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Still leaving everything aside, every death was an increase in soul power and every stream of soul power was another piece of the mystery he was trying to solve.

By the time Sol finally paused near the center of what had once been the Zharun formation, the ground around him was a carpet of corpses. Hundreds of Zharun warriors ... spearmen and elite fighters alike... lay broken and still.

The few who still lived were fleeing into the distance, too far and too scattered to be worth his personal pursuit.

Sol watched their dwindling figures for a brief moment, neon-crimson eyes calm and assessing. Chasing every last straggler himself would be a waste of time and energy.

There were still larger remnants of the Coalition, Zerith, and Marauder forces on the battlefield that required his attention.

So he simply turned his head slightly toward a shadowed corner of the battlefield where a pack of the remaining Blood Hounds still lingered... the same six-legged crimson beasts that had earlier been part of the Zharun’s elite cavalry before he took control of them.

A cold mental command pulsed outward from Sol’s will.

The Blood Hounds’ glowing red eyes snapped toward him in unison

With a collective, guttural snarl, the pack turned and launched itself after the fleeing Zharun survivors.

Even though these hounds were only low-layered beasts, they possessed two things in abundance: ferocity and numbers.

Their six powerful limbs tore across the limestone at terrifying speed, jaws already parting to reveal rows of needle-sharp teeth.

For a group of panicked, demoralized runners who had already abandoned their weapons and formation, the pursuing pack would be more than enough.

Sol did not bother watching the hunt unfold.

He closed his eyes for a moment and turned his senses inward.

The flow of soul power had been continuous and massive. Hundreds of lives had poured their residual energy into him. Yet whatever waited in his head still showed no sign of being full. No pressure. No cracking. No overflow.

Only quiet, endless acceptance.

Sol opened his eyes again, neon-crimson gaze calm and thoughtful.

"Still not enough," Sol murmured under his breath.

He turned his head slowly, neon-crimson eyes sweeping toward the remaining Coalition forces still scattered across the wider battlefield... the Zerith stalkers, the Marauders, and the last clusters of mixed infantry who had watched the complete annihilation of the Zharun in stunned, horrified silence.

Their weapons were still in their hands, but their formations had long since collapsed. Fear radiated from them in almost visible waves.

A faint, cold smile touched the corner of Sol’s lips. His fingers tightened slightly around the hilt of the Dreadwing Blade as he prepared to continue the harvest.

But just as he was about to step forward, something made him pause.

His gaze drifted almost by accident toward the Veynar lines... and locked onto two familiar figures.

Kira and Zeyra.

Both of them were staring at him with wide, horrified eyes. Not the awe or admiration he had grown used to seeing after his victories... but genuine fear. Kira’s face was pale, her lips slightly parted. Zeyra’s usual sharp confidence was gone, replaced by something close to dread. When their eyes met his, Kira slowly, almost imperceptibly, shook her head.

That small motion hit him harder than any of Bruga’s punches.

Hmm... are they afraid of me? But why?

The thought surfaced slowly, almost sluggishly. Only then did Sol become aware of the expression currently plastered across his own face... a manic, bloodthirsty grin that stretched too wide, too sharp, too eager.

It was the grin of something that had been enjoying the slaughter far too much.

Realizing this, Something inside him seemed to snap.

Sol forcibly smoothed his features, forcing the twisted expression down until his face returned to its usual cold, unreadable mask.

Looking down, his hands and body were dripping with fresh warm blood, as if he had just taken a bath in it.

Slowly, almost reluctantly, he turned his head and looked back at the ground around him.

An ocean of red blood.

That was the only way to explain it.

Broken bodies of Zharun warriors lay everywhere... bisected, impaled, crushed, and smashed.\

Limbs were scattered across the red ocean like discarded broken ships.

The scale of the carnage was immense.

And more importantly....every single one of those corpses had fallen by HIS hand.

For the first time since the killing began in earnest, Sol felt a genuine sense of shock.

...I did this.

Earlier, in the heat of battle and the strange hunger for soul power, he hadn’t truly registered the weight of it.

Each kill had felt efficient. Necessary. Even satisfying in a cold, distant way.

But looking at the full result now... the sheer quantity of death he had personally created... struck him like a punch straight into the face.

They deserved to die. Of that, he was still certain. The Zharun had betrayed the Veynar, poisoned their leaders, and planned the slaughter of innocents. Mercy would have been stupidity.

But the way he had done it... the hunger, the almost addictive urge to keep feeding that mysterious void in his head, the manic pleasure that had crept onto his face without him noticing...

That definitely wasn’t normal.

Even though they deserved death, he was definitely not the kind of bloodthirsty demon who took genuine pleasure in slaughter. At least... he hadn’t been.

Something is wrong with me.

The realization settled heavily in his chest. Whatever was happening with the soul power vanishing into his head... whatever was changing inside him... it was beginning to affect more than just his cultivation. It was starting to erode something fundamental.

Sol exhaled slowly through his nose, forcing the unease down. This was not the time or place to unravel it. Not with hundreds of enemy eyes still on him, and not with Kira and Zeyra watching.

He would investigate it later.

For now, he needed to finish this cleanly.

His gaze returned to the restless Coalition warriors standing across the field. Many of them were shifting nervously, clearly debating whether to run, fight, or throw down their weapons. The air was thick with tension and the copper scent of blood.

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