CHAPTER 139: THIS CAN’T GO ON

A heavy silence descended on the battlefield, dense and stifling, as if the world itself had been caught holding its breath.

In that suffocating stillness, a storm raged inside Ricky’s mind. A thousand thoughts flashed through his head—blazing, bitter, loud—but none made it past his lips.

He wanted to shout, to curse, to vent the boiling rage surging through every fiber of his being.

But he didn’t.

He remained still. Silent. Cold.

Yet his stillness was a lie.

His spiritual seed trembled violently, betraying the storm that brewed within. Rage—pure, raw, and unfiltered—pulsed through it like dark lightning, demanding release.

Then, in a blink—

Ricky vanished.

He moved like a phantom, ripping through reality, space itself buckling around the sheer speed of his movement.

But Twenty-nine, the undead elite, didn’t even blink.

His obsidian eyes remained calm—eerily calm—like the still surface of a deep lake untouched by the storm overhead.

Then a voice echoed—clear and sharp, carrying a chilling confidence:

"How naive. Did you really think I would fall for the same trick again and again?"

In the next instant, Ricky reappeared directly behind him, his compound eyes gleaming with cold resolve.

His forelimbs, honed to a vicious edge, were raised high—gleaming like a pair of death scythes, ready to reap a soul.

Die.

The word wasn’t spoken aloud, but it radiated from Ricky’s very being. His gaze burned with such killing intent that it seemed to manifest physically—two blades of spiritual malice slicing into the air, cutting through the hearts of anyone who dared to meet his eyes.

Far away, the soldiers who had been watching—the Boar, the recruits, the scouts—suddenly staggered, their expressions turning pale.

To them, the world had twisted.

The sky ran red. The air thickened with the scent of copper. The ground beneath their feet became a sloshing sea of blood.

Screams rang out.

Terror surged.

Some fell to their knees, clawing at their faces. Others stumbled back, eyes wide with primal fear.

"No, don’t kill me!"

"Stay away, you mindless fiend!"

It was chaos.

Madness.

Only Boar stood firm, eyes narrowing as he realized what had happened.

"Tch. It’s his killing intent!"

Without hesitation, he raised his wooden staff and began cracking it against the backs and shoulders of the panicked soldiers.

Whap!

Whap!

"Snap out of it! It’s not real, dammit!"

Bit by bit, the illusion broke. One by one, the soldiers blinked, gasped, and staggered back to their senses—panting, drenched in cold sweat, as if they’d just crawled out of a nightmare.

But the echoes of fear still clung to them. The vision of Ricky—his rage, his intent, his unstoppable killing force—was now carved into their memories.

He was no longer just a strange mosquito-like figure they had followed into the battlefield.

He was a harbinger of death.

Unaware of the chaos he had unleashed on the battlefield, Ricky remained singularly focused. His vision tunneled, his mind sharpened into a spearpoint of intent. Twenty-nine was the only thing that existed in his world.

His forelimbs, gleaming like forged obsidian, slashed down—sharp as executioner’s blades. They met Twenty-nine’s fair, delicate hands in a violent clash.

Clang!

Sparks burst outward like miniature comets, scattering light and heat into the air. The impact resounded across the field like the toll of a divine war bell. Every time their limbs collided, it was as if two natural disasters had met—storm meeting quake, fire meeting flood.

In the span of a single minute, they clashed dozens of times. Each blow Ricky delivered was fast, brutal, and merciless. Yet each time, Twenty-nine parried or deflected with calm, inhuman precision.

The sky above was painted with streaks of burning light—flashes of silver and black crashing in rapid succession. The very atmosphere screamed under the pressure. Shockwaves erupted with every exchange, blasting out like sonic booms. Trees in the distance cracked and splintered; stones shattered into dust.

If a Stage One cultivator were caught in the edge of just one of those shockwaves, they would have been reduced to nothing but blood mist.

But despite Ricky’s overwhelming assault, despite the sheer force he was throwing into each strike...

Her defense never wavered.

His compound eyes narrowed, fury and frustration boiling beneath the surface. With each attack that failed to land true, his heart grew colder, heavier. It was like trying to crack a diamond with bare fists—no matter how hard he hit, nothing gave way.

"She’s toying with me," Ricky realized grimly, his sharp breaths becoming erratic. "I can’t even make her flinch."

Worse still, his mana reserves were nearing their limit. He had already used Darkness Pulse three times in rapid succession—an exhausting maneuver that drained more than just energy. His core ached, his spiritual field trembled, and a painful hollowness was spreading from the depths of his being.

Each passing second tilted the scale against him.

His claws tightened. A bitter taste rose in his throat.

"No," he growled under his breath, his compound eyes glowing with defiance. "This can’t go on."

Then, amid the haze of exhaustion and fury, a strange realization crept into his thoughts like a shadow curling through the cracks.

She wasn’t attacking.

Twenty-nine had been on the defensive this entire time—sidestepping, parrying, absorbing the force of his blows without ever launching one of her own.

Ricky froze mid-air, briefly disengaging with a sudden backstep that kicked up a gust of wind.

Why?

Why was she choosing not to retaliate?

Her eyes remained as placid as still water, unbothered, unreadable. She stood there in the chaos like an untouchable celestial being—graceful, detached, flawless.

That’s when the chilling thought hit Ricky.

"She doesn’t want to hurt me... No—she’s not even taking this seriously."

A suffocating silence blanketed the battlefield.

Not the calm before a storm, but the eerie quiet that lingers after something precious has been shattered. Amid the carnage and drifting ashes, Ricky stood frozen. Dozens of chaotic thoughts blazed through his mind like lightning strikes, each one crashing into the next.

He wanted to scream—curse the heavens, curse himself, curse the situation—but his lips remained tightly sealed.

There was no point.

Words could not change what had already happened.

Yet, beneath that cold exterior, his spiritual seed trembled violently.

It was an echo of his soul, quivering with unrestrained fury. A fury so raw and primal that it threatened to devour him from the inside out.

Without warning, Ricky moved.

His body blurred into motion, ripping through space like a jagged blade. Wind screamed in his wake as his figure flickered across the battlefield.

Yet, standing amidst the chaos, Twenty-nine’s eyes remained placid. Like a mirror-still lake untouched by wind or war.

Then her voice rang out, calm and bone-chilling.

"How naïve. Did you really think I would fall for the same trick again and again?"

Before her words had even finished echoing, Ricky appeared directly behind her.

His forelimbs gleamed with a sinister light—curved and sharpened like death’s own scythe.

Die.

That word thundered in his mind, his killing intent so potent it leaked from his gaze like twin blades of pure malice. Just meeting his eyes in that moment felt like being pierced through the heart.

Far in the distance, Boar and the other soldiers shuddered. For a split second, their vision warped.

The world around them twisted into a sea of blood, a crimson hellscape born from Ricky’s rage. It was as if they were drowning in a battlefield painted in suffering.

"Ugh! Wh-what is this?!"

"No, don’t kill me!"

"Stay away, you mindless fiend!"

Some collapsed to their knees. Others tried to flee. Panic spread like wildfire.

It was only Boar’s sharp instincts that saved them. He whipped out his stick and began striking the affected warriors one by one, snapping them out of the illusion.

"Pull it together, you lot!" he roared. "It’s not real! FOCUS!"

Gradually, the bloody illusion faded, but the terror lingered in their hearts like a shadow.

Yet Ricky remained unaware of the chaos he’d caused.

All of his attention was on Twenty-nine.

Their clash began in earnest.

His bladed forelimbs struck against her bare, delicate hands—yet each time they met, sparks burst out in dazzling arcs, scattering light and heat like fireworks in the night.

Clang! Clang! Clang!

Each impact cracked the air itself, unleashing shockwaves that exploded outward like thunder. The sky above was lit with blinding bursts, and the earth trembled beneath their feet. Dust storms and craters bloomed across the battlefield as collateral damage from their collision.

To an outsider, it looked like two divine beings had descended for battle—each strike shaking the heavens.

If a Stage One cultivator had wandered too close, they would’ve been vaporized before realizing what hit them.

But Ricky wasn’t dazzled by the spectacle.

He was frustrated.

With every second, his heart grew colder.

His limbs moved with precision, his body flowing like liquid death, but no matter how fierce his strikes, he couldn’t pierce her defense. Her hands—smooth and pale—deflected every attack like they were forged from the hardest metal.

It felt like slamming fragile eggs against a mountain.

Hopeless.

And worse, the toll was building.

He had already unleashed Darkness Pulse three times in rapid succession. His mana reserves were scraping bottom, dangerously close to depletion. Every movement now felt heavier, every breath more labored.

It was a downward spiral.

And he knew it.

"No... this can’t go on."