CHAPTER 138: CHAPTER 138 - THE CHAOTIC COMBAT

Luca tore his saber free before the body had even hit the ground, pivoting hard as another shadow came at him from the left — a flash of teeth, a scream that wasn’t human, a rusted spear thrusting for his ribs. He stepped inside the arc, slammed his elbow into the thing’s jaw, felt cartilage pop beneath the strike, drove a saber under its arm before it could crumple. The pull of the blade was harder now — sticky, dragging — but there was no time to notice.

Someone crashed into him from behind, not an enemy, one of their own, face streaked with grime and blood, shouting something he couldn’t hear over the roar. The man was gone a second later, swallowed by the press of bodies, his scream fading into the crush.

The air shook with Rolph’s voice somewhere ahead, a sharp command cutting through the storm — then the sound of metal on metal, fast, relentless. Luca caught a glimpse: Rolph spinning, sabers crossing in a spray of sparks, his golden hair whipping around as if the battlefield were bending to him. Then a wall of cultists surged between them, blotting him from view.

Luca moved without thinking — duck, slash, pivot, thrust — his arms burning, his lungs clawing for air that tasted of smoke and iron. The ground beneath him was a slick nightmare, boots slipping on churned mud and bodies. Every step was a fight in itself.

A horn bellowed somewhere to the right, deep and ugly. The sound seemed to pull the cultists in that direction, their formation twisting like a living thing. Someone grabbed Luca’s shoulder — too hard to be a comrade. He spun and found himself staring into eyes rimmed with red, the man’s lips peeling back to reveal sharpened teeth. A knife came up, caught in the crook of Luca’s saber, and they were pressed so close he could feel the man’s breath — hot, fetid, wrong. Luca drove his forehead forward, felt the crunch of bone, tore his saber free, and opened the man from shoulder to hip in one screaming motion.

The world narrowed to a tunnel. There was no sky anymore, no lines or sides — just a mass of moving bodies, weapons flashing, shouts that were more animal than human. A cavalry rider thundered past, nearly bowling him over, a spray of blood painting the horse’s flank. The rider vanished into the haze like a ghost.

Something whistled past his ear, close enough to burn. He turned and found himself too late — a club smashed into his side, the pain sharp and blinding, knocking the wind out of him. He staggered, sabers dipping, the ground heaving beneath him. A cultist raised the club again — and before Luca could move, an arrow sprouted from the man’s throat, his eyes going wide before he collapsed at Luca’s feet.

The reprieve was half a heartbeat. Then the crush came again, harder this time, and he was swept forward by the tide. His pulse was hammering in his skull now, faster than the clash of steel, syncing with the chaos until there was no difference between the pounding in his chest and the rhythm of the battle.

There was no end. Only the next enemy. The next breath. The next cut.

Steel.

Breath.

Blood.

Step—slash—turn.

A spear lunges.

Parry.

Kick.

Saber in the gut.

Hot spray across his cheek.

Something grabs his arm — he rips free — can’t see whose hand it was.

Screams in front, behind, inside his head.

The ground’s slick — he slips, catches himself, nearly loses his weapon.

Another body crashes into him.

Pushes him forward.

No time to think.

A sword whistles past.

Duck.

Rise.

Cut the legs out from under the man.

Don’t watch him fall.

Rolph’s voice, far away — shouting orders — swallowed by the roar.

Luca pushes toward it.

Something slams into his ribs.

Can’t breathe.

A blade flashes — too close — deflect, barely.

Counter.

Miss.

Counter again — find flesh.

He’s in the press now.

No left. No right.

Only forward.

Faces blur.

A mask of blood and ash.

An open mouth, teeth blackened.

A howl — not human.

Arrows hiss overhead.

One takes a man through the eye next to him — he drops without a sound.

Luca’s arm aches.

Chest burns.

Heartbeat in his throat.

In his skull.

Everywhere.

Step.

Swing.

Breathe.

Kill.

Then —

A sound like the world tearing open.A roar — deep, wrong, shattering. The press falters. Heads turn skyward.

Luca looked up. Through the haze — a shape drops from the clouds. Wings. Twisted.

Horns like spears.

The Devil General.

The moment stretches, a breath held by every soul on the field — then shatters as the creature slams into the earth, the ground breaking under its weight.

And the killing starts all over again.

Luca no longer knew how many he had killed, nor how many of his comrades had fallen. His body was drenched from head to toe in blood, some his own, most from those he had cut down. The warm, metallic scent clung to his skin and hair, seeping into every breath he took. Each movement felt heavier, but his arms did not stop.

The battlefield had transformed into a living nightmare. Screams echoed across the ruins, mingling with the clang of steel and the guttural roars of the devil cultists. So this is war... he thought grimly. When the Devil Emperor is still alive, this is what the world becomes. I was foolish to think that, like in the game, killing him would be the end. In the game, the wars were staged events—kill enough enemies, clear the map, move on. But here... there’s no map, no restart button, only endless killing.

He slashed through a cultist, ducked beneath a hammer swing, and rolled away from a second attacker. The human lines were being pushed back, the once-solid formation breaking apart into pockets of desperate skirmishes. Around him, the ground was littered with bodies—human and cultist alike—some mangled beyond recognition. Severed limbs lay scattered, and the blood flowed so freely it pooled and streamed through the cracked earth like rivers. The air was thick with the stench of burnt wood and charred flesh from the burning outposts behind them.

A cultist charged at him, muscles bulging with the strength of Meridian Saturation. Another followed close behind, their aura thrumming with the more potent energy of Core Compression. The stronger enemies—the ones whose power bent the air around them—were being engaged by the cavalry head and other elite fighters. These two were his.

Luca drew in a deep breath and let his ability flow. The world slowed—not frozen, but dulled just enough for him to read every twitch of muscle and shift of weight. He stepped forward between their staggered strikes, cutting low across the first cultist’s knee, feeling the tendon snap under his blade. Pivoting sharply, he drove his saber into the second one’s abdomen and twisted before pulling it free. The instant his focus eased, the world’s speed rushed back, and their agonized screams filled his ears.

More cultists surged toward him without pause. He met them head-on, ducking beneath a blade that skimmed so close it cut through strands of his hair. His movements were fluid, each strike clean, efficient, and without hesitation. There is no time to count. There is no room for hesitation. Only the next blade, the next enemy, the next breath.

Around him, the chaos never ceased. The cavalry was locked in brutal combat, but the enemy numbers seemed endless. Luca kept moving, his sabers flashing, his boots splashing through the blood-soaked mud as if he were carving a path through a sea that only grew deeper with every step.

Through the haze of clashing steel and cries of agony, Luca’s gaze snapped toward the cavalry head. The man was holding his ground against two spatial expansion cultists, his halberd sweeping wide arcs that kept them at bay. But from the shadows, a third cultist lunged—blade flashing, aimed for the gap in his armor.

Luca’s heart lurched.

The strike landed.

The cavalry head’s body jerked, his eyes going wide in disbelief before his knees buckled. He fell to the blood-soaked earth with a hollow thud, the life already draining from him.

"NOOOO!" Luca’s voice tore from his throat, raw with rage.

Around him, human soldiers were falling faster. They were already fewer in number, but now the imbalance was turning into a slaughter. The enemy pressed harder, their twisted grins gleaming in the dim light as they pushed the line back toward the camp.

Then, above the chaos, a shout ripped through the air.

"Those bastards have entered the camp! Devil bastards have entered the camp!"

Luca’s breath caught in his chest. No... her majesty... and my daughter...

His vision narrowed, and the battle in front of him became nothing but an obstacle between him and the camp. Rage and fear fused into a single burning force in his chest as he surged forward.

He cut down a cultist that stepped into his path, his blade sliding across the man’s throat. Another lunged from the left—Luca sidestepped and drove a saber into his ribs, ripping it free as he ran on. His legs moved on instinct, every muscle straining, every strike fueled by the desperate need to reach them before it was too late.

The battlefield blurred around him—faces, screams, steel, and blood all merging into one chaotic smear—as he carved a path through anything that dared stand in his way. The only thing that mattered was the camp, and the two souls waiting there.