[Victor's POV]
I stared down at the wretch sprawled in the wreckage, tangled in the splintered remains of what had once been a wall.
Pathetic.
Did he really think he could kill me? That a mere insect could challenge the natural order?
A slow breath. My gaze flicked around the ruined shack, taking in the fractured beams, the dust hanging thick in the air.
This place had once belonged to those lunatics—the so-called Church of Blood. Fools. A rabble of madmen playing at power.
Not like the Church of Death.
I tightened my grip on my sword. Although I couldn't match that lunatic even in my prime. He had been a grade three, and I had barely scraped the edge of grade two.
The gap had been insurmountable, and now it continued to widen by the day.
My eyes returned to the Viper.
Defiance burned in his gaze, sharp and unyielding, a flickering ember refusing to die. It would be fun to watch it snuffed out.
Slowly, he pushed himself up—battered, barely holding together, yet still standing.
I had to give him credit. The kid had heart.
But heart wouldn't be enough to save him.
Mana surged through my veins, coiling like a living thing, strengthening muscle and bone, sharpening reflexes. I could feel it thrumming beneath my skin, hot, volatile, eager.
I launched forward. A blur of motion. The advantage was mine—I would keep it that way.
In a breath, I was on him.
I swung, the air splitting with a sharp hiss as my sword cut through it, my aura flaring wild and hungry. He scrambled to evade, twisting at the last second, but he was too slow—his dodge nothing more than a desperate reaction.
I didn't let up.
My boots hit the ground, firm and unyielding, as I pivoted into a sweeping arc, the blade slicing through the air at chest height. It was a killing blow—meant to carve him open from rib to rib.
But he ducked, fast and instinctive. Predictable.
I adjusted instantly, my grip tightening, boots grinding against the dirt as I shifted momentum.
The blade came down, a brutal vertical slash aimed to split his skull where he crouched.
He rolled—just in time. The shack shuddered as my sword smashed into the wood, sending splinters flying in every direction.
But he was already moving.
A lunge. Desperate. Foolish.
I stepped in. Mana flared, pooling in my leg, and I drove my boot into his gut with the force of a war hammer.
A dull crack. A choked grunt.
He flew back, slamming into the remains of the shack, body skidding across the broken floorboards. Dust rose in thick clouds around him, but I could still see him through it.
He wasn't down.
Not yet.
But he would bleed. They all did.
I closed the distance in an instant, my boots hammering against the ruined floorboards, each step a drumbeat of inevitability.
The shack trembled around us, dust swirling in the air like restless spirits.
He had nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide.
I reached him in a breath, my sword already swinging. The blade arched behind me, momentum coiled like a spring, mana crackling along its edge. I brought it down in a vicious arc—fast, lethal, final.
But his dagger was there, steel meeting steel in a burst of sparks. A solid parry. Stronger than before. This time, his blade didn't break.
A shame.
It didn't matter. I still had him.
My free hand surged with power, the eerie green glow of necrotic mana coiling around my fingers, the only gift from the past that had never faded. The touch of decay. The rot of the inevitable.
Faster than he could react, I seized his throat.
His body seized up, muscles locking, the corrosive energy sinking into his flesh. I felt it working—felt the tissue wither beneath my grip, the struggle in his limbs turning frantic.
I smirked.
Then, without warning, I spun—using his own weight, his own resistance against him—and hurled him across the room.
He crashed into the throne, the impact rattling the rotting wood, sending splinters flying. For a moment, he sat there, slumped, like a dethroned king on a ruined seat of power.
Then, a wet, hacking cough. Blood splattered down his chin.
I just watched.
Watched the man who thought himself untouchable. Who thought that a bit of mana and some street-honed instincts could save him?
How pathetic.
I stepped forward, slow and deliberate, savoring every ragged breath he took. The kid was drowning in his own blood, each cough wet and heavy, a struggle against the inevitable.
This was over.
He'd die here, crumpled on that broken throne like a parody of a fallen king. And with him, this ridiculous little coup would crumble to dust.
I exhaled, tilting my head as I watched him.
"You actually thought you'd be the one to kill me?" My voice dripped with amusement, but underneath, something sharper coiled. Rage. Spite. Satisfaction.
"You?" I scoffed, my lip curling. "A pathetic worm, hollowed out by the screams of his own mother."
I let the words hang, watching for a reaction. I wanted to see it—the flicker of pain, the shadow of grief. I wanted him to break before he died.
Instead, he just stared.
Oh, but that wasn't going to save him.
I reached him in two strides, grabbed him by the throat, and hauled him up, fingers sinking into his flesh as the necrotic energy seeped in.
His skin burned under my touch, decay spreading like ink through water.
Still, no reaction.
No scream. No flinch. Just that same, blank defiance. Like he'd already grown used to the pain.
Tough little shit.
I should've just run him through. Ended this. A clean kill, over in a blink.
But after everything this snake had done—after all the trouble, the betrayal, the blood he had spilled trying to get to me—didn't I deserve a little fun first?
A pressure on my forearm. His fingers curled around my wrist, weak but insistent.
Oh? Still some fight left in him?
I looked down, expecting desperation—fear, even—but his eyes held something else. Something cold. A promise, carved in stone.
"I will kill you." His voice was a rasp, broken but certain.
I laughed, lips curling into a smirk. "I'd love to see that."
Then—motion.
Too fast.
His dagger flashed. I saw it, tried to react, but my body—was it exhaustion?—moved just a fraction too slow. A sting, then warmth. His blade bit into my gut, not deep, but enough.
This fucker.
My grip on his throat tightened instantly, fingers pressing down to crush. But he was already moving.
Rising despite my hold, his own momentum forcing the blade deeper before he ripped it free. A wet sound, a flicker of pain.
I gritted my teeth, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a grunt.
Then—he twisted, jerked, wriggled in a way that made no sense. Before I could adjust, he was gone, slipping through my grasp like smoke.
I barely had time to turn before he rolled out of reach, resetting.
Annoying. Boring.
I pushed mana into my legs and exploded forward, the shack warping around me with the force of my acceleration. My blade swung for his throat, clean and final—
—but he dropped, so low he practically kissed the floor. My sword sliced through empty air.
Fine. A kick, then. A final boot to send him crashing through the wreckage.
My leg lashed out, but—what?
He caught it.
Like some wretched child, hugging their mother's leg.
Pain flared sharp and immediate as his dagger plunged into my thigh. Deep. Too deep.
Straight for the artery.
Did he hit it?
I didn't have time to check. Instinct overrode thought. My sword was too slow, so I used what was faster—my fist.
Mana flared.
I struck him.
Once.
His grip on the blade didn't loosen.
Twice.
His head snapped back, but his fingers stayed locked.
Why won't he let go?
Thrice.
Finally, his hands slipped away. The dagger stayed buried, but he stumbled back. I didn't hesitate—brought my sword down in a brutal arc.
A hard twist saved him, my blade carving into wood instead of flesh. The floor cracked, splinters flying as the impact rattled the shack.
Blood streaked the ground. Not a killing blow, but I'd clipped him.
He stood opposite me now, chest heaving, face pale. His breaths were ragged, but measured. Calculating.
And I—
I was bleeding. A lot.
But not enough to stop me.
I caught the smirk he flashed my way, the barest flicker of satisfaction. Arrogant little shit. I returned it with one of my own.
Then we moved.
Slower now, dulled by exhaustion and blood loss. My right leg dragged, the wound in my thigh pulsing with each step.
His movements were worse—barely controlled, his body a breath away from collapsing.
I slashed—a wide vertical cut meant to split him in two.
Predictable. He dodged right.
I was already waiting. My left palm shot forward, aiming straight for his throat.
He staggered, a sudden, jarring shift of weight—a feint.
Before I could adjust, he slammed into me, full force, tackling hard, wild, reckless.
I felt the impact crack through my ribs.
Where the hell was he getting this strength?
I drove my knee into his stomach, sharp and brutal, but he didn't flinch.
Instead, his fist smashed into my thigh—straight into the wound.
A white-hot explosion of pain ripped through my leg, searing, blinding. A raw grunt tore from my throat as something in me gave. The agony burned so deep it went past feeling.
Then—nothing.
The limb went dead. Useless. My balance swayed, but I forced more mana into the leg, willing it to move.
But he was already on me.
His hands locked around my sword arm, a crushing grip. I snarled and lashed out with my free hand—a full-force punch aimed at his temple.
The hit landed. Solid. Bone met bone with a sickening crack.
He didn't move.
Why isn't he falling?
Mana surged into my blows. My fist hammered into his skull again, again—each strike powerful enough to shatter stone. Flesh split, blood spattered, but still, he stood.
Then—snap.
A sickening, unmistakable sound.
A second later, the pain followed.
Blinding.
Ripping through my nerves like wildfire.
My arm.
He broke my fucking arm.
The sword slipped from my fingers, clattering uselessly to the ground. A rush of rage blurred the edges of my vision.
Fine.
Bare hands, then.
I twisted, launching a savage hook—every ounce of my remaining strength coiling into the punch. It cut through the air, lethal, sure—
And met nothing.
He sidestepped, fluid as a whisper.
Then his fist drove into my nose.
A sharp, brutal jab.
Something cracked. My head snapped back. Stars exploded behind my eyes.
The fight wasn't over.
But suddenly, I wasn't sure who had the upper hand anymore.
My mana was draining fast—too fast. Every move, every strike, bled me dry. But him? He still moved like he had a full tank.
How?
I forced myself to push forward, ignoring the weight dragging at my limbs. A left hook—quick, vicious—followed by a right, even with my broken hand.
Pain flared white-hot up my arm, but I drove into an uppercut, throwing my body into the strike.
He dodged.
All of it.
How?
Then—impact.
A fist crashed into my ribs, sharp and precise. A liver shot. A short, strangled grunt ripped from my lips as my body lurched sideways.
I retaliated fast, snapping my leg up in a high kick. He raised his guard, blocking it with ease. Too easily.
My strength was fading. My hits weren't landing, weren't enough.
Then his fist shot forward—one, two jabs. I caught the first, but the second slipped past my defenses, snapping my head back.
Before I could recover—
A low kick.
Direct to my wounded leg.
A fresh surge of agony tore through the deadened limb, hot and wild. My knee nearly buckled. A hissed breath left me as I staggered, a tremor running through my entire frame.
He wasn't slowing down.
I was.
And that realization wrapped around my chest like a noose, tightening with every passing second.
"Just die already!" I roared, desperation cracking through my voice, but he didn't flinch. No hesitation. No fear. Just a step forward.
I swung—everything I had, my entire weight behind it. He ducked, fluid, effortless. Before I could react, his hands locked onto my arm, dragging it over his shoulder.
Then—a twist.
The ground disappeared beneath me.
The world flipped.
A heartbeat later, my back slammed into the floor. The shack shuddered with the impact. My breath fled my lungs in a strangled gasp. Fuck.
Then he was on me.
A fist drove into my ribs. Then another. A third cracked against my jaw.
My head rang, vision spinning. I barely managed to raise my arms before another punch came down.
But I wasn't done.
I willed the last dregs of my mana into my left hand, the familiar sickly-green glow of decay flickering to life. My fingers curled into a fist, and I struck—hard.
His cheek caved under the blow. A sharp crack filled the air. His wound tore open, blood splattering across my face.
Still, he didn't fall.
Why won't he fall?!
With a snarl, I latched onto his collar, forcing every last shred of strength into a desperate push. He flew back, landing a meter away.
I lay there, chest heaving, just for a second—just a second to breathe.
A mistake.
The moment stretched too long.
Then I saw it—my sword.
And it was in his hands.
No.
Steel glinted as he lunged, and then—fire.
Blinding, searing agony ripped through my gut. My body convulsed, a strangled, choked sound tearing from my throat.
Pinned.
I was pinned.
No, no, no!
This couldn't be happening.
I thrashed, but my limbs felt like lead, my mana drained, my strength failing. I gasped, cold terror creeping into my veins, swallowing me whole.
Why?!
Why was I losing?!
I was the Paladin of Death. The chosen of the Goddess. Her blade, her executioner.
Where was she now?
Where was her power?!
Why had she abandoned me? Forced me to play king in this shithole!
I trembled, the world closing in, dark and suffocating.
Because of her, I was losing—to this rat.
Then—pressure.
A boot on my shin.
Before I could brace, before I could even think—crunch.
A white-hot explosion of pain erupted up my leg. I screamed, throat tearing raw, the sound ragged and inhuman. The world blurred, my vision swimming. My body arched instinctively, but there was nowhere to go, no escape.
Then he moved.
The other leg.
No.
I twisted, fingers clawing uselessly at the bloodstained floor. Move. I had to move. But I couldn't. My limbs refused to obey. I was trapped in my own body, pinned beneath his shadow.
"S-stop!" The words tumbled from my lips, desperate, broken, pride shattering like glass. I would've spat at him earlier, laughed in his face. But now?
Now, I begged.
His expression didn't change.
No flicker of mercy. No hesitation.
Just the cold, unrelenting glare of a man who had already decided my fate.
Then—
Snap.
The pain came first. Then the scream, raw and primal.
The other leg—gone. Ruined. Useless.
Then my arms.
I couldn't fight back. Why? Why couldn't I fight back? My body—mine, once strong, once unstoppable—was nothing but wreckage.
Why is this happening to me?!
A shadow loomed over me.
Slowly, I forced my gaze up, meeting his eyes—crimson, empty, endless.
A sea of blood and despair.
"You are the devil," I choked out, the words barely more than a whisper.
He smiled.
The sword slid from my flesh, slow, deliberate, leaving a yawning abyss of agony in its wake.
I was free.
But I had no way to move.
No way to run.
I could only watch as he raised my own blade, stained with my blood.
"For her," he murmured.
The steel flashed, growing larger in my vision, until there was nothing else.
Then—black.