Chapter 60
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Chapter 60: The Challenge of Fate
Midi sprinted through the woods.
Trees blurred past his vision as wind roared in his ears and dried leaves crackled beneath his boots. The ancestral magical armor of the Elven Tribe lay in broken pieces on his body, while his demon god-infused left arm hung limp, blood dripping from its fingers. A bone-deep gash on his left shoulder gaped openly, flesh torn outward in a gruesome display.
His face had turned ashen from blood loss, lips pale as death. Only his pitch-black eyes remained fiercely alive, blazing with unyielding determination.
But determination alone couldn’t change his desperate situation.
The three level 30 Demon Swordwomen chasing him proved relentless. Through their pursuit, Midi had identified their specialties—the white-haired Demon Binder with her whip-like serpent sword controlling mid-range zones, the silver-haired Swordmaster darting in with rapid thrusts of her slim sword, and the gray-haired Dark Knight unleashing area-wide magic sword bombardments. Their flawless teamwork denied him even a moment to cast his Ice Binding Array, let alone counterattack.
Worse still, the demon god in his left arm couldn’t suppress their artificial counterparts. These pseudo-demons—magic crystals implanted by the Empire’s Alchemist Guild in their Billmark test subjects—lacked true consciousness, rendering them immune to his spiritual dominance. Like wax figures ignoring a king’s command, these counterfeits followed only their master’s will.
That master being the true terror—Wiseman of the Hand of Nightmare.
In Midi’s previous life, this level 45 Necromancer had ruled Belmar as the Delos Empire’s proxy, manipulating both the Sais family and Blood Blade Thieves Guild like puppets. Even the Hawk Brigade had suffered under his madness. Now reborn, Midi faced the same enemy seventeen levels above him—an insurmountable gap for any melee fighter. A single full-power strike from Wiseman would melt flesh from bone.
Yet more frightening than the level difference was Wiseman’s chaotic nature. To him, everything—power, honor, even his own experiments—were disposable toys. When his attempt to teleport the Mist Sorceress Alice failed moments ago, he’d simply shrugged and switched targets without hesitation.
"Grab whoever’s available," his narrowed eyes seemed to glint as he attacked Midi with casual brutality, treating this life-and-death struggle like a cat toying with prey.
For Midi, who relied on careful tactics and calculation, this unpredictable recklessness became an inescapable trap. As Wiseman’s assault intensified, a chilling thought surfaced—the first trace of despair since his reincarnation. Would he die here, or become another discarded experiment in the Necromancer’s collection?
He had given his all, not just effort but every ounce of experience, every prediction of the future, every advantage from his reincarnation. Yet the strength he’d built step by step now felt fragile against a mightier foe.
Midi glanced at his bleeding shoulder wound – no time to even bandage it – and forced a bitter smile.
This was inevitable.
Like the mantis hunting cicadas while the oriole watches.
In his past life, he’d been the oblivious cicada facing only mantis blades. Now he’d become the vigilant mantis, forced to confront the oriole’s iron beak.
The higher one climbs, the stronger the opponents. "Wiseman of the Hand of Nightmare" Newton simply embodied this truth.
Even without him, Midi would face overwhelming foes in this noble war. He’d risen too fast, with too little time to grow.
This was fate.
Eternal chains even reincarnation couldn’t break.
Fate?
The word made Midi clench his fist. Hadn’t he reborn to defy fate itself?
Suddenly he saw them – Fina with her Valkyrie’s crimson mane, Alice with nightfall hair and glacial beauty. They’d be fighting desperately right now. How dare he falter?
Though their bonds remained fragile, his death would grieve them. Memories of their imagined sorrow, his past despair, and rebirth’s promises sent shivers through him. The demon god in his left arm roared anew.
He couldn’t die.
Wouldn’t die.
He’d survive to spit in fate’s eye.
Silver flames erupted in his dark eyes. A snapped spell sent ice shards blooming underfoot.
Midi ghosted through the crystalline forest unharmed. The three Demon Swordwomen stumbled, slowed. By the time they breached the Ice Binding Array, he’d vanished into foliage.
"Think you can run?" Wiseman sneered from his bone-steed, staff pointing decisively. "There! Pursue!"
Midi knew one ice trick wouldn’t save him. But channeling his demon god’s power made him slippery prey. The forest chase began.
Hours later, night’s black wings smothered the sky. Midi splashed through a shallow stream, too spent for stone-hopping. Ahead roared tiered waterfalls veiled in mist – perfect hiding.
Mustering final strength, he scaled the first cascade. At the second’s crest, he feigned ascent before doubling back through a pool into left-side thickets.
Twenty rebirth-years had forged Midi: fallen noble, Demon Swordman, commander, adventurer. He’d evaded night-seeing beasts before – darkness favored him now.
Ten minutes later, the Demon Swordwomen scoured waterfall bases, lost.
Wiseman arrived scowling. A lengthy spell later, his staff swept the area.
"Master! Claw marks there!" cried the white-haired Swordwoman.
"Decoy. Search west. Deny him rest." The Necromancer yawned. "I’ll nap."
The trio plunged into left-side bushes.
Steel clashed. Magic boomed. After chaotic melee, Midi fled bloodied but free.
This dance repeated through the night.
The Swordwomen needed no rest – their agony-fueled bodies traded lifespan for endurance. Wiseman slept behind barriers, almost hoping for ambush. Come dawn, he’d hunt refreshed.
Midi snatched half-hour naps between escapes, jolting awake at every killing intent. By morning, his Physical Strength waned, Mental Energy drained.
Yet he’d survived.
Time favored him. The black-haired boy knew Fina and Alice would triumph without him. Knew they’d come. Knew they’d fight beside him again.
Each endured moment loosened fate’s chains. So he clung to life, teeth gritted against marrow-deep exhaustion.
Until dawn.
