Chapter 179: 29th Floor

Light exploded outward.

From the center of the radiance, the Elven Princess emerged in full battle attire—her elegant form wrapped in flowing robes lined with mana-thread, long silver hair dancing behind her, and her hands already summoning her famed elemental bow.

Rambo growled beside them, his claws digging into the ground, wings flaring open with anticipation. Blood magic coiled around his horns in readiness.

Ethan stood between them, shoulders squared, elemental energy rising to meet the threat. Fire pulsed in his veins. Ice whispered through his bones. The battlefield would be theirs or it would bury them beneath a hundred enemies.

“Let’s clean this floor,” Ethan said.

And then the enemy began to move.

The moment Ethan gave the command, the entire battlefield ignited into chaos.

The Peak-Saint human surged forward like a comet, his fist cloaked in blazing, condensed energy. Every step he took cracked the floor beneath him, the weight of his power turning solid stone into dust. He didn’t wait. He didn’t hesitate.

His first punch created a shockwave so intense it split the air in two, forcing Ethan to duck and roll aside while the Elven Princess formed a barrier of reinforced air to shield Rambo from the edge of the blast. The force carved a crater into the floor where Ethan had stood.

“He’s fast!” Ethan snapped, already moving.

Behind the Peak-Saint, the low-saint humans charged in a coordinated stampede. One hundred figures, each radiating supernatural strength, their muscles coiled with tension, eyes glazed over with mindless determination. Their talent clearly amplified their physical abilities beyond the norm—each step forward was like a predator lunging for the kill.

Ethan saw the tide, felt the impending crush of a hundred warriors converging.

“Take care of the Peak-Saint!” he shouted over the cacophony, turning toward Rambo and the Elven Princess. “Buy me time! I need to clear the rest of them—devour them, raise them, and break this number’s advantage.”

The Princess didn’t need further instruction. She vanished into a blur of lightning, reappearing mid-air with her bow already drawn, an arrow of crackling plasma whistling toward the Peak-Saint.

Rambo roared, blood magic erupting from his core in jagged red glyphs. He pounced forward like a predator, swiping with claws infused with monarch flame.

The Peak-Saint met them head-on.

Steel collided with light. Flame met raw kinetic force. The clash sounded like a bell tolling across the world.

Meanwhile, Ethan sprinted toward the oncoming wave of low-saints.

He raised both hands and flooded the ground ahead with elemental force, summoning a tsunami of molten fire that roared outward. It caught the first line of attackers, burning through enchanted armor and throwing bodies into the air.

But they didn’t fall easily.

The low-saints were durable. His attacks weren’t focused on one, hence why they could survive. He wanted to use AOE attacks to damage many of them at once and take in their aggression towards him. Even while scorched and twisted, they continued advancing. Their talent—supernatural strength—was more than brute power. It was resilience. Their muscles regenerated quickly, and their bones snapped back into place with every surge of force.

Ethan gritted his teeth.

“Raise,” he whispered, and shadows spilled from his hands.

Three of the fallen low-saints rose again, eyes burning with spectral green light. They turned instantly toward the others, obeying only Ethan’s will.

Their attack disrupted the formation, giving Ethan the gap he needed. He darted forward, blades of wind forming in his hands. He cut down three more low-saints in swift, surgical strikes—spinning, slicing, burning.

Then he devoured them.

Power surged through his veins.

<+600 Strength> <+600 Vitality>

Again, he moved.

The battlefield was in chaos. The undead he raised fought with suicidal precision, crashing into their former allies with no regard for their own safety. Ethan used them as both shield and spear, cutting a bloody swathe through the horde.

Behind him, Rambo let out a roar of pain—a massive crater forming around him as the Peak-Saint slammed him into the ground with an elbow wreathed in pulsing energy. The Elven Princess countered instantly, lightning exploding from her bow, staggering the Peak-Saint backwards.

They were holding—but just barely.

Ethan couldn’t waste time.

He carved his way through ten more low-saints, casting each corpse aside and immediately activating his devouring ability. With each essence absorbed, his body grew heavier, denser, more powerful.

Raising the next wave of undead, he directed them into the thickest cluster of enemies. The enemy low-saints fought with eerie precision, their faces devoid of emotion, but even supernatural strength faltered when overwhelmed by numbers.

His strategy was working.

Half the low-saints were down.

The others were being pressured by Ethan’s growing undead army and the endless assault of elemental attacks.

Then Ethan felt it.

The threshold.

Power coalesced in Ethan’s core like a storm bound to erupt. His mana pulsed with a new, unrestrained rhythm.

Faster, denser, and more alive. Each breath he drew in was saturated with raw elemental energy. His muscles flexed beyond their previous limits, surging with vitality and intent. The world around him sharpened. Sounds were crisper.

He could feel it—the threshold. The line between Mid-Saint and High-Saint was fracturing under the weight of his evolution.

Strength. Agility. Intelligence. Vitality.

All of it rising. This was the good thing about humans: they all had different strengths. Despite having the same talent, some had more vitality, and some had more intelligence. It was very beneficial.

And still the enemy came.

The battlefield was chaos incarnate. All around him, the one hundred Low-Saint humans pressed in. Their eyes glowed a dull red, devoid of emotion or will. They moved in perfect unison, fists and blades coated in supernatural force. Each strike from them carried the amplified weight of their talent—Supernatural Strength.

Ethan’s body blurred through the crowd, slicing, dodging, and countering. He ducked beneath a blade that whistled just past his ear, pivoted on a heel, and sent a burst of plasma-charged wind directly into the chest of one enemy. The human flew backwards, crashing into five more, but even that wasn’t enough to kill them.

Yin-Yang surged inside him. He released a pulse of darkness—entropy incarnate—followed immediately by a piercing blast of holy light. The explosion vaporised three foes at once, their bodies dissolving into shadow and ash.

“They’re stronger than they look,” he growled, dodging a hammer fist that shattered the floor where he stood a second ago.

Still, he pushed forward, striking. Fire lanced from his palm, engulfing one enemy in roaring crimson, only for a shard of crystal to form in his other hand, slicing through another throat.

Then, from the corner of his eye—

Rambo roared in agony.

Ethan’s gaze snapped to the left.

The Peak-Saint human was relentless. A towering warrior clad in armour and radiating pure menace. He wielded no weapons—his fists were enough. Each blow sent shockwaves through the air. His talent wasn’t just Supernatural Strength.

The Elven Princess was airborne, Ethan had given her the wings to help with fighting the human, her bow unleashing storms of arrows wreathed in fire and ice, yet even she bled from her side, barely dodging a fist that crushed the stone platform beneath.

Rambo’s scales were cracked and bleeding. His massive wings trembled under the pressure of repeated blows.

They were losing ground.

Ethan ducked another barrage and threw himself into a spinning arc, wind blades erupting from his limbs. Five more Low-Saints collapsed under the technique, and without hesitation, Ethan reached out with the Undead talent.

Their corpses twitched—rose.

Five undead warriors now stood at his side.

“Go. Kill!”

They launched themselves into the mass of enemies, dragging down more bodies in a flurry of clawed hands and blunt force.

Ethan struck again—earth spikes burst upward, impaling three more. He devoured them mid-motion, feeling their power enter his own, pushing him closer to the edge.

He roared, combining crystal and fire into a focused beam that sliced through a line of enemies.

More corpses. More power.

Power exploded outward, a sphere of kinetic energy that knocked the closest enemies away. His body surged with life.

He stood tall.

Then turned his gaze toward the Peak-Saint.

The sight sent a jolt of fury through his spine. Rambo was huffing on the side, breathing heavily, smoke rising from the gashes across his frame. The Elven Princess fought valiantly, blood on her lips, her form flickering from overuse of power.

The Peak-Saint didn’t seem tired.

Ethan raised both hands, Yin in the left, Yang in the right. Light and darkness twisted together into a spiraling vortex above his head.

He dove straight into the fray, blades of elemental force forming around his arms.

He didn’t just slice anymore—he obliterated.

Ten more fell.

He devoured them mid-battle.

Fifteen more joined the undead.

The floor was now covered in corpses—his own rising army. Every death fueled his strength, every second closer to overwhelming the Peak-Saint.

The warrior finally turned. Looking at his fellow human that was fighting against a hundred low-saints by himself.

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