Chapter 437 Chapter438-The Unstoppable Assault
Greg wielded Crusher with unparalleled finesse, its length, composed entirely of mana, bore no weight, yet at one meter forty, it towered over his own height, steadfastly parrying Soma's relentless onslaught from every direction.
Though minor injuries accumulated across his body, Greg's defensive stance only grew more solid with each passing moment.
On the other side, Soma was well aware of Greg's intentions but remained indifferent.
His goal was to immerse Greg in utter despair, to savor that exquisite expression of hopelessness on Greg's face before severing his throat in one fell swoop.
As he had mentioned before, Greg had never completed beastification—not due to a lack of mana manipulation, but a lack of inherent talent.
Beastification was a skill reserved solely for magi of pure enhancement lineage.
Thus, Greg was oblivious to the true essence of beastification.
The situation did not improve; Greg and Soma were locked in a death grip, the surrounding crowd had long been dispersed by fear, and the spreading flames had transformed the area into a relatively enclosed space.
Until a victor emerged from this battle, escape was impossible for anyone.
Oxygen was scarce, the heat intense, and the interplay of light and shadow seemed like dark hands of a devil stretching out towards them.
In such conditions, any lapse could lead to a fatal vulnerability.
With both combatants equally matched, there was little room for error—every slip could be lethal.
Greg's mana hammer swept through the air with broad, sweeping strokes, ill-suited for the chaotic environment, yet necessary.
It was the only way to adequately fend off Soma's attacks.
Greg's physical condition had dwindled to a perilous level, his body marred by over twenty wounds, large and small, with blood loss exceeding a quarter of his total volume.
These were mere statistics, devoid of tangible meaning to Greg, whose only perceivable changes were in the deformations of his tactical maneuvers, his breathing as heavy as if he were on a high mountain, the ground beneath him feeling not like solid earth but a sponge, and the flames before his eyes twisting like ripples on water.
His capacity for judgment had significantly diminished.
To compensate, he resorted to maneuvers that were defensively sound yet massively draining on his stamina.
This approach was akin to drinking poison to quench thirst, as the further decline in his physical strength only exacerbated his predicament.
Conversely, Soma seemed to be faring slightly better.
"Slightly," in this context, meant that the wounds visible on Soma's body appeared somewhat less severe than Greg's.
However, Soma had not managed to evade Greg's counterattacks.
Twice, Greg's war hammer had struck true—one blow to the outer side of the thigh at its base, and another to the chest.
Although each counterattack cost Greg dearly, they served as stark reminders to Soma that Greg was not devoid of retaliatory strength.
Regrettably for Soma, this realization came a tad too late.
The direct hit to the base of his thigh severely impaired his mobility, the area rendered a bloody, indistinct mess.
While mana had staunched the bleeding, the damaged muscle could not be mended.
Without prompt medical attention after the battle, Soma faced a future as a cripple for the remainder of his life.
Yet, this was far from the worst of it.
With a swift maneuver, Soma repelled Greg, shaking off the war hammer from his grip, and launched a vicious kick towards Greg's waist.
This sneak attack had been long in the making, but at that moment, Soma couldn't muster his full strength.
The kick, though accompanied by a fierce whooshing sound, was weak and lacked substance, serving more to intimidate than to injure.
The pain in his chest and the dizziness from lack of oxygen deformed his movements, the muscles bereft of sufficient energy failed to unleash their full force, even the flow of mana was obstructed.
The direct hit to the chest from Greg's hammer had dealt Soma a severe blow.
Countless ribs broken, several punctures in his lungs—each breath filled Soma's throat and nostrils with the metallic taste of blood and brought agonizing pain, as if his chest was being torn apart.
Though his injuries only fueled his ferocity, the fact remained that they severely impacted his combat effectiveness.
Soma could no longer gauge the balance of power between him and Greg.
The only thought that repeatedly filled his mind was attack.
Attack.
Attack.
He must not cease until death ensues.
Whether Greg would deplete his strength first or he would perish was unknown, but until that moment arrived, he would not halt his onslaught.
These instincts were ingrained in his very bones, seeing no fundamental difference between rending a man and tearing through a piece of roasted meat.
Humans are paradoxically fragile creatures, their complex brain structures endowing them with the capacity for thought, their unknowable souls bestowing upon them their personas, making society appear all the more chaotic.
The differences between individuals are so vast that under the same flesh, there lie two entirely different monsters.
Soma had seen enough of these contradictions.
He had witnessed evil, understood what ugliness was, and knew exactly what he was doing.
Just as there was no difference to him between killing a pig and killing a dog, so he saw no distinction between killing a person and a pig.
Soma swung his arms, his muscles, which usually responded promptly, now seemed sluggish.
His short claws, gleaming with a metallic sheen under the flames, snapped out.
He controlled them to carve several abrupt curves, his other hand clenched into a fist, his body leaning forward as power surged from the intact muscles of his back and waist!
It was like a tightly drawn bow releasing, the curved bow releasing astonishing power.
The air was torn as if it were paper, emitting a crisp sound.
Greg's defensive moves appeared slow and clumsy in his eyes, yet his own actions were hardly any better.
The hammer's handle blocked his claws but couldn't fully intercept his long punch.
Greg tried to use the handle to shield his ribs but underestimated Soma's fist and determination.
Blood sprayed.
Risking dislocation or even a broken hand, Soma viciously smeared his fist across Greg's face.
It was like being struck head-on by a wild horse; almost the instant the long punch connected, Greg's ears were filled with an endless buzzing, a flash of lightning crossed his retina, then darkness.
He felt as if his body had lost gravity, unable to control the war hammer in his hand.
After a brief moment of weightlessness came a violent crash.
He hit the ground.
Soma maintained his punching posture, panting, then, like a machine without lubrication, slowly retracted his arm back to its original position, gradually straightening his body.
His muscles, like bottomless pits, were desperate for oxygen, yet what he could supply was less than a third of their demand.
Both fighters had already expended the majority of their mana; Greg had only enough left to sustain the weapon in his hand, while Soma's mana was effectively depleted.
However, the state of beastification had not been lifted.
Under normal circumstances, beastification would naturally dissipate without mana—common knowledge to nearly all magi, except for those specialized in enhancement.
There exists a form of beastification known as "degradation." Degradation is an irreversible transformation, a rapid reconfiguration of the body, forcibly filled and reshaped with mana.
Ostensibly, degradation is a variant of beastification, producing similar effects, but in reality, it signifies the mana collapse of an enhancement magus.
When the body's mana is completely drained, the degradation spell does not dissolve; instead, it begins to burn the caster's soul directly! Twin flames of silvery white appeared in Soma's eyes, signaling the burning of his soul.
Degradation is a forbidden technique among enhancement magi, one that Soma would not have chosen if not in a life-or-
death struggle.
Although degradation resembles beastification, one cannot revert from it.
The caster must initiate the degradation spell from the start.
In other words, choosing to activate degradation is almost synonymous with a pact for mutual destruction, as it invariably results in the caster's death.
Even now, Soma couldn't quite comprehend why he had made such a decision.
Was it a moment of heated impulsiveness? He didn't think so.
It was probably more a sense of exhaustion.
He had killed so many, and among them, there were survivors who sought revenge, as persistent as Greg.
He was acutely aware of what death meant, yet indifferent—
indifferent to his own demise as well as that of others.
He acknowledged himself as scum.
These points he did not dispute, yet there was one thing he couldn't grasp.
What, after all, is so-called justice?
...
Lorinda, Oak Street, Blossom Pub.
Sorovo's dagger dripped blood, one drop, then another, trailing along the blade and edge, gathering at the tip, slowly swelling until gravity took hold, and after a brief free fall, it blossomed into a lurid red flower on the ground.
Somewhat reminiscent of a human life.
He placed the bloodied dagger on the counter, his gaze leisurely sweeping over the few people behind it, a smile breaking on his face.
"Now, are you ready to talk?"
...
Before Greg and Soma's battle had even begun.
Still at the Blossom Pub, still Sorovo and Carlotte, the dagger yet unsheathed, lying quietly in its scabbard.
"So, let the questioning begin," Sorovo said, straightening up, his smile unwavering.
"Where is Red Eye?" No one answered.
To speak was to face death, and to remain silent likely led to the same fate.
Faced with such a dilemma, everyone hesitated, seeking a way to survive.
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