"I asked a question," Sol shouted again, his voice rising into a low, thunderous roar that echoed off the whole battlefield. "Whose skin is this? Where the hell is Lumi?"
No one answered.
The silence of the battlefield was heavy with the stench of burnt meat and hot iron.
The Zharun warriors stood like statues, their faces pale as ghosts as they stared at the black-armored reaper who had just peeled a Layer 4 titan apart like a soft fruit.
Even the remaining Layer 3 ones kept their eyes locked on the dirt, terrified that catching his gaze for a single second would draw his wrath onto their own heads.
Sol’s eyes narrowed into sharp, dangerous slits.
He slowly scanned the huddled ranks of the Zharun tribe, looking for someone with enough position to answer, when his gaze stopped on a specific, trembling figure hidden deep behind the row of Layer 3 warriors..
It was the Zharun prince Gorr... the young, pampered son of Chief Vane who had ridden into the Veynar square months ago to claim the tribute.
He was dressed in clean, fine beast-leather armor, but right now, his body was shaking so violently his bone ornaments were rattling against his chest.
He was hiding behind three Layer 3 guard warriors directly in front of him, trying to use their bodies as a shield to hide from Sol’s view.
Sol narrowed his eyes and walked towards him.
His heavy boots crunched into the gravel with a slow, unhurried rhythm, but his actual movement was incredibly fast... a blurred black line that crossed the distance before the Zharun warriiors could even process his stride.
The three Layer 3 guard warriors stood like statues of defiance in front of their prince, bodies trembling under the overwhelming weight of Sol’s Golden Dominion.
Their primitive survival instincts screamed at them to protect Gorr, their charge.
Veins bulged on their thick necks and forearms as they desperately tried to raise their spears, muscles straining with every ounce of their enhanced strength.
But they couldn’t.
Not even an inch.
The invisible pressure crushed down on them like an entire mountain, locking their joints and pinning their feet to the blood-soaked ground. Their eyes widened in raw panic... the desperate, animalistic fear of warriors who realized they were already dead men standing.
Seeing them standing in the way, With one smooth, almost lazy sweep of his arm, the sapphire edge of the blade flashed under the sunlight.
SHUCK.
The high-frequency edge met their wooden spear shafts, thick leather armor, toughened skin, muscle, and bone with zero resistance. \
It was less like cutting flesh and more like slicing through warm butter.
A clean, horizontal line appeared across all three guards at waist level in the same instant.
For a fraction of a second, nothing seemed to happen.
Then their upper torsos slid sickeningly off their hips with a wet, meaty sound.
Bright arterial blood erupted in thick, pressurized jets from the severed halves, painting the white gravel crimson.
Organs spilled out in heavy, glistening ropes... intestines uncoiling, livers and stomachs dropping heavily into the dirt.
One guard’s face still held a look of shock as his torso fell, eyes blinking once before glazing over. Another tried to scream, but only a wet gurgle escaped as his lungs collapsed.
The three upper bodies crashed into the dirt with dull thuds, twitching faintly. Their severed legs remained standing for another grotesque heartbeat, before slowly toppling like felled trees.
Sol stepped directly through the falling remains without breaking stride. His boots splashed loudly in the fresh pool of red mud, blood and gore splattering up his calves. A stray loop of intestine caught briefly on his heel before tearing free.
But he didn’t even glance down.
He simply kept walking.
Now face-to-face with Zharun Prince Gorr.
The prince, still partially paralyzed under the crushing aura, stared up at the blood-drenched figure approaching him. Sol’s silhouette loomed like death itself... eyes cold, blade dripping, face spattered with the remains of the guards he had just bisected without a flicker of emotion.
Gorr’s mouth opened, but no words came out. Only a dry, terrified croak.
His face completely pale as a ghost, his entire body shaking so violently that his elaborate shell necklaces clattered loudly against his collarbone.
He had watched every single second of the brutal, graphic breakdown Sol had just inflicted on Malphas, and the thought of having his own limbs ground into the mud had completely destroyed his mind.
Sol stopped a mere two paces away, tilting his head slightly as he looked down at the royal-blooded monster. The Dreadwing Blade hummed softly at his side, hungry for more.
With a quiet flick of his mind, Sol loosened the crushing weight of the Golden Dominion in this small, specific sector, allowing the prince enough air to breathe and speak, though the heavy, freezing pressure still pressed against him like a solid block of stone.
"Please! Don’t! Don’t peel me! Don’t cut me!" the prince stammered, as his legs gave out and he fell down with a wet splash, but he didn’t care about that, instead he writhed forward to Sol’s feet, his hands clawing at his legs as he looked up with wide, tear-filled eyes.
"Whose face is that?" Sol asked, pointing the flat of his blade toward the pale leather strip in his hand."Where is Lumi? If you lie to me, I will start with your fingers, and I promise you, I will make it last twice as long as Malphas."
"It... it’s not her! It really isn’t Lumi!" the prince squealed, his voice cracking into a high-pitched sob as he held his hands up in a desperate gesture of surrender. "I swear to the ancestors! I’m not lying! That... that skin belongs to a girl from our Zharun tribe!"
The vibe of the entire battlefield suddenly shifted, the thick, suffocating aura of pure, murderous hatred radiating from Sol’s body turned into a sharp, suspicious focus.
Sol’s eyes burned into the Gorr’s face, reading the frantic, chaotic twitching of his facial muscles and the wild, racing rhythm of his heart. He definitely wasn’t acting.
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