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{Chapter: 71: The Crimson Reaper of the Wailing Forest}
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.
He didn't care about the [Gift of Soul]. The prize in the sky was a mere distraction.
The real prize was the horde of demons assembled below.
So many. So dense. So ripe.
The time he had left in the Wailing Forest was coming to an end. Sooner or later, he would be forced to relocate, drawn to another level of the Abyss. There, the environment would change. The prey would be different. Opportunities might dry up.
But now? Now he had a feast right in front of him. He had to harvest.
Now.
He dove.
From high above, he plummeted toward the chaos like a demonic spear of vengeance. Thousands of monsters below reacted instantly. Spellcasters began chanting, launching beams of energy, explosive orbs, ice chains, lightning spears—a rain of death and magic.
But Dex didn't falter.
With terrifying precision, his brain calculated evasive maneuvers. Each dodge was seamless, flowing from one to the next as if he danced with the air itself. None of the attacks touched him.
While diving, he gauged the energy feedback from the counterattacks. The areas with weaker responses were noted immediately. Weaker retaliation meant weaker enemies.
His eyes locked onto one target.
A lower-tier demon, larger than most, adorned in cracked bone armor and wielding a war axe etched with cursed runes. Its strength, while formidable, made it the most dangerous beast in the vicinity—which meant it was the keystone of this pack. Eliminate it, and the rest would collapse in blood.
The demon noticed him too late.
Its eyes widened. The war axe was thrown aside. It raised its arms in desperation, calling upon an ice crystal embedded in its forehead.
A thick ice shield formed overhead, floating like a suspended glacier.
Then came the impact.
Dex struck the ice shield with all the fury of a meteor. The pressure from the dive transferred into the shield like a hammer blow from a wrathful spirit. The suspension enchantments faltered, and the entire slab dropped.
It didn't shatter.
Instead, it slammed down like a tombstone, crashing into the demon it was meant to protect. The monster raised both arms to hold it back, muscles bulging, veins pulsing with power. But the moment his hands touched the ice, a surge of otherworldly force surged through him.
His limbs buckled.
The ground cracked beneath him. His knees touched earth.
The demon's arms—his last line of defense—shattered with a sickening crunch before they even had the chance to offer true resistance. The force that collided with him was beyond comprehension, like a judgment crashing down with the fury of a falling star.
In that single, catastrophic instant, the ice shield crumbled beneath the pressure, transforming into a deadly slab that pinned the demon beneath its weight. His scream was cut short as his body twisted unnaturally. A tremor rippled through the ground.
Boom!
The impact blasted a bowl-shaped crater over ten meters deep into the earth. The shockwave sent monsters flying in all directions—twisted limbs, broken wings, and gnarled horns scattering into the air like flotsam in a tidal wave. Blood and dust mingled in a red mist, coating the charred battlefield.
Dex stood triumphantly atop the shattered ice shield like a demon of war surveying a battlefield that bent to his will. The air around him shimmered with heat and rage. Blood flames flickered at the tip of his tail before bursting into an inferno.
Without a word, he plunged his tail downward, piercing through the fractured ice into the ruined remains below. The lifeblood of the demon surged upward, absorbed in an instant. From the shattered corpse, Dex extracted the final essence—those last flickers of soul and energy. The flame at the tip of his tail glowed brighter, feeding on the dying embers of the fallen.
He exhaled slowly, savoring the moment.
Then, he sensed it.
Energy pulses—some faint, some bold—began to converge from the edges of the battlefield. Opportunists. Hunters. Cowards. They weren't brave enough to strike first, but they smelled weakness and dared to close in.
Dex's lip curled in scorn.
"Typical bottom-feeders," he muttered. "Those bastards in the sky are too slippery. These land-bound fools, though… they're packed like sardines. Easier to burn."
His hand ignited, flames dancing up his wrist and coalescing into a spear of pure fire. Nearly five meters long, it shimmered with an ethereal crimson hue—a condensed form of his blood flame.
With a slight twist of his waist and a sharp pull from his shoulder, Dex hurled the spear with terrifying precision.
The burning weapon whistled through the air and plunged into the earth like a divine executioner's blade. A beat later—
BOOM!
The ground exploded in a storm of debris and entrails. Corpses and half-buried demons were flung skyward in a grotesque fountain of flame and gore. The scent of scorched meat filled the air.
Dex didn't wait. With a predator's grace, he launched himself from the crater and landed in a whirlwind of movement. A nearby [Lesser Demon] turned just in time to see a fireball smash into his chest, incinerating him in a flash of agony.
Then the real carnage began.
Dex clenched his fists and released a pulse of blood-red flames from his core. The inferno spiraled outward in a swirling maelstrom of fire. Dozens of meters around him became his domain—a blazing firefield where the rules of the Abyss no longer applied.
Soil ignited. Trees twisted in agony before disintegrating. Monsters howled and screamed as the flames latched onto their bodies like cursed parasites. The blood flame was not mere fire—it was a weapon of torment, a devouring beast that fed on vitality, blood, magic and soul alike.
The demons tried to fight back. Some threw spells, some charged blindly, some fled into the shadows. None succeeded.
The moment the flame touched them, it burrowed into their flesh, consuming them from within. No counter-spell worked. No water magic could extinguish it. The fire feasted on their life force like a starving beast.
Dex grinned. In this hellscape, he was not just a predator—he was a reaper.
And his scythe was made of flame.
Unlike mortals from the upper realms, Dex didn't waste his power by scattering it aimlessly. He understood the Abyss. He understood its creatures. High resistance. High vitality. Every hit had to count.
So he focused the fire, condensed it. In his hands, the blood flame became a weapon of surgical precision and overwhelming force. For stronger demons, it wore them down. For the weak?
It was the equivalent of using a god-killing sword to slice through a toddler.
That's what Dex was doing now—slaughtering the Abyss's version of five-year-olds.
[Little Demons], simple-minded beasts with just enough instinct to attack and flee. To Dex, they were evolution points wearing flesh. Worth three digits per kill, maybe more depending on how fat they were with stolen essence. And they were everywhere—squirming across the land like ants around a spilled feast.
"Perfect," Dex whispered, his voice nearly a purr. "Come to d@ddy…"
Whereas [Lower Demons] had just enough intelligence to recognize danger and retreat if needed, [Little Demons] were the Abyss's equivalent of rabid dogs. Mindless. Predictable. Easy prey.
And Dex had no shame in hunting them.
Shame was not in his vocabulary. Honor was not in his bones. In the Abyss, killing the weak and betraying the strong were not sins—they were cultural values.
After all, he was a demon too.
And demons had only one law: survive, evolve, and dominate.
The firefield expanded as Dex moved. His body became a blur of motion, weaving between bursts of flame and raining embers. Every step forward brought another corpse. Every flick of his wrist unleashed destruction.
Soon, the battlefield looked less like a warzone and more like a crematorium with wings.
Demon died by the dozen. The smell of ash and burning flesh grew thick enough to choke. Yet Dex pressed forward, carving a path through the chaos. He was not just fighting. He was reaping. Farming evolution points like a god of harvest.
And still, some demons dared to resist. They howled. They threw what magic they had. They even tried to swarm him in desperation.
It was futile.
One by one, he tore through them. Fireballs incinerated. Spears impaled. His tail lashed out like a whip, crushing spines and snapping jaws.
Yet even he had to admit—these nuisances were slowing him down. Not threatening, no. But annoying. Slowing his efficiency.
He hated inefficiency.
"Tch," he muttered, dodging a flurry of bone spikes before countering with a flame lance that vaporized his attacker.
Their struggles for life made him somewhat dissatisfied but there was nothing he could do.
So began the game of chasing each other, and if he caught you, he would kill you on the spot.'
*****
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