Chapter 1061. A Perpetual Moment of Maximum Agony

Chapter 1061: 1061. A Perpetual Moment of Maximum Agony

Rex stood alone in the courtyard, the silence of the aftermath settling like ash over the blood-soaked stones. He watched Theo’s retreating figure stumble toward the house, a broken, hollowed-out shell of a man.

A cruel, razor-sharp smile tugged at the corner of Rex’s mouth.

"Did you really think I was done?" Rex whispered to the empty air. "Did you truly believe I would let you walk away with such... incomplete satisfaction?"

With a casual flick of his wrist, Rex activated Telekinetic Suspension. An invisible, crushing force seized Theo mid-step.

The boy’s body jerked violently upward, his spine snapping taut as he was yanked off the ground and suspended ten feet in the air.

"Nngh AHHHH!" Theo’s scream was cut short as the telekinetic grip tightened around his torso like a vice.

CRACK.

His ribs groaned under the pressure.

"You want to leave?" Rex’s voice carried across the courtyard, cold and amused. "You haven’t earned your exit yet."

Rex raised both hands, his fingers weaving through the air as if plucking invisible strings. He wasn’t just using telekinesis; he was layering it with something far more insidious: temporal loop torture.

The telekinetic force began to work with mechanical cruelty. It didn’t just hold Theo; it began to twist.

The invisible hands grabbed Theo’s limbs and pulled in opposing directions.

SQUELCH. SNAP.

His shoulder dislocated with a wet pop, then his elbow followed. But as soon as the pain reached its crescendo, as soon as Theo’s eyes rolled back and his heart began to flutter toward failure, Rex activated the Chrono Rewind.

VROOOOOM WHIP.

Time stuttered. The blood that had sprayed across the stones flew backward into the wounds; the bones that had shattered fused back together in a reverse cascade of agony.

Theo’s body was yanked back to its state moments before the injury.

"No... no please... NO!" Theo shrieked, his voice cracking into a high-pitched, pathetic wail. "STOP IT! STOP IT!"

"Let’s try this angle instead," Rex mused.

The telekinetic grip shifted. This time, it focused on Theo’s ribcage, crushing inward with increasing pressure.

CRUNCH. CRUNCH.

The sound of breaking bone was constant, a rhythmic percussion of suffering. Theo’s lungs collapsed, his mouth opening in a silent scream before the blood flooded his throat.

Just as his vision faded into the blackness of death, WHIP.

Time rewound again.

"Again," Rex commanded.

The cycle became a hellish loop of impossible physics. Rex would use telekinesis to tear Theo apart, ripping muscle from bone and flaying skin from flesh in slow motion, and then, with a flick of his fingers, rewind the clock.

Theo was trapped in a perpetual moment of maximum agony, a human marionette caught in a glitch of reality.

SHRED. SNAP. WHIP.

SHRED. SNAP. WHIP.

Theo’s screams had long since lost their human quality. They were primal, animalistic shrieks of pure, unadulterated terror.

He was screaming like a bitch, his voice reduced to a raw, grating noise that tore at his own vocal cords. His mind was fracturing; the constant rewinding meant he never received the mercy of unconsciousness.

He was forced to experience every millisecond of his own destruction over and over, his consciousness forcibly reassembled along with his flesh.

’I’m dying... I’m dying... I’m dying...’ Theo’s inner thoughts screamed in terror, only to be reset. ’I’m dying... I’m dying...’

Rex watched the display with the rapt attention of an artist watching paint dry. He watched the way the blood spiraled backward, the way the light caught the wetness of Theo’s exposed organs before they were pulled back inside, the way the boy’s face contorted in a mask of eternal horror.

The courtyard became a stage for a god of cruelty. The air hummed with the static of broken time, the only sound the wet tearing of flesh and the endless, broken sobbing of a man who had discovered that even death was not an escape from Rex.

After what felt like hours of exquisite torment, Rex finally ceased the spell. The telekinetic grip vanished, dropping Theo’s limp, convulsing body to the stones like a sack of meat.

Theo lay there, twitching spasmodically, his mind shattered into a thousand screaming fragments, unable to even comprehend that the pain had stopped.

Rex stood over him, the moonlight catching the silver in his eyes. He didn’t feel pity; he felt exhilarated.

The power to control not just life and death, but the very sequence of suffering itself, was intoxicating.

A low chuckle rumbled in Rex’s chest, building into a full, unrestrained peal of laughter that echoed off the walls of the courtyard, mocking the broken boy bleeding in the dirt.

Rex stood amidst the carnage, the silence of the courtyard now a canvas for his cold, calculating mind. He didn’t just see the world; he processed it as a series of variables to be manipulated, exploited, and conquered.

Within his dimensional awareness, he could feel the stolen prize. The Temporal Designation’s navigation component hummed with a foreign, divine energy.

It wasn’t just data; it was a living pulse. He could sense the specific dimensional address of Kaeleth’s domain, the exact metaphysical coordinates of a god’s sanctuary, sitting nestled within his Dimensional Manipulation like a poisoned needle on a map.

It was precise.

It was accessible.

It was his.

’Almost there,’ Rex thought, a predator’s satisfaction coiling in his gut. ’I have the key to the kingdom, and the gates don’t even know I’m coming.’

He checked his internal systems with clinical detachment. His Presence Manipulation was operating at a perfect baseline signature compression.

His divine class aura, the kind of power that would normally set off every alarm in the celestial heavens, was crushed down, folded, and hidden beneath the mundane, pathetic profile of a mortal.

He was a wolf wearing the skin of a lamb, invisible to Kaeleth’s defensive architecture. He would walk through the god’s front door before the first warning bell could even ring.

His mind swept through the extensive coverage list of Full Potential Adaptation. His consciousness catalogued every temporal working class, every divine expression, and every magical mechanism that Theo’s stolen designation had ever produced.

He had learned from every wound he had inflicted on the boy; he had adapted to every defense Theo had attempted to mount. He wasn’t just fighting a god; he was fighting a god with the experience of every mortal who had ever dared to defy him.

For a fleeting second, a different image surfaced in the darkness of his mind. He thought of Aurelia.

He thought of the child she was carrying, the fragile, growing heartbeat that represented something beyond mere conquest. But Rex’s thoughts weren’t tender; they were possessive and strategic.

He thought about how that child would grow up in a Nightwing household that would be fundamentally different from the one Theo had known. This wasn’t about sentimentality; it was about legacy.

The last month of brutal, unforgiving training had forged the Nightwing unit into something else entirely: a weaponized fighting force held to a standard of absolute efficiency.

They would become a machine that would continue to function long after Rex had ascended or moved on. They would be his living monument.

He took that thought, that flicker of future planning, and filed it away in the cold compartment of his mind reserved for his lasting constructs.

He compartmentalized his humanity, his legacy, and his attachments with the same ruthless precision he used to dismantle Theo’s soul.

Then, he shut that door. He killed the thought.

The next hour required no legacy. It required no future, and it required no mercy.

The next hour was not for building; it was for breaking. The next hour was not for thinking about what would continue.

The next hour belonged to Kaeleth.