Evil MC's NTR Harem

Chapter 1142: Chapter 1142 Cabin

When the man tried to crawl, the undead stomped on his thigh, shattering bone through flesh.

His howl echoed through the stone chamber.

”PLEASE! PLEASE STOP!” someone begged, dropping to his knees, hands raised.

The undead warrior’s response was a calm, mechanical punch to the face—one that turned the man’s features into a ruin of blood and broken bone.

The air filled with screams—high, panicked, agonized.

The scent of blood, spilled organs, and burnt flesh thickened until breathing became difficult.

Wilson’s men weren’t fighting anymore.

They were just trying to survive.

Trying to crawl away.

Trying to hide.

Trying to escape the nightmare.

But there was no escape.

Every punch carried the weight of a hammer.

Every blow ensured a slow, agonizing death rather than a merciful one.

And through the chaos—through the screams, the cracking bones, the begging, the dying—Ross sat comfortably on his throne.

One leg crossed over the other.

Chin resting lazily in his hand.

A small, satisfied smile playing at his lips.

To him, this wasn’t a battle.

It was entertainment.

A spectacle.

A well-deserved punishment unfolding exactly the way he wanted.

And Wilson’s army—once so confident, once so proud—was being torn apart one agonizing scream at a time.

”This is bad... this is really, really bad...” Wilson thought, his heart pounding like a war drum.

His legs trembled despite himself.

Not from exhaustion—but from the suffocating pressure of despair crushing him.

He glanced at Ross’s army again.

Those demon-masked monsters tearing through his people like beasts.

Unaffected by bullets.

Unaffected by abilities.

Unaffected by anything human.

Then his eyes lifted to Ross—the man he had sworn he killed once—now sitting casually on a throne, one leg resting lazily over the other, watching the massacre as if he were enjoying a private theater performance.

Ross didn’t even flinch.

Didn’t even acknowledge Wilson.

Not as an opponent.

Not even as a threat.

It made Wilson’s blood boil.

If he died here, fine—but he would damn well try to take Ross with him.

He clenched his teeth.

He made his decision.

”AAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!”

Wilson roared with everything he had and lunged forward.

The knives orbiting around him spun faster, becoming a swirling, deadly storm of steel.

They slashed and carved through the undead soldiers trying to bar his path.

For the first time, he forced a gap into the battlefield, pushing himself deeper into the chaos.

The air rang with the sharp whistling of blades.

Undead bodies were cut apart—arms sliced off, torsos split open.

Wilson was unstoppable for a single glorious moment.

He could see Ross’s throne clearer and clearer.

He was getting close.

Too close.

”Just a little more... just a little more...!”

Then—

A shadow fell over him.

A massive, towering shadow.

Brandon.

The commander of the undead stepped directly into Wilson’s path.

His crimson-striped demon mask stared down at him with a cold, inhuman stillness.

Even standing still, he radiated an overwhelming sense of doom.

Wilson skidded to a stop, eyes widening.

”You dream far too high, boy, if you think you can approach my master,” Brandon thundered. His voice rolled through the chamber like a landslide—deep, resonant, and final.

Then Brandon moved.

One moment he was standing there.

The next—he was everywhere at once.

”W–what?!” Wilson gasped.

Brandon’s speed was monstrous. His movement blurred, his figure vanishing like a phantom.

Wilson tried to track him—his eyes darting desperately, knives spinning in every direction to guard himself—

But he couldn’t see him.

Couldn’t feel him.

Couldn’t predict anything.

A cold presence appeared behind him.

Wilson’s blood ran cold.

A massive hand closed around his throat.

”Guh—! H...HAAAK!”

He was lifted off the ground instantly, feet kicking helplessly in the air.

Brandon’s grip tightened, crushing his windpipe inch by inch.

Wilson clawed at the hand, fingers slipping uselessly on the iron-like grip.

Spots danced in his vision as oxygen fled his lungs.

He could feel his life slipping away.

Then—

BOOM.

Brandon’s fist struck Wilson’s back with such overwhelming force that his entire body spasmed violently.

A horrific sound echoed through the chamber:

CRRRRRAAAAAACK.

Wilson’s spine shattered.

Not cracked—shattered.

Broken into pieces like glass under a hammer.

It felt like lightning exploding inside his bones.

A white-hot wave of agony tore through him so violently that his consciousness nearly broke.

He couldn’t scream.

He couldn’t breathe.

He couldn’t even move.

Brandon released him—and Wilson’s limp body flew through the air like a broken ragdoll, slamming into the stone floor with a sickening, wet thud.

”Ghh... ah... ahh...” Wilson tried to speak, but only blood bubbled past his lips.

He lay there twitching, his limbs twisted at unnatural angles.

Paralyzed.

Crushed.

Barely clinging to life.

Almost dead...

But painfully, cruelly...

Not dead enough.

Brandon slowly stepped toward him, each footfall echoing with purpose—like death coming for its final victim.

What followed was not simply death.

It was a methodical, merciless, meticulously orchestrated torture—the kind that only beings without empathy, without hesitation, and without the constraints of mortality could deliver.

Ross did not need to give another order.

His undead soldiers understood exactly what their master wanted.

They moved through the hall like a swarm of predators savoring their prey, spreading out among the survivors of Wilson’s men—those still alive, still screaming, still clinging desperately to the hope that something, anything, might save them.

That hope died quickly.

The air soon filled with a symphony of agony.

”AAAAAHHHHHHHHHH!”

”NO—PLEASE, STOP! STOP!”

”MY ARM—MY ARM!! AAAAAHHHHH!”

The screams came from every direction—high-pitched, deep, broken, raw, and feral.

They blended together until they became a single, horrifying chorus that seemed to shake the walls themselves.

The sound traveled up to the ceiling, echoing back down like the wails of tormented ghosts.

It was not the sound of men simply dying.

It was the sound of men being unmade.

Undead fists crushed bones with deliberate slowness.

Hands twisted limbs until joints snapped and tendons tore.

Some men were dragged across the floor, leaving long streaks of blood, only to be lifted by the skull and slammed repeatedly until their faces were unrecognizable.