Tiffany was astounded by the battle’s intensity. Boudica’s martial prowess with her War Halberd was undoubtedly more captivating. She didn’t even notice why the weapon in Lance’s hand had changed out of thin air. All she saw was the repeated movements and the battle situation reversing in an instant.
Watching Lance throw heavy punches and Boudica being knocked around like a sack in the wind, Tiffany realized something was wrong and hurried over to break up the fight.
"Stop fighting! Both of you, stop it now!"
Lance couldn’t help but lower his fists when he heard this. It wasn’t for any other reason. If he broke her, he’d have to waste his own Spiritual Essence healing her.
With the external force removed, Boudica couldn’t even stand steadily and fell flat on her back once more.
Seeing her blood-smeared face and rolled-back eyes, she had already lost consciousness.
"Wake up!" Tiffany rushed over and had to shout for a while to bring her consciousness back from the Ancestral Spirit’s side.
Pain, but more so fear and despair, almost devoured her will.
She had held nothing back. She had fought without reservation, yet still struggled to match him, and was instead toyed with.
However, upon waking, her first instinct wasn’t anything else. She broke free from Tiffany’s support, turned her swollen, battered face towards Lance, and screamed, "Why didn’t you kill me! Why!!!"
"Because what I see is a coward who wants to escape reality through death. You don’t deserve to die by my hand."
This sentence was more terrifying than any punch, instantly transporting her back to that night, the voices of her tribespeople echoing in her mind.
"Why did only you come back!"
"You evaded the battle, coward!"
"You don’t deserve to stand here!"
"Get out of the tribe, you have no right to return!"
Shame. That was even harder for her to face than axes and swords upon her body.
I should have died in that battle...
Boudica fell into a strange state. In Lance’s eyes, her spiritual fluctuations also erupted.
This discovery further verified what the author had said: the power of Spiritual Essence lies dormant within everyone. It’s just a matter of strength and whether or not it’s been stimulated.
The intense emotions triggered the Spiritual Essence within her, improving her fusion with it to a certain extent—in short, her inspiration.
But Lance quickly recalled what Tamara had said about Heretics. If not guided properly, negative emotions would contaminate her Spiritual Essence.
"Look at you!" Lance moved closer, reaching out to grab her collar and pull her up. "Tell me, are you a warrior or not?"
"I..." Boudica didn’t dare to meet his burning gaze.
Undeniably, she was lost. She felt she was absolutely unworthy of the name warrior.
"I promised to give you a warrior’s honor, but I see evasion and surrender in your eyes. You don’t want to become a warrior and bear your responsibilities; instead, you’ve chosen to give up. The one you need to overcome has never been others, but yourself," Lance said.
His words laid bare Boudica’s fragile heart, and she fell silent.
"So you still choose to shrink back and not face it head-on." Lance’s face showed clear disappointment.
Hearing this, for reasons she couldn’t understand, strength surged from her exhausted body into her limbs.
A faint arc of light appeared. The pain dispersed, the timidity retreated, and her heart was enveloped by determination. She reached out, grabbed Lance’s arms, and roared at him, "I am a warrior! I am not a coward!"
"Remember what you just said. I hope you can still say it when you meet a true enemy." Lance didn’t intend to waste more words, so he let go of her and turned back to the camp.
The side effects of the fight were showing; she couldn’t even stand steady. If Tiffany hadn’t come over to support her, she probably would have collapsed.
Supported by Tiffany, Boudica watched his retreating figure.
I won’t run away anymore... even from death...
It was the early hours of the morning when a scream shattered the tranquility of the residential area.
Soon, a large number of sheriffs arrived. The streets were blockaded, and entry and exit were restricted. The incident’s impact wasn’t allowed to spread; it was immediately contained, striving to minimize its effects.
A carriage bearing the sheriff’s insignia arrived. Before it had even come to a stop, a middle-aged man hurriedly disembarked and rushed over.
He was the sheriff in charge of this district. This wasn’t like the chaotic Outer City, you see. During his tenure, almost ten years had passed without a single reported theft.
"Tell me what happened."
"A maid who came to work in the morning discovered the burglary. All the valuables in the house were stolen, but strangely, no casualties were found. However, in our subsequent investigation, we found seven houses had been burglarized, all in a similar manner."
Upon hearing no one was injured, he breathed a slight sigh of relief, but what his subordinate said next almost knocked him off his feet.
"What? Seven households?"
The sheriff felt his vision go black. He clutched his chest and was about to fall backward. If his subordinate hadn’t been quick enough to catch him, he might not have made it through the day. Tʜe source of this ᴄontent ɪs N(o)vᴇl(F)ire.nᴇt
Panting heavily, the sheriff sat in the carriage for a good while before he recovered. But judging by his appearance, he looked as if he’d rather be dead.
Every year, local residents sponsored the police station. Consequently, police resources were concentrated here to ensure their safety. An incident could lead the wealthy to stop donating or even move away, causing local property values to drop. More severely, their police station’s funding could be cut.