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It was a forbidden, desperate technique that would permanently destroy his internal pathways afterward, but right now, he didn’t care about the tomorrow he might never see.

His skin turned a deep, dark green as thick veins rose across his forehead like crawling earthworms.

Forcing his broken body to ignore the agony, Malphas rolled violently across the gravel, barely avoiding a heavy heel-drop from Sol that shattered the bedrock where his head had been a microsecond before.

"I will kill you!" Malphas growled, his voice raw with pure madness.

He lunged forward from his hands and knees, using his one good leg to launch his heavy body like a wounded predator.

He didn’t care about his cleaver anymore; his remaining hand opened into five thick claws, aiming straight for the gaps in Sol’s Rockhorn armor near the throat.

He was burning his very soul now, drawing upon the deep, forbidden reservoirs of his lineage’s latent potential just to force a single fatal trade.

Sol didn’t flinch. He casually leaned his upper body backward by three inches, letting the giant’s bloody claws scrape harmlessly across the front of his carapace, leaving nothing but five shallow gray scratches.

As Malphas flew past his shoulder, Sol’s right hand flicked out in a short, brutal backhand.

SMASH.

The impact hit him square in the jaw, violently spinning his head to the side. Three yellow teeth flew out into the dust, and Malphas crashed back down onto the white gravel, his nose completely flattened and his left eye swelling into a dark purple lump.

Malphas gasped for air, his lungs burning as he stumbled backward. His Layer 4 vitality was the only thing keeping him from falling apart into separate chunks of meat.

The internal core inside his chest was spinning so violently it felt like hot charcoal, forcing his blood to clot and his broken bones to lock into place by sheer willpower.

He had fought giant marsh pythons and broken the skulls of rival tribal lords, but he had never faced a force so utterly heavy, and unyielding.

He tried to scramble backward through the dirt, claws gouging deep furrows in the ground, but it was already too late. Sol’s right hand snapped down like a striking viper, thick fingers clamping around the giant’s wrist with bone-crushing force.

With a cold, deliberate twist, Sol pulled.

SNAP.

The giant’s elbow joint inverted with a wet, sickening crunch.

White bone tore through gray skin like a broken knife, ripping muscle and tendon apart in a spray of dark blood.

Malphas’s scream tore across the silent valley... a high-pitched, broken wail that sounded nothing like the proud warrior he had been moments ago.

It was the sound of an animal realizing it was being butchered alive. His proud body flailed wildly in the dirt, legs kicking uselessly like a beached whale.

Sol didn’t release him.

He dragged the giant upward by the ruined arm, muscles bulging as he lifted the enormous body clean off the ground until they were eye-to-eye.

Malphas’s face twisted in agony, spit and blood flecking from his lips, his yellow eyes wide with shock and dawning terror.

Then the real dismantling began.

Sol drove a short, vicious right hook deep into the his stomach. The impact was devastating... leather armor caved inward with a sharp crack as the punch ruptured Malphas’s liver.

The giant convulsed, doubling over as much as Sol’s iron grip allowed, and vomited a thick, steaming stream of black bile that splattered across the ground and down his own chest.

Before he could even draw a breath, Sol’s left palm slammed downward onto his collarbone like a sledgehammer.

The bone shattered instantly.

Malphas’s head jerked violently, his chin smashing against his chest as the left side of his neck flattened under the force.

A strangled gurgle escaped his throat, half-scream, half-choke.

But Sol wasn’t done.

He yanked the giant closer and drove a brutal knee straight into his thick thigh. The heavy muscle tore away from the hip bone with a grisly ripping sound, the impact so powerful it nearly folded the giant’s leg backward.

Malphas’s entire body spasmed, his hand clawing desperately at Sol’s forearm, nails scraping uselessly against skin .

Piece by piece, Sol was breaking him.

Every strike landed with surgical cruelty... another bone snapped, another pathway ruptured, another strip of tough gray hide tore open to reveal the raw, bleeding flesh beneath. Malphas’s once-mighty Layer 4 vitality betrayed him now.

His heart kept beating stubbornly, refusing to let him slip into the mercy of unconsciousness.

He was forced to feel every agonizing second: the white-hot fire in his shattered joints, the wet grinding of broken bones, the sickening warmth of his own blood pouring down his body.

The giant’s proud roars had long since dissolved into pathetic, wheezing sobs.

His massive frame hung limply in Sol’s grip, twitching with every new wave of pain, yet still conscious... still aware.

Sol’s voice was low, almost conversational, as he held the broken giant up for the valley to witness.

"You talked a lot earlier," he said quietly. "Let’s see how much fight you have left."

"Chief... Vane..." Malphas choked out through his shattered jaw, his blood bubbling between his broken lips. "Help... me..."

...

Around the edges of the clearing, the rest of the battlefield had fallen into a strange, paralyzed silence.

The remaining Marauders and Zharun were standing completely still, their weapons resting uselessly in their hands, their eyes wide with a deep, paralyzing confusion.

Chief Vane was sweating profusely, his hands shaking as he stood twenty paces away.

He was a true Layer 4 master, but right now, his legs felt like solid lead. His essence was coiling and thrashing inside his chest, but no matter how hard he tried to command his body to step forward, his feet refused to leave the ground.

He was completely locked in place by the invisible, suffocating weight.

It wasn’t just him. Farther back, the twenty-foot Grand Chieftain of the Gray Marauders was also straining against the heavy air, his massive chest heaving as he tried to lift his seven-foot club, his eyes full of an uncharacteristic, frantic panic.

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