Dorothy’s Forbidden Grimoire Novel - Chapter 456

Chapter 456

The battle raged beneath the moonless sky in Adriya’s central square. A deadly skirmish had broken out between the elite forces of the Sand Scythe Society—sent to claim sacred relics—and the official extraordinaires sworn to defend them. In the midst of the carnage, one operative from the Society broke away, slipping unnoticed into the Net Flow Cathedral. His path unchallenged, he made his way straight to the Hall of Crowns—the chamber containing the artifact his faction had come for.

Inside the echoing Hall of Crowns, the intruder moved deliberately among the rows of display cases. His sharp gaze flicked from artifact to artifact, reading each label carefully. He was looking for a particular donor’s name.

“Hasheed… Shaikh… Kareem… Ibeni… There it is…”

He stopped short at one of the cases. After confirming the name, he drove his fist into the glass with a loud crack. Shards scattered. He reached in and swiftly pocketed the necklace inside, slipping it into the bag slung across his shoulder.

Without slowing, he pushed forward. A second case—this one containing a chalice—also bore the name “Ibeni”. He smashed through that one as well, retrieving the object and adding it to his sack.

He was scanning for another when a sharp voice rang down from above.

“Who’s down there!”

He looked up in alarm. Two figures in regulation uniforms stood stationed on the elevated platform where the Crown of Immanuel normally sat. They had rifles aimed directly at him. These were the Deep Cover Guards—assigned solely to protect the Crown. With the eruption of violence outside, they had sealed off the upper galleries and shuttered the roof, ensuring no one could approach from above or even glimpse the Crown’s radiance. Now, rifles leveled, they had their target.

Caught off guard, the man bolted. Gunfire erupted, bullets cutting through the chamber. Thanks to the wolf spirit bonded to him, his perception sharpened; his instincts screamed. He twisted and bounded away, avoiding the lethal hail of rounds with uncanny agility.

The volley from above didn’t let up. The air lit with muzzle flashes. Display cases shattered around him, glass flying. Hemmed in by the crossfire, he was steadily pushed back, until he neared a dim recess in the hall—unaware that he was not alone.

As he passed the alcove, something launched out—a swift, shadowy blur targeting his back. His beast-honed reflexes flared to life. He pivoted just in time, dodging a dagger that sliced the space his spine had occupied. He spun, eyes locking onto the attacker: a hooded woman in tightly fitted dark garb. Her face remained obscured, but her slitted pupils, gleaming like a predator’s in the dim, gave her away.

“A Spirit Dependant too…?”

There was no time to process. She lunged again, blade aimed for his throat. He sprang back and yanked a short knife from his belt, bracing for a direct clash.

He centered himself, gripping the stolen blade. She struck again, her speed feline, her motions sharp and fluid. He parried, steel meeting steel.

Pain flared the instant their weapons met. A jolt of electricity surged up his arm from the weapon’s hilt. His muscles seized, fingers convulsing. The blade dropped from his grasp. He stumbled back, body jerking uncontrollably.

At that instant, one of the guards above fired again. A bullet slammed through his chest. His eyes flared wide—shocked, uncomprehending—before he crumpled to the floor, lifeless.

The woman lowered her dagger and approached the body. A brief inspection confirmed he was dead. She let out a soft breath.

“Heh… Miss Dorothy’s support always comes through,” Nevis murmured to herself.

She glanced up. The “guards” on the platform grinned and offered a thumbs-up.

“Get moving. We’re on a tight clock.”

Those weren’t real guards. They were puppet constructs—animated by Dorothy’s necromantic techniques after the originals were dealt with earlier in the evening.

Nevis gave a slight nod, then bent down. She retrieved the fallen operative’s loot bag, dumped the meager haul into her own pack, and turned her focus back to the museum-like hall.

Without pause, she continued the thief’s mission. Every case labeled “Ibeni” was smashed, its contents stripped and packed into her growing sack. One by one, she cleared the displays, collecting each of Azam’s donations.

High above, the puppets weren’t idle either. From their position, they had a direct view of the luminous Crown still nestled in its housing.

While Nevis worked, the constructs initiated the retrieval process. With careful, practiced movements, they lowered the Crown of Immanuel from its pedestal. A heavy veil designed to cloak the Crown’s radiance was draped over the now-empty mount—an illusion meant to fool any eyes into thinking the artifact was still concealed beneath it.

The glowing Crown itself was wrapped in a smaller cloth. Its intense light vanished beneath the thick folds.

Below, Nevis completed her sweep. Her bag now sagged under the weight of every “Ibeni”-marked item. But she wasn’t finished. She reached for the dead man’s original bag, rushed into a neighboring room displaying unrelated artifacts, and began smashing cases at random. She filled the bag partway with unrelated relics, ensuring it looked convincingly looted.

She returned to the Hall of Crowns just as one of the puppets tossed down the bundled Crown. She caught it smoothly and placed it deep inside the Society-marked bag.

With everything in hand, she hurried to the corpse. She placed the Sand Scythe bag next to his body, tucking the Crown inside and arranging the dead operative’s hand around the opening to suggest he’d died trying to flee with it. One of the puppet “guards” had already descended. He flung his rifle aside and collapsed dramatically next to the body, simulating a mutual kill.

High above, the last puppet gave a final salute before dropping flat, motionless.

Nevis turned, her own bag packed with the true prizes. She faded into the cathedral’s shadows and slipped silently out the way she came, disappearing into the night.

•••

Outside, chaos still ruled the cathedral square. The Sand Scythe’s finest clashed furiously with Adriya’s protectors. Scarlet-ranked warriors struck at Scarlet-ranked foes with unrelenting force.

Water lances skewered through flesh. Razor-like claws tore through enchanted plate. Precise blade work countered gunfire. Ghostly entities overwhelmed holy warriors on ground once considered sacred.

And then—above it all—a sudden shift.

Atop the fractured steps where Archbishop Antonio had last been seen grappling with Galeb, a flare of eerie blue light surged. Accompanying it came a rising chorus of ghostly moans. As the light receded, a massive, battered figure dropped into view.

Blood-streaked fur. Cracked talons. Wings torn and barely functional. Galeb—part eagle, part lion—emerged from the spiritual abyss, barely standing, exhaling harshly. His body trembled, fresh blood weeping from grievous wounds.

Though he and Antonio were both Scarlet-tier, their prowess was vastly unequal. Galeb had only recently reached that echelon, empowered through the Gloom Gold Society and Azam’s riches. He lacked the experience and grounding of Antonio, a Scarlet for generations. The Archbishop’s mastery, backed by ancient artifacts and honed techniques, left Galeb overwhelmed within his opponent’s domain.

But Galeb hadn’t entered to fight—he’d come to escape. The Netherworld bent to the laws of Silence, and Galeb, skilled in its pathways, had seized the fleeting opportunity to tear his way out. Just as he’d vowed, he fled before Antonio could lock him down.

He hadn’t come to defeat the Archbishop—only to delay him. To buy time for the others to secure Azam’s relics.

Panting from exertion, Galeb dragged himself upright and turned his eyes to the cathedral doors. With a primal roar, he slammed through them, splinters flying. Navigating by memory and intel from his scouts, he tore through halls and corridors, smashing walls until he burst into the Hall of Crowns—and froze.

Destruction reigned. Shattered glass littered the floor like malevolent starlight. Dozens of empty displays. At the far end, a body lay twisted—a fallen Sand Scythe operative Galeb knew. Motionless forms of Deep Cover Guards lay nearby.

Galeb’s eyes scanned rapidly. Display cases bearing “Ibeni” were all ruined. His comrade lay near a rifle. The unmistakable sack—the Society’s artifact bag—was in the corpse’s grip.

He lunged forward and tore it open.

A jumble of stolen trinkets tumbled out—none remarkable.

The puzzle came together. His man had made it inside, taken the relics, and been cut down while trying to escape. The evidence—the shattered cases, the guards nearby, the bag—it all pointed to a valiant end.

“A brave soul… I’ll carry this weight,” Galeb whispered.

He swept his eyes across the room once more. Nothing bearing Ibeni’s name remained.

Mission complete.

Clutching the sack, Galeb turned and charged out through the same broken doors, wings snapping open. He lifted into the air, roaring over the melee below.

“Objective secured! Withdraw!”

Without hesitation, he soared toward the ocean. Reaching the coastline, he landed, the last traces of his war form dissolving. At once, he initiated another transformation. This time, water surged through him. Shark soul and Water Spiritualist power surged to the forefront.

Flesh reshaped. Fins and fangs replaced feathers and claws. Galeb plunged into the waves.

He had to flee, and fast. Antonio’s return was imminent. The farther he got from Adriya—out of the Archbishop’s detection range—the safer he would be.

Adversity had dogged him at every step. Yet still… victory.

Propelled by raw will, Galeb streaked through the dark water like a missile, heading westward—toward freedom.

•••

Back on the battered cathedral square, the violence slowly ebbed. Another spectral burst shimmered on the cracked steps. In its wake, Archbishop Antonio reappeared.

His once-pristine robes were torn and stained. His mitre was missing. The color had drained from his face. His stance was upright, but the fatigue was unmistakable.

“Archbishop, we beg your forgiveness. We failed utterly. The Crown of Immanuel is gone!” cried Paul and Oliver. Behind them stood a grim retinue of bruised survivors, surrounded by moaning wounded and Sand Scythe corpses.

Antonio went still. For a long time, he said nothing. Then he let out a slow exhale.

“This blame isn’t yours. It’s mine. I failed to foresee a Scarlet among those criminals…” he said bitterly.

But before the Archbishop could go on, Oliver’s eyes lit with urgent hope.

“Wait—there’s still a chance! The Crown’s tracking sigils—the Path-Guiding Altars—they’re still intact! The markings weren’t erased! You can still trace them!”

“What?”

Antonio turned to Paul, who nodded slowly. Realization dawned in the Archbishop’s weary eyes.

A faint flicker of hope returned.