Louskas was now fighting with ferocity. His movements were swift and deadly, and his strikes were as merciless as whips. But pain clung to him like a heavy shackle, binding his wounded body and attacking him from every side. Still, his focus was razor-sharp—there was only one thing on his mind: kill.
His thoughts were soaked in blood. There was no room for mercy. No room for retreat.
The three worshippers he faced were at the first stage, just like him—though they had likely been at this stage for longer. Their cores were white, untainted. But Louskas had his soul stones, which he kept for emergencies, using them without disrupting his movements. He had an uncanny ability to regulate his spiritual energy, especially when activating his teleportation shard.
The trio fought like a single entity: one used a shard that formed a powerful shield, another wielded a strength shard that enlarged his right arm, and the third launched hand-sized fireballs from a distance.
They were synchronized, their combat strategy tight and lethal. They were used to overwhelming enemies with their coordinated assault.
But now, they faced a twelve-year-old child darting between them like a mouse among lions.
And yet, despite his age, Louskas' face was twisted with fury. His soul was on fire.
He had already injured all three—except for the fireball thrower, who had stayed out of range.
Louskas himself was covered in wounds and burns, but his steps never slowed. If anything, he seemed to be growing more unhinged.
He clashed with the defender, his sword—crafted from the remains of human corpses—striking the hardened shield. It barely made a dent. A giant fist came from his side. He activated his shard and vanished, appearing behind the defender with his sword raised.
A fireball shot toward him. He had to teleport again, backing away with a glare full of contempt at the ranged attacker.
« If this keeps going, it'll never end, »he muttered.
He focused his spiritual energy behind the fireball thrower, drawing the defender's attention and even making the thrower glance over his shoulder.
Louskas smirked coldly.
And then, he turned—dashing toward the one with the strength shard.
He leapt, dodging the enlarged arm, and aimed his blade at the man's neck. But even before the strike landed, he knew—the sword would shatter on contact.
So he threw the sword into the air.
Then launched himself toward the man's face.
He latched onto him like a wild beast, a cat clawing the face of a lion.
The blade came down on one eye. Then the other. Again. Again. And again.
With every stab, memories surged—the torment he endured in his past life. These weren't just any enemies. These were some of the same people who once tortured him when he was helpless.
He laughed maniacally as blood sprayed onto his face, a twisted harmony of screams and insanity.
The worshipper cried out in pain—but it was already too late.
Louskas' blade had plunged too deep.
The man fell. Lifeless.
Louskas landed, caught his sword, and turned to face the other two. His face was soaked in blood, eyes gleaming with a wild light, a cold smile stretched across his lips.
« One down. »
*******
Elsewhere, Nyktos was still locked in an intense battle.
Again and again, he stopped time. Each use chipped away at him. His vast core ocean was slowly draining. His body bore no wounds, but exhaustion was devouring him from the inside out.
As for the massive tree trunk before him, it was drenched in blood, lined with deep gashes—but it still stood firm.
Nyktos knew—he had no chance against the elder.
But he didn't regret a thing.
He was enjoying this.
Suddenly, thick roots coiled around him, lifting him high. He tried to stop time once more, but his body rebelled. He coughed blood violently.
The old man raised a trunk like a spear—and slowly pierced it into Nykthos' abdomen.
He screamed. The pain was unspeakable. The elder wanted to torture him.
He didn't speak a word, but a wicked smile curled his lips.
Then—
a thunderous explosion tore through the clan grounds.
Every gaze turned.
Every battle froze.
Every eye widened in shock.
A demonic worshipper floated in the sky, holding a mangled body by the neck.
Valrik Solan, the one who defied the laws.
He was barely recognizable. Blood stained every inch of his once-white robes. His black hair hung messily, and one of his arms was gone.
The elder's smile widened.
« The lawbreaker will die today. »