Bloodbound Oath: Between Realms
Chapter 40: Let’s Blow Up Some Enemies

Chapter 40: Let’s Blow Up Some Enemies

Darnell was slightly stunned by what he heard. In truth, it wasn’t that surprising—he had expected Sullivan to use the barrel of thunderpowder for something like this. But in his opinion, it was somewhat impractical, given the danger it posed to them as well. With a hint of reluctance, he asked, "Are you sure? Do you even realize how sharp the senses of mid-tier Arcane Masters are? Even if we throw the barrel suddenly, they’ll likely notice it. Not to mention, we might bring the hall’s ceiling down on our heads and bury ourselves along with them."

Sullivan wiped the sinister grin off his face and replied slyly, "Enough with the fear. Trust me."

’As confident as ever. I still don’t know what he’s really relying on,’ Darnell sighed inwardly. After a brief silence, he answered, "Fine. What do you want me to do?"

"Just hold this, get ready to light it, and throw it." The moment Sullivan handed the barrel to Darnell, he closed his eyes and shifted his senses to Noctis. Truthfully, he didn’t trust Darnell and didn’t want to leave his body unguarded while he was away. But his current circumstances left no room for hesitation—time was running dangerously short. A delay of even a few minutes could ruin everything.

...

Inside the hall, the battle was nearing its end. Most of the soldiers had fallen, leaving only a handful standing, their bodies riddled with injuries. Juror Sergius had been backed into a corner, his strength waning, and his Auraxis energy reserves nearly depleted. Despite being on par with Commander Roland in terms of level, his opponent hadn’t expended nearly as much energy—a testament to Roland’s vast experience and countless battles.

As Juror Sergius staggered unsteadily, Commander Roland managed to land a shallow slash across his stomach. Sergius, however, didn’t let the blade linger—he quickly retreated, gritting through the pain. Despite his composure, fear began creeping in, and the thought of escape crossed his mind.

"Damn, this is bad." Sullivan realized things were about to take a turn for the worse. Quickly focusing, he scanned his surroundings carefully—and it didn’t take long for him to spot his target: a large control lever embedded in the wall near the massive gate. The lever was made of solid metal, wrapped in worn leather strips that had decayed over time, making it look like a tattered relic.

Moving silently through the shadows, Sullivan reached the lever. He examined it and smirked. This lever controlled the ceiling lights—and clearly, the first person to enter the treasury had already activated it.

With a faintly amused expression, he opened his eyes and looked at Darnell, who was watching him in confusion. "Get into position quickly. Light the fuse, but don’t throw it until I give the order."

"Got it." Darnell moved swiftly, positioning himself in a slightly hidden corner opposite their enemies. In his mind, he traced the trajectory he’d use to throw the barrel. Summoning his energy, he ignited a small flame at the tip of his finger and lit the fuse, which began burning rapidly. The moment half of it had burned away—

Sullivan issued a command to Noctis, who emerged from the shadows and yanked the lever with force. At the same time, Sullivan barked, "Now!"

The hall plunged into utter darkness. But Darnell didn’t falter—he hurled the fifty-kilogram barrel as effortlessly as if it were a pebble. In less than a second, it reached its target.

...

Juror Sergius’s sword clashed against the Commander’s once more, sending him stumbling back several steps. He swayed violently, barely suppressing the urge to cough up blood. The energy sustaining his body had dwindled, amplifying the pain from his wounds. Cursing bitterly in his mind, he frantically searched for an escape—but found none.

Roland gave him no time to recover. He attacked again, this time with even greater force. Resigned to his fate, Sergius raised his sword for one final stand. He didn’t attempt to speak or negotiate—he knew it was pointless. Their nations had been at war for far too long. There was nothing left to agree on.

Sergius lamented his misfortune. Never in his worst nightmares had he imagined dying like this. He had joined the court to escape military conflicts, to live a life of luxury under the Empire’s protection. Yet here he was, thrust into the very war he had tried to avoid.

As for Roland, his fury and madness only grew. Beyond his hatred for his superiors, who had sent him on this suicidal mission, he was furious at his own inability to end this fight quickly. And deep down, he felt a gnawing fear—every time he remembered the black hand that had seized him, his instincts screamed that something was terribly wrong.

But he refused to let those emotions distract him. Mid-swing, he resolved to pour all his remaining energy into this final strike. His sword, not designed to handle such intensity, began to crack and erode.

Then—

The lights went out.

Darkness swallowed the hall. Despite his sharp eyes and steady nerves, Roland faltered, instinctively lessening the force of his strike. His blade met Sergius’s, sending a shower of sparks that briefly illuminated the room.

In that fleeting moment of light, their widened eyes caught sight of a massive barrel falling right between them.

Their expressions twisted in horror.

But before they could react.

Before the barrel even hit the ground—

It exploded.

BOOOOOOM!

A searing heatwave erupted in all directions, followed by a devastating shockwave that shattered everything nearby. The deafening roar of the explosion filled the air.

Supporting pillars crumbled, their debris flying like shrapnel. Soldiers near the blast’s epicenter were torn apart, their bodies reduced to charred fragments. Those farther away were sent flying, their flesh burning, their ears bleeding from the sheer force of the sound. Unlucky souls caught in the path of flying debris had their bodies pierced in vital spots.

Even Sullivan and Darnell, shielded by the sturdy gate, were hit by a powerful gust of dust-filled air. They covered their ears to keep their eardrums from bursting.

"Damn." Sullivan clutched his head, waiting for the dust to settle. His ears rang as he looked around in disbelief. He hadn’t expected the explosion to be this massive. Thunderpowder was an extremely volatile substance, crafted from a mix of metals and chemicals. Even with a medium-sized barrel, the result had exceeded his expectations.

But he didn’t smile in triumph.

Because he knew—this was just the beginning.

"Ahem." He cleared his throat, steeling himself before turning to Darnell, whose eyes were wide with shock. In a slightly hoarse voice, Sullivan ordered, *"Draw your sword. Get ready to fight."* At the same time, he commanded Noctis—who had hidden in a safe spot—to reactivate the lights and prepare as well.

With a faintly trembling hand, Darnell unsheathed his blade. He gave Sullivan an inscrutable look before turning his gaze toward the dust-filled treasury. He waited in silence.

A few seconds later, the dust began to clear.

What he saw was a vast area littered with rubble and mutilated corpses.

Groans of agony echoed from all directions. Several charred, disfigured bodies lay strewn across the ground—some missing limbs, others burned beyond recognition. Even Arcane Masters, with their enhanced endurance, were now writhing in what could only be described as pure hell. The few survivors who remained relatively unscathed stood frozen, their bodies trembling from shock—and from the complete depletion of their energy reserves.

Cough!

Near the blast’s epicenter stood a man.

His black armor was scorched, his face half-burned into a grotesque mass of flesh. The other half barely retained its features. His hair had been completely incinerated, leaving behind a bald, disfigured scalp. His right eye was gone—destroyed beyond any hope of recovery.

This man was Commander Roland.

But nothing remained of his former identity.

Yet he stood firm.

No tremors. No collapse.

At the last second, he had managed to erect a barrier around himself and retreat slightly—just enough to survive. Killing an Arcane Master was no easy feat. Without the right conditions, Sullivan wouldn’t have been able to harm them to this extent.

And despite his ruined body, Roland was still capable of fighting—for a little longer, at least.

As for Juror Sergius?

His body was buried under the rubble.

Or perhaps reduced to chunks.

Simply put—there was no trace of him left.

Sullivan wheeled his chair forward, observing the aftermath of his plan with cold detachment. Then he commanded, "Darnell. Your turn. Kill whoever’s still breathing."

Darnell turned his head, meeting Sullivan’s eyes. He didn’t speak. Didn’t argue, as he usually would.

But his gaze held unmistakable resentment.

And something else—something unreadable.

’Did he dislike this? Does he think I have no honor? Or is he starting to fear me?’ Sullivan mused indifferently.

He didn’t care what Darnell thought or wanted. His plans had been set from the beginning, and he wouldn’t change them now. Calmly, he asked, "Are you upset with me? I simply eliminated our enemies. Now I’m politely asking you to do your part and help me finish this. Given their condition, you alone can kill them without much effort."

Darnell didn’t answer.

He just stared into Sullivan’s eyes, his brow furrowing slightly in displeasure before he turned his attention back to the treasury. He took a step forward, readying himself for battle, and finally spoke.

"Once our agreement ends, I never want to see your face again."

His tone carried an unmistakable threat.

Before leaving, he gave Sullivan’s body one last piercing glance—then stepped into the treasury with heavy footsteps.

His sudden appearance drew the attention of all the survivors—fewer than ten in number. Their bodies trembled as they shrank back in fear, unable to even speak. Their terror-filled eyes watched as Darnell walked among them like a butcher among sheep.

After a brief silence, one survivor—a soldier from the Golden Lion Empire—recognized Darnell’s armor and felt a surge of relief.

"You—you saved us!" he gasped, stumbling toward Darnell. "Help me, Sir Captain! Our enemies ambushed us—they slaughtered us—!"

Darnell glanced at him with cold indifference and kept walking.

Was the soldier an idiot, failing to notice the strangeness of the situation? Or was his desperation blinding him, making him cling to the faintest hope?

The soldier ignored Darnell’s icy demeanor and kept pleading, opening his mouth to explain further—

But Darnell simply raised his sword.

And in one clean motion—

He severed the man’s head.

The action was so sudden that no one saw it coming. Not even the soldier, whose head tumbled to the ground, still wearing a happy smile. His last thought was of returning home safely.

Sullivan observed Darnell’s actions calmly.

’Hmm. How merciful.’

In truth, it had been a clean kill. Quick. Painless.

’This is really a problem.’

A cryptic glint flickered in Sullivan’s eyes.

With chilling detachment, he summoned the black book, opened its inner compartment, and pulled out another barrel of thunderpowder.

After setting it aside, he stared at Darnell’s broad back and muttered.

"You really are a dangerous man."

Then, quietly, he gave Noctis an order to return to him.

And from his pocket, he retrieved a few matchsticks—stolen earlier from Ellis’s shop, just in case.