Cleaver Of Sin

Chapter 243: The Top Ten-2

Beryon Ravencroft of the Ducal Ravencroft family moved like an untamed beast unleashed upon the world. His body was no longer that of a mere man, fiery red scales blanketed his frame, and flames leaked from the cracks between them as though his flesh itself was a furnace. His crimson claws gleamed ominously beneath the sunlight, wicked and sharp, betraying a savagery that defied human restraint. His eyes glowed with a scarlet ember, burning with such intensity that it seemed as though his gaze alone could incinerate whatever dared meet it.

This was the inheritance of the Ravencroft bloodline, a unique ability to permanently acquire one random trait or ability from each of their contracted summons. The powers of beasts became their legacy, and with every contract, they grew further from human and closer to something terrifyingly primal. At present, Beryon’s form bore the traits of a salamander he had once bound, its fire coursing eternally within him.

His three active summons raged across the battlefield beside him, each carving their own swaths of destruction, while Beryon personally held back foes of his own. His focus locked onto a Grade 3 Emovira looming before him. The creature towered above most, its monstrous figure armed with a jagged falchion. Malice radiated from its twisted aura, and madness burned brightly in its eyes as though cruelty itself fueled its existence.

Then, in a blur, both combatants vanished. The ground beneath them shattered, earth buckling violently under the overwhelming pressure of their sheer physicality. The air itself tore apart as they reappeared elsewhere in the blink of an eye. Claws collided against falchion, their clash ringing with murderous weight.

The impact sent a cataclysmic burst across the battlefield, the atmosphere shrieking as sparks and embers scattered outward like dying stars. In a frenzy of movement, they vanished and reappeared repeatedly, their figures streaking across the field. To untrained eyes, it was no more than flashes of steel and scale, but the sound, the sound thundered like the clash of gods, metal kissing metal in the most violent of embraces. Neither combatant pausing. Neither retreated.

At one sudden meeting of their strength, Beryon’s lips twisted into a savage grin. His throat bulged unnaturally, his chest heaving as though something monstrous was being forced upward. The Emovira’s instincts screamed, and it immediately disengaged, leaping backward to evade the unknown danger.

But it was already too late.

From Beryon’s mouth erupted a devastating soundwave, an ear-splitting, thunderous roar that slammed into the Emovira at point-blank range. The force shredded the air itself, the resonance violent enough to shatter eardrums and rupture organs. The Emovira staggered, its balance destroyed, its senses whirling in disarray.

This was no ordinary roar, this was another ability stolen from his second summon, a great bird.

Beryon’s ember-lit eyes gleamed with predatory triumph. He was not one to squander an opening. In an instant, he blurred forward like a sniper’s bullet unleashed, claws extended with murderous precision. With sickening ease, they tore through the Emovira’s chest, ripping flesh and bone as though they were paper. His claws erupted from the creature’s back, clenched tightly around its still-beating heart.

The Emovira convulsed, its eyes wide with terror and disbelief. Beryon met its gaze, smiled cruelly, and crushed the organ in his palm. Blood and fire erupted together, and then the monster’s body disintegrated into dust, erased from existence.

Scarlet embers still flaring in his gaze, Beryon turned without pause. His eyes locked on his next prey. He did not think, he did not calculate. He did not blink. Like a beast that knew the jungle was its throne, he lunged forward with raw, instinctive savagery.

Elsewhere on the battlefield, Rank Eight, Oliver Twist, stood like a war god in his own right. His massive double-edged axe cleaved downward with such terrifying force it seemed he sought to split the world in two. Opposite him, an opponent wielded a hammer of equal menace, its swings howling through the air with reckless abandon, as though the very concept of wind resistance was beneath its contempt.

When their weapons collided, the impact was deafening. The sound ripped through the field, the weight of the clash reverberating like a sundering quake. But Oliver did not falter. With fluid mastery, he withdrew his axe, shifting his stance with practiced footwork, and hacked forward once more. His opponent, however, was no weakling. Each of his hammer strikes matched Oliver’s force, and their exchange grew into a storm of blurred motion.

But even amidst this grueling duel, Oliver never lost awareness of the battlefield. Between clashes, he managed to cut down weaker Emovirae, beasts, and monsters with ruthless efficiency. His foe, not to be outdone, mirrored him, directing vicious swings at the weaker students nearby. But each time, Oliver was there, intercepting, his axe blocking paths of slaughter before they could reach his fellow students.

Their eyes locked in that moment of mutual defiance. No words were spoken, but both understood, their battle was not simply axe against hammer, but justice against evil, conviction against chaos. And with that silent acknowledgment, they unleashed the full force of their innate abilities, their clash escalating into a duel that shook the earth.

In another part of the battlefield, Michael Morningstar stood untouched... or rather, untouchable.

An attack slammed directly into his chest, but his body did not so much as flinch. The blade phased through him, leaving behind nothing. It was as though he were a mirage, a phantom immune to the laws of this world.

But Michael did not stand idly by. His figure melted into the ground itself, vanishing as though swallowed by the earth. A heartbeat later, he erupted upward beneath his opponent. His fist shot out with brutal precision, snapping against the adversary’s jaw. Bone splintered as the man’s brain rattled within his skull. Before he could recover, Michael’s second strike hammered into his chest, caving it in with bone-crushing finality. Life left him instantly.

Others nearby reacted, lunging at Michael the moment they realized the danger he posed. Weapons swung with murderous bloodlust, their blades humming with Astra energy. But once more, their strikes phased harmlessly through his form. Nothing, not steel, not sorcery, not energy itself, could touch him.

Before they could strike again, he vanished beneath the earth. Panic surged through them, and then he was behind one of them, his hand gripping the man’s jaw. With a single twist, the neck snapped like brittle wood, extinguishing life in a heartbeat.

A woman shrieked and retaliated, her poison fan slicing forward with lethal speed. But Michael’s body blurred again, her attack phasing harmlessly through him. Instead, her strike landed on her own ally who stood behind him. The man screamed in agony, poisoned by his comrade’s hand, but his voice was cut short. Michael’s fist crushed his throat, silencing both sound and life simultaneously.

”FUCK THIS GUY! WHAT KIND OF RIDICULOUS ABILITY IS THIS?!” one of the criminals bellowed in despair, watching as body after body crumpled around Michael, their deaths almost effortless.

A voice answered him from behind, calm and chilling.

”I call it... Untouchable.”

The man’s heart froze. ’When did he—?’ the thought barely flickered before Michael’s hand became a blade. With one swift motion, the edge of his palm slit across the man’s neck. Blood sprayed high into the air, a crimson geyser painting the battlefield. But even then, as droplets rained down upon Michael, they too phased through him, unable to stain or even touch his form. He stood amidst the carnage, a phantom of untouchability.