Pillar of Yita

The square was dead silent.

Galapea stood quietly there, on top of the statue’s pedestal.

Nikopolas blinked, then suddenly burst into hysterical laughter, rolling on the ground, tears streaming from his eyes.

He had never imagined that the phantom realm that had trapped him for thirty years would end in such a dramatic fashion.

It was completely unexpected.

After laughing for a long while, he stopped and looked appreciatively at the stunned crowd—

Misu was trapped in a spell, unable to move.

Luen’s fate was unknown.

An elder knight was staring at the sword that lay in the center of the square.

Not far away, Red Leaf clenched her fists when she saw this scene, and turning her head, she discovered the Papalarians huddled behind a barrel, mumbling to themselves.

Only when she listened carefully to their words did she realize that they were muttering, ”Don’t look at me, don’t look at me!” Red Leaf felt furious.

At that moment, Nikopolas stood up, his massive frame casting a shadow with his fully spread wings, and in his amber pupils, there seemed to be a deep golden glow.

He looked down arrogantly at everyone on the square, saying haughtily, ”I told you before, in this scene I have no weaknesses, the moment the Blade of Vanity was destroyed, your defeat was already sealed!”

But as his golden gaze swept across the square, he noticed someone was missing.

He looked around and suddenly heard a somewhat calm voice from below: ”I’m afraid not.”

Nikopolas looked down and saw a somewhat tiny human standing before him—a human youth, so frail as to be almost negligible, as if it just needed a slight movement of his claw to crush him like crushing an insect.

He recognized this youth.

It was the one who had always opposed him.

”Pale Glory.” Nikopolas spoke with a heavy tone, his voice laden with greed.

He opened his mouth, revealing fangs, and looked dangerously at Fang Hong, observing the emblem firmly gripped in his hands, an emblem that his followers had carried during his hundred-year slumber.

Zealot’s Mark.

”It’s you again, still not giving up?” Nikopolas said with some scorn, ”Do you plan to defeat me with this thing? With the mark of my believer?”

”Or do you intend to kneel and beg for mercy with it?”

He squinted his golden eyes playfully, ”Of course—if you beg me properly and offer Pale Glory to me, I might consider leaving your whole corpse.”

Fang Hong looked fearlessly at the giant dragon and calmly answered, ”Dragon’s Golden Eyes, take another good look, what is this really?”

”That’s just...”

Suddenly, Nikopolas stopped speaking.

His thick brows furrowed together as he watched the emblem in Fang Hong’s hands slowly change appearance before his eyes, emitting a faint glow and gradually transforming into a scepter.

On the scepter was the Hailin Crown, the Emblem was the Morning Light Holy Sword, and the gemstone on the counterweight bore the symbol of the Ishurian Anvil, adorned with tassels, and carved with the vow of guarding the realm.

It was the scepter of authority of the Colin Kingdom, the Praetor’s Scepter.

But before Nikopolas could take a good look, the scepter changed again, becoming a sword amidst the light. The Fairy Sword’s slender blade, as thin as a feather, gleamed like a pool of Silver Frost, with patterns moving along it.

The inscription of the Papalar Fairies, and the blade seemed to emit a dark red hue, with the ancient fables flashing: ’Sleep with the dragon, born with fire—’

’Share the moonlight, vanish with the stars.’

’Fairy Kin, Galapea.’

The meaning of Galapea is, the Dragon Slaying Sword.

Nikopolas squinted his eyes with some fear.

This sword had once caused him bone-deep, unforgettable injuries, and the deep-seated fear seemed engraved into his very bones, even though he knew it wasn’t real, he still felt the shivers.

Fortunately, the sword quickly disappeared, and the mark in Fang Hong’s hand changed form again.

It was a brooch.

The pattern of the unicorn, symbolizing purity and faithfulness, selflessness and bravery.

The design of the brooch was unique, you wouldn’t find such style anywhere else in Colin.

And if one had to guess where it came from, it might have bathed in the moonlight of the Silver Desert, bearing the wind and sand of Istania— the ancient homeland of Dragon Slayers.

Nikopolas found this object somewhat familiar, as if it were a memory from the depths of his heart, very ancient.

In that memory, there were many other things.

But all were long blurred.

Eventually, he realized the source of the light on the mark.

The faint light radiated from Fang Hong’s chest, blending gradually with the emblem in his hand. Nikopolas had seen this scene not long before, in a previous scene.

The destroyed Blade of Vanity had turned into specks of light, also merging into one.

He grew a bit anxious, raised his claws, fearing to see the mark transform back into the Blade of Vanity.

But Fang Hong looked at him calmly and said, ”Are you afraid it will turn into Galapea? Actually, you are mistaken, it’s not Galapea, quite the opposite—”

”In this phantom realm, the Blade of Vanity is merely its shadow.”

”The Scepter of Regret is the same.”

”The Zealot’s Mark and The Faithful’s Emblem, here they are all merely its phantoms—we should have realized this, the three artifacts of Dolifen, in this phantom realm, are just a reflection of one thing.”