, attempting to suppress and analyze his Abyssal nature, creating the perfect “target” for the coming assault.

As Malgash roared, Abyssal power erupted like a volcano—black, filthy flames gushed from every joint, scorching the starlight chains, producing piercing cracks. But just as he neared escape, Lodak’s attack arrived.

He didn’t charge—he merely lifted one hoof and brought it down hard.

“THUD—!”

Centered on him, the entire shore and nearby sea came alive. Countless thick, thorned roots, as large as ancient trees, erupted from the sand, coiling like giant serpents toward Malgash’s lower limbs, their tips exuding acidic resin that dissolved divine power.

Simultaneously, the sea exploded—dozens of tendrils formed from high-pressure water blades and living seaweed burst forth, binding and slicing at the Abyssal Lord’s body from the other side. This was the wrath of earth and sea itself, driven by the demigod Druid’s will—aimed at stripping his mobility and anchoring him to this land soon to become a grave.

And the true lethal strike came from the front.

Moges had leapt the instant Canothua raised his hand. His massive body tore through the air; the spiked club “Worldbreaker” swung into a blinding arc of annihilation, every rune on its surface blazing with primordial, rule-shattering primal light.

The strike was devoid of flourish—pure, ultimate expression of power and divinity, aimed precisely at the center of Malgash’s exposed chest, where his pulsing Abyssal core lay, now vulnerable from struggling against the bindings.

Malgash roared, blocking with his left arm—already entangled in roots—and swung his great sword upward in a desperate counter, trying to force Moges back.

“CLANG—CRACK!!”

The club shattered the filth-encrusted flame Ningju on the sword; its momentum unspent, it slammed into Malgash’s outstretched left forearm. The sound of shattering bone was unmistakable even amid the din—black demonic blood spurted like a fountain, highly corrosive, yet instantly vaporized by Moges’s rising blood-armor shield into acrid smoke.

Countless thorned roots surged through Malgash’s shattered body, growing wildly, swelling from within, locking him into a horrifying “statue.” Simultaneously, two of the thickest roots—entwined with ancient runes—pierced like judgmental spears: one drove upward through his spine, the other downward through his skull.

Moges swung the club a third time, this time aimed squarely at the head—already pierced from within by starlight chains and bound by roots.

Canothua’s figure appeared like a phantom behind Malgash; in his hand, a slender stiletto forged from solidified shadow had materialized. He extended it casually, piercing the pulsing Abyssal heart.

The Abyssal Lord, who had once ravaged multiple material planes, died without a sound.

“Moges, as agreed, you may take one organ or body part from Malgash as your reward—except the heart.”

“Master Canothua, I will honor the agreement and depart the Red Moon Plane immediately.” With that, he performed a standard Night Elf noble farewell gesture.