Chapter 57: Let's climb the Sigh Mountains.
While Velma went about her Cannibalistic al...
Oliver was once again, in the night trial. He still had two hours remaining, and had rushed in the mont he finished reciting the Imperial Slave Value System.
The red mist coiled like threads of blood around the stone platform. The Monk sat in his position. Unmoving. In the distance.
Oliver's brows creased with incredible concentration.
The mont his feet touched the surface, he moved. This ti, he didn’t hesitate.
He veered right, just as the ground behind him exploded from a shattering impact. Cracks spiderwebbed across the ancient looking tiles where the monk’s fist had landed. Dust and fragnts scattered into the air, proof of what would have happened to his ribs had he remained still.
It was just like the last ti. The mont he touched the platform, the monk attacked.
“Good,” Oliver whispered. “You're not catching the sa way again.”
The monk seed to move without sound, feet looking as if they never quite touched the platform.
Its robes fluttered with unnatural grace. The cloth whispered through the air just as its body blurred forward again.
The sa technique.
The sa stance.
The one-inch punch.
Oliver pivoted on his foot and countered with a sweeping kick aid at the monk’s midsection. The monk tilted backward, the fabric of its robe rippling like water as it ducked beneath the blow. Then, as if ti had stilled, it coiled forward again—silent, poised, deliberate.
It ca again.
One inch.
By now, Oliver had caught on. The monk didn’t need variety. No kicks or other kinds of punches. In truth, he doubted it was capable of it.
No matter the move Oliver used, it only used the One-Inch Punch.
As if to say that just this technique was ebough fir all.
Which was ridiculous but it executed it well.
Its mastery of this singular technique was complete. It wasn’t just using the move—it was embodying it.
Then again, Oliver wasn’t the sa guy from the last ti.
While he had been reciting the Imperial Slave Value System in the outside world, he had been thinking of this battle repeatedly in his head.
Oliver did not have fighting techniques
He twisted mid-motion, caught the monk’s sleeve, and used the montum to roll forward. His hand extended, fingers curling into a fist. He had studied every twitch of this move. This ti, he would return it.
"Got you."
He struck the monk’s chest with the one-inch punch.
There was a mont of triumph. His heart swelled. But then—
Nothing.
The monk took a single step back. No collapse. No recoil.
Its head lifted slowly, turning to face him—eyes devoid of anger, mouth still and unreadable.
Then its hand closed around Oliver’s wrist.
“No—”
Oliver slamd his own palm to his chest, activating his Aether Sense in a desperate defense.
But it wasn’t enough.
The monk’s punch landed like divine retribution—precise, compact, devastating. Oliver’s body hurtled backward, skidding along the stone floor, his vision flaring red from the pain. He coughed, his chest screaming in agony. His right arm felt fractured. Definitely bruised deep into the bone.
The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.
Above them, floating high in the air like a vulture watching prey, the red skull of the Bloodline Will cackled with mirth.
>
Reviews
All reviews (0)