20 advance chapters on [email protected]/Saintbarbido.
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The cyborgs turned to find Mark—unarmed no longer—now clad in armor radiating golden energy.
"Damage decreased by 50%," the system announced.
"So cool… you guys are in deep trouble now." His voice was low, edged with both tension and resolve.
Fingers tightening around his sword, he blurred out of sight. The cyborgs froze, stunned by his speed.
In a flash, Mark appeared behind one of them. But the machine had already calculated his trajectory and raised its shield.The tight space of the room made his movements easier to predict.
An energy beam lanced toward him, but Mark sidestepped, boots skidding back across the floor. These cyborgs were strong—too strong to take lightly. Still, he held back; they weren't enemies by choice, only people under control.
A chat window flickered into view:
[Gilgamesh: Why are you holding back, mongrel? This is your time.]
[Mark: They're just people being controlled.]
[Gilgamesh: Tch! And this is why you have no access to my vault—you're too weak.]
[Solomon: Mark, ignore him. Strengthen the blade with your magical circuits.]
Mark didn't know Solomon's exact plan, but he obeyed. Veins of golden light pulsed along the blade before fading from sight.
The cyborgs advanced in perfect unison, herding him toward the wall. He lunged, deflecting an incoming blast with his sword, sparks flashing from the impact. They kept their distance—smart, given what his weapon could do.
Mark could replicate any phantasm he wielded, though copies lacked the full might of the originals. His current blade—a gift from Iskandar—could decapitate an enemy in seconds. Summoning its replicas from thin air, he launched them forward telekinetically.
The copies intercepted several energy blasts, but the cyborgs deployed shields to block the rest—exactly the reaction Mark wanted.
In a heartbeat, he closed the distance. One cyborg fired its thrusters to retreat, but too late—Mark's sword smashed through its shield and plunged into its head.
The machine screamed in digital agony as he avoided vital points, channeling his circuits into the blade to disable its control system.
The cyborg froze, systems offline.
The second lunged, its cannon-arm glowing. Mark dodged, countering with an upward slash that sheared the weapon in half. The machine staggered back, but dark tendrils whipped out from the wound, fusing its severed arm back to the biomechatronic core.
"Shit, it can repair itself," Mark growled.
"System protocol: extreme measures required," the cyborg droned. Plates shifted as a massive torso-mounted cannon fused with its arms.
The barrel was large enough to erase a small hill. Mark knew this had to end now. He exploded forward, legs pumping faster than a bullet—but the cyborg had planned for this. Cannons deployed from its back, unleashing covering fire to stall him.
The main weapon charged, energy building until the air vibrated. Then...
BOOM!
A point-blank blast tore across the room. Mark raised his sword to block, the steel vibrating violently under the force. Cracks spidered across the blade until it shattered.
The golden armor took the brunt next. He poured magic into it, reinforcing it against the heat and force, but it too burst apart. The blast swallowed him whole.
The cyborg scanned the scorched area: Survival probability—5%.
In the control room, Lex Luthor smirked as the machine intoned, "Threat neutralized." The project was a success in his eyes. Dr. Flinch, however, clenched his fists, silently uneasy.
But movement stirred in the dust.
A shadow emerged from the rubble.
Mark stepped forward, battered but standing.
"Impossible… He should be dead. That blast could dent the Man of Steel," Luthor hissed.
Half of Mark's body was mangled—but in seconds, the wounds closed, flesh knitting seamlessly.
"Damn… if I hadn't used it at the last second, I'd be dead," he muttered.
Avalon—the legendary sheath—had saved him. The most powerful defensive artifact in human history had not failed.
Drained but unbroken, he called another blade into existence and charged. The cyborg tried to fire—but too late. His sword struck home, magic flooding its systems and shutting them down. The machine collapsed in a heap of steel and smoke.
In the control room, Dr. Flinch's jaw hung open. His son. The intruder was his son. He must have followed him from home.
Luthor ordered more cyborgs deployed, but Flinch shook his head.
"No." He would not let his creation kill his own blood.
Luthor stared at him as if he'd seen a ghost, struggling to comprehend the defiance.