Chapter Eighty-Three: The True Killing Blow

The atmosphere howled in anguish, roaring as if some dreadful monster sealed away in a knight’s tale was about to awaken. The ground quivered before the impending tempest; loose stones strewn across the earth seemed to come alive, leaping and jittering like small creatures sensing a coming calamity, warning the two figures still lingering on this land.

Run—

Though no words were exchanged, no glances met, the survival instinct pressed hard upon them. The two, who had stood in tense opposition only moments before, simultaneously broke into a desperate sprint.

But... could they outrun the wind?

It was no gentle breeze, nor even a raging gale—it was a tornado, fierce and true.

Wild winds raked the earth, hurling debris in every direction. The twisted currents of the tornado, though mere air, seemed imbued with a strange sentience; stones swirling in the maelstrom became gaping maws, biting into the mist imprisoned by the vacuum, then spiraling upward, piercing the brooding, thunderous clouds to tear a vast hole in the sky.

Is it... finally over?

Flung aside by the storm, the Glorious One tumbled amid the rubble, his gaze drawn to the gash torn wide above, to the long-lost sunlight streaming through. For a fleeting moment, hope flickered.

But then his expression changed.

—A pair of blood-red, slit-pupiled eyes appeared directly overhead, locking with his own.

The tempest shrieked.

BOOM!

A thunderous crash split the air. The ground caved in, dust and stones radiating outward in a shockwave, blooming into a stony flower when viewed from afar.

Alas, the youth had no time to marvel. The attack from the information broker had come so swiftly that he could only roll aside to dodge the taloned strike crashing down from above. The tremors from the impact tossed him meters away, and before his blood could settle, he sprang to his feet, blade drawn and held defensively at his chest, eyes fixed on the dragonkin who stood before him once more.

Now!

His pupils contracted, fresh blood tracing down his arm.

“Wester—”

The activation phrase slipped from his lips, but halted abruptly.

Both combatants, as if by silent accord, ceased their actions. Not a word was spoken. Without hesitation, they put aside their enmity and stood back to back. Had it not been for the vivid memory of their previous clash, anyone would have thought them lifelong comrades, bound by trust unto death.

“I’ve returned.”

Mist billowed, and through the despairing pallor emerged the slight figure of the killer, his obsidian eyes gleaming like stars. “A beautiful strike. It nearly worked—so, so nearly. Tell me, how should I repay you?”

His tone shifted.

“Why not let despair be my gift in return!”

In the next instant, his form dissolved into vapor.

He’s coming!

The youth narrowed his eyes, ready to respond at once—when picking a target, it made sense for the killer to choose the weaker prey. Compared to the dragonkin, whose transformed body was impervious to blade and bullet, the youth was outmatched in strength, speed, and resilience. It was only natural for the killer to make him his first quarry. And yet... unexpectedly, the flash of steel did not come for him. The killer had chosen—

The Swordbearer!

The girl from the Order had become the killer’s target. Almost simultaneously with the Glorious One raising his blade in defense, the ghostly figure appeared behind Mia, and in utter silence, Death’s scythe descended.

But in that instant, the arc of the blade was intercepted.

As if eyes had grown in the back of her head, the Swordbearer swung her greatsword—almost as tall as she—into a perfect spin, knocking the curved blade aside.

What followed was a relentless storm of attack and defense.

Mia was formidable—undeniably so. In both skill and power, few in the Order could stand as her equal. Though the killer displayed overwhelming strength, she was like a rock battered by the sea, standing unyielding before the waves, unwavering and unshaken, fighting her battle with stubborn, even obsessive, resolve.

Magnificent!

The intensity of the fight nearly glued the youth’s eyes to the scene—nearly. But as a natural-born Glorious One, Amy Ulysses’s distraction lasted no longer than a heartbeat. Before the clock’s hand could even stumble forward, his black coat flared behind him as he leapt into action.

Forward!

There was no hesitation. In a flash, he closed the distance of dozens of meters.

Mia was strong, that much was certain—but the killer was stronger still. Whatever transformation he had undergone since that night, he had proven himself with undeniable feats. Neither the information broker’s absolute vacuum nor the Swordbearer’s tornado, powerful enough to tear the sky, had managed to harm him. With an almost immortal, mutated body, the might of a high demon, and exceptional combat skill and experience, the killer seemed to have no weaknesses.

If things continued unchecked, defeat was only a matter of time.

So—

The youth’s eyes narrowed, black irises sharp as razors.

There was no more room for restraint.

With that resolve, he slipped into the fray like a darting fish, instantly relieving much of the pressure on the girl. Though in direct combat Amy was utterly outmatched, his uncanny intuition allowed him to evade with almost cheating agility, posing little direct threat to the killer. But as a disruptor, he was unparalleled. The red-and-black blade in his hand wove dazzling patterns, each strike aimed at a vital point, forcing the killer to dissipate into mist and breaking the rhythm of his assault.

Truly... remarkable.

The demon who had once lived among humans as Jack a century ago could not help but praise him inwardly. He remembered fighting Ulysses under the Serpent’s orders; back then, the boy was not weak, but relied on a monstrous instinct for battle. Yet in just a few days, his skill now equaled, perhaps even surpassed, the demon’s own—especially when coupled with that irrational fighting intuition. Other than brute force, the demon could think of no quick way to defeat or kill him.

Is this the potential of humanity?

He thought so, and a cold smile curled beneath his mask.

Good—then I shall personally crush this potential!

Amy was unaware of the killer’s change in attitude, but sensed the mounting danger as the killer shifted his focus. His style changed from steady offense to pure defense. Still, despite his efforts, the increased pressure left him desperately fending off attacks, barely holding on.

Yet, this too was an opportunity.

The Glorious One realized this as he struggled to withstand the killer’s onslaught, sparing a sliver of attention to call for aid from the information broker nearby. “Willie—”

But the dragonkin answered only with silence.

To Wilson, the title of “father” carried a special, even sacred weight; an oath sworn in his father’s name was unbreakable. But that did not mean he would so easily become these two’s pawn—in fact, he had never forgotten that, in this hopeless slaughter, no one was truly on his side. Everyone here was an enemy, an enemy to the death.

Thus, he intended to let the killer wear down the other side while both remained at their strongest.

As for whether Amy Ulysses might die? That was unlikely. Wilson had already noticed the youth’s almost unfairly sharp danger sense; in battle, he was slipperier than an eel. Suppressing him head-on might not be impossible, but killing him swiftly was nearly so.

The killer, infamous a century ago, was indeed formidable, but not overwhelmingly so. His immortality made him difficult to deal with, creating the illusion he could fight three at once. Since there was no absolute gulf in power, the killer would likely struggle to finish off the Glorious One quickly.

This time could be used to ponder a way to break the stalemate. Being dragged into the fray by a few words and risking his life for enemies would be utter folly.

Resolved, Wilson studied the battle intently.

The fight was a one-sided spectacle. The gulf in power left little suspense: one side had an invulnerable body, the other an uncanny sense for danger. Rather than a duel, it resembled a grim game—three people vying to see who would fall first. The killer pressed Amy Ulysses hard, while the Swordbearer kept up relentless pressure from behind. The whole struggle balanced on a knife’s edge, as if they fought atop a high wire, perilously suspended.

Letting this drag on would not do.

As time passed, the dragonkin demon grew uneasy.

It’s about time, isn’t it?

Watching the youth’s situation grow ever more perilous, Wilson finally moved.

“Now—” he said, and unleashed his power.

—Atmospheric Control.

A vacuum formed in an instant. Though the killer dissolved into mist at once, even vapor could not escape the grip of the void. Stretched, twisted, diluted to near-invisibility, the killer’s formless body became motionless and defenseless. Of course, harming a cloud of mist was another matter entirely.

But Amy Ulysses had means to deal with such things.

Only one question remained: should he use his trump card now?

His hesitation lasted barely a heartbeat. In the next moment, he cast aside all greedy thoughts of holding back, his obsidian gaze fixed solely on his enemy.

Then—

“—Wester Yasorin.”

The activation phrase was spat out with finality.

The intent to kill was set.