CHAPTER 119: DIDN’T WORK

Varros surged forward with a cry that split the air, his voice a hoarse, furious growl.

"AAAAARRGGHHH!!"

The sword in his hand pulsed with molten light, the edge of the blade burning with flame-enhanced runes carved deep into its core.

It was no ordinary weapon—blessed by archmages of the eastern sanctuaries, refined in volcanic caverns, and enchanted with the calming power of Lilliflare petals, a herb known to ease minds and grant clarity in battle.

It was his pride, his soulbound relic—yet as the sword carved downward with explosive force, aimed directly for Yxthul’s chest—

—it stopped.

No, it didn’t just stop.

It landed.

But did nothing.

Not even a scratch.

The flaming edge did not pierce, nor even press into the creature’s flesh. It halted the moment it made contact, like steel being tapped against a wall of water too dense to penetrate. The heat sizzled harmlessly in the air, flickering, flickering... and then faded.

Yxthul looked down, blinking at the sword resting against his torso.

"I told you," he said softly, almost with pity. "It wouldn’t work."

But Varros didn’t listen.

Rage overtook reason.

He roared again, pulled the blade back, and attacked.

Over and over, slashes blurred through the air, arcs of flame bursting from the edge. Mana surged through every stroke, wind trailing behind him in every leap and turn.

He used all his refined movements—maneuvers honed over decades, against warlords and beasts, traitors and monsters.

He ducked, pivoted, swept, thrust—his blade dancing with all the grace and fury of a battle-hardened warrior chief.

But Yxthul didn’t dodge.

Didn’t deflect.

Didn’t even move.

He stood there.

Unblinking.

Still.

And every strike—no matter how precise, how empowered, how frenzied—landed the same way.

With a whisper-soft tap, and nothing more.

Each time, Varros’s sword glanced off his scaled flesh like it was caressing marble carved by the sea gods themselves.

Even when Varros screamed and drove the blade with two hands, his muscles trembling with strain, it slid away as though Yxthul’s body rejected the very concept of harm.

The sound of metal-on-scale began to echo like mockery.

"RAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!" Varros howled, twisting his grip and stabbing forward with all his strength.

Again. Nothing.

The fire in his sword extinguished with a faint wheeze.

Suddenly, he staggered back.

His breath caught.

His arms trembled.

His eyes wide.

The grip on his sword slipped, and the tip clanged dully against the stones.

The surrounding knights, still poised with blades and staves raised, shifted uneasily. Several took steps back.

"Impossible..." Varros muttered, his voice shaking. "This... this cannot be."

He looked at his hands.

Sweat poured down his face, but his heart pounded even faster from a different sensation now.

Fear.

Pure, bone-deep fear.

"My strength..." he whispered. "My mana—my core. I—I’m... I’m several stages higher. I should be above this thing. Stronger than any lesser-territory creatures..."

Yxthul’s voice was calm, but filled with something darker than mockery. "Are you?"

Varros blinked.

"What?"

"Look at yourself again," Yxthul said, almost playfully.

Varros hesitated. Then instinctively, he summoned a scan rune—his own.

The moment it activated, his stomach dropped.

His knees buckled.

His sword clattered to the ground.

"No..."

The rune glowed weakly.

The readings—it couldn’t be right.

He was now a seventh-stage.

He wasn’t even sixth.

He was now reading as a Novice Mana Knight.

A mere Novice Mana Conjurer too.

Weaker than the greenest recruits.

His core—it felt like something had chewed through it. His internal reservoir of mana, once a vast and roaring river, now barely trickled like a stream lost in the woods.

"No. No! This can’t be right!" he screamed.

Behind him, shouts echoed.

"Chief—Chief! What’s happening?!"

"I—I can’t feel my mana properly!"

"Mine too! I’m... I’m weakened!"

"The runes won’t form—I can’t hold a circle—!"

The knights panicked as they too began checking their cores. Each one staggered back as if struck by the same invisible blow. Shock took hold like frostbite. They realized they weren’t just tired—they were diminished.

A few fell to their knees.

All of them now stood as weak as Varros.

As weak as their leader.

As weak as frightened children in armor too heavy to carry.

Yxthul exhaled deeply, savoring the moment like fine wine. Then he began to laugh. Soft at first, then louder, until it echoed around the hills like waves crashing against a cliff.

"You’re all so surprised," he said, finally catching his breath. "But don’t you realize...? From the moment you stepped into this trap, the ambient field I radiate began eating through your mana. Like acid. Like parasites. Like... evolution."

"You—!" Varros growled, pushing himself upright again. "I don’t care! I’ll still fight you! Even if I’m nothing but a scrap of power!"

He lunged toward his sword.

Clutched it.

Stood tall again.

"This blade..." he panted, voice grim and iron. "It was blessed. With the Lilliflare Petal’s calming light. I will bring you down."

Yxthul blinked once.

Then with casual grace, he stepped forward and snatched the blade from Varros’s grip so fast that not even the wind noticed.

Varros didn’t react in time.

He couldn’t.

"You’re too slow," Yxthul said simply. "And too nervous."

He held the sword up, inspecting it with idle interest. Spun it once. Then twice. Let the edge glint in the sunlight.

The craftsmanship was fine—etched golden veins, volcanic obsidian as the base, and the faint, lavender glow of Lilliflare essence pulsing near the hilt.

"Hm," Yxthul murmured. "Black Vale craftsmanship. Eastern curvature. Fire core rune stabilized by a double-seal. Not bad. Efficient layering of enchantments. Strong enough to cleave through a wyvern’s plated hide if struck cleanly. But it’s fragile. All that elegance sacrifices weight distribution. Wouldn’t last five minutes in the trenches."

He flipped the blade and caught it again.

"Oh," he added, "and the calming effect? That infamous Lilliflare Petal you all prize so much?"

Varros flinched.

Yxthul smirked.

Another creature stepped forward from the mist.

It had a humanoid body—tall, spindly—but its head was unmistakably octopus-like. Slick tentacles drooped from its face.

Its skin shimmered with patches of glistening green and deep sea blue. Its gait was jerky, unnatural.

Yxthul casually turned and struck it with the flat of the stolen sword.

The creature crumpled.

Its body writhed.

For a moment, it looked like it might die.

But then...

With a slow, slithering grace, its limbs twitched.

The tentacles coiled again.

It stood.

Completely unbothered.

The knights gasped.

Even Varros stepped back in horror.

Yxthul turned toward him.

"Oh, it works at first," he said, tilting his head. "Your calming effect. It numbs the mind, forces submission, even slows the neural patterning of certain beasts. But my spawns? They adapt."

He let the sword fall to the ground.

"And as for the others—your men—the scouts, the archers, the brave fools who charged first? We let them think they were winning. Let them slay what they thought were threats. It was all a play. A little performance."

He took one step closer.

"To lure you all in."

Yxthul smiled.

And then, he began to laugh again.

This time it was no longer mocking.

It was evil.

A deep, resonating sound that bubbled up from somewhere too far beneath the earth, too alien to belong in any realm known to man. It stretched out across the field, drowning the wind, curling into the air like a fog of dread.

And none of them could move.

They were frozen—by fear, by horror, by the final realization that they were no longer in control.

They were prey.

And the hunt had just begun.