Chapter 2025: Origin-rank Bloodlines (2)

For a moment, Rex drifted in darkness, suspended between the lingering echoes of the Black Omicron’s display and the display for the White Omicron that awaited him next. Between the two, he was certainly more familiar with the White Omicron.

Adhara’s bloodline, the Anti-Werewolf bloodline, was directly tied to the White Omicron.

Her abilities were borrowed from the White Omicron.

So, Rex could safely assume that the display that he was going to be shown with—should highlight the abilities that Adhara possessed but more extreme. Being able to phase through attacks and debilitating touches should be what he was going to see.

But he was wrong.

He thought his knowledge of Adhara’s bloodline had prepared him for this.

It hadn’t.

Once again, the darkness seized him as soon as the next bloodline’s name escaped his lips. But this time, there was no precarious situation. No dying tribe. No metallic silver sphere—that radiated lethal silvery light that contained the same effect as pure silver.

Instead, there was a surge.

A violent, indomitable energy that rose from somewhere deep inside him, as if his own body had become a sun struggling to be born. Rex looked down—and his body was no longer solid. He saw white energy bursting from his skin in splashes.

Each one detonated with raw power that rent the darkness around him.

He was a leak. A vessel overflowing with something too vast to contain.

But for some reason, it felt like he was doing this deliberately; no—the White Omicron was doing this deliberately. Rex was simply following the ride, but the sensation that his body was experiencing right now was extremely uncomfortable.

Inside, the pressure built, and the darkness buckled.

And then, without warning, Rex’s body detonated.

Kaboom—!

A cataclysmic splash of white energy erupted outward, tearing through the blackness like a dying star, and the world shattered into light. Rex watched as the energy tore through the darkness and made sense of what was around him.

Like a painting being revealed slowly as the cover was pulled away.

Before he could understand where he was, gravity seized him and dragged him down.

Rex fell.

The wind screamed past his ears as he plummeted, the world a blur of white and grey. His body struck the ground with a force that should have broken bone, should have shattered him into pieces, but instead, he dropped to one knee, the impact absorbed by a body that no longer felt entirely his own.

He braced there for a moment, chest heaving, and then realized—his breaths were steady.

Even his heart was calm.

Considering the amount of energy that had exploded out of him in a cataclysmic shockwave—Rex was expecting to feel tired and also drained. Nothing exerted that much force and still completely at full strength.

But the White Omicron did.

Inside, the energy was still abundant, still thrumming beneath his skin like a second pulse.

Where am I?

Rex rose to his feet, and his body moved before his mind could catch up—lifting him from the ground with an ease that felt foreign. The first thing he noticed was the light. It poured down from above, bright and pure, and when he lifted his head, he saw it.

Saw the moon.

A vast, white orb that hung in the sky with a brilliance that put the sun to shame. It was not the sun. It was something else. An impossible moon that glowed with a light so clean and white it lit up the entire sky and made it seem like day had arrived.

In reality, it was still nighttime.

Its brilliant white bathed the world, sharpening every edge and deepening every shadow.

Another man-made sphere? No, its contents were different.

Rex then looked down—and it was only then that he realized that the ground underneath his feet wasn’t the ground. He realized he wasn’t standing on the ground. Instead, he stood atop a very tall rock formation, a needle of stone that rose upward from the earth below like a spear thrust into the sky.

It took a few careful steps to reach the edge, and when he did, the height stole his breath away.

The drop was immense.

The ground so far below seemed like a painting rather than a place he could ever reach.

But it was not the height that seized his attention.

It was the area surrounding him.

A pale-white desert stretched in every direction, as far as his eyes could see, and the sand, if it was sand for real, gleamed like crushed bone beneath the light of the white moon. There was no movement. No wind and even no life.

Absolute silence reigned in the area.

A weight that pressed against his ears and made the world feel hollow.

It was a dead land, an endless graveyard of white, but Rex couldn’t help but notice something.

Something tells me that this was not a desert.

Rex looked around and sensed an abundance of life energy across the entire area. It filled the air like it was the native energy of this place, but this place was similar to the Mortal Realm, hosting several kinds of energies.

And then he heard it.

A howl.

Long and low, carrying across the emptiness like the voice of a forgotten God.

Rex turned around, or rather, the White Omicron turned around, and then saw a dark speck in the distance that stood atop a mound. Even though the creature was far away, he could tell that it was a werewolf. It was quite easy to tell because of one single thing on its forehead.

A glowing dark yellow mark—the King Mark of the Hunter Moon.

As soon as he turned fully, the werewolf’s bloodlust slammed into him like a physical wall.

And the Hunter Moon King Mark blazed on its forehead, and its eyes that burned with anger and hatred, locked onto Rex as if he were the source of all its suffering. Then, a dark tide emerged from behind the hateful werewolf.

Creatures of the same race emerged from the pale dunes.

Rex’s eyes narrowed, and his mind counted.

From a quick scan, there should be around three or maybe four hundred of them.

But what stole the breath from his lungs wasn’t their number—it was the mark on their foreheads.

Every single one bore a King Mark.

A symbol of werewolf strength, the mark that separated the extraordinary from the masses, was now as common as fur. Some even bore defective marks, twisted brands that held two Full Moons at once, their power unstable and terrifying.

Horrifyingly, the line kept stretching.

Four hundred became a thousand. A thousand became ten thousand. Ten thousand became a hundred thousand. They poured over the horizon like a flood of darkness and fang—and their howls rose into a deafening chorus that shook the pale sand beneath Rex’s feet.

In a few seconds, the entire horizon was consumed.

A million werewolves. An army of kings, all marked, all burning with the same vengeful bloodlust. This was not the Mortal Realm. No place in his world could birth such a legion of marked warriors. This was another realm. A more dangerous realm.

Perhaps this realm was dominated by werewolves.

Just then, the leader of this army of darkness cocked back its head and howled.

And the instant it did—the legion surged forward in a dark tide. A wall of claws and teeth and murderous intent rushed toward Rex, with the inevitability of a sandstorm. Rex moved instinctively. His pale and translucent hand glowed with the faint light of the White Omicron.

No thought in his mind.

He simply acted as if the bloodline itself was guiding him.

Energy coiled in his palm, compressed into a single point of impossible brilliance. Then he swiped.

Swoosh—!

Instantly, the world went white.

A concussive force erupted from his hand, spreading outward like an expanding crescent moon. Its edge was impossibly thin and impossibly sharp. It tore through the charging legion in a single, sweeping arc, and the sound that followed was not a battle cry.

It was a million voices screaming at once in torment.

Upon contact, their bodies burst from within as blood geysered from every orifice.

None of the marked werewolves, even those who bear the Honey Moon King Mark, could shield against the concussive force. Every single one of them was unmade in an instant, and their forms shattered into pale white sand, merging with the desert.

Once the wave passed, the screams died.

Rex stood alone with the echo of the detonation still ringing in his ears.

Just like earlier, the pale desert still stretched before him, but now he understood what it was—the dunes that had seemed so lifeless but filled with life energy were created by the remains of werewolves who had fallen against the White Omicron.

Before the White Omicron, this place was another terrain entirely.

But now it was a desert.

Rex couldn’t even begin to imagine how many living beings were killed to make this desert.

Before Rex could fully grasp what had happened, his gaze locked onto something crawling from the pale desert. From the million werewolves that had charged the White Omicron, one had survived. The leader. Broken, steaming, but very much alive.

Rex tried to focus, to see the creature clearly, but his consciousness was ripped away.

He braced for the dark space, for the silence between bloodlines—but instead, the pale desert returned. The same terrain. The same white moon. But the angle of it—had changed. He was no longer standing atop the towering rock formation, looking down.

He was below now, staring up from the sand, and his body crushed and steaming.

Every nerve screaming with a pain that was not his own.

He was inside the leader werewolf’s body.

The agony hit him like a second skin. It lanced through every muscle, every bone, every fiber of his being. The White Omicron’s energy was lethal to werewolves—an anti-existence poison that burned through flesh and blood like acid.

Rex felt it now as reality.

His organs seethed. His bones felt like they were melting beneath his skin. And yet, the leader moved.

Clawed hands scraped at the sand, dragging the ruined body upward through the pale, powdery remnants of the fallen kin. The surface came slowly—each movement a triumph over unthinkable pain, and then he fully burst through, gasping, coughing, spitting mouthfuls of blood into the white dust.

His body was steaming. Smoke rose from the fur in thin, ghostly tendrils—and the White Omicron’s energy was still gnawing at the flesh. But the regeneration was incredible—faster than anything Rex had ever possessed.

Burns and wounds knitted and faded—the body fought to live with a ferocity.

One that matched the will inside it.

What bloodline is this? To think that it has better foundational werewolf characteristics than me.

Rex was quite amazed by this bloodline.

He wanted to know what it was.

The leader lifted his head, and Rex felt it—the force of that gaze as it locked onto the figure atop the rock formation. The White Omicron. A being of brilliant light, draped in a milk-white robe, with a body that was translucent.

As for its face, it was a smooth, featureless void.

It stood motionless, an entity of impossible radiance, and the light of it was a blade through the leader’s eyes. Blood welled and spilled, streaking down the ruined face like crimson tears. And the pain was blinding, but the leader did not look away.

Even as the White Omicron’s presence seared him from the inside out, he stared, defiance given form.

Rex had felt this pain before, but not to this extent.

And then, from the air before him, a card materialized.

It was the hovering card of the third Origin-rank bloodline, and the name of the bloodline was written upon it. Rex read it through the leader’s bleeding eyes, and then his brows furrowed. "Hm? It’s the Original Werewolf Bloodline?"