{Chapter: 166: Battle New Reinforcements And More Battle}
In the span of a breath, hundreds of blows were exchanged. Their arms moved so fast they became blurs, like a swarm of phantoms striking from every angle. The sheer velocity of their blows carved shockwaves through the air, warping the atmosphere and pushing back the ground below as if a god were breathing fury upon the land.
The impact zone became a furnace. Each collision unleashed bursts of heat. Fists became anvils of flame, and every punch sent out concentric waves of force that liquefied the air around them. Sparks erupted with every strike, lighting up the sky with arcs of red and gold.
Then came the blood.
With every hit Dex landed, more scales were torn from Jarlot's arms. Muscle tissue split open. Sinew unraveled like frayed rope. Jarlot roared but didn't retreat—even as his fists became masses of mangled flesh, he kept swinging. He was a demon driven beyond pain.
But Dex was relentless. His punches carried not only power, but purpose.
With a brutal right hook, he shattered Jarlot's forearm—bone bursting from the skin like ivory daggers.
With a thunderous uppercut, he broke his jaw and sent blood spewing like a geyser.
Finally, with one earth-rending punch straight to the face, Dex ended it.
Jarlot's head exploded into crimson mist, the sound lost amidst the firestorm of impact.
His headless body hovered for a moment—then collapsed to the earth like a puppet with cut strings.
Dex floated above, silent, blood-slicked, and calm.
He examined his own right hand, where thin cracks crawled across the skin like glass under stress. But even as he watched, those cracks began to mend, flesh knitting back together as his regeneration kicked in.
"...He was strong. Brutal. But not enough."
Then, without ceremony, Dex conjured a sphere of searing bloodflame in his palm and cast it downward. The fire engulfed Jarlot's broken corpse, incinerating what remained. It was a small gesture of respect—burning the body rather than letting it devotured by others—but a gesture nonetheless.
In battle, dignity was rare. Dex gave him that much.
---
Under identical conditions…
Dex estimated that a single point of his magic power now equaled nearly seventeen points of his opponent's.
It wasn't just overwhelming—it was dominance.
From the prior clash, he had discerned that Jarlot's magic quality was comparable to what Dex himself once possessed, before his most recent half evolution. Back then, such a fight would've been brutal. But now? Now it was just data collection.
His own magic was no longer just energy—it was an extension of reality-bending malevolence. Slightly above the level of divine power, it was difficult to measure, not because of raw quantity but due to the origin. Many so-called "divine powers" on this plane were sourced from relics or vessels—divine weapons bound to weak wielders. Tools without true force behind them.
Without a god to fuel them, they meant nothing.
Which is why even those below true divinity couldn't hope to challenge him—not anymore.
More than just power had changed.
Something had awakened inside Dex—an ancient and horrifying gift:
[Evil and Resentful Immortal Body
Hatred, animosity, malice, wrath, bloodlust, resentment, bitterness, spite, scorn, indignation. Greed, avarice, gluttony, hoarding, insatiability. Pain, torment, suffering, agony, affliction. Lust, desire, craving, obsession, depravity. Deception, manipulation, cunning, treachery, scheming. Cruelty, sadism, ruthlessness, heartlessness. Corruption, decay, perversion, defilement, blasphemy. Pride, arrogance, vanity, superiority, dominion… all evil thoughts will give you power
All the evils that fester in the hearts of men and monsters alike—they empowered you.
Your presence alone is a corrupting force, staining the minds of those who perceive you. To witness your existence is to be polluted, to have one's very soul tainted by the malevolence you embody. In a world filled with cruelty and sin, you are indestructible—as long as evil thoughts are around, your body will recover, no matter how severe the damage. So long as wickedness endures, so shall you.]
He was no longer simply a being of muscle, magic, and will.
He was a corruption incarnate.
A walking curse, infecting the minds of those who gazed upon him. A blight that stained souls with a glance.
Wherever depravity existed, he could never truly die.
As long as hatred lingered in even one heart—as long as desire, envy, or cruelty remained in the world—his body would restore itself, his wounds would vanish, and his presence would return.
He was eternal in a world that deserved him.
And with every evolution, every kill, he was certain of one thing:
He was only just beginning.
With each new version, he feels like he is good enough again!
On the third day after slaying Jarlot, Dex stood alone beneath the pale sky, gazing across the barren wasteland at the reconstructed defensive line in the distance. It had been hastily repaired after the chaos, now standing once more like an iron curtain between him and whatever lay beyond. From afar, it looked pristine—unbroken and formidable—but Dex knew better. Beneath its polished surface was the memory of carnage.
He squinted at it, rubbing his chin in quiet thought.
That line was not just a wall—it was a declaration. A warning. A challenge.
He didn't particularly care whether he broke through for personal gain, or because the Abyss Contract bound him to do so. It didn't matter. The reason was irrelevant. What mattered was the result. He had to get past it—sooner or later.
But brute force wasn't the answer this time.
Even with his recent growth, even with the power coursing through his new body, Dex understood something with chilling clarity: a frontal assault was suicide. That defense line wasn't just a pile of stones and steel. It was guarded by siege-grade weapons and elite teams of powerful warriors—mortals and demigods alike—organized, disciplined, and deadly.
Charging it alone without proper preparation was just asking to be turned into minced meat.
Unless… he could ascend to the next of next stage.
Unless he could evolve into a [Greater Demon]—a being of true might, a powerhouse that could bend the battlefield to his will—he wouldn't stand a chance.
So, for now, patience was key.
He camped nearby, out of sight, contemplating plans for hours. Then another day passed. The sun dipped below the horizon again as he leaned against a boulder, staring at the sky, lost in thought.
Suddenly, the heavens split with a burst of crimson light.
A streak of yellow flame tore across the clouds and flared against the backdrop of twilight—a teleportation spell. Dex recognized it immediately: it originated from the Abyss.
"New demons," he murmured, lips curling into a sly grin. "Reinforcements."
But for who?
He paused, thoughtful. Then, like a flame sparking in darkness, an idea bloomed in his mind. It came softly at first, then roared to life.
He touched his chin and chuckled lowly. "My years of experience with poisons and medicine might finally come in handy again…"
---
The battlefield was stained red and black—demon blood boiling against the cracked earth, steaming under the pressure of broken bodies and shattered bones. Dex stood amid it all, completely still, like a monolith.
Before him, one demon still clung to life.
It was a grotesque hybrid—a beast that looked like an unholy cross between a bat and an eagle. Its wings were torn. One eye was caved in. Blood gurgled from its split beak.
It lay sprawled on the ground, coughing violently as it glared at Dex through blurred vision.
He tried to lift himself but failed.
"This... this makes no sense…" the demon spat blood and stared in disbelief. "You're just... a [Middle-Rank Demon]..."
His voice trembled with a mix of awe and fear. He had witnessed the slaughter with his own eyes. Dex, alone, had taken down a dozen others—including several [Upper-Level Demons]—without any assistance, without hesitation, and with horrifying precision.
Even under the suppression of this world, which clipped the wings of foreign powers, even if his strength had been limited... Dex had annihilated them like swatting flies.
The demon coughed again, struggling to keep consciousness. "Even... even at my peak... I wouldn't have stood a chance against you."
And he meant it.
Defeat among demons was expected. Death was always just around the corner. But this? This was something else.
This was a calculated slaughter.
The bat-eagle demon turned his gaze to the bodies surrounding him. His brethren. Ripped apart. Torn. Many of them didn't even have time to fight back.
He could not help but ask, with a broken voice, "Why... why did you do this?"
Not out of horror. Not even out of moral concern. That was a foreign concept to demons.
No—his question came from genuine confusion.
Killing a few teammates for sport, for fun, was common among their kind. It was even culturally accepted.
*****
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