Imprisoned for a Trillion Years, I Was Worshipped by All Gods!
Chapter 689 - Chapter245-Anyone Else Who Begs for Mercy Will Meet the Same End

The white-robed woman understood Stephen's secret signal immediately.

Without hesitation, she leapt backward, retreating behind the other mages and gathering her mana in a rapid burst. A heartbeat later, she vanished, teleporting thousands of miles away in a blinding flash of light.

But her escape was short-lived.

At the very same moment, the crimson longsword-shaped staff—previously suspended high above Stephen's head like the Sword of Damocles—disappeared into thin air.

Then, in an instant, it reappeared in the hand of the flame-haired woman.

Only now, something new adorned its tip.

A freshly torn, blood-drenched heart.

The heart of the white-robed woman.

Gasps filled the air. All the Legendary Mages watching could not help but suck in a collective breath.

That white-robed woman, Stephen's right hand, had undoubtedly been a Legendary mage in her own right. She had managed to teleport thousands of miles away, an incredible feat in itself.

And yet she had still died in under a second.

No one had even seen the moment of her death. One instant, she was gone—the next, her heart was skewered on a blazing red blade.

How powerful was this flame-haired woman?

Even the elder mage from the NK Kingdom, dressed in a deep indigo robe, and the silver-haired youth at his side, stood frozen, their eyes wide with awe and horror.

The woman who had emerged from the flames showed no trace of emotion. Her expression was calm, her bearing divine. More than human, she radiated something greater—something sacred. In her presence, all notions of humanity felt trivial, distant.

For a long moment, no one dared speak.

Then the old man in the indigo robe finally drew in a shaky breath, his voice trembling with disbelief.

"She's… a King Magus…"

The words had barely left his lips when the flame-haired woman's sword pulsed again.

A crimson flash streaked through the air.

Suddenly, the old man's chest burst open, revealing a gaping void where his heart had once been.

"Ugh!"

His voice cracked into a hoarse gasp as he staggered backward. He looked down at the hole in his chest, eyes filled with disbelief and pain.

He collapsed moments later, lifeless. No last words, no final spell—his life was snuffed out like a candle in a storm.

"Mentor! Mentor!!"

The silver-haired youth fell to his knees beside the old man's body, his voice raw with grief as he cradled the corpse.

Daniel, watching from nearby, was stunned speechless. His jaw hung slack.

He had expected the mysterious figure behind Alan to be strong. Maybe even dangerously powerful.

But this?

This was far beyond anything he had imagined.

Two Legendary mages dead in two seconds. And not a soul had even seen her move.

This was the power of a King Magus.

A force so overwhelming, so absolute, that even the collective might of the entire Kener Continent's mage community could not hope to rival it.

Then, another disturbance stirred.

Two wisps of pitch-black mist emerged from the far end of the chamber, oozing across the floor like living shadows, slowly crawling toward the flame-haired woman.

She turned to face them, her lips curling into a faint, mocking smile.

"Trash that can't even maintain a human form? You're better off dead."

She raised her hand, pointing the tip of her red-hot sword at the twin shadows.

A piercing hum filled the air as the blade unleashed a burst of blinding crimson light.

The black mist writhed violently, and within its depths, faint human screams began to echo—distorted, agonized, fading into nothingness.

The mist itself began to dissolve like frost under a summer sun, vanishing at an alarming rate.

The truth became clear to everyone watching:

These were no ordinary enemies.

They were black mages—practitioners of forbidden arts, wielders of dark mana whispered about in legends. Masters of concealment and corruption.

But here, even they couldn't last a few seconds.

Their legendary mystery and menace evaporated under the merciless light of the flame-haired woman's power.

Now true panic spread among the remaining Legendary mages.

Escape? Impossible.

The white-robed woman had tried. She had been obliterated mid-teleport.

Attack? Equally futile.

Black mages were renowned for their stealth, their ability to mask their mana signatures from even the most advanced detection spells.

And yet even they had perished like insects under her gaze.

If they couldn't succeed, what hope did the others have?

There was only one option left.

Surrender.

A thin, gaunt man from the crowd—the first to crack—collapsed to his knees, groveling before the flame-haired woman.

"Please… Your Excellency… I—I was blind! I disturbed your sacred slumber! I beg of you, spare my life! I'll do anything you command!"

He was a Legendary mage—an apex existence among spellcasters, revered by thousands.

And yet here he knelt, trembling like a terrified servant before a god.

Because for all his power, he was still human.

And humans feel fear—especially in the face of overwhelming strength.

The woman regarded him with contempt, eyes cold and disdainful.

"Anything?" she said softly. "Then can I ask you… to die?"

"What…? No! No, please—I don't want to die! I don't want to die!"

Panic-stricken, the mage scrambled to his feet.

Beneath him, five or six teleportation circles formed in rapid succession—each glowing in a different hue.

The deeper the color, the farther the range.

By layering multiple teleport spells with varying distances, he hoped to confuse her, to buy even a sliver of hope, a thread of life.

But the flame-haired woman had already anticipated this.

Just as the arrays began to activate, her crimson staff trembled slightly in her grasp.

In the blink of an eye, every teleportation array beneath the man's feet dimmed, flickered, and failed.

He poured more mana into them, frantically, desperately.

It was no use.

She had severed his connection to them—cleanly, absolutely.

A heartbeat later, her blade struck once more.

His heart was ripped from his chest, and he collapsed like a puppet with cut strings.

Then she moved forward, emerging from the flames to stand before the remaining Legendary mages.

Her voice rang out, cold as the void.

"Anyone else who begs for mercy will meet the same end."

She swept her gaze across them—her eyes like those of death itself.

"They're not giving us any path to survival!"

One of the mages broke the silence, shouting through gritted teeth.

"She's just one person! But there are still five of us! And we're all Legendary-level or higher! If we attack together, she can't defeat us all!"

Rallying behind his call, the other mages finally found their resolve.

Though they had never met before, though they hailed from different nations and orders, in this moment they fought as one—united by desperation.

They synchronized their movements, their spells weaving together with practiced precision. For an instant, they resembled a war-hardened battalion, veterans of countless campaigns.

But to the flame-haired woman, they were nothing more than insects.

Ants gathering to challenge a lion.

Futile. Laughable.

Her crimson blade began to move—fast as light, silent as death.

It cut through the air like a comet, and each time it paused, a life was taken.

One after another, the Legendary mages fell, their bodies dropping to the floor like marionettes with severed strings.

Their resistance, however valiant, was fragile as gossamer.

Ten seconds.

That was all it took.

In just ten seconds, she had killed every last one of them.

The hellish landscape surrounding them began to fade.

The top floor of the monastery was gradually restored, its scorched walls and shattered floor revealing their original architecture.

All that remained were the survivors:

—Daniel, still standing in stunned silence.

—Denken, barely conscious, slumped nearby.

—Stephen, broken, bloodied, but somehow still breathing.

—And the silver-haired youth, weeping over the corpse of his fallen mentor.

As for the black mages, only two finger-sized wisps of dark mist remained on the floor—silent, twitching, and utterly devoid of life.

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