Chapter 206: Ch 206 : Your Audience is Waiting

The Arena of Epiphany, a colossal stage that had witnessed the feats of impossible power, now focused its attention on a single, broken figure.

Sparx, the angelic demigod, was no longer a being of arrogant, celestial beauty. He was a defeated warrior, his divine light extinguished, his body trembling with a weakness that was more than just physical.

He was on his knees, his magnificent wings, now tattered and dull, spread uselessly on the dusty ground.

He had been mentally and physically exhausted, his mana reserves drained to nothing in a futile assault against an unbreachable wall.

But the true, killing blow had not come from Ragnok’s fist. It had come from a simple, silent gesture from the high stands of the Gods. He had watched his creator, his master, his God, Venus, look away.

That single, silent act of abandonment had shattered Sparx’s mind.

He looked up at Ragnok, who was now floating serenely before him, and the arrogance that had defined his entire existence was gone, replaced by a hollow, empty void.

“If even my God has abandoned me,” Sparx whispered, his voice a dry, broken rasp, “then I have no choice but to accept death.”

His words, though quiet, were broadcast to the all the watching souls. It was a statement of profound, tragic finality.

For a demigod born of a Divine Embryo, the master’s will was the center of their universe. To be forsaken by that master was a fate worse than any physical torment.

In the high stands, God Venus, his form trembling, felt a searing, paternal agony. A single, tear, a tear of a God’s grief, escaped his eye and sizzled on the floor.

He wanted to scream, to stop this, to beg his Emperor for mercy. But he remained silent, his gaze fixed on the floor, his fate already sealed.

Sunny, observing from his high throne, noted the subtle, agonizing flicker of love in Venus’s aura. ’So, you do care for him,’ he thought, his own mind a cold, precise calculator. ’But you care for your own survival more. A predictable, but necessary, weakness.’

“Thea,” he commanded mentally, his gaze never leaving the arena, “keep Venus on a tight leash. I don’t care how small the anomaly is, if he even thinks about doing something foolish, notify me immediately.”

[Yes, Master.] Thea’s voice replied in his mind, her own particles already weaving a subtle, invisible net of observation around the grieving God.

In the arena, Ragnok looked down at the pitiful, kneeling angel. But his gaze did not soften. There was no mercy in his eyes, no warrior’s respect for a defeated foe. There was only a cold, hard, and utterly ruthless sense of justice.

“It is far too late to have a change of heart,” Ragnok’s voice rumbled, echoing with the power of his King’s Aura.

Sparx looked up, and a spark of his old, defiant pride returned, a final, flickering ember in the ashes of his soul. “Change of heart?” he spat, a single drop of blood dripping from his perfect lips. “Why would I have that?”

This statement sent a ripple of confusion through the live chat, through the arena, and even through Ragnok himself.

Lifeform27849: “What? He’s gone mad! He’s about to be executed, and he’s still arrogant! Just kill him already, King Ragnok!”

Lifeform9949: “I don’t know… I have to respect him for that. He’s not fearing the death that’s coming for him. He’s facing it with his head held high.”

Lifeform94992: “He’s just putting on a show! Who doesn’t fear death?!”

Lifeform8494: “I don’t! I have nine lives, haha! A gift from the Emperor!”

Lifeform74949: “We all have nine lives, you fool. But he doesn’t. You can bet the Emperor has already taken that privilege from a monster like him.”

Lifeform44007: “Or maybe he will die nine times! That would be a fun show to watch!”

All of the lifeforms continued their casual, brutal speculation, their words were a chaotic pleasure from the execution that was about to unfold.

“So,” Ragnok said, his voice a low growl, “that means you will die as a villain. I was almost scared for a second that you had changed your ways.”

“I don’t care if you, or any of you, see me as a villain or a hero,” Sparx replied, his voice gaining a strange, final clarity. “In the end, I am nothing but a creation of my God. I am what he made me. If I am arrogant, it is the arrogance he poured into my soul. If I am cruel, it is the cruelty he fostered with his own rage. I am his perfect, loyal mirror.”

“A very nice speech before your death,” Ragnok said, his patience finally at an end. He stepped forward and, with a speed that defied his size, drove his fist deep into the angel’s gut.

The sound was a sickening, wet thud. Sparx, already weakened, his body in a state of pure mana exhaustion, had no defense.

The punch sent him flying, a broken, six-winged comet, across half the arena. He crashed into a mountain, his body sliding down the rock face, leaving a sickening trail behind.

He spat a mouthful of golden blood, his vision blurring. He tried to look up, to find his opponent, but before he could even raise his head, Ragnok was already there, his shadow falling over him.

Ragnok grabbed Sparx by his long, beautiful hair, lifting his head with a brutal yank, forcing the broken angel to meet his cold, merciless gaze.

His other hand, crackling with his combined Orc’s Strength and Super Strength talents, reached back and seized the base of one of Sparx’s magnificent white wings.

A cruel, terrifying grin, a grin that spoke of the primal orcish blood that flowed in his veins, spread across Ragnok’s face. “You know, Sparx,” he whispered, his voice a low, terrifying growl, “do you know what I like the most when I hunt those giant, monstrous birds in the Realm of Advancement?”

He didn’t wait for an answer.

“It’s plucking their feathers.”

And with a single, savage motion, he pulled.

A sound, a wet, tearing, sickening rip, echoed in the silent arena. A fountain of golden, divine blood erupted from Sparx’s back.

Sparx’s body convulsed, and a scream so raw, so filled with a pain that was beyond mortal comprehension, tore from his throat.

“Aghhhhh—!”

He was a demigod, a being of immense power. But this pain, this brutal, physical defilement, was an agony his arrogant, sheltered soul had never imagined.

In the stands, God Venus, his body trembling, clenched his fists so hard that his own blood began to drip from his palms, his nails cutting deep into his flesh.

He bit his lip until it, too, bled, a desperate, silent attempt to control himself, to stop himself from screaming, from intervening, from sealing his own doom.

He had made his choice, his pact with the Emperor, and this was the price. He had to watch.

Ragnok, his face a mask of cold, methodical fury, dropped the first wing and grabbed the second. “One.” Another pull. Another agonizing, tearing sound. Another scream. “Two.” He moved to the third. “Three.” The fourth. “Four.” The fifth. “Five.” And finally, the sixth.

By the end, Sparx was no longer screaming. He was a whimpering, convulsing wreck, his back a mangled, bloody ruin where his six beautiful wings had once been. He looked less than human, a pathetic, broken thing.

Ragnok, his breathing not even heavy, looked down at the fallen demigod. “You don’t like mortals, do you?” His voice then began to change, to deepen, to resonate with the terrifying, conceptual power of Reality Talk.

“From today on, you are not a demigod. You will become a mortal.”

As the words left Ragnok’s mouth, an immense amount of his own mana vanished, a torrent of energy ripped from his reserves to fuel the law-bending command.

But the spell was successful.

Sparx felt it. The pain from his back, the agony of his broken bones, the humiliation of his defeat; all of it paled in comparison to the new, profound, and absolute horror that was now enveloping him.

He felt his divine power, the core of his being, the source of his strength, his arrogance, and his very identity, begin to unravel.

It was draining from him like water from a shattered glass, his infinite lifespan and divine potential vanishing into nothingness. He was becoming… weak. He was becoming mortal.

A small smile appeared on Sunny’s face. “You are one of my demigods after all, Ragnok. Your way of handling things is… similar.” He glanced at the ashen-faced, bleeding God Venus.

“Your time to apologize is coming, Venus. Heal yourself. You will want to look presentable for the broadcast.” Venus nodded numbly, his divine form shaking as he forced his self-inflicted wounds to close.

In the arena, Ragnok looked at the gasping, now-mortal Sparx. “Hey, hey, Sparx… Look at you. You have become the very thing you despise the most.”

“You… wouldn’t… understand…” Sparx whispered, his voice now a weak, human rasp.

For a demigod born of an embryo, the master was the world. His hatred, his arrogance… it was all just a reflection of his creator, Venus.

His creator, who had hated the weakness in mortals because he could not bear to blame himself for their deaths.

Ragnok, his face a mask of cold, final judgment, looked at the weeping, broken man at his feet.

He placed one massive, gauntleted hand on the left side of Sparx’s head, and the other on the right. He didn’t press. He didn’t crush. He simply… pulled.

The sound of cracking bone and tearing flesh echoed in the silent arena. The lifeforms watching, who had been cheering for Ragnok’s dominance, now choked, a wave of nausea and horror washing over them.

The brutal, final, and stomach-churning act of tearing a being in two, from the skull down, was a sight they would never forget.

As the body fell, a small, shimmering, angelic soul, now stripped of its demigod power, tried to flee, to escape to the natural cycle of reincarnation.

But before it could move an inch, a massive, cosmic hand, a hand forged from starlight and darkness, descended from the heavens.

It caught the soul, its grip gentle but absolute. The laws of life and reincarnation, sensing a will greater than their own, retreated.

The hand, Sunny’s hand, squeezed. The soul of Sparx let out a silent, final scream as it was torn in two. The pain, a torment that transcended the physical, was absolute.

Sunny looked at the two halves of the soul. He sent one part to Cerberus. The other, he gave to Venus.

“Prepare yourself, Venus,” Sunny’s voice echoed, cold and final. “Your audience is waiting.”

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep