The Godslayer could morph swiftly based on its user's commands or thoughts, matching the envisioned form perfectly.
Bound to its wielder's soul, its bloodlust easily influenced the user—a dangerous trait.
Su Ming could lend the Nightblade to Gin, but not the Godslayer. Even strong-willed people risked turning into crazed killers wielding it. Better not test it on allies.
Now, Su Ming gripped a massive golden chainsaw sword. Squeezing the handle, the blade's teeth spun rapidly.
Sadly, it was silent. A true chainsaw sword should roar with electric buzz. The Godslayer's version was mute.
No sound, no drama.
But silence had its perks. Chainsaws were rarely needed—only against oversized foes did a cutting tool shine.
Surtur's arm was like a whack-a-mole game, popping up and retracting fast. Su Ming had to inflict irreversible damage in a split second.
A chainsaw's massive, jagged wound would slow healing significantly.
This time, Su Ming avoided diving back into the demon ranks. Though faceless, the demons' slight backward lean and arms curling toward their chests betrayed their fear.
They feared their king and the "Odin" dragging them into the meat grinder. When Su Ming's lone eye turned their way, they scattered, fleeing before it was too late.
The fire giant's army had issues. Flame hounds wouldn't break, but their intelligence and combat power were low.
These caged-head demons were smarter, capable of ranged attacks, but intelligence bred cowardice.
The army was routed. Now Su Ming only had to deal with the arm. He was the bait, creating an opening to land a crippling blow.
He stopped, standing still, regulating his breathing.
Then he rolled to the side, the golden-armored "Odin" tumbling like a lazy donkey across the ground.
No leaps, just rolls, eyes wide open.
A massive arm burst from the ground, lunging at him.
Mid-roll, "Odin" exploded with startling speed, skimming the earth.
No other moves, still rolling, but his cloak yanked him to the arm's blind spot.
He thrust his weapon, the cloak dragging him along the arm's length in a perfect arc.
Foul, scorching blood sprayed, sizzling on the ground. The strike hit, but the arm was too thick—the cut only pierced the skin.
The fire giant's arm retracted into the magic circle. Su Ming tilted the blade upright, using the arm's pull to slice a long vertical gash.
The circle vanished. Su Ming stood, shaking blood and flesh from his weapon.
Surtur's arm now bore an inverted "T" wound, skin severed. One more cut on the other side would do serious damage.
"Godslayer, ultra-long rapier."
While the arm retreated, Su Ming shifted the weapon's form, prepping for the next strike.
A burrowing enemy couldn't be chased—combat felt turn-based. He'd use the "turn gap" to plan.
This time, the magic circle appeared farther off. Surtur extended his sword-wielding hand, swinging horizontally at Su Ming.
Su Ming flew to dodge. That arm wasn't the target.
When it retracted, he landed, dragging the rapier-like tape measure, waiting.
If Surtur were smart, he'd retreat. Past encounters proved he couldn't handle "Odin."
But Surtur knew this "Odin" was fake—likely Loki in disguise.
Couldn't beat the real Odin, but Loki? That was doable.
Not only was blocking his claim to Vanaheim an insult, but Loki's illusion to save Thor and others had enraged him.
So the fire giant had no intention of backing off.
The arm wound was minor. At nearly 200 meters tall, a few dozen meters of cuts were mere scratches.
After several failed sword strikes and more dead minions, Surtur extended his wounded arm again, grabbing for "Odin."
Su Ming had his chance. He'd worried the fire giant might quit early. As the flexible rapier wrapped around the massive red pillar, slicing the other side's skin, he allowed a faint smile.
"Godslayer, rake!"
Sharp claws pierced the arm's skin. Su Ming gripped the other end, Stranglehold and the cloak pulling with him.
"Open up!"
Muscles bulging, Stranglehold braved the heat to add force, but Surtur's own retraction did the most.
With a sound like tearing cloth, Su Ming peeled the skin off the arm like a glove.
The limp, hollow shell, a massive red husk, fell like a giant quilt, translucent in the light.
No screams or roars—just a skinless, bleeding arm jerking back into the circle like it was electrocuted.
After a moment, with no further sign of Surtur or his demon army, Su Ming relaxed.
He began rolling up the skin like a carpet. Wilson Enterprises was a major company—time to upgrade the reception hall's red carpet.
Normal carpets feared cigarette burns. This one was fireproof, enough to cover the hall and maybe his and Gin's offices.
Two minutes later, the bundled skin, taller than two Su Mings and weighing tons, was dusted off and stored in his silk pouch.
Demon skin: one slot.
He sighed, letting Stranglehold patch the exposed spots.
Weapons stowed, he took to the air, chasing Gin and Monarch's direction. The battlefield's craters and scorch marks were left for nature and time to heal.
Not far off, he spotted Gin and Monarch, hovering on the Pegasus, waiting.
"Surtur's retreated for now. Keep moving."