Novel Full Chapter 753: 753: Just An Ordinary Old Man
Chapter 753: 753: Just An Ordinary Old Man
Three figures stood upon the obsidian hull of the immortal warship.
One unfurled devilish wings. Black battle aura roared from him, a frenzy of combat intent boiling off his body.
Another stood wreathed in suspended weapons, a hundred phantom blades orbiting his back. His eyes were cold and hollow, yet the pressure he exuded rose like a tide.
“Humanoid weapons… no. Awakened armaments. Eternals,” Damiron breathed, shaken. “Their intensity is far beyond common Gods. They are close to Lower God tier.”
The knight-godspawn’s shield hand trembled. A fear he could not name crawled down every nerve.
Between them, an elderly man with a staff stood quiet and still.
He was lean and spare, white hair and beard drifting in the lunar breeze, silver like fresh snow. He had the look of a kindly sage, Gandalf reborn in wrinkles and wanderlight. But the eyes, those eyes, burned with a killing will as deep as the void.
“Who are you people? Belenor has united the worlds. Do you mean to throw it into chaos?” The three-eyed scion forced his voice steady.
Their parentage was the lengthening shadow behind them. Six godspawn, all with divine blood. As long as their opponent had not reached the realm of a Lower God, they could crush him together.
“King’s Authority. True World’s Eye.”
The three-eyed scion sneered. A beam knifed from the vertical iris in his brow, the sainted eye that peered through all veils. He fixed it on the old man’s face.
Chaos Untouched.
Your opponent’s power vastly exceeds yours.
You cannot gaze upon a god’s true form.
The scarlet script flashed a heartbeat later.
The three-eyed scion shrieked and folded like a punctured lung, slamming to the ground, howling as his HP plunged to one percent. He had almost died to his own backlash.
Damiron grabbed him, stunned, staring into the distance. “That glance nearly killed him…”
“Holy hell,” Riven blurted, skin crawling. He had read the reports. The three-eyed freak carried twisted laws. Stare at something stronger than you and the Eye bites back. But one look and the guy almost erased himself? That was beyond ugly.
Heals cascaded over the scion until color seeped back into his face. He shoved an arm toward Belenor and screamed, “Chaos… he is Chaos! We must retreat now!”
“Chaos? And what of it, you three-eyed clown,” Aaron snorted.
“Are they allies?” Chloe whispered to Riven.
“That one… I am not sure anymore.” Riven squinted until his lids were paper slits, searching the old man’s face for anything familiar. He could not bring himself to believe his own guess.
Because the man looked too old.
He looked like an ordinary old grandpa.
Then the old man stepped into the air, and Riven’s brain stalled.
“No wind or space spells,” Chloe murmured, stunned.
“Is that… Starstride?”
Riven’s scalp prickled. That was a passive only gods possessed. If so, the old man was a god.
A Lower God’s barrier spread before him like a soap bubble. He tapped it. It parted. He drifted down toward the field without hindrance.
“Who is this man… no, this god? How have we never heard of him?”
“He just ignored a Lower God’s warding laid over the Moon?”
Across the broadcast, spectators gaped.
On Mars, in the Godslayer command bunker, officers stood shoulder to shoulder in silence, each one nursing the same suspicion and too afraid to voice it. Not only was the face unfamiliar. The power was… obscene.
Madman sat the war chair, eyes fixed on the holoscreen, thoughtful. At last he said, “Looks like…”
“Looks like?” Every eye fixed on him. If anyone would know, it was the Godslayer brain. How could he not recognize his own brother?
“Looks like Orson’s dad we never met. The age lines up.”
The Iron Rider of Forever City swore. “Line up your head. If you go by age he’s Orson’s grandpa.”
Old Yin snapped, “James, get Blank. Her man she ought to recognize.”
“Can’t. She entered the Abyss. She cut comms.” The bearded man shook his head, worry cutting deep lines into his face. He could not bring himself to look at the feed, afraid to see his two nephews die.
No one noticed the twist in Madman’s mouth, the mad light in his eye. His whisper was a knife. “Mother’s curse. God’s curse.”
“Counterattack? No. We slaughter every invader. The Godslayer banner rises now.”
High above the arena, Cain’s face was a mask of iron. His mechanical wings cracked open and he shot toward the golden cross.
“You are… that bastard?” Bradley rasped, tilting his skull-bared face. The one blazing eye fixed on Cain.
Cain’s jaw tightened. He said nothing. He raised his warblade to cleave the divine cross.
“I marked you,” Bradley cackled. “I know that stink anywhere.”
In that ancient battle he had bled Cain with his own hands. That fight taught him his smallness and the heights of those above. He fought, he clawed, he grew. Years later, he and Velorith had nearly beheaded a Lower God together. Nearly. The reinforcements, a dozen deities descending, had suffocated that dream.
“You dare.”
A squad of adventurers dove, craving Belenor’s favor. A stellar dragon fell like a meteor, ramming Cain’s path.
Cain twisted midair, lips curving into a blade-cold smile. “I am the old Lord of Pondenorlin.”
“I am a son of the God-Emperor.”
“I am slave to the Chaos God. Who dares squat upon my city?”
His blade fell. The ground split. Hundreds of black aura pillars tore the sky. The dragon’s rain of starlight winked out as the aura swallowed it whole. It screamed and tumbled.
“Focus fire!”
Three kings and one god anchored the squad, wind magic lending them glide. Dozens of spells and techniques converged on Cain.
He did not block. He did not even slow. He just smiled and came on.
A sun-bright lance of holy light slammed into his chest from the team’s god-tier priest, a clean, lethal shot that should have ripped him in half. No fatal text appeared. The metal body rippled, shifted, and reknit whole.
“What is that thing—”
Two strokes cut the priest into quartered meat. The pieces fell like bags of blood.
Orson was not the only one tempered under Bellara’s hand. Cain and Saint Roland had climbed too. In some ways, the Eternals were worse than adventurers. They learned by stealing everything.
“Can this thing even be killed?” The young elites of other worlds went pale. In front of a real sovereign, they were ants.
Bradley ignored the cross gnawing at his soul and watched Cain butcher them, eyes blazing. He grinned. “How many times can you self-repair?”
“For a prisoner, I do not need to repair even once to end you,” Cain said.
“If you have the guts, cut me down now, stop posturing,” Bradley spat, instantly rattled, kicking with newly regrown legs at the cross and howling profanity.
“Get up, kid.”
The old man stopped beside Ethan and Oliver. His voice sounded younger than his face, calm as a hearthfire.
Ethan blinked up at him through a mask of blood. “Old man, you are…”
Orson looked over Godslayer’s new generation, time pressing at his heart. The children had grown.
He smiled and stooped, picked up the artifact staff that had fallen to the ground, the Fallen Aemania Light. He set it into Ethan’s hands.
“Grip it.”
The warmth in the man’s gaze was… familiar. Ethan obeyed without thinking, fingers tightening around the haft.
“You have learned to use a weapon. Good. Now kill them.”
Orson lifted a finger and pointed. The gesture fell like a curse seal onto Belenor’s brow.
The other godspawn paled as if something had swallowed the sun.
“Uh?” Ethan said. “But I… I cannot beat them.”
“That is true,” Orson nodded gently. Then he smiled and added, “Relax. If anyone dares to fight back, I will erase their world.”