The flying fist. The fist wrapped in white steel. With the help of acceleration, Aslan barely managed to identify the fist.
However, identifying it was not enough to respond.
A situation where an ordinary person would surely die. In such a scenario, what saved Aslan was the skill he had honed over twelve years of fighting.
Aslan, who could be called a master among masters, his skills refined to the extreme, moved his body almost instinctively.
Twisting his waist and turning his body from the ankles, he created space to swing his sword and struck upward.
Though the swing of purity couldn’t cut through the tyrant’s scales, it was enough to block the attack.
Unbroken, neither bent nor pushed back, the blade of pure white steel held its ground. The tyrant wore an expression that seemed slightly surprised.
“Ha!”
Smiling, the tyrant threw another punch.
Kwa-u-u-uung!
A straight left fist came rushing in, aiming to crush Aslan’s head.
Using his sword, Aslan blocked the incoming punch by crossing it above his body.
Ka-a-a-aang!
The harsh metallic sound rang out, and atop it, the tyrant clenched his fist and charged forward.
What followed was a relentless barrage of attacks, leaving no room for breath, countered only by Aslan’s desperate dance of evasive maneuvers.
He moved his feet, twisted his waist, swung his arms, retracted with his back, and adjusted his fingers to change tactics—all to respond.
The sharp clang of metal echoed repeatedly as countless collisions of metal on metal resounded almost continuously.
With enhanced cognitive speed and intuition from the acceleration magic and fortune, Aslan barely endured the lethal barrage of the tyrant’s attacks.
Counterattack? In the current situation, it was unimaginable.
All he could do was read the trajectory of the punches and block them in advance.
The more he blocked, the harder the tyrant’s fists became to stop, and Aslan’s defenses began to crumble.
Ka-gang, Kwang!
A glancing blow caused his foothold to collapse, but even while stumbling, Aslan deflected the attack aimed at his head with the hilt of his sword.
The tyrant’s attacks were too fast and powerful to block with just purity.
Thus, Aslan transformed the longsword into a shield form to counter.
In doing so, everyone watching saw a bizarre spectacle.
It was like witnessing sparks of metal, a scene akin to seeing molten metal flames.
The collision sound rang several times in a single breath. Though the exchange lasted merely ten seconds, it contained countless offensives and defensive battles.
Blocking with the shield, deflecting with purity, countering with attacks.
Striking the scales with purity, then retreating.
Deflecting a punch aimed at the chest with the shield, adapting to the gradually adjusting tyrant.
It was sheer hardship.
A terrifying fight where one mistake could lead to death.
Eventually, the tyrant began catching up to Aslan’s movements.
A straight punch thrown at a speed barely visible to the eye.
As Aslan tilted his shield to block, the punch halted mid-motion, then curved into an elbow strike against the shield.
Zzai-eeng!
An attack too fast and heavy for the shield form of Seobseong to handle—it slipped from Aslan’s grasp.
And as Seobseong fell from Aslan’s hand, the tyrant twisted his waist and launched another punch.
Aiming for the heart.
If he couldn’t block it, he would die.
But purity had just been swung and wasn’t ready to be swung again.
Twisting his body to swing again wouldn’t work either—Aslan’s center of gravity was centered.
Thus, all Aslan could do was swing the Dragon King’s fist.
The balled-up sword-turned-fist emitted a turbine-like sound for a moment, then shot forward at a speed that could drop a bird.
That way, the black fist met the white fist.
Kwa-a-a-a-aang!
“Kruuk…!”
Even using the power embedded in the arm of the Dragon King, the difference in strength was insurmountable. Aslan’s body was sent flying.
“Aslan!”
Ereta, who had been anxiously watching, unable to intervene in the fight, rushed in and caught Aslan, finally stopping his flight.
Aslan’s shoulder, dislocated and stretched, was slowly being healed by the pillar of creation imbued in purity.
“Huff, huff, hheu.”
Even with the status effect of indomitable invalidation, he was visibly exhausted.
Blood flowed from the joint of the Dragon King’s arm.
Meanwhile, the tyrant appeared relaxed.
Though the arm hit by the Dragon King’s fist was crushed flat.
Leesham and Mayor Eiron saw this as an opportunity.
“Now! Attack!”
“We must kill him here and now! Soldiers of Surethor! Advance! Protect the citizens of the empire!”
They shouted in succession as two Greens charged forward.
The tyrant glanced at the scene from the corner of his eye.
“Hmm.”
With a casual snort, he swung his crushed arm.
Uddeok!
Then, as if it were a lie, the crushed arm regrew.
The arm covered in scales gleaming with a white light took position.
Seeing this, Aslan’s party acted without waiting for his orders, and the tyrant prepared to face all his approaching adversaries.
Dd-d-d-deak, Ka-ang!
The first to arrive was Phey. A fairy reaching supersonic speeds.
Phey’s sword strike, red as lightning, slashed at the tyrant’s neck, only to spark harmless white embers.
No effect despite cutting between the scales.
Having seen new scales sprout at the moment of the cut, Phey clicked her tongue and spun around.
Soaring upward, she performed a roundhouse kick.
Despite the abrupt directional change, the movement was astonishingly fast, making it impossible for anyone present to follow her motion.
Even the tyrant couldn’t.
Yet.
Every existence, regardless of how powerful, must pause momentarily upon striking.
The tyrant knew this well.
Kwa-a-a-aang!
Tttae-ek!
Chasing the red flash with his eyes, the instant Phey’s kick connected and tilted his head, his body leaned and delivered a spinning kick.
Phey flew away, battered by the sudden pain.
A spinning kick as a counter when his head was kicked.
The kick was powered by the force of being struck on the head.
As Phey flew away, Angie entered the supersonic exchange.
“Huuuuaaaahhh!”
Driving in with a decisive blow, Victory, made of white steel—a weapon dealing strength-proportional damage—was received on the tyrant’s shoulder.
Kwa-a-a-a-a-a-aang!
Crackling scales, blood flowing, a split shoulder blade.
Before Angie could react, the split shoulder blade regenerated, holding Victory in place.
“Ugh…?!”
It was intentional. Before Angie could realize this, the charging tyrant crushed her hand with a punch, causing Victory to slip from her grasp.
Goo-ung, the landing of Victory marked the beginning of a brawl.
Kwa-ga-ga-ga-ga-ga!
A brawl loud and destructive enough to fill the surroundings with noise and destruction.
A barrage of punches capable of shattering a body equivalent to Angie’s health of 15 points.
Amidst it, Angie was confused.
The punches were slower and weaker than hers.
But those punches carried a mysterious principle.
A principle she had also sensed from I’taar, though only briefly learned.
It could be called the pinnacle of martial arts.
“Jj-j-j-jerk…!”
Most of all, no matter how many times Angie struck with her fists, the tyrant didn’t hesitate to launch his next attack.
Angie’s strength tore scales and shredded flesh, yet the tyrant retaliated without showing the expected reactions, as if death itself didn’t exist.
As the relentless counterattacks continued, Angie’s speed began to drop.
At times, the tyrant even used regeneration to temporarily bind Angie’s hands.
Truly overwhelming regeneration. A combination of technique and strength that even Angie struggled against.
Kwa-a-aang!
Even after smashing the tyrant’s head with a desperate punch, he kept moving.
The sight reminded Angie of Ereta during her time as a high priestess, causing her to freeze momentarily.
Ereta rushed in to cover the gap.
An axe wreathed in flames. A downward strike. The tyrant neither dodged nor defended, receiving it on his shoulder.
Ka-ang, Whoosh!
Without blinking at the rising flames, the tyrant swatted Angie’s punch with the back of his hand and swung his elbow.
Pu-er-er-ehk!
The attack alone nearly snapped Ereta’s waist.
As Ereta hesitated, a roundhouse kick was driven into her.
Angie, struck in the abdomen and spilling her innards, flew through the air.
Filling the void left by Angie was Lumel.
“Haaaat!”
Lumel, rarely shouting a battle cry, thrust his spear at the head.
The tyrant neither dodged nor attempted to block.
He simply reinforced his face with scales like a mask to withstand the blow.
Ka-ang!
A sight resembling a knight clad in armor. Unmoved even by surging currents.
As Lumel retracted his spear and swung the shaft, the tyrant took position.
The rotational technique Lumel had newly mastered was executed.
Skills that had become even more potent since Lumel leveled up.
Attacks that an average high priest would have tried to evade.
The tyrant absorbed all of them with his body and fiercely retaliated.
Even the most accomplished master at the peak of their craft couldn’t avoid the inevitable openings after an attack.
To cover these inevitable gaps, the advancing soldier was kicked and smashed by the tyrant without a glance, killing him.
When Leesham was delayed in covering the fallen soldier and Eiron collapsed, coughing blood,
Lumel tried his best to evade and block.
Kwa-a-a-aang!
Ultimately, he was caught. Knocked down by a kick planted on the blocked blade, Lumel fell as the tyrant twirled the stolen spear and reversed his grip.
“Damn…”
He prepared to throw the spear.
Targeting Tiamat. The golden spear flew like lightning with the extended arm.
“Brother, fire!”
Harrod intercepted the trajectory. His raised shield was the named artifact, Collector’s Shield, a masterpiece of martial excellence.
The shield that had never failed Harrod until now.
Kwa-d-d-d-dek!
For the first time, it disappointed its owner. Harrod fell, his shoulder pierced, as Tiamat widened her eyes in shock before gritting her teeth.
“Damn you!”
Fortunately, thanks to her brother’s intervention, Tiamat had time to complete her arrow.
Grasping the arrow of blazing sunlight, Tiamat released the drawn string.
Thung, the heavy twang of the bowstring resonated.
Kwa-ga-ga-ga-ga-ga-ga!
Flames erupted.
The plasma arrow that struck the tyrant directly incinerated both him and the temple ceiling.
A vertical column of fire rose, emitting a pungent smell.
Among the acrid smoke and fiery disaster, the tyrant did not emerge.
Everyone present thought:
Could we have defeated him?
Regrettably, that was not the case.
Kwang!
As the flames subsided with the sound of stomping feet, there stood the tyrant.
Regenerating scorched skin, melted flesh, and scattered scales in the blink of an eye.
