Should Constantine and Zatanna even be here? Thea couldn't figure it out either. Judging from their conversation, Zatanna had come in search of her father's relic, while Constantine's objective matched Malcolm's original purpose—both were here looking for that so-called compass.
Could Malcolm really be here? Earlier, Thea had felt that wiping out an entire household just to gather information was a bit too brutal. Now, it seemed these people didn't deserve any sympathy at all.
She immediately activated the Eye of Horus at full power, breaking through layer after layer of magical barriers and peering deep into the castle.
The sudden intrusion of two unexpected outsiders made Grand Alchemist Tannarak—who was being battered to the brink by Deathstroke's anti-magic bullets—let out an excited howl.
If those two had dared to swagger into the Cult of the Cold Flame an hour earlier, he would have made sure they remembered the lesson for the rest of their lives.
But now he was too busy to care about anything else. He couldn't understand how Deathstroke, that hulking brute, had so many anti-magic bullets. His alchemical stockpile, accumulated over many hard years, was being consumed at an alarming rate. If those two hadn't intervened unexpectedly, he would already be preparing to flee.
"Zatanna! Hurry and help me! I know where your father's relic is! He was my best friend when he was alive!"
The Grand Alchemist knew Zatanna. To a certain extent, he could even be said to have watched her grow up. As for whether he was truly her father's best friend—only heaven knew.
His thinking was extremely devious. If he could drag them in to help, all the better. If not, provoking the enemy into attacking Zatanna would still give him a slim chance to escape. That was why his shout was so loud and clear. His frail body practically summoned all its strength, his voice resonating from deep within and echoing across the entire plaza.
On the other side of the battlefield, Papa Midnite—who had been going through the motions against Mister E—also heard the shout. They had only exchanged blows for less than a minute before tacitly holding back their deadlier techniques. Hearing the Grand Alchemist's words, Midnite noticed the man and woman who had appeared on the far side of the battlefield.
He had seen photos of Zatanna but never interacted with her. As for Constantine—he knew him all too well. The two were sometimes friends, sometimes enemies, at times opposing each other, at times working together. No one understood Constantine better than he did.
He glanced back at Thea and saw that the young mistress remained silent. Papa Midnite had no idea what she was planning, but to demonstrate his usefulness, he shouted toward the other side as well.
"Constantine, you scumbag! Your old man's over here—get over and help me!"
Banter and abuse were simply their way of dealing with the world.
Only then did Constantine, who had been leisurely puffing on his cigarette, show a hint of surprise. He held the cigarette between his fingers and focused his gaze.
"Papa Midnite? You bastard, what are you doing here? You actually dared to storm the Cult of the Cold Flame? You've got some nerve!"
Though his mouth kept cursing, Constantine's expression became noticeably more serious. This situation was getting complicated.
From Papa Midnite's position, it wasn't hard to tell that he was on the same side as the soldiers armed with advanced firearms. Based on Constantine's understanding of Midnite, the man was dirt-poor. Just the equipment on any one of those soldiers could buy Midnite's shabby bar outright. He clearly wasn't the leader—but there was no escaping the role of a glorified guide.
Constantine scratched his messy hair. From personal ties and from his hatred of the Cult of the Cold Flame, he should go help. But he really didn't want to get dragged into such a massive mess.
Clever as he was, it wasn't difficult for him to see that there were deeper forces backing these soldiers. He shook his head slightly and held back Zatanna, who was about to enter the battlefield.
"Niece Zatanna, hurry and help your Uncle Tannarak! Don't you remember—I even held you when you were little!"
Having shouted too forcefully earlier, the Grand Alchemist's voice was now hoarse, but he didn't care anymore. He began begging for help in an almost shameless manner.
If even a lofty master like him could abandon all dignity, then Papa Midnite—who operated in both the underworld and legitimate circles and had no concept of shame—was even more unrestrained.
"Constantine, my brother! We were drinking together just a week ago! Can you really stand by and watch your old buddy get bullied?"
The two shouted back and forth like they were using a loudspeaker. Before long, the Grand Alchemist's throat couldn't take it anymore. He pulled out a black metal object and placed it in his mouth.
His voice was instantly amplified countless times, shaking the Alpine valley and making it hum through the night.
Papa Midnite wasn't intimidated at all. He took out an animal tongue coated in mucus and swallowed it in one gulp. His voice immediately boomed across the land like rolling thunder.
At first, the two were still calling for reinforcements. After a few more shouts, they devolved into hurling insults at each other across the battlefield.
The Grand Alchemist called Papa Midnite a sewer rat. Papa Midnite mocked him as a maggot that lived off filth.
"Enough. All of you, shut up."
The castle was filled with far too many chaotic spells. Thea had spent considerable effort sweeping the entire structure and still hadn't found any trace of Malcolm. She was already irritated. Hearing their insults grow more and more vulgar only worsened her mood.
Ignoring friend and foe alike, she unleashed a wide-area psychic shock.
Her voice wasn't loud, but it carried terrifying penetration. Ordinary people—mercenaries and cultists alike—were all slammed to the ground.
The few magic-users felt their hearts jolt violently. Papa Midnite, being farther away, suffered the least impact. He shrank his neck and didn't dare make a sound.
Mister E felt his heart quake as well. He was already contemplating whether Feather Fall or Glide would be better when jumping off the cliff later.
The Grand Alchemist was the most unfortunate of all. Just as he was about to shout again, the shock forcibly choked the sound back down his throat. Unfortunately for him, Deathstroke possessed an extremely high willpower and was barely affected. Seeing the sudden opening, Deathstroke didn't hesitate and brought his blade down.
A bony left hand was severed. The alchemist let out a pig-like shriek. His barely sustained defensive posture finally collapsed. Deathstroke followed up with three storm-like slashes, chopping this profit-obsessed Grand Alchemist into several pieces.
The action was far too fast. Only after the still-warm corpse hit the ground did Zatanna—who had just shaken off the mental shock—cry out:
"Stop!"
Despite doubting the Grand Alchemist's claim of being her father's friend, Zatanna was still furious at seeing someone she knew die before her eyes. She pulled out a small wand.
Pointing the tip at Deathstroke, she fired a beam of violet light.
"Zee, don't!" Constantine shouted, but he was already too late. To him, members of the Cult of the Cold Flame were enemies—the more that died, the better. Avenging an alchemist? That was insanity.
"Go... back."
Thea had no goodwill toward this reckless woman. She extended her left hand, and an invisible ripple flashed between her pale fingers. This was the reverse-speech magic that made both father and daughter famous.
This spell was extremely profound. What Thea possessed were Mage Sargon's memories, not Zatara's. Moreover, the old mage hadn't been particularly skilled in this discipline during his lifetime—he had merely learned it through exchanges with close friends and was far from mastery.
Still, relying on her immense magical power rather than delicate technique, Thea found it effortless to cast.