Whoosh! Whoosh!
One after another, the arrows descended—not as projectiles, but as divine retribution, tearing through the air with a scream that could chill bone.
A rain of death.
The alloyed shafts fell like executioner’s blades, rciless and absolute, each one tearing through the ranks of the Blue Hamr Kingdom soldiers with surgical precision.
Their leather armor—ant for skirmishes, not slaughter—was nothing more than a thin veil of false hope, shredded like parchnt under a storm of steel.
Bodies were ripped apart, limbs torn from sockets, torsos cleaved in half. Screams barely ford before throats were punctured. The few who survived the first wave stumbled over the remains of their comrades, slipping in gore and entrails.
Within seconds, the battlefield was transford—no longer a contested ground between kingdoms, but a slaughterhouse, an open canvas painted with blood and despair.
Crimson mist clung to the air like a veil, and wet chunks of flesh rained down beside severed limbs. The cries of the dying bled into the wind, forming a haunting dirge.
The amateur soldiers—those fighting in their first real battle—stood paralyzed. So vomited violently, unable to comprehend the brutality. Others clutched their weapons so tightly their knuckles turned white, as if holding on to the last illusion of control.
The battlefield wasn’t just unforgiving.
It was soulless.
These alloyed arrows knew no honor, no code of warrior’s conduct. They did not discriminate. They simply killed. Fast. Clean. Brutal.
No challenge. No rcy.
In the blink of an eye, an entire segnt of the Blue Hamr army—n who had trained, lived, laughed—was cut down like weeds before a scythe.
Even Anek, hardened by years of war and betrayal, found himself still.
He had witnessed ambushes. Slaughters. Betrayals.
But this—this was different.
He forgot to breathe for a full second, his chest tightening as his senses drowned in the overpowering stench of blood and burnt mana. His nose scrunched instinctively, and he felt a heaviness settle in his chest.
Nearby, the Iron Dungeon stronghold leader stood with lips tightly pressed, trying not to show it—but the way his shoulders tensed gave him away. He was no saint, no man of principle—but even for him, this was too much.
The sheer efficiency of the killing.
The scale of destruction.
The impersonal execution of hundreds of n who had no chance to fight back.
It sent a chill crawling down his spine.
This wasn’t war.
This was annihilation.
Just at that mont, a deafening explosion echoed from kiloters ahead—a sound so powerful it felt as though the sky itself had collapsed.
BOOOOM!
The roar reverberated across the plains like a divine hamr striking the heavens. A trendous shockwave followed in its wake, tearing through the battlefield like a storm front.
Winds howled. Dust surged.
Several soldiers were thrown clean off their feet, their bodies tumbling like rag dolls, clanging into one another and crashing into the blood-soaked ground.
Anek and the Iron Dungeon stronghold leader instinctively steadied themselves, their spiritual energy flaring as they resisted the force. Their gazes locked—eyes wide, breathing taut.
They saw the sa thing reflected in each other’s pupils: shock.
And sothing else.
Déjà vu.
That explosion—the power, the direction, the impact. It was eerily similar to what had just occurred at the previous watchtower. The familiarity struck them like lightning, burning away any doubts.
Then, without exchanging another word, their voices exploded, slicing through the chaotic battlefield like sharpened blades.
"March at the fastest speed!"
"Don’t bla if I see anyone not giving their all!"
Their commanding voices bood with raw urgency and authority, snapping the stunned soldiers out of their horror-struck daze.
The ranks shifted. Armor clanked. Muscles moved.
The army surged forward—a tidal wave of steel and flesh—hurtling toward Dreamy Sky City with everything they had.
There was no ti to rest.
No ti to think.
The gates of fate had been thrown open, and hesitation now ant death.
---
anwhile, Damien didn’t stop—not even for a breath.
Even as the obsidian tower collapsed behind him in a heap of shattered stone and fractured tal, he pressed forward, racing through the corridor of crumbling destruction.
He had no ti.
The Rank 3 defense systems—whatever they truly were—lood over his thoughts like an invisible blade. He couldn’t afford to stall. Not even for a second.
He recalled the girl’s defensive treasure, how casually it had deflected deadly attacks. That single encounter had rewritten his understanding of what power truly ant.
Now, it wasn’t just about brute force.
It was about precision.
Speed. Timing. Deception. Ruthlessness.
He had to strike again—harder, faster, before the defenders understood what was happening. Before they could rally. Before their war machines could fully awaken.
Like a living battering ram, Damien tore through the reinforced interior of the watchtower—smashing steel, tearing through layered enchantnts, and shattering bulkheads designed to withstand siege weaponry.
Blood poured from his fists.
His skin split. Bones cracked. The steel tore into him like knives, yet still he surged forward.
His hands were mangled, but they didn’t stop moving. If you looked closely, you’d see tiny threads of spiritual energy and blood vessels trying to knit themselves together, only to rupture again with every fresh shockwave he produced.
Splashes of blood painted the steel corridors, decorating them with the mark of a prince who no longer cared for pain—only for victory.
The very walls groaned with every impact, unable to withstand the relentless fury of his charge.
He had beco a storm—a single man driven by conviction so fierce it bled through the air itself.
And in the distance, the next target awaited.
The process repeated over and over again.
Crash. Rip. Surge.
Each shattered floor, each demolished panel, pushed Damien’s body further—his will harder, and his talents deeper into unknown territory.
Repeated chis echoed inside his mind, ringing like sacred war drums announcing evolution.
[Acceleration Exp 45]
[Acceleration Exp 99]
His lungs burned. His blood boiled. But Damien’s gaze never wavered.
Both of his talents were operating in overdrive, fed by the relentless pace of combat and destruction. Each movent honed the edge of mastery, pushing his physical and spiritual limits toward an unseen peak.
And as the numbers inched closer to the ten-thousand mark, he could feel it—a shift on the horizon. This war wasn’t just blood and survival. It was a crucible for evolution.
Damien clenched his bleeding fists tighter, every nerve alive with purpose.
---
All the while, panic had erupted within the watchtower’s upper levels.
The very soldiers who had monts ago stood watching the massacre with arrogant sneers—were now screaming.
Their laughter had turned to terror.
Their composure, obliterated.
One second, they were snickering over the helpless slaughter. The next, their heads exploded—snapped like overripe fruit, their thoughts cut short in grueso silence.
A blood-soaked figure, wrapped in streaks of light and shadow, tore through their ranks like a butcher through livestock.
Damien.
His aura was a swirling hurricane of silver and crimson.
Epoch Breaker humd in his hand, as if singing—no, growling—with excitent.
The weapon was no longer just a tool. It was alive with bloodlust, vibrating in tune with Damien’s fury, as if eager to evolve alongside him.
[Weapon Sync: 92%... 93%...]
Its jagged muzzle glowed faintly with every discharge, as if tasting advancent, sensing that it too was drawing close to the next rank.
In the blink of an eye, Damien burst through yet another steel barrier—erging into a new level.
A massive room opened before him, surrounded by shattered screens, broken sigils, and the dull glow of dying control panels.
And standing at its center—
Henriks.
The burly general of Dreamy Sky.
His bronze skin glistened with sweat, his chest still bare, but his muscles were now tense—coiled like a beast awakened. His aura was heavy. Pressing. Unmistakable.
A true Gold Rank.
Damien’s sudden appearance stopped him cold.
"Who are you?!" Henriks demanded, his voice booming with disbelief. His stunned expression betrayed the chaos that had unfolded too quickly for him to grasp.
The control room had been breached in less than two minutes.
Damien didn’t respond. His eyes flickered shut—only for a second.
He felt it. The power surging from Henriks’ body was overwhelming, pressing against the walls, making the very air shudder.
This was no ordinary foe.
One of the six Gold Rank warriors of the Blue Hamr Kingdom.
Damien’s next move was imdiate. There was no ti to deliberate.
If this man—Henriks—was the one who could activate the Rank 3 defense systems, then there was no option left.
He had to die.
Now.
Damien’s body blurred—the silvery glow of acceleration intensifying, his feet vanishing from the floor in a burst of force.
The air tore open with a sonic boom, rupturing inwards as if a teor had struck the room. Debris flew. tal screeched. Lights flickered violently.
And in that split second—
Damien was in front of Henriks.
No wasted motion. No grand display.
Just a single, casual punch—delivered with speed so intense, it folded the space between them into a whiplash of collapsing force.
The true battle had begun.
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