Chapter 124 Direct Descendant
Ophelia woke up in the arms of too hard for comfort. She groaned, feeling as if she was run over by a carriage. Her head was pounding, eager to break out of her skull. She heard frantic shouting in the background, a panicked roar, and the never-ending catastrophe. It took a few seconds of her blinking to realize she was being carried by Killorn, who was rapidly running up the stairs.
"Killorn?" Ophelia choked out, confused by how he got there.
There was too much screaming for him to hear her. She turned her head and saw people leaving the shelter. Everyone was busy doing something, whether it was carrying supplies, or fulfilling the rapid orders coming from Gerald. He pointed left and right, accompanied by Mirabelle who was instructing a group of people.
"Layla, another group for you!" Beetle hollered in the distance, followed by frantic footsteps. "And Reagan, that party right there needs your aid!"
Ophelia was slumped with relief, her eyelid shutting. Did the fighting finally end? Were all of the monsters slain? Were they seeing the light at the end of the tunnel?
Ophelia opened her eyes when she heard a door being kicked open. In seconds, she was placed on the bed. Killorn met her gaze. They both froze. Before she could even blink, he enveloped her in a tight embrace.
Ophelia's heart was heavy with a mixture of relief, skipping like a caged bird inside of her chest. He clung onto her, as if they had been separated for what felt like an eternity. He was trembling. His breathing came out in sharp pants, but his iron vice never loosened around her. His arms were strong, pulling her closer to his warmth. "K-Killorn…" Ophelia barely managed to squeeze her arms out to return the gesture. For a second, her hands paused above his broad shoulders, wondering if she'd dare. Then, she hugged him, their bodies pressed together, fitting like the missing pieces of a broken puzzle.
Ophelia buried her face into his broad chest, inhaling the familiar scent of sweat and blood. Wait, blood? She tried to pull back, but he pressed his nose into her hair, clutching her with everything he had.
"Killorn, are you alright?" Ophelia demanded, frightened that the sticky substance was his. "Killorn?"
Killorn didn't respond. His large stature rumbled like the boom of lightning shaking the world. Seconds passed, and his arm was no longer as firm. His muscles gave out on top of her, as his weight collapsed onto her form.
Ophelia hissed, but that didn't matter to her. She shoved him over and he plopped onto the bed onto his back. Ophelia's entire world shattered. In their dimly lit chamber, she saw his paled skin covered with dried blood and areas of purple from heavy impact. He was battered and wounded all over, with cuts on his tunic, and multiple deep scratch marks that pierced through his skin. Ophelia yanked his shirt open, realizing he had run straight into the chaos without armor. A mistake that marked him for death.
"R-Reagan!" Ophelia screamed at the top of her lungs, tears welling up in her eyes. She was panicked, her hands trembling as she uncovered the disaster on his body. "Killorn, K-Killorn, are you w-with me?" Ophelia begged, tapping at his face for a response, but nothing. His eyes were tightly shut. She reached out, her fingertips brushing upon his clammy skin, his forehead incredibly hot. His body was reacting to the damage, but his werewolf genes weren't healing him fast enough. "N-no, no, no," Ophelia chanted, feeling the warmth rapidly beginning to fade from his body. "No, please." Reagan ran inside with a bag of strange powder. "Step aside, my magic is depleted from healing the injured downstairs, but this paste should help—"
"F*ck." Killorn snatched her towards him. He cupped the back of her head, bringing her against his muscular chest. His touch was both tender and apologetic. She held onto the back of his shirt, shaking with all sorts of emotions.
"Ophelia, I can never be angry at you," Killorn whispered, his voice laced with regret. "I'm sorry for yelling, I didn't mean to."
Ophelia bit on her bottom lips. Here he was apologizing just moments from dying. "N-no—"
"I never meant to scare you," Killorn embraced her properly, bringing her into his lap. "Don't cry, please, my sweet wife. You're breaking my heart here."
"I-it's not like I-I can help it," Ophelia grumbled, pulling back only to feel his thumb wiping her wet cheeks clean. She grimaced, feeling like a child as he desperately tried to soothe her. "I know," Killorn coaxed. "I know."
Killorn took her face in his palms and kissed her forehead. Her breath hitched, as he pressed another upon her left eye, then the right. He leaned closer, milliseconds away from capturing her lips.
"Ahem."
Killorn's head snapped to the side. "Why haven't you left yet, Reagan? Quit getting between me and my wife. My men are injured downstairs."
"You never told me she has silver blood," Reagan remarked with a grim frown. "You know what she is now, don't you?"
Killorn glowered. "Don't you dare say it—"
"It is without a single doubt in my mind," Reagan said. "Ophelia Mavez is the Direct Descendant."
Ophelia waited for another reaction. Instead, Regan didn't seem fazed. She wondered what would send this man into a frenzy. "And while we address that concern later, I must ask for your aid, Ophelia," Reagan continued. "My magic is at its limits, and I'm certain Layla is depleted by now."
"Absolutely not," Killorn interjected, already predicting what the shameless old man was going to ask of her.
"If you will," Reagan spoke directly to Ophelia. She was pinned in place by his attention. "There are injured women, children, and men downstairs who could greatly use your blood." Without missing a beat, Ophelia agreed. "I'll do it."
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