Chapter 66: Family Reunion 4
’Well, here goes nothing.’
He charged at him, daggers in hand, using his speed to blur around his father in tight, vicious circles while letting arrows fly from every angle.
But not a single one did their job right.
His damn skin was too tough. Arrows hit and bounced off like he was flicking pebbles at a brick wall. Which was really doing wonders for his self-esteem.
’Cool. Love that. Completely fair.’
And worse—his father’s eyes followed him. His every step. Every feint. Every burst of speed that should have been way too fast for anything that size to track.
And yet his father’s eyes never left him. Tracking every step, every feint, every breath. The mont Shiro’s foot touched the ground, even for a fraction of a second, his father was already there.
He raised his arm. His hand wasn’t human anymore. It was thicker, wider, covered in coarse orange fur, and tipped with claws that glead under the moonlight like they’d been polished specifically to turn Shiro into a bunch of mini Shiros—which was not ideal.
He brought them down with one brutal swipe that raked across his chest, tearing through flesh and bone like cutting through paper.
His body went rolling across the ground like a ragdoll soone had gotten bored of, back slamming into a building hard enough to leave a dent in the wall and a few new dents in his spine.
He lay there. Gasping. And chuckling.
’Damn. This might be slightly difficult.’
He could hear Boris and Noris doing their part. Ground smashing. Explosions echoing across the island like the world’s worst percussion section.
[Passive Skill: Limitless — Activated]
[You have sustained damage.]
[Your body grew stronger.]
’I guess I have to do my part.’
He pushed himself up. The wound across his chest stitched itself together—muscle weaving over bone, skin crawling back into place like he was never hurt.
He looked at his father.
"What the hell even are you?"
The man didn’t reply. Instead, he ripped away the rest of his clothes with dramatic fashion. Which honestly wasn’t the response Shiro was hoping for.
His father’s size grew. Bigger. Taller. Wider. No longer in that half-beast state with the jagged teeth and claws. This was sothing else entirely. Sothing that belonged in a nightmare’s nightmare.
"I knew you were a monster," Shiro muttered. "But I didn’t think you were literally a monster."
"It’s sothing I went through hell to achieve." His father’s voice ca out deeper now, distorted, like soone had taught an earthquake how to talk. "Nine labors and twelve years of pain, to be exact."
"Nine labors and twelve years. anwhile I got a hole in the ground and an all-you-can-eat snake buffet. Real fair distribution of suffering there, grandpapa."
"Can we trade jobs next ti? Clearly you got the better deal."
"You wouldn’t last one," his father said, "let alone nine."
A massive club materialized in his hand. Not a weapon. A statent. The kind of thing that didn’t need a sharp edge because its entire personality was blunt force trauma.
He swung.
And the wind bent.
Shiro didn’t even get hit and he was already sliding backward, boots carving lines into the dirt from the air pressure alone. His hair whipped back. His robe flapped. Sowhere behind him, a tree gave up on life and fell over.
’Damn that monster.’
He breathed heavily but forced himself to move. Standing still ant dying. Moving ant dying slightly slower. Progress.
The beast brought the club down. Shiro dove to the side, twisted his body mid-roll, and slashed across his father’s ankles with both daggers.
They bounced off like toys.
’Damn it.’
His father countered by trying to stomp him flat. Shiro rolled back. The club ca down again. He rolled again. Running out of ground, running out of ideas, he grabbed a fistful of dirt and hurled it straight into the beast’s face.
Then he planted both hands, pushed off the ground, and launched himself backward.
’That should buy
a second—’
It bought him nothing.
A little sand in the eyes wasn’t going to slow down sothing that could bench-press a mountain. Before Shiro’s feet even touched the ground, his father was already there. Filling his entire field of vision. Grinning with teeth that no longer looked like they fit inside a human mouth.
He swung the club.
Shiro had exactly two options. Dodge, or block.
It was too late to dodge, so he blocked. And it was the wrong choice.
He crossed both arms in front of him.
And it connected.
Every bone in both arms broke. Not cracked. Not fractured. Broke. To the point his skeleton was ready to file a formal complaint and even threatened to quit.
His body launched backward through one building. Then another. Then a third, because apparently two wasn’t enough and the universe wanted to make a point.
But mid-flight—through the pain, through the ringing in his ears, through the voice in his head screaming ’you absolute idiot’—his fingers moved.
A thin mana thread had latched onto his father’s club the instant it made contact.
He tugged.
His montum reversed. Instead of decorating a fourth wall with his spine, he swung forward, using the thread like a grappling line, and planted his feet back on solid ground.
Arms hanging limp at his sides. Already stitching themselves back together.
’Okay. New strategy. Don’t block the club.’
And right on cue, the notification chid in cheerfully.
[Passive Skill: Limitless — Activated]
[You have sustained damage.]
[Your body grew stronger.]
’Thanks. Really helpful. Love the updates while I’m being used as a wrecking ball.’
He dragged himself under the rubble and stayed there for a second. Hiding. Planning. Two things he hated doing, but since his current strategy of "hit granddad, get hit harder" wasn’t exactly working out, he didn’t have much choice.
’Okay. Think. You have a brain. Allegedly. Use it.’
He burst out of the rubble and charged.
His father charged right back.
The ground between them shrank in a heartbeat. His father’s club ca down, fully intending to rearrange Shiro’s mories along with most of his skull, but his shadow stirred and Enkidu rose—its ebony blade clashing against the club in a shower of sparks.
Shiro used the opening.
He drove his fist into his father’s face with everything he had. The beast of a man went flying, body tumbling across the ground, tearing up dirt and stone with every roll. The knight dove after him, sword-first. But his father dug his claw-like hand into the earth, fingers sinking deep, and stopped himself dead.
Shiro was already behind him.
A devastating kick slamd into his father’s back, snapping his body forward. In the sa motion, Nocturne materialized in Shiro’s grip, and he unleashed a flurry of slashes—fast, vicious.
But he wasn’t done. Because why stop at overkill when you can go past it?
While the slashes connected, he pulled the dust and debris toward him, fragnts swirling together, compressing, until a massive arrow took shape behind him—glowing, humming, ready to ruin his fake father’s day.
He fired it.
And just to make absolutely sure, because he believed in the philosophy of too much is barely enough—specially for the man that adored him—he charged Nocturne with everything he had left and swung.
One crescent slash.
It tore through the ground, fast, cutting a path straight toward his father before striking him dead center.
And for the first ti, his father bled. It ran down his body in thick lines.
A broken chuckle left his lips. ’I’m so dead’
The man got to his feet. Breathing heavy. But smiling.
"That was not too bad," he muttered.
The massive cut across his body—the one that had almost split him clean in two—began pulling itself back together. Flesh reaching for flesh. Skin crawling over muscle. Closing up like a zipper on a jacket.
"You’re kidding ."
Shiro lunged before he could fully recover. Close the gap. Don’t give him ti. Don’t let him heal. Don’t—
His father’s pupils shattered.
That was the only way to describe it. The dark centers of his eyes cracked apart like broken glass, and what was left behind was sothing inhuman. Sothing ancient. Sothing that looked at Shiro the way a predator looks at sothing it has already decided is dead.
Every instinct in his body scread one word.
No.
He jumped back, putting as much distance between them as his legs could manage.
"What even are you, old man?"
The man grinned, showing off his beastly jagged inhuman teeth.
"A god."
With that, he dropped the club. His hands transford again, claws returning, longer this ti, sharper, gleaming under the moonlight like curved razors. He pulled his shoulder back, coiling his entire body like a spring, and shot forward—aiming straight for Shiro’s heart.
The man just kept getting faster. Every exchange, every clash, he was quicker than the last. Shiro couldn’t keep up. His eyes couldn’t track it. His body couldn’t react in ti.
’This is bad. This is really, really bad—’
"Duck."
So he did.
A massive blade—heavy, familiar, radiating an energy Shiro recognized in his bones—swung over his head and slamd into his father’s chest, hurling the beast backward with enough force to carve a trench into the earth.
A man stepped forward.
Tall. Masked. Coat billowing behind him like he’d been waiting for the most dramatic possible mont to show up.
Because of course he had.
"It’s about damn ti," Shiro muttered, the relief hitting him harder than any of his father’s hits.
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