CHAPTER 64: 64. THUNDERSTORM, BLIZZARD

The remaining magic potion from Bordeaux.

An enhanced level of [Thunder], and an enhanced level of [Blizzard].

The former significantly strengthens physical power, thereby increasing attack power.

The latter stimulates the nervous system when adrenaline is abundant, achieving a bullet time-like sense of hyper-time.

When drinking two bottles of magic potion simultaneously, even a Demon Hunter’s body cannot withstand it.

The body starts taking continuous damage under intense toxicity.

As Lann lowers his head, a drop of nosebleed drips from his nose, making a corrosive sound of "sizzle" on the sand!

The Female Warlock’s protective shield begins to flicker uncertainly.

The enemy obviously notices this as well, and at the moment the magic defense collapses, no less than six crossbow arrows are fired towards Lann.

Three of them miss timing or collide with or graze the last remnants of the magic defense and are directly deflected.

Three more just barely scrape the edge of the collapsing shield and fly inside.

The crossbowmen begin to smile in celebration as the arrows fly out.

Some even prepare to high-five each other to commemorate this rare "hunt."

Kneeling, still with eyes closed. To ensure a hit, the three of them aimed their arrows at the largest area of the body.

In this posture, there’s no way to dodge, no one can dodge!

But soon, their smiles froze.

And quickly turned into disbelief and astonishment.

A shadow flashes in front of Lann, and he directly catches the three crossbow arrows in his hand!

With a flick of the wrist, the halted arrows are given new kinetic energy.

The man charging forward, ready to break the magic defense with a longsword and hammer, is directly hit.

Lann’s throwing strength naturally doesn’t match that of a bow or crossbow, but the ruffians charging forward wear no armor.

The force needed to drive a crossbow arrow into the human body isn’t much.

Three screams, followed by the sound of bodies hitting the ground.

But this still isn’t the end.

"Where did he go?! Did anyone see where he went?!"

The crossbowmen cry out in shock.

They lost sight of the kneeling figure from just a second ago!

On the sand, there are only two impact footprints.

Lann’s figure is solid and heavy, yet his speed gives the impression he is merely a "paper man"!

[Thunder] enhances physical power, increasing attack power, and of course, the leg muscles are also affected, providing greater speed.

[Blizzard] makes Lann feel as if the world is playing in slow motion.

Originally, the enemy’s coordination and combos seemed smooth, but now they appear full of flaws to him.

The crossbowmen try to keep up with their perspective, but "spit, spit," the crossbow arrows only strike the footprints Lann left behind.

"Can’t... keep up... Why can’t we keep up?!"

The speed of their bows and crossbows can’t match Lann’s movement speed.

The ruffians responsible for close combat are all seasoned veterans.

Though their vision is narrower compared to the crossbowmen due to their proximity, the moment the laughter behind them abruptly stops, they immediately realize something is amiss.

Relying on camaraderie among ruffians is undoubtedly laughable.

Without hesitation, the swordsmen and the hammer-wielding men without shields instinctively try to move behind those with shields.

Some even attempt to snatch a shield from someone else.

In cold weapon combat, a shield’s protection only comes second to reliable companions and armor.

Now, the ruffians in leather jackets are desperately seeking a shield as if driven mad.

Everyone has seen the anomaly caused by Lann’s size and speed.

No one wants to face such a monster!

But the problem is... Lann now wants to face them.

"Shhh!"

The sound of blood spraying from a throat sends chills down their spines.

A warrior holding a shield futilely clutches his throat, but the blood continues to pour through his fingers and mouth.

The shield... is useless?!

No one fights for the shield anymore; the ruffians engaged in close combat, after widening their eyes for a moment, dare not even turn back for a second look!

They flee in panic, desperate to distance themselves from the mutant!

"Something’s wrong, something’s very wrong... He’s not human! He’s a monster!"

People shout thus.

Faced with a reality that shatters common sense, the once assured ruffians find their psyches breaking within a breath or two.

A skilled warrior with a shield, getting his throat slit while the shield remains intact... How do you explain that?

The defense of a shield is a "plane," while a blade’s attack is a "line."

As long as you face the enemy directly, the shield bearer need not care from which direction the sword is swung, whether it’s a real strike or a feint.

Just hold up the shield!

Come and slash if you dare!

The shield is fixed to the arm, and the enemy’s speed encircling you can’t surpass you moving your arm.

In other words, in a one-on-one situation, the shield should protect you completely.

Except in one kind of situation—

The "masters" of combat in his hometown have a performance segment where they have trainees throw punches slowly, purportedly to let the audience see each move breakdown clearly.

Then the masters themselves use normal, even accelerated speed to hit the trainees with combo moves.

After the display, they say, "That’s where our techniques shine, everyone could see it, right?"

... With such a speed differential, could ordinary viewers on the spot think of dozens of ways to counterattack!?

The terror lies in using a sword to slit a shield bearer’s throat—somebody truly lives in a 1.5x speed world!

I can circle you faster than you can swing your arm!

How do you have the nerve to stand before me?

The inhuman speed and reflexes undoubtedly terrify the enemies.

All in all, since Lann entered the camp, he has stealthily killed ten people, and now directly took down another six or seven.

This already accounts for a casualty rate of around 30%.

The opponent is alone, initially giving the thugs an immense psychological advantage, but a casualty rate of 30%... even Temeria’s professional army does not have such resilient battalions!

For a group of thugs brought together by the lure of crime, they remain indifferent to the casualty rate when they suppress Lann.

A sneak attack death can only be chalked up to an accident, hardly worth worrying over.

They were even laughing as they prepared to kill the young man.

But once they discover their superiority in violence cannot be maintained, the casualty rate immediately becomes an unacceptable burden pressing down on their minds like a mountain.

"Get out! Get out! Let me go! I want to go first!"

Without close combatants in front, even though the crossbowmen are collectively of higher quality, panic grips them.

The order among the armed thugs is collapsing.

A camp of over fifty armed warriors would be formidable force in most territories of the world.

Now, a Demon Hunter has routed them.

From his vantage point, the Head Eater squints and frowns at the increasingly chaotic camp.

At first, he thought Lann’s head would be brought to him within three minutes.

After all, it was just a little mouse sneaking in.

But soon after, Lann releases Igni, inflicting extensive burns on two people and demonstrating extraordinary physical prowess.

The Head Eater hefts his axes and begins moving toward the detention area.

The opponent’s combat ability rivals that of some famous knights.

He knows full well the kind of folks under his command.

He doesn’t care much about the extent of the casualties; however, these casualties could serve as a reason for the survivors to demand a larger share.

That he cannot accept.

Thus, he prefers to step in himself, wanting to end the battle quickly.

But after just twenty seconds, the Head Eater, holding his axes heads back to his large tent.

Two black-skinned hunting dogs follow him, and upon entering the tent, the Head Eater first kicks the cooked human head off the table, which the dogs joyfully chew.

He always found proclaiming one’s ferocity by eating human meat utterly moronic.

But alas, to make money, one has to compromise a little. So the human head must be delivered, but the dogs can eat it.

"Ledgers, cargo receipts, invoices, letters, and gemstones... Hmm, all here!"

The short, stout man slots the twin axes into his waistband, cutting the image of a standard Skellige warrior.

But he mutters to himself, bundles everything into a small package, and, with the package on his back, heads outside.