Controlling cultists into killing each other, restraining two steel golems, and simultaneously keeping an eye on the nose-ring woman—who was screaming hysterically but posed little real threat—to prevent her from interfering with Deathstroke's fight… Poison Ivy seemed busy, but in reality, none of it was particularly strenuous.
The heretics might look ferocious, but they were all just ordinary people. Add chronic malnutrition and their habit of bleeding themselves dry for rituals and blood sacrifices, and their physical condition was actually worse than normal civilians.
The nose-ring woman was also just a newcomer to the magical world. She shouted with earth-shaking fervor, but in Thea's estimation, if Damian activated his full suite of tech, magic, and martial arts, he could take her down without much trouble. She really wasn't a serious threat.
Poison Ivy's potential was enormous. She effortlessly controlled the flow of the battlefield. Her methods were bizarre and mysterious—she wasn't a mage, yet she was more troublesome than most mages. Of everyone present, Thea was most optimistic about Ivy's future.
While everyone else fought fiercely, Thea dragged Sargon's corpse over.
The old man's head was wrapped in cloth, making him look like an Indian. Since Thea had already claimed his "gift package," she had no interest in his darkened corpse. From his side, she took out a small cloth pouch. Opening it, she found five or six brilliantly gleaming gemstones inside.
Thea picked up one gem and, amid the deafening battle sounds, calmly examined its quality by torchlight, as if nothing unusual were happening.
She curled her lips in disdain and silently cursed. Poor bastard. Though she wasn't as obsessively knowledgeable about gemstones as Catwoman, relying purely on a woman's intuition was enough for Thea to judge that these gems were, at best, mediocre.
Sargon had no idea that even with his body nearly cold, he was still being deeply scorned.
In truth, he had his difficulties. Though born into a wealthy family in India—and compared to many of his compatriots, whose lives could be measured by trainloads, he counted as rich—next to Thea, he was utterly destitute.
First, the wealth belonged to the family, not him personally. The clan had countless branches, all reaching for money. To avoid attracting attention from the mundane world, he couldn't recklessly use magic to open shortcuts. In India's national environment, where corruption was rampant and money was demanded at every turn, the funds he could freely control were actually quite limited.
Second, his assets were concentrated in the most basic industries—he was, in plain terms, a landlord. His family owned vast tracts of land across India, with tens of thousands of farmers cultivating them each year.
Two hundred years ago, that would've been worth boasting about. In today's information age, it earned little more than a sigh from onlookers.
Finally—most importantly—he'd met Zatara and the others thirty years ago. The other two weren't wealthy. Only Zatara, based in Gotham, had solid financial backing. The cult they founded relied primarily on Zatara and Sargon for operating funds. Once Zatara died, the cult's income was cut in half. Sargon had been forced to dig into his own savings just to barely keep things running until now.
Under such dire financial strain, he truly had no spare money to buy high-quality gemstones.
Thea despised the old man's poverty from the bottom of her heart. You're this broke and you still insist on playing Gem Magic? What a joke.
It seemed this art would only truly flourish in her hands. Thea tossed the pouch of gemstones lightly in her palm and thought: Among mages, I'm the richest. Among the rich, I'm the best at magic. That description fit her perfectly.
Gem Magic—gems first, magic second. The name itself showed how important high-quality gemstones were. Without exaggeration, aside from dragon clans hiding in unknown dimensions, no one could afford to play this art better than Thea.
In recent years, she hadn't deliberately collected jewelry, being constantly busy. But as her reputation rose, people seeking audiences, making visits, and forming connections came in an endless stream.
First meetings required gifts—basic social etiquette. Anyone qualified to meet her was either rich or powerful. To avoid embarrassment, they racked their brains over what to give a young woman like Thea. Jewelry was the safest choice.
Though she'd rejected many gifts, even more priceless jewels and jade pieces still filled twelve safes in her home. Among them were over three hundred items famous enough to be recorded in history. If she hadn't given some to Diana, that number could've easily doubled.
Catwoman often commented sourly that Thea had become a prime target for international thieves—and that wasn't without reason.
With a simple earth-element spell, Thea dug a large pit and buried the mage Sargon—clearly dirt-poor yet obsessed with gemstones.
Keeping one eye on the battlefield, Thea's thoughts had already drifted into idle speculation about exactly how many gem spells it would take to blast Darkseid into the stratosphere, when a burst of silvery light interrupted her reverie.
"A teleportation circle?"
A man and a woman stepped out.
The man wore a khaki trench coat. His white shirt underneath was filthy, his tie loosely knotted. He looked utterly haggard, with unshaven stubble covering his face and a cigarette dangling from his mouth. He barely paid attention to their surroundings after arriving, instead desperately trying to explain something to the woman beside him.
The woman had shoulder-length hair and wore a purple jacket over a white blouse. The deep V-neck emphasized an impossible-to-ignore fullness. Her legs were clad in seductive fishnet stockings, and she wore leather boots.
She was beautiful and resolute, a stark contrast to the lazy, slippery man beside her.
"Zee, listen to me—the Croydon Compass can help you find anything—"
"That's enough, Constantine. I've had enough of your hypocritical lies and malicious 'help,' you bastard, you scum! Every time, you drag me into trouble. I just want to find my father's relics. Your adventure—your adventures—you can go on them yourself!"
The woman in purple spat directly into the man's face without the slightest grace, then froze mid-sentence, stunned by the heated scene in the square. She finished her words haltingly, staring at the situation in confusion.
Her first reaction was much the same as the Cold Flame Cult's original assumption—this looked like a covert government unit besieging a socially active organization.
The man reacted far more calmly. A flicker of confusion crossed his eyes before being replaced by his usual cynicism. The night wind was strong. He shielded his cigarette, lit it, took a deep drag, and said with a hint of indulgence,
"This really isn't my mess. You know, I was planning to sneak in quietly."
Quietly, my ass. There had to be at least a thousand people in the square. With that many, even a mosquito wouldn't sneak through.
Given the man's long list of past offenses, the woman automatically assumed this chaos had been specially arranged for her.
Unable to make sense of what was going on, the two cautiously surveyed the battlefield.
The first thing that caught their eyes was Poison Ivy, seated high atop a three-meter-tall man-eating flower. This had nothing to do with magic—it was simply impossible to miss. Anyone with functional eyesight would spot her immediately.
"What is that… a person?" Even these two well-informed mages were drawn to Poison Ivy's peculiar life-form. Is that really human?