Boris didn’t even wait. The mont Creed calmly declared himself ready, a grin the size of a sword slash tore across the man’s face.
It was the kind of grin that said, "Finally, now I can stop pretending to be nice." And then—boom.
With a dramatic flick of his wrist and zero hesitation, Boris summoned a pair of heavy, black war axes into his hands.
The mont the weapons appeared, a wave of frost-like black mist spilled out from their gleaming edges, falling onto the arena floor like black smoke from dry ice.
But it wasn’t just for show—this black mist gave off a deathly chill that instantly made the temperature drop several degrees.
So people in the stands even sneezed. These weren’t just fancy blades. No, Creed’s eyes narrowed the mont he saw them.
Artifacts! What were their effects though?
He had to find that out or victory wouldn’t be assured!
For all Creed knew, the axes could steal strength, poison the air, freeze blood, or make his pants fall off—who knows?
That was the power of artifacts. They were like magical lootboxes with murder inside.
Creed didn’t panic. But his body did respond.
In one smooth, practiced motion, he pulled his spear from behind him, the long black shaft gleaming under the arena lights.
The mont it appeared, a gust of wind spiraled around him—soft but sharp, like a whisper from a blade. His grip tightened. This wasn’t going to be a normal spar.
This was war. He could tell. Boris might act like a loud athead, but the mont he brought out artifacts, it ant he was planning to win—and win big. Big and deadly!
The AI referee buzzed in the background. "Combatants ready. Begin!"
Boris didn’t waste ti with trash talk. He let out a loud roar that shook the stands and—shockingly—his body began to shrink.
Creed blinked.
What the hell?
Instead of getting bulkier and taller like a typical berserker would when activating their bloodline, Boris did the opposite.
His muscles slimd down, his chest shrank, his limbs beca leaner, and in a matter of seconds, he had transford from a powerlifter into sothing more like a high-speed assassin.
He was still muscular, yes, but now he looked like soone who ran up mountains for breakfast. Creed’s eyebrows twitched.
’Interesting... That’s not a downgrade. That’s an optimization!’
He instantly began analyzing. If Boris’s bloodline caused his muscles to compress instead of expand, it likely ant that his blood was boosting speed and flexibility over raw power.
By compacting his muscle fibers and streamlining his form, Boris had just exchanged brute force for explosive agility.
That ant his attack speed and movent were going to skyrocket, and any openings would beco even deadlier. Creed had to respect that.
So he didn’t hold back either.
He closed his eyes for half a second and whispered, "Spear Domain... activate."
CRACK-BOOM.
The sound was like a spear crashing through the heavens. Everyone heard it—even the birds in the sky probably flew the other way.
A silver ripple surged out from Creed’s body and expanded outward like a massive bubble made of sheer intent.
The very air seed to bend and tighten in response, forming a 500-ter-wide spear domain where Creed reigned as the undisputed spear king!
Instantly, Boris’s movent slowed.
His body trembled. His knees bent just slightly. His breathing got rough.
Because inside that domain, every fiber of Boris’s being—from his nerves to his instincts to his very bloodline—was being crushed by a sense of terrifying authority.
It was like suddenly finding yourself dropped in the middle of a battlefield filled with ten thousand spears all pointed at your throat.
Every movent, every breath, every twitch felt like it would trigger death.
But Creed wasn’t done.
He took it further.
A second ripple of power exploded from him, and this ti, it was blood-red.
Boom!
It was the Path of Killing, and it surged outward like a shadowy tide, weaving itself into the spear domain like black ink mixing with silver water.
The effect was instant and violent.
Boris’s face contorted. His body shuddered, and then he spat out a mouthful of blood.
Even the people in the crowd felt a strong sense of danger.
Creed’s combined powers weren’t just heavy; they were higher dinsional.
His domain was an extension of his grasp of the spear, and his path was a philosophical imprint of killing itself.
For most people, acquiring one of these concepts was already a sign of stepping into elite territory.
But Creed had acquired both. At the sa ti. At only bronze level!
Even Creed was surprised at his current power.
He stared down at Boris, who was now on one knee, blood dripping from his lips, and thought, ’Huh. I’m kind of a monster, huh?’
The pressure from the fusion of his two powers had even forced Boris’s bloodline to collapse, snapping under the overwhelming weight like a snapped guitar string.
That sort of thing sounded exaggerated, but in reality, it was completely expected.
After all, Boris was just a peak bronze level awakened. anwhile, Creed was dragging in techniques and concepts that only gold-level elites or geniuses from the top word powers could normally even begin to grasp!
And yet...
This wasn’t the end.
Creed’s expression shifted.
He didn’t smirk. He didn’t shout. He simply lowered his spear toward Boris like a judge preparing a verdict and whispered under his breath, so softly it was like the voice of death itself:
"Activate empowernt."
And in that mont—
He truly went all out!
The mont Creed ntally whispered the command, a sudden, invisible force exploded from within him like a volcano that had been quietly waiting for the right mont to erupt.
His entire body was instantly bathed in arcs of crackling purple lightning, wild and alive, dancing along his arms, shoulders, and down the shaft of his spear like snakes made of pure thunder.
The very air began to shimr around him, as though space itself were struggling to keep up with the sudden shift in reality.
A deep hum echoed out from his body, and then with a quiet, spine-tingling snap, his physique surged forward, growing stronger by the second until it finally stabilized at the Stage 5 level.
His muscles didn’t balloon up like a cartoon character, no—this wasn’t so bloated transformation.
Instead, every muscle fiber beca leaner, denser, and sharper. He looked like he had been carved out of so divine tal designed purely for war.
He was power in its purest form. At least, for a bronze level awakened.
Creed twirled his spear in one hand with lazy grace and tightened his grip, the tal shaft now pulsing with lightning like it was eager to be thrown into the heart of a storm.
He tilted his head slightly, his usually calm eyes now glinting with sothing wild and calculating.
"I wonder," he muttered, watching the trembling Boris across the arena, "how beautiful this attack will look when it lands."
Then he vanished.
No—he moved.
In a split second, with a single stomp, a massive shockwave burst beneath his feet, launching him forward like a cannonball made of steel and fury.
The boom that followed shattered the sound barrier—literally—causing the arena stands to shake, so nearby girls to gasp, and one unlucky vendor in the crowd to drop their drink all over their lap.
Creed didn’t just move fast. He obliterated the idea of movent. For everyone watching, he was there one mont—and then just gone—leaving behind only a glowing purple afterimage like a cot’s tail on fire.
He reappeared beside Boris so suddenly it was like he’d been teleported by a god.
And then, without hesitation, Creed thrust.
"TAKE MY THRUST!" he roared with the confidence of a warlord and the phrasing of a man who had never been warned about suggestive battle cries.
There was silence.
On the sidelines, Mia, Ivy, and the other girls who had been watching with wide-eyed admiration all collectively cringed.
It was the kind of group cringe that made it feel like a curse had been cast over them. Ivy buried her face in her palm, while Mia muttered under her breath, "He was so cool just five seconds ago."
But Creed didn’t care. He wasn’t listening. He didn’t even know he’d ruined his badass mont.
He was too far gone into the zone, completely focused on the terrified, slack-jawed Boris who was staring at the incoming spear like it was the blade of fate itself.
And to be fair—it was.
Because although Pierce was rely a peak Stage 2 spear technique in na, what Creed was doing was anything but ordinary.
The mont he activated the technique, his entire Spear Domain surged to life around him like a living storm.
The space within 500 ters pulsed and twisted, and then—snap!—the domain compressed into the spear tip.
It was like all the pressure of a thousand spears crashing from heaven had been bottled into one point.
Then, like a silent assassin slipping poison into a king’s cup, Creed’s Path of Killing slid in, rging with the domain and infecting the technique with an eerie, deadly calm.
The killing intent wasn’t loud or explosive—it was cold, refined, inevitable. A blade that didn’t need to scream to kill.
And in that mont—just for that one breath of ti—Creed’s Pierce reached a level that few in the arena had ever witnessed:
Stage 1 Silver.
Boris scread internally.
Externally, he looked like a man trying to hold back a sneeze and failing miserably.
He tried to activate his bloodline in desperation, roaring from the depths of his soul. But nothing happened.
Nothing!
It was like trying to turn on a faucet only to discover the water pipes had been replaced by spaghetti noodles.
His bloodline refused to activate. It curled up inside him like a frightened child, shivering in the corner, terrified of the pressure Creed was putting out.
His once-proud power had turned cowardly and dormant.
Boris, realizing his body was about to be torn in half, did the only thing he could.
"Damn this pathetic bloodline!" he growled, his muscles shrinking as his transformation was forcibly canceled.
His physique returned to normal, but his eyes burned with fury and resolve. With a roar, he activated his artifact war axes, and they responded like sleeping beasts finally unleashed.
A whoooosh of cold, black mist exploded from the weapons and rapidly filled the air.
The arena, once bright with thunder and lightning, was now being swallowed by a rolling cloud of icy darkness.
The mist moved with purpose, spreading like fingers across the stone tiles and curling around the legs of everyone watching.
Even those in the stands felt it—a creeping chill that made their breath fog up and their hearts race.
Creed’s eyes narrowed, but he didn’t stop his strike.
Suddenly, inside the darkness, Boris’s voice echoed; low, growling, and sharp like a predator pouncing from the shadows.
"Last Chill!"
The mist that had spread through the arena didn’t vanish—it compressed. In one horrifying mont, all the thick, rolling fog was sucked inwards, rushing toward the tips of Boris’s dual axes.
The mist condensed into razor-sharp, jet-black ice, and with a feral scream, Boris struck out.
His twin axes, glowing with dark frost, roared forward to et Creed’s empowered thrust head-on!
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