Chapter 213

Chapter 213: The Dialogue of the Victors and the Defeated

The crimson clouds shielding the magical composite beast were riddled with gaps, letting the relentless rain of bullets pierce through and strike its hardened scales.

At first, the clash of metal against scales sent sparks flying.

Then, visible cracks began to spread across the scales.

Later, chunks of flesh were torn free, and scale fragments scattered with each hit.

Finally, the storm of armor-piercing bullets shattered both pairs of wings, pierced the beast’s massive body, and blasted apart its two ferocious heads!

With a deafening roar, the magical composite beast collapsed under the endless barrage. It flapped its broken wings weakly, spiraling toward the ground.

Dragging a crimson trail across the sky, it crashed at the foot of Star Mountain. The impact shook the earth, sending a cloud of dust soaring dozens of meters high like a murky yellow fog.

As the dust settled, the battlefield fell silent.

Even sound seemed buried beneath the settling debris.

From the fading haze, a middle-aged man in tattered robes staggered upright.

“Wiseman of the Hand of Nightmare” survived. The magical composite beast’s body had cushioned his fall—insufficient to kill a level 50 peak Necromancer. Yet Wiseman himself wished for death. The dark reincarnation ritual was ready, and he’d rather close his eyes than witness his own defeat.

The roaring engines of silver Vanguard ships grew louder as they gathered overhead.

A lean figure leaped from one ship, landing before Wiseman Newton.

“Well done, Midi Asreks,” the Necromancer said flatly, raising his head to study the black-haired, black-eyed youth. Though unafraid of death, he still wanted to see what made this man—who’d killed him once and now again—so extraordinary.

Midi stood energized, his fighting spirit blazing. No trace of fatigue lingered after the brutal battle.

Tiny currents of pure magic flowed through him, his movements as fluid as a leopard’s. Golden light shimmered in his eyes, piercing as if laying bare all secrets.

Level 50 peak level.

Previously, Midi had reached level 49 in the Dragon Tower, one step from perfection. But in this battle beneath Star Mountain—through relentless strategy, surging magic, and the final strike that felled the beast—he crossed that threshold.

Leveling restored some stamina, keeping him sharp even as the battle ended.

For Midi, a reincarnator bearing the golden small sword infused with a mysterious demon god, this breakthrough felt profound. In his past life, reaching level 50 had merely marked his limit. True transformation came only with awakening.

Now, his entire being resonated with harmony, as if reforged. The golden small sword hummed within him, hinting at further breakthroughs.

Though his raw power and magic barely increased, his coordination surged by thirty percent. Where he once fought a hundred foes, he could now face a hundred thirty. This wasn’t just progression—it was a glimpse of awakening.

What would his true awakening bring, with perfect transmutation, the Ultimate Intent, and the demon god’s power? Even Midi, usually unshakable, felt anticipation stir.

But first, he had to end this war with the Empire.

He turned to the disheveled man before him, still smirking with careless defiance.

“The praise is yours, Lord Wiseman,” Midi replied. “Earthly stone bombs backed by Undead wyverns nearly defeated even me. Without the Vanguard ships, your inventions would have annihilated us.”

No false modesty colored his words. Midi, a reincarnator, had relied on past memories and the mechanical genius of Norton and Wells to create the Vanguard ships. Yet Wiseman, with no such foresight, had crafted apocalyptic weapons through sheer intellect—aiming for the skies and reshaping war itself.

No matter how reality changed, true experts remained experts, weathering any storm.

Now that he had reached the peak, this life would be an endless struggle against such formidable foes, fighting relentlessly for ultimate victory.

The thought left Midi’s heart heavy, yet a spark of anticipation flickered within him.

“Hmph. They call that a Vanguard ship? Must use some Sky City material I’ve never seen for its floating engine.” Wiseman of the Hand of Nightmare eyed the swirling silver currents overhead, curiosity burning in his gaze. “Need to dissect one later.”

So even this wouldn’t kill him?

Midi’s brow twitched.

Necromancers revived endlessly through shadow rituals, and the famously powerful “Hand of Nightmare” had mastered this art. In Midi’s past life, countless heroes had been ground down through repeated skirmishes with Wiseman. Now history repeated itself.

At least Sky City’s battle ended in the Empire’s defeat.

Securing Sky City’s finest resources and awakening opportunities would narrow Belmar’s power gap with the Delos Empire. Even if Wiseman reincarnated, rebuilding his strength would take time. With losses offsetting gains, the Empire should stay quiet for now. That sufficed.

“Enough talk, Lord Wiseman.” Midi drew the Black Sky sword, its edge humming. “Ready?”

“Why would I stand still for slaughter?” Cold light flashed in Wiseman’s eyes as he produced a slender black crystal. “Killing the Hawk Brigade’s ‘Iron Triangle’—their precious Sword of Victory and Guardian—would console me for losing Sky City.”

Pure magic erupted from the crystal, distorting air into howling winds that whipped Midi’s hair.

“An Earthly stone bomb core.” Midi kept his voice flat despite the raging energies. “Stripped of safety measures.”

“Detonation requires but a thought.” Wiseman’s smile turned feral. “Shall we test your famed resilience?”

“Useless.” Midi didn’t blink. “I came prepared.”

Not entirely a bluff. After surviving multiple bomb blasts, he’d devised personal countermeasures. His true aim was extracting Empire secrets—hence this risky faceoff.

But Wiseman had raised the crystal long before Midi entered striking range.

“Bold claims!” The Necromancer laughed. “Worth trying regardless. I lose nothing either way.”

The bastard!

Midi tensed to retreat. Even with defenses, distance meant survival. Yet as he moved, a hair-thin beam lanced from the sky.

Wiseman’s crystal-holding hand fell, severed wrist smoking. The Hand of Nightmare stared at his cauterized stump, mouth opening—

A pillar of light swallowed him whole. When it faded, nothing remained. Not ash. Not shadow. Only scorched earth.