Regarding Miss Thea's so-called etiquette, several subordinates didn't really believe it. Deathstroke snorted disdainfully, Poison Ivy gave a hehe laugh, and Papa Midnite, recalling his own experience, clasped his hands behind his back and looked out over the distant valley with schadenfreude.
Using the cover of night, the group moved extremely quietly. The multiple rocket launchers were left at camp; their attack radius was more than sufficient to hit those cultists.
Thea didn't want ordinary mercenaries to know of her existence. The operation on site was entirely commanded by Deathstroke. It had been explained beforehand that the mission was to eliminate cultists. The mercenaries weren't particularly resistant—good people they killed, bad people they could also fight; as long as the money was paid, anything was negotiable.
The Cult of the Cold Flame members played with spells and might be considered competent at magic, but when it came to constructing their lair, they couldn't even be counted as amateurs.
Moreover, they'd long been accustomed to arrogance. It was always them going to cause trouble for others; never had others come looking for trouble with them.
The group stayed alert for quite some time, yet there wasn't a single patrol or night watchman.
The enemy occupied an ancient medieval castle built entirely of brick and stone. The heavy wooden door carried a strong sense of history—at least, in Thea's opinion, it would make an adequate filming location for Underworld.
"You, go knock on the door!" Deathstroke finally remembered Miss Thea's instruction to pay attention to "etiquette" and, in a low voice, pointed at a subordinate.
The subordinate was confused. Normally, in situations like this, didn't they just throw a few grenades, kick the door open, and charge in killing?
Now they were fully armed and standing at someone else's doorstep, and they still had to knock?
Though his face was full of bewilderment, the subordinate didn't dare disobey Deathstroke's order. Somewhat awkwardly, he stepped forward and knocked on the castle's wooden door.
Watching her people nervously holding rifles and aiming at the main gate, Thea almost burst out laughing.
If someone inside shouted "Who is it?" and the people outside replied "Delivering warmth," that would have been even more amusing.
Unfortunately, the people inside seemed dead. The mercenary knocked for two full minutes and no one made a sound.
Others couldn't see Thea, but those wearing the imitation Lantern Rings could still see her. Deathstroke gave Miss Thea a look—what next?
"Activate our Italian cannon—no, the M270 multiple rocket launcher. Fire two rounds first!" Thea said through the Lantern Ring.
The few of them stared at her blankly. This was what you called "etiquette," Your Ladyship?
Deathstroke silently nodded. The word fear didn't exist in his dictionary. He motioned for his men to pull back some distance, then took out the radio and ordered the rear M270 to fire two rounds to blast open the gate.
"Whoosh, whoosh." Two M26A1 extended-range rockets dragged red tail flames and slammed straight toward the wooden door.
When the rockets were only two centimeters from the door, a burst of metallic, copper-colored light flared up. The rockets were intercepted outright. The violent explosion made the copper light flicker frantically. When the smoke cleared, everyone discovered the main gate was completely intact, as if the two rockets had never existed.
The magic defense here was quite intelligent. Thea's interest was piqued slightly. Knocking on the door had no effect, but when the energy level reached a certain threshold, the defensive magic activated. The original designer was a genius.
However, relying on just these tricks to stop Thea was impossible.
"See that? The metallic sheen on the door has dimmed quite a bit. Continue the attack," Thea ordered Deathstroke.
The M270 carried twelve rockets. Deathstroke continued issuing fire commands to the rear. At the same time, mercenaries carrying anti-tank missiles were also ordered to fire freely. There was no need to focus on the main gate—the enemy's defensive barrier was unified; hitting anywhere would do.
For a time, all kinds of rockets, missiles, grenades, and incendiaries were launched in a storm.
The Cult of the Cold Flame's protective barrier was indeed extraordinary—one could even call it an outstanding work of art. However, those masters had focused all their attention on spellcasters and completely ignored human technological crystallization.
If Thea were to attack this barrier head-on by herself, she'd need to spend considerable time identifying the magic arrays, analyzing them, and breaking them. Even with the Eye of Horus's assistance, she'd need half a day just to tear open a breach.
But now, with a large force at her back, there was no need to rack her brain. How much did those missiles and rockets cost? Just a few hundred thousand dollars. Her research on powered armor cost millions daily—this money was nothing at all.
A masterpiece of human magic, the final technological treasure, a barrier so perfect it was nearly flawless, was ultimately breached by a group of soldiers through sheer force.
The heavy wooden door was blasted to pieces. Deathstroke, holding a grenade launcher in his left hand and gripping a long blade in his right, took the lead and stepped inside.
The group passed through a corridor that wasn't very long and arrived at the front courtyard. Night spread across the area; low trees around them swayed in the breeze, and the dim view carried a palpable killing aura. Faint shouts and sounds of battle could still be heard from within the building.
What was going on? The group exchanged looks, all somewhat puzzled. They'd just entered—could there already be another group of "enthusiastic visitors" inside?
Whether there was fighting or a dance party going on inside had nothing to do with Thea. She was here to ask questions. She signaled everyone to keep moving inward.
Then a ka-la ka-la sound rang out. The floor at the exact center of the courtyard flipped open rapidly. Under the turning of mechanisms, a white jade statue of a middle-aged man, about one person tall, slowly rose up.
The statue wore a hat and suit, held a cane in its left hand, and extended its right arm straight out at shoulder level, five fingers spread, pointing remotely at the crowd.
"esufer!" (refuse, spoken backward) The statue's voice seemed to come from somewhere underground, hollow and weak.
Though the voice sounded weak, the effect was astonishingly strong. Many mercenaries retreated more than ten steps; some even walked straight back to the doorway in one breath. The originally neat formation instantly fell into chaos.
Deathstroke and Papa Midnite each retreated a step—one relying on willpower, the other on magic power—to stabilize themselves.
Unknown vines burst from beneath Poison Ivy's feet, firmly gripping her ankles. She didn't retreat a single step.
Thea also felt an unknown energy affecting her judgment. However, her magic power and will had already reached an extremely high level. With just a slight exertion, she shook off the magical influence.
Reverse-speech magic! Thea couldn't help but look at the statue. If nothing unexpected had happened, this was Zatanna's father. Somehow, he'd managed to leave a trace of his spiritual power and a small stream of magic within the statue to resist all non-Cult members.
This spell was truly ingenious. Magic, at its origin, was the power of language. This father-daughter pair had pushed reverse-speech magic to the extreme, then ingeniously added their own interpretation. Using magic power to turn the impossible into the possible, turning illusion into reality—this was a magical version of "four ounces deflecting a thousand pounds."
A genius born a thousand years too late. Thea couldn't help but sigh. If this man had lived in the Middle Ages, in an era when the natural environment was saturated with magic, his achievements might not have been inferior to Merlin's.
She didn't know whether reverse-speech magic was something Zatanna's father had researched himself. She only remembered that Constantine and the Nightmare Nurse could also use a few lines of it. Judging from that, it probably wasn't bloodline-based magic. The Cult should have the old man's notes, right? After she finished asking her questions later, should she ask for the notes to study as well?