Chapter 393: Hellfire (5)

In the howling gale and drifting petals, Muen’s figure accelerated in an instant.

Without the Alchemy Core’s amplification, his speed was no longer ghostlike and traceless; it became slightly more followable.

But beneath the cool moonlight, his movements were incomparably nimble, all the more powerful.

"Shadow Step!"

That long-unseen footwork ignited; the ground caved, and Muen in the span of a breath lunged sideways at Ailag—light as a hunting leopard, yet heavy as a shell just fired!

"So what! So what!"

Ailag’s eyes were bloodshot, and the pupil on his cheek was filled with ferocity. Facing the onrushing beast, he reflexively howled like mad:

"The Deity is with me... the great Deity... you’re just a normal human—what can you do? What can you do!"

Pfft.

What answered him was the sound of flesh parting from flesh.

Two perfect crescent moons rose at once—one above, reflecting distant skyglow; one below, cold and deathly still.

Two pure-white edges gave Ailag no chance to react at all; the blades flashed across his neck and his waist together, slicing flesh with ease. Blood sprayed, more vivid than the flowers underfoot.

"...You."

Ailag’s gaze went blank for a heartbeat. As a pure mage, at this distance it was simply impossible for him to respond to Muen’s assault.

But soon the blankness turned vicious again.

Ailag’s face twisted; he opened his blood-smeared mouth, and a hoarse growl rasped up from his throat:

"Ant! Ant! You can’t kill me!"

The severed flesh writhed rapidly; dense threads of blood shot out from inside Ailag’s body, swiftly knitting his body, which had been cut into three pieces, back together.

Perhaps because the recovery time was too short, the wounds failed to align perfectly; the restored form looked bizarre in the extreme, like some grotesque wriggling worm.

But Ailag didn’t notice at all and laughed wildly: "See? See? The Deity’s power is beyond your—mmph!"

"Shut up!"

A cold edge thrust into Ailag’s mouth and churned, mashing that noisy vocal organ into pulp.

"As for what kind of damn thing your Deity actually is—I know better than you! If He truly had power I couldn’t fathom right now, He would have come kill me Himself already. Would it be your turn, you piece of trash, to yap here?"

Muen’s gaze was icy. Without the slightest surprise he swung the blades—slash again! Slash again! Slash again!

Countless knife-lights flared across Ailag’s body; countless sprays of blood fell like a downpour.

Twisted clots were ceaselessly hewn apart, then healed, then hewn, then healed—Ailag was looking less and less like a “human.”

Yet the madness in his eyes only grew; the mouth on his head had been shredded, but a set of savage mouthparts sprouted on his chest and let out an ear-splitting screech!

"Muen Campbell, die for me!"

Muen’s vision swam for an instant; in front of his eyes Ailag was still struggling and screaming, seemingly without any power to resist.

But in reality, hundreds of warped lumps of flesh were spreading from Ailag, like a feeding sea anemone of meat; thick tentacle-like flesh used sheer numbers to momentarily wrap Muen’s blade-light, and then several sharp bone spurs suddenly stabbed toward his chest.

Death closed in.

Yet at that instant, the small iron shard always pressed to Muen’s palm suddenly turned icy; Muen was jolted awake, his eyes tightened, and he twisted his body aside.

The thing Liya left behind had tremendous effect.

The bone spurs missed his vitals, but still ripped a massive wound along his flank.

At the same time, Muen staggered.

He slowly lowered his head and saw a golden spear of light had pierced out from his chest, spilling blood from that point together with dense Holy Light.

Phil.

Under Ailag’s manipulation, she had struck again.

With the two men in close-quarters grappling, large-area spells were naturally unusable.

But weapons condensed from Holy Light were still effective—and very effective.

The Holy Light touching the red flame within him was like clear water thrown into scalding hot oil, making it react violently in an instant.

It nearly shattered the balance Muen had fought to maintain.

Even if the balance didn’t break, with the red flame temporarily unusable, his current wounds were already enough to be fatal.

"Grk... grrk..."

Mangled by countless knife-lights into a misshapen thing, Ailag writhed again; an eye at the upper left of his head and an eye on his shoulder both cast looks of glee.

The mouthparts at his crotch twisted, sneering:

"In the end... only human."

Even if strength and speed briefly suppressed him, so what? Creatures called humans are this fragile and pitiful—just a slight injury puts their lives at risk. In contrast, he who bears divine favor had long since surpassed the human category, to be forever with the one he loves—that is...

"Too slow."

Muen, looking down at the wound in his own chest, suddenly murmured something.

Doubt flashed in Ailag’s eyes; then he saw Muen release his hands and let the pure-white twin blades fall.

"You..."

Ailag froze for an instant, then let out a shrill laugh:

"Muen Campbell, you’ve finally recognized your insignificance and want to—"

"I said... too slow."

Muen lifted his head and looked coldly at Ailag, cutting him off.

"This method is too slow."

The Love God’s power—very strange.

Ailag’s recovery as a cultist—terrifyingly abnormal.

Once, that monster Ailuka became also possessed an exceedingly dreadful regenerative power—but that was with her having fused the life force of several hundred villagers.

Where, then, did Ailag’s life force come from?

It couldn’t be from the Love God; if He could invest that much power right under the Church’s nose, He wouldn’t need to make so many detours.

The Love God may be a dog, but given the chance He’d never hesitate to strike personally.

Just like back at the academy, when He didn’t even balk at using the former former Saintess under His control to kill Muen.

Moreover, the power the Love God was using now—including the ambush just now—was entirely different from before.

Those flowers. That strange vitality.

This felt more like...

"But now isn’t the time to think about that."

Muen drew the spear of light from his chest bit by bit.

Though flesh was pierced through and the Holy Light burned, his face stayed expressionless—he didn’t even twitch a brow.

"What I need to think about now is... hacking away one blade at a time—against a monster with inhuman regeneration—is just too slow."

Before the words were finished, Ailag saw the two white short blades fly off, skimming toward Phil.

He wants to use those two living alchemical weapons to pin Phil?

But he’s voluntarily discarding his weapons—doesn’t that...

Ailag didn’t have long to think.

Because the next moment, the answer revealed itself.

Muen suddenly closed in—some hard object the size of a sandpot smashed into Ailag.

That was... a fist.

A clenched... fist!

There was nothing special on that fist; Muen didn’t have the habit of wearing rings, much less other alchemical weapons.

Yet when that fist slammed into Ailag, he abruptly heard a torrential thunderclap detonate!

Thunder!

An already supremely familiar technique burst between the knuckles; violent shockwaves, together with the anger that could no longer be contained... fell as one!

If the blade is too slow—then use fists!

Boom!

Ailag’s flesh collapsed in an instant; his whole body was like the deep sea struck by a meteor, with wave upon wave of meat surging outward from the center.

"You..."

Ailag roared in fury with difficulty; several fleshy tentacles shot out from his back, bearing sharp bone spurs as he counterattacked again, hoping to force Muen back and buy time to recover.

But faced with this attack, Muen neither retreated nor defended.

He only shifted his vitals slightly aside and let the bone spurs pierce through—then not only did he not fall back, he continued... with another punch!

One punch.

And another.

Fists beyond counting, accompanied by peals of thunder, poured down like a sudden storm without pause.

The slicing wounds from blades heal easily; these fists, however, kneaded Ailag’s body and flesh like dough on a board. Bone shattered, skin cracked, flesh festered; sinew and bone alike were hammered indiscriminately into everything—so that even if he recovered, in that extremely short window he could only be stitched back into a boneless, sagging lump.

"N—no... wait..."

After who knows how many punches, Ailag finally felt fear.

Undying vitality, at this moment, did not bring absolute invincibility, but endless pain—torment beyond the agony of a soul being torn.

From the fringe of the meat, he forced open «N.o.v.e.l.i.g.h.t» an eye and looked at that golden-haired man—bloody all over, wounded all over—whose face remained ferocious as he punched without the slightest pause. Ailag couldn’t help feeling the absurd—and then asking the question so many have asked before.

This the hell... is a pampered duke’s son?

"N—no... wait... Muen Campbell... let’s talk... we can still—"

"Shut up!"

Without mercy, Muen smashed to pulp every eye and mouthpart Ailag had painstakingly regrown.

Beg for mercy?

You can.

Just not you.

You, Ailag, from beginning to end were nothing but a pitiful clown—toyed with, controlled, even your mind corroded.

Therefore...

"Love God! Get out here!"

Frame after frame flashed before his eyes; farewell after farewell rang by his ears. Those things turned into blazing anger—and into thunder roaring ceaselessly on his fists.

"Love God! Don’t you damn pretend to be dead on me!"

One punch.

One punch.

Another punch.

Muen savagely worked over every inch of Ailag’s flesh with meticulous care until a completely different sensation arrested his motion.

Ailag’s entire body had been pounded through by Muen’s fist; beneath his knuckles the earth and rock were dented, and the mudlike flesh had splashed out in a ring. No human silhouette remained. Meat buds writhed across the gore, but no longer had the strength to restore.

Muen’s gaze swept coldly—then locked, suddenly.

"Found you!"

A squirming meat-ball burrowed up from the already-lifeless flesh and darted to flee.

But prepared as he was, Muen was faster; he snatched that meat-ball into his palm.

Sharp bone spurs punched through his hand from the sphere, yet Muen didn’t even notice; he only stared at it, cold.

An eye suddenly opened—icy, aloof, yet carrying the fury of being repeatedly profaned by an ant.

Muen drew a deep breath.

"I know this is only a projected avatar—merely a wisp of negligible consciousness. Even if I snuff it now, it won’t cost you much."

"And I know that for someone like me, who’s always wanted to muddle through and live well, this is an exceedingly unwise move."

"But... right now, I still want to say something to you with complete sincerity, Love God."

Overlooking the pupil in his palm, Muen bared his bloodstained mouth and, word by word, said gravely:

"Don’t let me ever catch an opening again. Otherwise I will, without hesitation, flay your skin, tear your flesh, dismantle your bones, and grind that disgusting authority of yours underfoot and throw it into a cesspit."

"And then, until the day finally comes..."

"I’ll kill the existence that is you—completely!"

With that said, the red flame—finally movable now that the Love God was constrained—rose in Muen’s palm and in an instant engulfed the meat-ball.

A furious, grating scream rang out—its very sound made one’s mind twitch in pain and the head reel—yet it still felt... so pleasant, so beautiful.

If those who were tormented by the Love God and still died for love could hear a sound like this, they would surely feel the same.