The Damned Demon - Chapter 370

Chapter 370: I Am Far From Finished
As the murmur of the crowd faded into a tense hush, Rowena’s voice was a whisper towards Asher, “Asher,” she called out to him with the hint of a smile, softening the edges of her usually formidable presence, “Return victorious.”

She knew there was no need to say that, but she still wanted him to hear it.

Her words weren’t a command; they were a sign of faith, and Asher felt them like sunlight breaking through clouds.

He smiled back, a quiet promise, and nodded. With a relaxed breath, he stepped into the circle of the arena where the sand underfoot whispered of battles past.

From the corner of his eye, he saw Isola, her midnight blue dress a stark contrast against the sea of spectators.

Their eyes met, and in that glance was an entire conversation of silent support and shared strength.

Isola was brimming with anticipation as well since this spar could help everyone see how powerful Asher and how much he had sacrificed to get here.

The Umbralfiends in the crowd exchanged glances, their expressions conflicted.

They had heard the tales of the bloodborne consort’s bravery, his actions that had earned him a place of respect even among them.

Hatred was a hard thing to maintain in the face of admiration, and for some, it had slipped through their fingers like sand.

Vraxos, the embodiment of Umbralfiend pride, stepped forward.

His bald head caught the light, and his gaze was like flint—hard and sparking with the promise of battle. They bowed to each other, a mutual respect given form in that simple gesture.

Despite having been enemies in war, he couldn’t help but admire the bloodburn consort’s strength and achievements at such a young age.

Rowena then rose from her seat, her voice ringing out across the gathered crowd, “Let it be known that this is a friendly spar. We are all honorable here; no dishonorable tactics will be tolerated.”

Rowena’s words indirectly stung Narissara, whose tongue clicked against her teeth in silent reproach.

Does this bloodburn queen think they would stoop that low?

Her eyes flashed with a mixture of pride and annoyance, yet she remained silent.

Acknowledging the queen’s proclamation, Vraxos and Asher bowed their heads, not only to her but to each other, reaffirming their commitment to a fair fight.

The drum’s thunderous call broke the tension, its beat the heartbeat of the duel.

Asher and Vraxos circled each other, each step measured, each breath calculated.

The crowd leaned in, the moment where the clash pregnant with collective breaths held tight.

Asher locked eyes with Vraxos, the Umbralfiend general’s stance formidable, his aura one of a hardened warrior assured of its dominion.

Vraxos, feeling the weight of his queen’s earlier words, allowed them to transform into a resolve that steeled his muscles and honed his focus while taking out his mace.

As the drum’s final echo shrank into the charged silence of the arena, Asher and Vraxos squared off, tension coiled between them like a spring.

The crowd’s anticipation was a tangible thing, and from the crowd of umbralfiends, chants began to rise, lifting Vraxos’s name into the air, woven with threads of fervent hope and pride.

Vraxos twirled his mace with deceptive ease, the air whistling around its spiked head.

With a warrior’s grace, he initiated the spar, launching forward in a flurry of movement.

His mace cut through the air, streaks of darkness and water magic swirling around it, amplifying its threat as it sought Asher’s flesh.

Asher, wielding the Blade of Damnation, a ring blade that seemed too slender to match the mace’s brute force, was quick on his feet.

Each of Vraxos’s strikes was met with a dance-like sidestep or a parry with his cursed blade.

Everyone had their jaws drop to see that the royal consort was so skillful with his movements. This was at a level not even most of their seniors could accomplish.

However, the power difference was palpable when Asher blocked one of Vraxos’ swift attacks that shattered his arms and sent him flying back with a thunderous boom.

“Ha! Devils!”

A loud gasp echoed from the bloodburn citizens as they watched their consort crash into the barrier erected around the arena and fall onto the sandy ground.

However, Rowena kept watching with a reserved gaze, though her eyes never left Asher, just like Isola, who kept watching with an intense gaze.

Narissara coldly smirked and wondered if their queen was too naive to agree to this duel and lose face.

Moraxor’s expression became grim as he was expecting more from Asher, especially when his daughter showed so much confidence in him.

He knew a Soul Purger, even a peak one, could never compete against a Soul Devourer whose strength would be leagues higher.

But when he took a look at Isola’s face, he was surprised to see that she remained unperturbed despite seeing her lover getting knocked to the ground with just a single move from Vraxos.

“General Vraxos! General Vraxos!” The Umbralfiends cheered aloud and felt that this was going to end quicker than they thought.

Did the Bloodburn Consort truly kill Prince Agonon?

“Your Highness! You can do it!” someone shouted in desperation, trying to inject courage through words. Hearing him, others also joined in.

Asher, upon his knees, turned his arms over; they were grotesquely twisted, and got a good idea of Vraxos’ strength who was undoubtedly very strong.

But then his dark yellow eyes transformed and blazed with an eerie dark green, and the arena fell into a hush as the bones audibly snapped and shifted back into place, the crunching sound almost as jarring as the sight itself. And just as he did his eyes reverted back to deep yellow.

This was the biggest advantage he developed ever since the ring became one with him.

He can momentarily transform into Hellbringer, and it will heal him almost instantaneously at the cost of his MP. And the effect will remain even if he transforms back into his original form.

“He’s healing… How is he doing that?” whispered a Bloodburn citizen, their words tinged with awe and disbelief.

Narissara’s voice, low and laced with incredulity, barely carried over the renewed murmurs of the crowd, “When did he get such ridiculous healing powers?”

She already knew he had a so-called indestructible skeleton form but he didn’t even transform into that.

Moraxor, his face a mask of bewilderment, turned to glance at Isola. She sat, a statue of calm amidst the storm of surprise and speculation. He realized then that she already must have known about this.

Vraxos, who had thought the spar was over, now regrouped, the furrow in his brow deepening.

The sight of his opponent standing unscathed lit a fire in his warrior’s heart. He felt surprised that the bloodburn consort had such staggering healing prowess.

The bloodburn citizens erupted as Asher rose, their earlier anxiety transforming into fervent cheers, “For Bloodburn! For Conosrt Asher!” they chanted, the name becoming a mantra of support.

“Do you wish to continue?” Narissara asked with crossed arms, hinting at the fact that even if he can heal, it doesn’t mean he won’t crumble under Vraxos’ might. She just didn’t want to waste her time watching this anymore.

Asher twirled the Blade of Damnation with renewed vigor, his stance that of a man undeterred, “Your concern is heartening,” he called out, a confident smile playing on his lips, “but I’m far from finished.”

Isola couldn’t help but clear her throat upon seeing Asher amusing himself using her mother’s comment.

“Concern my foot,” Narissara let out a frustrated sigh and could only shake her head at his foolishness.

The arena was a crucible of anticipation as Asher, with a deep inhale, unleashed the Rakshasa’s Roar.

*ROARRR!!!*

The fearsome sound wave reverberated throughout the stands, a visceral embodiment of terror that had even the hardiest of warriors clutching at their chests.

The Umbralfiends and Bloodburn citizens alike winced, the primal fear gripping their hearts despite the protective magic of the barrier.

Vraxos, caught in the direct path of the roar, grunted as his stance wavered.

His momentary disorientation was all the opening Asher needed.

In the blink of an eye, Asher’s figure vanished, a shadow fleeing from light, only to reappear behind Vraxos with an arcane flourish.

A collective gasp swept through the crowd when they saw not two but four arms extending from Asher’s form.

His face suddenly paled, his expression contorting with pain as he unleashed his Chain of Despair.

His ring blades whirled with a life of their own, each strike a lash, each lash a wound upon a disoriented Vraxos’ back. Vraxos stumbled, a giant unsteady, as Asher’s blades danced their deadly dance.

“Impossible…” someone murmured from the crowd, their voice barely above a whisper.

Nobody had ever seen a Soul Devourer getting suppressed by a Soul Purger. It was like a dog overpowering a lion.

Recovering with a resilience born of countless battles, Vraxos roared to gather his wits.

With a herculean effort, he swung his mace, now a vortex of dark, swirling energies, towards Asher with a might that seemed to dim the very sunlight above.

Asher, his reaction swift, raised his blades in a desperate defense.

The impact was monumental, a clash that sang of an unstoppable force meeting an immovable object.

Asher’s blades, however, were not immovable. They caved under the mace’s might, and Asher was sent reeling, a crimson line tracing the path of blood he spat from his mouth.

Yet, Asher’s resolve did not break. His feet dug trenches in the sand as he halted his backward slide.

His eyes, glowing with that unnatural dark green, flared briefly before he pushed forward, a veteran not deterred by the taste of his own blood.

Everyone had their jaws slack upon seeing that this time, the consort only had his feet slide back by a couple feet instead of being sent flying like before.

And they were sure Vraxos used more strength than ever behind his attack.

How did the consort suddenly gain such defensive powers against a Soul Devourer?

They were feeling even more awed at the power of his Immortal bloodline.

Vraxos, feeling the energy drain from his limbs, found himself facing an enigma—a foe who refused to fall, a man who defied the very logic of their world. He never expected to find himself in such a state this quick.

But his eyes only glowed with even more admiration and awe of this consort’s abilities.

There was no doubt that he killed Prince Agonon. He could feel in his bones that this consort was still holding back.

“You don’t have to hold back against me,” Vraxos said in a low voice since he didn’t want such a consideration from his opponent.

“I am not doing it for you,” Asher responded with a brief smile, making Vraxos’ brows furrow, wondering who he was doing it for.

“I can’t do the same. I have no choice but to give it my all,” Vraxos said in a gruff, determined tone.

“Please do,” Asher said, his smile unwavering while those outside the barrier wondered what words these two just exchanged.

The stands were a tempest of emotion as the tide of battle turned before their eyes.

Moraxor was blinking, unable to believe that this young consort was frighteningly strong for his age. He couldn’t even imagine what heights this young man would reach at his peak.

Narissara’s features were etched in disbelief, her cold exterior cracking as the underdog consort weathered the storm of Vraxos’ onslaught and retaliated with unexpected ferocity.

She couldn’t help but let out a derisive snort, and her gaze was sharp as shards of ice.

Vraxos, feeling the weight of her stare, nodded once—a silent promise of the end.

With a roar that seemed to shake the heavens, Vraxos summoned the essence of dark water magic, his mace aloft and pulsating with a menacing, swirling vortex.

He grunted as he released the power in a cataclysmic wave that crashed down upon Asher.

The Bloodburn citizens screamed, a chorus of despair, as Asher was engulfed and sent hurtling across the arena, his body a ragdoll in the torrent’s embrace, “Consort Asher!” they cried, their voices a ragged edge of panic.

Narissara’s lips curled into a cold smirk, watching Asher’s bloodied form struggling to rise.

But Vraxos, driven by a warrior’s instinct, wasted no time. He lunged, his mace ready to deliver oblivion.

Yet, in that critical juncture, Asher suddenly looked at Vraxos as his eyes glowed.

The Infernal Aura erupted from him, a miasma of chilling dread that froze Vraxos mid-leap.

His face twisted in a mask of horror, eyes wide, the general of the Umbralfiends experienced a fear that clawed at the very fabric of his soul.

“What… What is this?” someone in the crowd whispered, voicing the collective confusion upon seeing Vraxos’ face suddenly turning pale as he froze on the spot.

Asher’s presence was a cold flame, his silhouette a dark monument against the light.

He moved swiftly, closing the distance between himself and Vraxos with an expert’s grace. His hand, shimmering with that eerie dark green light, found its mark upon Vraxos’ chest.

“You fought well,” Asher’s voice was calm, yet it boomed like thunder, resonating with the power of his aura.

*BOOM!*

With a measured contraction of his fist, he delivered a punch—a burst of force that sent Vraxos sailing like a leaf in a tempest, crashing against the barrier with a sound that echoed a clap of thunder.

Vraxos slumped to the ground, the impact reverberating through the arena.

A hush fell upon the crowd, the silence a heavy shroud as they witnessed a sudden and shocking turn of events that left them breathless.