When the white light fell, the Black Priest was left with nothing but a mutilated corpse.
It fell from midair and splattered with a slap.
A large hole was torn in the dark curtain, through which one could see that the white light had left a very deep mark in the black fog above the Royal City.
The mark quickly disappeared, and the hole in the dark curtain repaired itself, but there were more cracks overall, and it probably wouldn't hold much longer.
The phantom completely vanished, the whistle turned gray—it seemed its energy had been exhausted, and it needed to be sent to Dean Theodore for repair.
But Rod had still not obtained the Black Priest's soul.
He furrowed his brow and cautiously walked over.
Only when he saw the extremely weak soul of the Black Priest in a pool of blood and flesh behind a broken wall, did he finally breathe a sigh of relief.
Thank goodness, thank goodness.
If this guy wasn't dead yet, that would have been bad.
"Save, save me..."
