The connection with the Soul-Obliterating Banner was forcibly severed, causing the warlock whose mind was linked to it to suffer a severe backlash on the spot.

Watching helplessly as the scorching flames on the red-tasseled spear were about to burn him, the head steward George Thompson, who had been so suppressed that he couldn't even move a finger, suddenly felt the pressure on his body lift. Without hesitation, he threw away the spear shaft that was already more than half burned, quickly retreated several steps, drew a bull-ear dagger from behind his waist, and looked warily at that terrifying warlock, not daring to make another rash move.

Had he been a moment slower just now, he would have been set alight like a human candle.

“George, are you alright?”

David Thompson rushed to the head steward's side, looking him up and down with concern.

“Boss, I'm fine!”

George Thompson shook his head. Remembering his brothers who had died tragically, he couldn't help but feel a surge of grief, wishing he could skin and dismember that warlock, eat his flesh and drink his blood to quench the hatred in his heart.

The nearby bandits all looked bewildered, not knowing what had happened. It seemed the warlock had been injured.

A voice drifted down from the sky.

“Soul-devouring, grievance-gathering—didn’t expect to see such an evil artifact. That wicked warlock! Do you think we of the righteous path don’t exist?”

A faint sword light swept around, preparing to shred the small black flag falling toward the ground, when suddenly another voice rang out.

“Senior brother, wait! Don’t destroy it yet!”

“What is it, junior brother!”

The sword light, about to touch the Soul-Obliterating Banner, suddenly veered aside, missing it by a hair’s breadth.

Even so, the warlock trying to reestablish his link with the little black flag was struck again by the sword’s residual force, coughed up another mouthful of black blood, and toppled from his horse, looking up at the sky with venomous hatred.

An uproar broke out on the ground. All the bandits knew that the warlock would never have fallen from his horse for no reason, and they all looked up at the sky.

In the next second, a chorus of gasps sounded one after another.

Two enormous, pure white snow cranes with not a single stray feather descended from the sky, flapping their wings. Seated cross-legged on their backs were two people, dressed in blue robes with swords on their backs, long tassels swaying in the wind—a scene straight out of a fairy tale.

One of them reached out, and the small black flag that was about to hit the ground seemed to come alive, flying into his hand.

“Though this little flag is shrouded in evil, it is still a magical artifact. Why not keep it and use it for the righteous path, as a form of atonement?”

“Very well! As long as it no longer brings harm to the world. But if there’s ever a chance, it should still be destroyed or purified.”

“Yes, senior brother!”

Their conversation was utterly detached, not even sparing a glance at the warlock and bandits below.

What had drawn them here seemed to be nothing more than that black flag, which had absorbed countless vengeful spirits and grievances.

“Righteous path? Hmph! Hypocrites!”

The warlock who had fallen from his horse pulled a stack of yellow talisman paper from his robe and scattered it into the sky. His hands formed seals at lightning speed, and he suddenly spat out a mouthful of vital blood. The blood mist instantly caught up with the talisman paper, staining the pale yellow sheets with a touch of crimson. In a blink, countless hair-thin veins appeared, condensing into strange runes.

As if guided by invisible hands, the fluttering talisman papers folded themselves into paper birds, which then inexplicably ignited, transforming into firebirds that shot toward the two descending snow cranes. With every foot they flew, the firebirds grew larger.

In the blink of an eye, more than a dozen firebirds were circling in the sky. When they drew within ten yards of the snow cranes, each firebird had grown to the size of a small pig, and waves of scorching heat surged outward.

Firebirds? How amazing!

Seeing magic form so clearly for the first time, John Thompson couldn’t help but widen his eyes. If it weren’t for the circumstances, he might have rushed up for a closer look.

Clack, clack, clack...

A strange sound came from in front of him. Following the noise, John Thompson saw that his eldest brother Mark Thompson looked extremely grim, clenching his teeth and grinding them, his body and the hand gripping his three-foot green sword trembling slightly, as if struggling to suppress some emotion.

“Foolish!”

The other person seated on the snow crane raised his hand, and the short sword orbiting three feet around him seemed to receive a command, suddenly accelerating like an arrow loosed from a bow, instantly striking the nearest firebird.

Countless sparks exploded, and the short sword shattered the firebird’s magical structure with overwhelming force, then pierced through another firebird like a hot knife through butter, sending sparks flying again.

Not a single spark could get within ten feet of the two snow cranes, as if an invisible force gently pushed them away.

The melodious sound of the sword echoed. Protected by the retainers, John Thompson shuddered slightly, looking up at the sky in surprise, as if something deep within his heart had been stirred.

The short sword darted about like a hunting fish, weaving left and right, destroying each firebird in just a few breaths.

The evil warlock on the ground turned pale. He hadn’t expected his flock of firebirds to be no match for the opponent’s single flying sword.

If the Soul-Obliterating Banner were still in his hands, he might have been able to put up a fight. But now, with all his trump cards exhausted, he was at the end of his rope.