CHAPTER 1141: BLASTED.

The rain turned red before it touched the ground.

Cain stood amidst the carnage, his breath steady now—too steady. The field stretched endlessly, broken only by the forms of the fallen. His blade dripped crimson, steam rising from it in slow, curling tendrils. Across from him, Baldur was on one knee, the fire in his eyes dim but not yet extinguished.

"You’re... not human," Baldur rasped, pressing a bloodied hand against his chest wound. "No man fights through exhaustion like that."

Cain’s reply was a whisper that cut through the thunder. "You’re right."

He lifted Eidwyrm and rested the flat against his shoulder, eyes distant. "But neither do you."

For a heartbeat, silence reigned. Then Baldur threw his head back and laughed—a sound more beast than man. He planted his axe into the ground and forced himself upright, muscles trembling, veins pulsing with stubborn defiance.

"Good," the Ox King muttered, wiping the blood from his mouth. "I’d rather die to something that isn’t a man."

Cain’s expression didn’t change. "Then I’ll grant you that."

They moved at once.

No wasted motion. No words. Just two forces of will colliding, the world shrinking around them into the rhythm of killing. The ground beneath them buckled, wind screaming around the point of their clash. Each swing could have leveled a fortress. Each dodge came within a hair of death.

Cain feinted left, drew Eidwyrm in tight, and drove it forward. Baldur caught the blade with his forearm, the steel biting deep. Blood sprayed, but the giant roared through it, bringing his axe around in a sweeping arc meant to sever Cain in half.

Cain dropped low, rolled through the mud, and came up behind him. His blade met the back of Baldur’s shoulder, carving deep enough to reach bone. The Ox King stumbled, breath leaving him in a growl.

Lightning split the sky again, casting them both in stark relief—the titan and the demon, framed by fire and storm.

Then Baldur turned, slower now but smiling still. "This," he said, voice heavy as thunder, "is what war should be."

Cain’s eyes flickered, something ancient stirring beneath the surface of his calm. He stepped forward once, and in that instant, the world seemed to still.

When he spoke, his voice carried something unearthly, something colder than divine.

"It’s not war," he said. "It’s cleansing."

The final strike came without warning. Baldur swung down, Cain stepped in—too close, too precise—and their weapons met one last time.

The sound was not thunder. It was finality.

When the rain fell again, only one of them remained standing.

Cain exhaled, slow and deep, as he slid Eidwyrm back into its sheath. The battlefield around him was quiet now—eerily so. He looked up at the storm-washed sky, eyes reflecting the fire below.

Then he whispered, almost to himself, "One down."

And began walking toward the next war.

Cain’s boots sank into the blood-soaked earth as he walked away from the corpse of the Ox King. The battlefield had gone eerily silent—no more screams, no more clashing steel. Only the steady hiss of rain striking the smoldering craters left in the wake of their clash.

The storm above still raged, though it seemed to follow him, as if the heavens themselves were watching what he had done. The flames that once burned across the field began to fade, eaten by the downpour. The acrid scent of scorched soil filled his lungs.

Behind him, Baldur’s massive form slumped forward. The fire in his veins had gone out. His eyes, which had once blazed like molten gold, were dull now—just another empty vessel that once thought itself invincible.

Cain didn’t look back. He didn’t need to. The moment Baldur fell, he felt the shift in the air—the subtle ripple of power released from the man’s body. The spiritual tether to his Celestial patron had snapped. Another divine anchor, severed.

The battlefield was proof enough of their insanity. Hundreds of soldiers, human and otherwise, lay twisted and broken in the mud. Some still twitched, clutching at open wounds as the life drained out of them. Others were already gone, their faces locked in expressions of confusion, rage, or disbelief.

He could feel the Divinity leaking from the dead, faint and fading, like the dying embers of a once-great fire. That was the true curse of the Celestials—they didn’t just crave worship; they consumed it. Every death, every act of faith or desperation, was another offering. Even this war served as a feast for them.

Cain spat into the dirt. "Parasites."

He tightened his grip on Eidwyrm. Its crimson blade pulsed once in response, a faint heartbeat echoing from within the weapon. The connection between him and the blade felt almost alive—hungry, but patient.

A gust of wind tore through the field, dragging his cloak sideways. He raised his head, eyes narrowing as he felt movement far ahead. Through the sheets of rain, he could make out shifting silhouettes—scouts, perhaps. Survivors. The remnants of Baldur’s army, trying to regroup after witnessing their leader’s death.

Cain exhaled slowly. "Of course they wouldn’t run."

He began walking toward them.

Each step was deliberate. Heavy. The mud clung to his boots, the rain beat against his shoulders, but he didn’t slow down. The closer he got, the more defined the figures became—men and women, bloodied but standing.

They saw him too. The one who had killed their god.

A murmur spread through their ranks—half fear, half madness.

"He killed the Ox King."

"That can’t be him—"

"Fall back!"

Cain didn’t stop.

He drew Eidwyrm again, the blade gleaming with a dull, hellish glow that reflected in the eyes of the terrified soldiers. They started to break formation. One man raised his spear and screamed, charging blindly, desperate for revenge or redemption.

Cain met him halfway.

A single swing. The man’s torso split open from shoulder to hip, the strike clean and merciless. The others hesitated, horror freezing them in place.

Cain stepped through the falling body and continued forward.

"Those who stay," he said, voice calm but resonant, "die."

Some ran. The rest didn’t get the chance.

What followed wasn’t battle—it was execution. Cain cut through them with precision and rhythm, each strike ending a life before the next could begin. He moved like a shadow, like the embodiment of inevitability.

By the time it ended, the rain had washed away most of the blood.