The lich left his hiding place, but he didn't want Ilda to find him just yet.

The former undead estimated that fifteen strokes would be the time they would exchange, and let that sweet idiot face the female elf - and don't forget, Fenway was dead or worse than dead. He didn't like it, he didn't know how to comfort anyone, he was more accustomed to kicking the hapless ones in the ass - and then watching them languish in despair and pain.

Fifteen, he counted carelessly, fourteen, thirteen, twelve......

Nine.

Eight.

......

Ilda saw the black-haired spellcaster, and her smile deepened, and she turned her shoulders slightly, as if to walk towards him.

Three.

Two.

The otherworldly spirits opened their eyes and watched with the lich, and they saw an axe, glowing with silver light, spinning rapidly, emitting a howl symbolizing death.

One.

The notched blade of the axe slashed Ilda's neck, and her head rolled off and fell into the scorching ashes.

The lich hears a shrill cry.

What a cry, how frightened, so mournful.

The lich had heard it countless times—from his sacrifices, from his experiments, from his enemies, their friends, and their loved ones—as if half of his heart had been cut out, and as if his eyes had been gouged out, but he never imagined that he would cry out in such misery as if he were weak.

No, it's not him, it's Cremar, the stupid and naïve thief - the undead don't grieve, they don't cowardly, they don't lose their minds.

What's the use of shouting?

Death is irretrievable.

The giant who had killed Ilda blinked in bewilderment, and he suddenly found that his pouches and knees were getting heavier, heavier, they were so heavy that they seemed to turn into iron and stone, dragging his body down, and he tried to pull his legs, only to find that even his two arms were involuntarily sagging, and his axe was less than a step away from him, but he couldn't lift his arms, and finally even his shoulders and head involuntarily leaned forward, pulled down, and his chin pressed against his chest, and his palate pressed his tongue, so that he could only make strange screams。

An invisible scimitar slit his artery, and filthy blood spurted out and fell into a burning bush, emitting a disgusting stench.

The elves were stunned and grieved.

No one had imagined that Ilda had been a ranger for forty years, that she had fought goblins, that she had fought ogres, that she had fought orcs, that she had fought human thieves, that she had fought gray robes and red robes, and of course that she had fought giants - that she had no guarantee that she would be safe every time, that she had been wounded more than once, several times almost fatal, but that she had always healed, both physically and mentally, and the worst they could have expected was another serious injury that required a long period of healing and rest.

The manager of Grey Ridge walked over, his chest aching like it was about to crack. Ilda's head was held in Cremar's arms, she was so serene, there was not a trace of distortion or anger on her pale face, her eyes were slightly open like the purest emerald and sapphires, as if there was still a faint smile, her braids were cut off along with her neck, and the rest of her hair was scattered, and in the light of the morning light and fire, they were like flowing gold.

Her body was on the other side, her hands crossed over her chest, her long sword pressed under her arms.

The manager wanted to say something, but he found that he couldn't make a sound at all.

Cremar didn't know how he had let go of Ilda—all he remembered was that he lowered his head and kissed her cold forehead, and someone was talking to him, but he couldn't hear it very clearly, and he didn't know what to do—he felt like he couldn't breathe, and the flames seemed to have robbed him of all air.

Until he heard Fenway's name.

Fenway is still alive because he is a channel, a bridge, and the fire of negative energy has only absorbed a part of his life force, and even then, his tongue, internal organs, and bones are constantly shrinking, his skin has turned into powder, and his eyes and ears have lost their function, but he is indeed alive.

Cremar walked up to him and got down on one knee, he didn't touch Fenway, but he was able to keep his mind in contact with him.

- Ilda Fenway asked, or rather, his remnants of consciousness.

The lich waited silently.

- Ilda is dead, said the otherworldly spirit, listening to the last whimpering breath of the wretching man breath from his throat, and then he walked away.

- I thought you were lying, said the lich, to give the dying one last bit of comfort.

- I don't think so, the Otherworldly Soul says that even if he is only an imaginary being, the Lich can still perceive his almost overflowing hatred and sorrow, which are hidden beneath the surface of calm, like an undercurrent under the surface of the sea, and how can Ilda be given the privilege of leaving this world unharmed?

- Then we have come to an agreement, said the former immortal.

The author has something to say: I know this chapter is a bit short, the problem is after writing about the death of Ilda...... I suddenly didn't want anyone else to disturb her sleep.

Kiss you, Ilda, farewell.

I'm sorry.