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*****
{Chapter: 70: The Demon's Tradition}
The frustration bubbling inside Dex gradually melted away, replaced by a growing euphoria as the battle raged on. Every clash, every scream, every gush of blood served as a balm to his wounded heart. In this frenzied chaos, he rediscovered his rhythm.
He was bathed in gore, crimson ichor dripping from his horns and tail, painting grotesque patterns across his scaled armor. His claws were soaked red, his mouth curled into a savage grin, and his fangs gleamed as he exhaled hot, coppery breath. This was where he belonged. This was his nature.
Wounds criss crossed his flesh—some shallow, others deep—but none of them dulled his senses. None of them robbed him of the pure thrill coursing through his body. The pain was a whisper beneath the roaring symphony of battle, a fleeting irritation compared to the high of bloodshed. He was a demon, after all—pain was not his enemy. It was his reminder that he was still alive. Still devouring. Still growing.
His vitality, monstrous and unrelenting, surged through him like a tidal wave. Torn sinew and scorched skin mended in moments, fueled by the very essence he stole from his enemies. His absorption ability worked tirelessly, drawing blood energy from every corpse he tore apart. For every slash he received, he returned three. For every inch of ground he bled upon, he took a yard of it back, strewn with the remains of the fallen.
This battlefield—this cursed patch of rot and rage—might seem like hell to any mortal. But to Dex, it was a paradise.
A field of opportunity.
A banquet of flesh and power.
Here, corpses littered the soil like fallen fruit, ripe for the taking. He had no shortage of sustenance. He lacked neither blood nor meat, and his regeneration bordered on miraculous, as though his body drank greedily from the fountain of death itself. Compared to the pitiful scavenging of lesser demons, who clawed and gnawed like dogs just to stay alive, Dex was a predator at the top of the food chain.
They ate to survive. He consumed to evolve.
Around him, the cries of dying demons echoed through the fog-choked forest—whimpers, screams, roars, guttural last breaths. His kin fought with the same hunger, but not the same efficiency. Their methods were crude, their forms twisted. Most lacked the finesse Dex wielded so effortlessly. His body moved with purpose, his strikes clinical. There was no wasted motion, no mercy, no hesitation. He didn't simply kill—he executed.
This was more than battle. This was nature manifesting itself without filter or restraint.
Survival of the fittest.
An ancient, unshakable law carved into every layer of the Abyss: The strong devour the weak.
The losers are not mourned.
They are consumed—blood, soul, and legacy.
The air was heavy with the scent of sulfur, rotting flesh, and burned magic. The skies above rumbled with faint traces of void lightning, as if the Abyss itself watched from above, eager to witness the next violent shift in the food chain. And Dex thrived under that gaze.
His chest rose and fell with deep, satisfied breaths, inhaling the perfume of carnage like a fine wine.
Fight. Plunder. Grow stronger.
The eternal trifecta.
The foundation of demonkind.
These urges weren't random impulses—they were encoded into every drop of infernal blood. They were not taught. They were not chosen. They were inherited, rooted in every atom of his being. The moment a demon drew its first breath, these three truths shaped its fate.
Endless slaughter. Endless hunger. Endless indulgence.
To revel in pain, to drink in agony—both yours and others'—and to drown the world in crimson, that was not a curse. That was the purpose. That was the meaning.
Compared to this battlefield in the Wailing Forest, what was happening here was little more than an appetizer. A playground scuffle.
In Dex's inherited memories, there was a place far beyond the Wailing Forest—a battlefield so vast and eternal that the very name of it sent shivers of ecstasy down the spines of war-hardened demons:
The Blood War.
That was the true proving ground.
A place not bound by logic or limitation. Where existence itself bent to the will of conflict. There, within that everlasting inferno, there were no rules—only victory and death.
Every creature in the multiverse, from the lowest goblin to the mightiest god, could step into that battlefield. It mattered not whether you were born of flesh, spirit, machine, or divine light. Your weapons could be steel swords, demonic chants, divine blessings, or nuclear warheads. It didn't matter.
All that mattered was that you were willing to kill.
And to keep killing.
The moment you stepped into that realm, you became a part of the machine—a cog in a cosmic meat grinder that ground down stars and spat out corpses. The Blood War claimed trillions every day, and trillions more stepped forward to fill the void left behind. Time and origin were irrelevant. All that mattered was how many you could kill before you were torn apart.
Power in its purest, most distilled form.
Dex could feel it in his bones. That longing. That pull.
He wasn't ready—not yet. He had more evolving to do. More battles to win. But deep in his core, the hunger for that legendary warzone burned like a furnace.
Compared to that place, this Wailing Forest was a nursery. The battles here were child's play. There was no real test of survival. No true desperation. The stakes were too low.
But one day…
One day, he would stand on that blood-soaked field.
He would carve his name into the bones of fallen gods.
He would consume titans, angels, and demons alike.
And he would become something the Abyss had never seen before.
As dangerous as that realm is, Dex still inevitably yearns for that place.
For demons, a bloody battle represents an ideal place, the largest battlefield in the entire multiverse. Just thinking about it makes one look forward to it.
Just as he was immersed in the trance-like rhythm of combat and letting his daydreams carry him through the symphony of violence, a subtle but undeniable fluctuation stirred the air above. It came from high above the battlefield, hidden behind the thick, storm-swept clouds of the Wailing Forest. Dex immediately sensed it.
It was familiar. Unmistakably so.
His crimson eyes narrowed.
That ripple was the harbinger of the [Gift of Soul]—an ancient and mysterious phenomenon that only appeared when the battlefield was reaching its blood-drenched crescendo. It wasn't just a change in the sky. It was a signal, a chaos announcement that more blood would be spilled, more souls released. And every monster, beast, and demon understood its meaning deep in their bones.
A sharp screech pierced the air as hundreds of flying monsters rose in a synchronized frenzy, flapping wings of bone, shadow, or flame, ascending with desperate speed. Their greedy gazes were locked on the sky, chasing the elusive prize.
On the forest floor below, the creatures who couldn't fly erupted into madness. Their eyes rolled back, drool and ichor dripping from jaws, as they began to attack the sky with anything they could. Long-range spells, barbed projectiles, even torn limbs thrown in frustration—all hurled skyward with rabid intent.
Dex had seen it before. The chaos, the hysteria. It was exactly the same as last time—an unspoken rule of this hellish domain.
Last time, he had been on the ground, an unwilling participant pulled into the fray by proximity and curiosity. Back then, his presence had at least put him in the "ground camp," loosely aligned with those who lacked wings. But today, things were different. Today, he was airborne.
A cruel grin twisted on his face.
Camp allegiance meant nothing here. Ground or sky, all were wild beasts. Rabid animals fighting for scraps. There were no allies, no sides, no unity. Only chaos and hunger.
He tilted his body lazily to the left, dodging a glinting spear of ice that came hurtling through the clouds. The near miss barely grazed his cheek. He moved a few meters higher and hovered, surveying the battlefield below with morbid fascination.
"Now that I've gotten enough of my anger out... I should probably do something serious," Dex muttered to himself with a chuckle.
With a slow, deliberate motion, his body ignited.
Not in pain, but in purpose.
Scarlet blood-flames erupted along his form, dancing with demonic joy, licking the air with anticipation. He raised both arms, channeling the hellfire into a single point above his head.
It began as a flicker.
Then, it grew.
A fireball began to take shape, enormous in scale—its diameter stretching hundreds of meters, roiling with compressed energy. The orb pulsed like a living heart, full of violent promise. The skies themselves recoiled from its heat, as storm clouds twisted and cracked apart.
Then, without hesitation, he clenched both fists.
The sphere shattered.
With a thunderous crack, a deluge of blood-red fire cascaded from the skies, forming a burning cloud that descended like a crimson tsunami.
*****
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