Chapter 149: Surpassing the Limits of Mortals

A gale tore through the atmosphere, its howling shatters the very space.

A single punch—a simple punch, a punch that missed—unleashed a shockwave that stampeded like an enraged wild bull, plowing a massive scar across the land of Hermitica that nearly cleaved it in twain.

Dagon, or Dagon, the Great Old One from beneath the deep sea, was the king who reigned over the seven seas.

Much like Leviathan, the titanic sea beast that had once assaulted Hermitica on a dark tidal wave, this half-human, half-fish monster possessed a terrifying power far surpassing the mortal realm. Even when restricted and controlled, every move they made would become an irresistible, terrifying natural disaster to mortals.

Against this, neither Duke Galsworthy nor Brandon Onions had any particularly good countermeasures.

They had already done the absolute best they could.

Even though the silver-haired, black-eyed Lord of Hermitica had used the concept of the Ouroboros to push his own abilities into the forbidden domain, even though the Patriarch of the Order stationed in Hermitica had pushed the bloodline path of the Glorified and the fused stigma path of the Sword-Bearer to their absolute limits, even when two pinnacle powerhouses standing at the summit of the mortal world joined hands here, facing that ancient evil born from myth, they still lacked the strength to match their profound aspirations.

The disparity in strength was simply too insurmountable.

To minimize Dagon's destruction of Hermitica to the greatest extent possible, they were forced to choose the battlefield directly upon the body of this half-human, half-fish monster. They had to endure the overwhelming, foul stench blowing in their faces, running, leaping, and struggling to dodge the terrifying attacks that could rain down from the sky at any second on scales polished so smooth they could barely find footing.

Yet the situation did not improve; it even worsened.

Duke Galsworthy’s condition was abyssal. The Lord of Hermitica, who commanded infinite power and grew stronger with every passing second than he had been before, had indeed pushed his power to the absolute limit of the mortal path after stepping into that forbidden domain destined for death. However... correspondingly, he was bearing an increasingly crushing burden, and under Dagon's ever-ferocious assaults, he was beginning to falter.

Not from exhaustion, but from sheer strain.

—His spirit was teetering on the absolute brink of collapse amid the high-intensity combat.

On one hand, the silver-haired, black-eyed Glorified had to deal with the terrifying attacks that could arrive at any moment—attacks where even a mere graze or the shockwave of the wind pressure meant certain death; on the other hand, he had to divide his focus to control the endlessly proliferating power within his body, a power rooted in the placenta of the infinite serpent Ouroboros.

No matter how resilient a spirit might be, with such divided attention, it was bound to crumble sooner or later.

Though Duke Galsworthy was not yet at a point where he couldn't wield his own power in the short term, or fail to respond to Dagon's increasingly targeted offensives, it was foreseeable that this was merely a matter of time.

Moreover, the early signs had already begun to manifest.

"Watch out!"

Brandon, the Order's Patriarch stationed in Hermitica, noticed his distraction and shouted a stern warning.

Yet it was already too late.

The flexing, gnarled fingers descended like descending mountains. The momentarily dazed Lord of Hermitica had only enough time to leap downward, using the resulting frantic wind pressure to tear himself free from the giant merman's clutches.

Only... this was not the end.

Where Dagon surpassed Hydra lay not merely in its brute strength, but in its cunning intellect.

Its assault did not halt there. Having forced away the flea-sized Glorified clinging to its body, a second wave of attack followed seamlessly—a massive hand, nearly the size of a municipal hall, lunged outward, its fingers spreading like a great web, attempting to snatch mid-air Duke Galsworthy, who had no leverage to maneuver.

This was a meticulously plotted strike.

Nowhere to avoid, nowhere to escape—

The Patriarch of the Order narrowed his eyes; had he been in that exact position, he would have found it impossible to escape death.

Yet the silver-haired, black-eyed Lord of Hermitica seemed to have transcended the limits of mortals through his continuous reinforcement. Although he failed to react at the very instant the attack arrived, his subsequent actions were enough to make one acutely aware of his terrifying might.

He swung his sword.

He did nothing else; he merely swung his blade, slicing into the empty air before him.

Then, firelight was ignited within the darkness, only to vanish in the very next instant.

The legendary-grade sword glowed with an otherworldly radiance in the gloom, resembling a piece of iron heated to a scorching red—

The biting pressure of the blade tore the atmosphere apart, leaving the sound far behind in its wake.

"Rip!"

The sound of flesh being cleaved followed immediately afterward, and crimson blood spurted forth, raining down in a vivid, torrential drizzle over the skies of Hermitica.

Since the war's inception, the deity from the deep sea had been wounded for the very first time.

Though it was merely a shallow, insignificant scratch, it had undeniably forced the creature to recall the terror of being dominated by death upon some primordial battlefield stretching far beyond the passage of time.

—Driven mad by it?

How absurd!

The colossal, half-human, half-fish deity was filled with unadulterated fury, yet it was not consumed or controlled by that rage. The combat instincts, having grown dormant through ages of unending, tranquil peace, gradually awakened at this very moment—

Thus, the third wave of assault followed instantly on the heels of the second.

Anticipating the exact landing zone of the Glorified who was using the blade's recoil to descend, without the slightest hesitation or pause, Dagon kicked out with a sweeping, crescent-shaped arc, executing the motion with the mastery of an apex martial artist.

"Scree!"

With a distinct, sharp sound, a colossal gash was ripped open directly in space.

Yet the deity of the deep sea was far from satisfied with this outcome.

For it had missed its mark once again.

This strike had been faster than lightning, leaving the enemy no gap whatsoever to flee or evade.

It was an absolute, guaranteed kill.

And yet, it still failed to yield the anticipated results.

The enemy was not alone.

The other tiny insect it had overlooked played a crucial role at this exact moment—at this hair-raising, critical juncture, Brandon Onions unleashed his ability.

The power to command the wind, originating from his stigma!

It could be called a coincidence, or perhaps inevitability. The traveler who had once journeyed across the better part of the Depths of Night used the howling tempest he summoned to alter Duke Galsworthy's falling trajectory just before Dagon's attack landed, causing him to hit the ground a fraction of a second sooner and brush past the strike that possessed enough force to tear space asunder.

To be struck by that meant certain death!

Even to be grazed by the shockwave would mean failing to escape doom due to the violent drafting of the atmosphere!

And yet... the silver-haired, black-eyed Glorified felt no lingering fear—he was not even consciously aware of the crisis that had just brushed past him, simply reacting to the enemy through battle instincts honed by a thousand trials.

Reinforcing himself through reinforcement, he forged the placenta of the infinite serpent, Ouroboros.

This was an idea conceived under the inspiration of alchemists in the Holy City of Hammurabi. While it could not simply be called immature, he had scarcely researched this suicidal gambit—one which guaranteed the punishment of death the moment it was invoked—and had certainly no way to study it deeply.

Therefore, he was unaware that once one stepped into that forbidden domain, the elevation of power was not progressive, but rather a leaping ascension from slow to fast.

If the initial progression moved from one to two, and two to four, then he was currently situated in the stage moving from sixteen to thirty-two. The rate at which his power was accumulating had far exceeded his initial expectations.

Inversely proportional to this was the increasing difficulty in controlling his own physical form.

Like a child swinging a massive battle-axe, every single action he took required immense effort, yet the results were far from ideal.

His physical movements consistently lagged behind his consciousness by a beat or two.

If he were facing merely ordinary enemies, supplemented by battle instincts, sluggish thinking and lagging consciousness were not entirely fatal. However... the strength of the progeny of the Old Ones far exceeded everyone's expectations. Dagon, a calamity incarnate, possessed not only supreme strength that brooked no rivals but also human-like intellect and battle instincts honed to a peak far surpassing the entire mortal realm.

It was tremendously strong.

And compared to Duke Galsworthy's restricted power, its strength was unfathomably, unquestionably immense.

Before an entity of this caliber, anyone retaining a mortal identity could not help but tremble, forced to realize their own narrowness and ignorance.

Yet the Lord of Hermitica harbored no such thoughts.

Because this individual had already shattered the shackles of the identity known as "human."

From mortal to transcendent, the path leading to its very end and the invisible barrier standing before his eyes were forcibly broken by the gradually forming placenta of the Ouroboros within his body. His current power had grown so immense that even he felt a sense of awe, so vast that he himself no longer knew the true extent of his own might.

However, the silver-haired, black-eyed Glorified was not satisfied with this.

To be precise, he was profoundly dissatisfied.

—Power that cannot be controlled brings forth nothing but disaster.

To Duke Galsworthy, this was a loss of control—an intolerable loss of control, and a fatal one at that.

A beat too slow—

He was precisely a beat too slow! He failed to perceive the arrival of the fourth assault.

Dagon clenched its five fingers into a massive fist and smashed it heavily down into the earth.

"Boom!"

Splintering gravel and billowing dust completely swallowed the figure of the Glorified descendant. Accompanied by the spiderweb-like cracks spreading across the ground, the entirety of Hermitica sank downward.

Then came another punch.

With a deafening roar, the earth caved inward by another colossal margin.

Immediately following that was a third punch.

The sheer, ferocious impact of the blow punched directly through the mantle. The three tiers of the Walls of Sighs—situated between the upper and lower districts, between the lower district and the mist zone, and standing stoutly outside the mist zone—all collapsed simultaneously!

Like falling dominoes, the entirety of Hermitica was reduced to ruins in the span of a single breath.

Yet far more wretched was Brandon Onions.

When the Patriarch of the Order locked eyes with those crimson irises flickering ominously amidst the dust, he felt as though he heard a voice brimming with malice echo in the deepest recesses of his soul.

"You are next."

If he could, he wanted to run.

Yet directly behind him lay Hermitica—

Besides, having fled for so long, it was time to bring the past to a final reckoning. Perishing upon the very land that had nurtured and raised him might perhaps prove to be a fitting final resting place after all.

Brandon tightened his grip on his sword, and in the next instant—

A thick, muscular arm tore through the layers of mist, launching a fatal strike toward him.

How many rounds remained after this?

Recalling the extravagant treatment Duke had endured, the Patriarch of the Order arched an eyebrow.

—There is no escaping it.

Then he would turn around and bite off a few chunks of flesh in return!

With that, Brandon Onions swung his scepter, over-clocking the five major stigmas implanted within his body, fusing those stigmas seamlessly with his bloodline to channel the absolute ultimate strike.

The pinnacle of the mortal realm!

He possessed absolute confidence in this—

And yet, it merely produced a slight bruise, slicing through the scales on the hand to leave behind a shallow, insignificant gash.

What a pathetic way to die.

Staring at the wound that grew ever closer and larger, the old man could not help but think.

Then, a torrential spray of blood erupted into the air.

The entire expanse of Hermitica shuddered, followed closely by the thunderous crash of a heavy object plummeting to the earth.

It was an arm—

The deity of the deep sea, whose stature rivaled the heavens and the earth, was now left with but a single arm.

The Patriarch of the Order stared at the sudden transformation, watching this unbelievable spectacle. Tracing the trajectory from whence the attack had originated, he gazed upon the familiar figure flickering indistinctly within the mist, and let out a soft sigh, uttering his name:

"—Duke."

Duke Galsworthy.