Vonjo stared down Eugene with a crooked grin that curled across his face like a scythe.

His voice, dripping with mocking amusement, echoed through the now-silent hell.

“Kid… I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about…” He chuckled and tilted his head, cracking his neck. “But at least this one—” he pointed a thumb casually toward Eugene, “knows how to recognize greatness when he sees it.”

Then he slowly turned to face the tall man and the round-faced one, raising his arms as though preparing to deliver a sermon from atop a divine pulpit.

“You two… you doubt me. You think strength is something you can measure with your little titles and your names in the credits.” Vonjo’s voice dropped, deeper now, more dangerous. “But I am Vonjo Sutterfouse! And since none of you believe that I am the strongest…”

He extended his finger like a judge condemning a criminal to the gallows. “Then let me demonstrate why I believe I am the strongest!”

Without any chant, without a surge of mana or dramatic swirl of smoke, the kneeling ghost-like creature behind him suddenly moved.

With a crack that split the air like thunder, it lunged—no, glided—forward like a blur of shadow and malevolence.

The Lonely Scythe Maniken.

It was a being of deathly pallor, clad in hanging, tattered robes that looked soaked in centuries of dried blood. Its limbs elongated unnaturally, fingers ending in scythe-like blades that gleamed like moonlight on wet stone.

The scythe it carried wasn’t a crafted weapon—it was its arm. And organic, twisted, and living scythed arm

And with an ear-piercing shriek, the Maniken slashed the tall man.

Not once.

Not twice.

Seven times in a single breath.

Horizontal. Vertical. Diagonal. Backwards. A flurry of devastating, erratic strikes that didn’t follow any martial art or spell pattern.

Just pure, lethal instinct.

Each swing of the scythe carved the air, trailing a deathly dark mist, while the tall man twisted and dodged, but blood still sprayed in bursts across the dust-full hell ground.

His coat was torn to shreds. Flesh opened in streaks. One leg nearly buckled under the storm of blows.

The arena exploded.

Not with sound—but with words.

[Bullet Comments Activated]

“WHAT THE FUCKKKK!!”

“THAT’S THE LONELY SCYTHE MANIKEN!?”

“BROOOOOOOOO—”

“IS THAT THE FINAL BOSS EUGENE BARELY DEFEATED IN CHAPTER WHEN HE AWAKENED HIS BLOODLINE ABILITY???”

“NO FUCKING WAY THAT MANIKEN IS LISTENING TO VONJO LIKE A PET DOG WTF”

“WAITWAITWAIT THIS AIN’T RIGHT! THAT BOSS TOOK EUGENE’S DIVINE FLARE ENGINE, CURSE SHIELD AND MAX STAMINA TO BEAT!”

“AND VONJO’S JUST—JUST POINTING AT HIM LIKE IT’S A DAMN MENU???”

“HOLY SHIT THIS AIN’T A NORMAL CHARACTER.”

“WHO TF IS VONJO? WHY’S HE USING POST-GAME RAID BOSSES AS MINIONS???”

“DUDE, EUGENE HAD TO GRIND FOR FOUR REAL LIFE DAYS TO EVEN SURVIVE MANIKEN’S DEATH WHIRL ATTACK, THIS GUY MADE IT OBEY.”

The chaos only intensified as the scythe spun again. This time, it went low, slicing a brutal crescent arc across the tall man’s thighs.

The man jumped to step back and evade—but not fast enough.

A line of crimson split across his leg, and he skidded back, gritting his teeth as he slammed a palm into the ground to keep balance.

George—Eugene’s father—had managed to push this tall man back earlier. But even George hadn’t forced him to go all out.

Now?

Now the tall man’s face wasn’t smug. It was focused. Cold. Serious and they could also see that he’s almost… angry?

The round-faced guy behind him blinked and asked, his voice uncertain now, “You need help?”

The tall man didn’t even turn his head. “No.”

Prideful. As always.

Vonjo didn’t need an explanation. He knew. Everyone knew.

The tall man was doing it again.

Just like earlier.

He was allowing damage to accumulate.

The same technique he used on George—stacking pain, injury, trauma, and rage—all feeding into his terrifying bloodline skill: Vengeful Doom.

Every slash he endured only fueled the coming storm.

And the bullet comments went into overdrive:

“BRO VONJO GOTTA END IT NOW OR HE’S DEAD!!!”

“STOP THE MANIKEN!!! STOP THE STACKING!!!”

“VONJO—READ THE ROOM!! IF THAT GUY GETS ENOUGH STACKS, HE’LL HIT LIKE A DRAGON ON BERSERK MODE!!!”

“SOMEONE TELL HIM, HE’S TOO CONFIDENT!”

“BRUH VONJO’S STRONG BUT EVEN GEORGE GOT SLAPPED INTO A WALL! DON’T PLAY WITH THIS MF!!!”

But Vonjo… he only smiled at the incoming stream of messages flooding his vision.

He didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch. His body was so relaxed as if he could see their comments but didn’t give a single damn shit about what they were saying.

The Maniken kept attacking, and the tall man, with gritted teeth, bore it. Eyes gleaming. Muscles bulging with stored violence.

Then—

In a blur of motion, the tall man vanished.

The bullet comments froze for half a second.

“WHERE’D HE GO???”

“ESCAPE ALERT! ESCAPE ALERT!”

“VONJO MOVE!!! HE’S BEHIND YOU!!!”

Vonjo didn’t move.

He spread his arms. Like a martyr. Like a lunatic welcoming death. And… there was a maniacal grin stretched across his face.

He whispered with a smug expression. “Go ahead. Do it.”

“NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!”

“YOU’LL END UP LIKE GEORGE!!!”

“FUCK FUCK FUCK HE’S DEAD—HE’S FUCKING DEAD—”

And then it happened.

The tall man appeared behind Vonjo in a crouch, one arm coiled like a spring, ready to strike. Power thrummed through his body—compressed, stacked, weaponized. The blow was launched.

A fist of unimaginable power drove forward toward Vonjo’s spine.

Contact.

BOOM.

The chat immediately went wild.

“NOOOOO!”

“HE’S GONNA BE SENT FLYING LIKE WHAT HAPPENED TO GEORGE!”

“IT’S TOO LATE!”

But something was wrong.

Vonjo… didn’t move.

He’s not sent flying like what they expected would happen to him

Time seemed to freeze at this very moment.

Then—

“AAARRRGGGHHHHHHHHHH!!”

It was not Vonjo who screamed.

The tall man stumbled back, clutching his arm—or what was left of it.

A grotesque twist of mangled flesh and shattered bone jutted out where his limb should’ve been.

His wrist… gone.

His elbow… broken backward.

Worse, the entire arm looked like it had been shoved into a meat grinder, twisted into a corkscrew, and then spat out sideways.

He dropped to his knees, his howl echoing across the stadium.

The crowd?

The demons watching from afar?

The bullet comments?

Silence.

Total. Unholy. Silence.

Eugene’s jaw dropped.

George’s eyes widened.

The Maniken tilted its head like a curious skeleton.

Even the massive, hound-like beast behind the round-faced guy took a step back, uncertain, tense.

Then—

[BULLET COMMENTS: DETONATE]

“WHAT THE FUCK WHAT THE FUCK WHAT THE FUCK WHAT THE FUUUUUCKKKKKKKK!!!”

“WHO THE FUCK IS VONJO????”

“THAT ARM—IT—IT JUST VANISHED??? IS HE A CURSE-EATER? NO—A REALITY TWISTER???”

“WAS THAT REFLECT? REVENGE DAMAGE? COUNTERABSORB??? WHAT. JUST. HAPPENED???”

“DUDE. I NEED A PAUSE BUTTON. I CAN’T BREATHE.”

“WHY IS NO ONE TALKING?? WHY IS EVEN THE SYSTEM QUIET??”

“WAS THAT TIME REWIND?? GRAVITY COUNTER?? WHAT LEVEL IS THIS GUY!?”

“DID THIS GUY EAT A GOD???”

“I’M TWEETING THIS. I’M SCREAMING. I’M THROWING UP.”

“VONJO IS NOT A CHARACTER. HE’S A FUCKING GLITCH IN THE CODE.”

“STOP THE FIGHT. JUST HAND HIM THE ENTIRE STORY.”

And in the middle of it all, Vonjo slowly turned his head to face the tall man on the ground, clutching his mangled stump, eyes wide with agony and disbelief.

Vonjo walked toward him, each step steady as if he was savoring the silence he created.

Then, standing just over him, Vonjo looked down and spoke a single cold single line.

“You… are too weak.”

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep