The Legend of Fatality

The Viscount Melson is right. Now their goal is the female prophet Aniston, not this banshee. They need to take the female prophet to a safe place, because if anyone really has a way to solve the Duke of Blood Eagle Then it must be a female prophet. Of course, this banshee is also a factor that seriously prevents them from achieving their goals.

The knights hurried up the stairs. They watched the hallway that branched out from the stairs, expecting that the vague killer could be encountered again at any time. But the men also tried to stay away from the wall as much as possible, fearing that the banshee would stick out of the stone and use her ghostly fingers to grab them.

They found evidence of death and destruction everywhere. The castle is full of corpses of farmer archers and servants in uniform. Some limbs spread out, showing a terrified look, and some curled up into painful balls. Black magic and the supernatural power of cold shrouded them, absorbing warmth from their bodies and vitality from their bones.

Near the top of the tower, Sir Raymond noticed a change. A corridor divided from a winding staircase feels different: it's cold, but it doesn't have the kind of debilitating stains they experienced during climbing. He stretched out his arm, blocking the way for his companions. He pointed firmly at the corridor and made a gesture. Viscount Melson nodded to understand, he stepped aside and let the young knight lead the way.

After they experienced a supernatural cold, the icy corridor was really tempting. The corridor is luxuriously furnished, with marble columns and gilded holy grail sculptures affixed to each white oak door embedded in the wall. There are no signs of violence here, no splashes of blood and corpses that have been tortured by pain. As they walked through the hall to the double oak doors at the end of the corridor, a sense of peace and security filled their entire body.

Sir Raymond opened the door without hesitation. Behind them is a brightly lit room. A brazier stood in the center of the room, and a fragrant white smoke erupted from the golden coal. The walls of the room were covered with mirrors of various sizes, ranging from inconspicuous tinned glass windows to huge crystal plates with silver frames.

A large group of frightened people curled up by the wall in the distance of the mirror hall, most of them are peasant women and children, but there are also a few men with shame. Several uniformed servants were also there, trying to keep the refugees calm.

In addition to them, Aniston stood among them. The female prophet stood not far from the brazier, staring intently at a mirror on the wall. When Sir Raymond entered the room, she looked away. A smile appeared in the corner of her closed mouth. She beckoned to those people, and then gestured them to take off the covering that made them deaf.

"You came too soon," the female prophet Aniston told them. "I had expected you to come, but I didn't expect to come so fast."

"Are you waiting for us?" Viscount Melson asked, his voice mixed with surprise and suspicion.

The female predictor Aniston smiled at him. "I sent Sir Raymond to you, Viscount Steven Du Melson. No, in fact I sent Sir Raymond to your lord, but you are the same here." She said to May Vissen Nelson said. "The Du Lancaster family plays an important role in the elimination of the Duke of Blood Eagle. Although it is different from the previous plan, you can also represent the Lancaster family, don't you?" It turned into a frown. She said, "But we can discuss this later. Now, can I ask all of you to stand beside these kindnesses?" She waved to the crowd of farmers.

"Ms. Aniston," Raymond protested. "You are not safe here. None of us can stay here."

"Are you worried about the mourning banshee?" Aniston asked, her slight laughter interrupting her question. "I'm afraid the nasty ghost can't find us here. The magic of the Oracle has made her lose her perception and confused her senses of death. She can't even find this room alone. That's why I need you to let her follow you. "

As the female prophet Aniston spoke, Sir Raymond turned around in panic. Viscount Melson was already trying to restore the silk tie on his ear. The oat rod rushed towards the door, hoping in vain that he could close the door and keep the ghost from the door.

In the hallway, the ghostly figure of the witch Gisele slid into the crystal ball divination room, and her face turned into a squinted skull again, her mouth wide open, and a wailing wail.

"No!" Female predictor Aniston snapped to those who wanted to protect her. "Let the monster come in! I can't destroy her unless she enters this room! My five servants sacrificed their lives in order to seduce her to come here to find me! I will not let their sacrifices go to waste."

Hearing the words of the female prophet Aniston, Sir Raymond and others retreated and stood beside the smoking brazier with the female prophet Aniston. They could feel the banshee's cry biting their heads, but the pain was much smaller than when they deafened themselves. The morbid chill in black magic has also been alleviated, and there is almost no goose bumps at all.

But is this enough to destroy this nightmarish horror?

Giselle noticed that those in the mirrored room were resistant to her crying. The Banshee laughed, and the voice was more sinister and more terrifying than her scream. She was holding a new sword in her skinny hands. The meaning is clear. She doesn't need to scream to kill.

Like a gust of wind, the Banshee hurried through the corridor and into the room. She raised her sword and wanted to split the beautiful face of the female prophet Aniston in half. But the female prophet remained expressionless, and she did n’t even flinch when the ghost of hatred rushed towards her. Sir Raymond prepared to pounce between Aniston and the Undead Witch, but before he could move, the trap was triggered.

As Giselle crossed the threshold from the corridor, the mirror shone brightly. Raymond covered his eyes with his hands and looked out through the cracks of his fingers, seeing the banshee engulfed in white light. Like a rotten piece of cloth, the ghost's ethereal body was torn into pieces, and the streamer of her terrible soul was pulled into a dozen separate mirrors. This time, when the mourning banshee screamed, it was a painful scream, in addition to her own pain, heralding the death she was about to face.

In an instant, the white light disappeared again, and the terrible mourning banshee disappeared. The sword in Giselle's hand, the only real thing carried by the ghost, slammed to the ground.

The female prophet Aniston leaned her hand on the brazier and used it to support her suddenly weak body. Sir Raymond ran to her and helped her stand up.

"Thank you," Aniston the female predictor said. "That matter has become a problem."