CHAPTER 389: THOMAS’S DETERMINATION

He wore rich but garish robes, embroidered with the insignia of a noble house.

His hair was slicked back, and an ostentatious ring shone on his gloved finger as he adjusted his collar with theatrical flair.

He had the look of someone who thought himself important—chin slightly raised, sneer permanently carved into his lips—the kind of face people instinctively wanted to punch.

Thomas’s expression darkened. "Damon," he muttered. "Should’ve known you’d crawl out eventually."

Damon smirked wider. "And here I thought that poison finished you off years ago. Yet look at you... still hobbling around, playing escort dog to some rich brat. Truly tragic."

Then his eyes shifted to Apollo.

"And you, stranger... unlucky, I suppose. But don’t worry—we’ll keep your corpse intact."

A low chuckle rippled through the killers encircling them.

Still, Apollo’s face didn’t change. He gave the group a once-over, then looked back to Damon—as if measuring the weight of their lives.

One second passed.

Then another.

Then, softly, he spoke.

"I give you all one chance."

His voice was quiet—too quiet for someone surrounded by blades—but each word carried like a calm wind before a storm.

"Leave now... or kneel."

Apollo glanced at the thugs encircling him, then returned his gaze to Damon—slowly, almost lazily.

There was no urgency in his demeanour. No tension in his stance.

Only an air of bored curiosity... like he was observing an insect trying very hard to look like a tiger.

He can instantly kill those people along with this trashy third-rate young master, but he didn’t do it, as he really didn’t have much experience with the protagonist’s treatment of slapping faces, and now because of Thomas, he also wanted to try it.

Anyways, it was the land of the northern continent; it wouldn’t be bad to be pretentious.

He tilted his head slightly, letting a faint smile tug at the corner of his lips—not kind, not warm, but steeped in mockery.

"So... you’re Damon." He said the name as if tasting something sour. "Tell me, is this the part where you give a monologue and tell me how ’no one dares defy your clan’ or something equally pathetic?"

The smirk on Damon’s face twitched.

The smirk on Damon’s face twitched.

"You’re cocky for someone surrounded," he snapped. "Let’s see how long that mouth of yours lasts when we cut out your tongue."

Thomas let out a breath, half-nervous, half-expectant. He could tell Apollo was very strong and out of the ordinary, but he still felt a bit nervous.

But to his surprise, Apollo’s voice rang, "Come on, Thomas, show me what you got."

"Ah, what!"

And he was pushed forward to face the group.

Thomas stumbled slightly as Apollo gently but firmly pushed him forward.

The thirty-plus killers, blades drawn and confidence high, suddenly paused in momentary confusion. Their eyes shifted from the blue-eyed youth who radiated terrifying calm... to the ragged, half-crippled man now standing awkwardly in front of him.

Damon crossed his arms, his smirk returning. "So the brat hides behind his crippled dog."

Apollo didn’t answer the idiotic young master Damon and looked towards Thomas, as the killers were mostly second-rank limit-breakers, with a few at third rank, and only the guy behind the idiot Damon was a saint-rank warrior, who wouldn’t join the battle as he should focus on protecting Damon.

So he wanted to see how Thomas would perform in the current situation. Anyway, these trash were too low-level and could save him whenever he wanted.

"Don’t worry, fight with all your might." His voice rang again.

Thomas froze for half a breath, then clenched his fists.

The poison still gnawed at his insides, making his movements sluggish and spiritual power unsteady—but a fire had been lit.

Even if it was only to test him, even if it was against trash...

He wouldn’t waste the opportunity.

One of the thugs, a burly axe-wielding man with bloodstained leather armour, laughed and lunged forward. "I’ll cut down this mutt myself—!"

He didn’t finish.

Thomas’s hand shot up in a blur. A needle-thin strand of crimson energy surged from his fingertip and pierced the man’s neck with precision.

The thug gagged, eyes bulging—then collapsed.

Dead before he hit the ground.

The others paused again.

That wasn’t the attack of a cripple. That was assassin-level control.

Even Damon’s eyes narrowed slightly.

Thomas took a slow breath, then shifted his stance.

The weakness didn’t vanish—his limbs still ached, his energy still flickered—but for a moment, his aura pulsed. Not with power... but with skill. The kind that could only come from experience and countless kills.

For the last few years he survived this hellish northern continent with his strong will. He faced deathly situations numerous times, but thankfully he survived, gaining a very keen sense of fighting.

"Hmm, the cripple is just lucky. What the hell are you guys doing? Kill him quickly." Damon ordered his subordinates.

And immediately the thirty guys jumped towards Thomas.

The thirty killers surged forward at once, like a pack of wolves descending on wounded prey.

Thomas didn’t retreat.

Instead, he smiled.

It was the cold, grim smile of a man who’d faced worse odds in pitch-black forests, during snowstorms, while bleeding out.

His aura flared.

Not with power, but with precision.

He moved like a ghost, weaving between blades and fists. A knife aimed for his throat was slapped aside with a quick wrist flick. And like a veteran, even surrounded, he faced all the attacks, evading them in the last moments, juggling with his life and death.

A pressure built in the air—not from Thomas’s strength, but from his sheer presence.

"Why is he this fast?!"

"He’s poisoned, right?!"

"Why can’t we land a damn hit?!"

Their formation broke.

Thomas took advantage instantly. And instantly attacked the killers one after another.

Blood sprayed.

Screams echoed.

Damon’s eyes widened in disbelief. "T-this... this isn’t possible. He was supposed to be crippled and dying!"

Thomas wiped the blood from his face and took a slow breath, his body trembling slightly from exhaustion and poison—but his eyes were sharp. He was not only tired, he was also injured, as it wasn’t easy to remain uninjured facing so many foes, but even though it felt like he would lose his consciousness and die, he remained standing.

Apollo finally meddled, "Okay, that’s it; you can stop."

"I can keep going," he muttered.