MIGHT AS WELL BE OP

Chapter 474: Therionis

Therionis, the second Warlord, observed with extreme focus the Demon Monarchʼs direct subordinate, Mournak, who stood poised before him.

He scrutinized every subtle motion, every measured breath, each involuntary twitch, and even the faintest blink.

Therionis maintained an expressionless gaze, his features as impassive and distant as those of his brother Kaelrix. In his hands, his twin short swords were poised, ready to strike at a momentʼs notice.

”I trust you are prepared to meet your end”

Mournakʼs voice echoed calmly from across, their eyes locked in a silent contest, each awaiting the otherʼs opening move.

Yet Therionis offered no response to Mournakʼs challenge. He remained motionless, an unmoving statue carved from stone.

Mournakʼs knees bent slightly as he lunged forward, katana extended with lethal intent.

In an instant, he erased the distance between them, as if the space itself held no meaning.

His blade flashed silver in a swift arc, aiming straight for Therionisʼ neck.

Yet Therionis remained perfectly still, his eyes calmly fixed on Mournak as the katana hovered mere centimeters from his throat.

In an instant, Therionis dropped into a crouch with breathtaking grace, the katana cleaving the very air where his neck had moments before been.

Without hesitation, he sprang upward like a tightly coiled spring released, his twin short swords following in perfect synchrony. They sliced through the air with a fierce, piercing scream, aiming straight for Mournakʼs jaw.

But Mournak was prepared, his movements flowed as if he had anticipated Therionisʼ very anticipation.

His body twisted with fluid precision; waist, shoulders, legs, and arms moving in flawless harmony, a testament to one who had mastered every inch of his own form.

In perfect synchrony, his katana mirrored the motion, flashing swiftly toward Therionisʼ right shoulder.

Therionisʼ response was equally precise, mirroring Mournakʼs flawless synchronization as if they were reflections of the same blade.

His short sword swept sideways, intercepting the katana mid-strike.

Steel clashed against steel, each collision resonating like the pounding heartbeat of war, echoing thunderously beneath a storm-darkened sky.

A maniacal grin twisted Mournakʼs lips, while Therionis wore only a mask of bored indifference. Then, in an instant, they both erupted into a blinding flurry of movements, sonic in their speed and lethal in their intent.

They danced in a deadly rhythm, their swords flashing like lightning bolts summoned from the wrath of a storm god.

Blades moved in indistinct blurs, weaving arcs of silver sparks as they clashed with the precision of duelists forged in legend.

Each swing was a symphony of lethal grace, their weapons slicing through the air like whispers of death.

They exchanged strikes as poets trade verses, every cut a stanza penned with elegant yet brutal intent.

Their movements flowed like rivers, effortless yet exact, each parry and strike composing a rapid, fluid tempest.

With every swift cut and piercing thrust, their blades inscribed poetry in the air, verses edged with mortal consequence.

They met and parted like crashing waves upon a storm-tossed shore, every impact charged with the raw force of nature itself.

The power behind their blows could fell mountains, yet neither stopped nor paused.

Mournakʼs blade moved so swiftly it left only ghostly afterimages, flawless, precise, without a single misstep.

His eyes flickered rapidly, tracking every movement of Therionisʼ twin short swords.

Though locked in a fight to the death, his grin only deepened.

To Mournak, battle was absolute, no compromises, no halfway measures.

This was his philosophy, his art, his very essence of war.

Until now, the Demon Monarchʼs very presence had kept Mournakʼs warrior spirit in check. But with the command to fight on in a battle of win or perish, why wouldnʼt he laugh? Why wouldnʼt he grin?

ʼMORE. MORE. MORE. MORE. MORE. FASTER. FASTER. STRONGER. STRONGERʼ

The mantra echoed in Mournakʼs mind like a fractured record stuck in an endless loop, driving him ever onward.

Yet his ʼspecialʼ state did not disrupt the battle; rather, it rendered him more complete, more flawless, more whole.

It fueled his next strike, empowered his parry, and fortified his block. His senses sharpened to a razorʼs edge, his reactions swift, precise, and unerring.

The earth trembled beneath his feet as he moved across the battlefield, his battle intent soaring skyward, intensifying with every passing moment.

Therionisʼ twin short swords thundered with devastating force as they crashed against Mournakʼs katana, sending the latter hurtling backward.

Yet, midair, Mournak absorbed the impact with fluid grace, his body flowing and twisting like a tranquil river. He landed lightly on the bark of a tree, as if bearing the weight of a feather.

Then, with a deafening, earth-shaking boom, he surged forward like a streak of lightning, the tree shattering into splinters beneath the rush of wind.

His katana descended in a deadly arc, poised to cleave Therionis in two.

Therionis merely sidestepped, his expression unchanged, cool and detached, as the katana hissed past his chest and face.

He could sense Mournakʼs emotions, his thoughts; it was clear the man was more warrior than demon.

Mournak lived for battle, breathed it, his heart pounding in steady rhythm to the clash of steel.

He was one of the rare demons untouched by cunning or deceit, driven solely by the purity of combat.

But what did that matter to Therionis? He was here simply to kill a demon, one among countless others, nothing more, nothing less.

The katana struck the earth with overwhelming force, instantly carving a vast trench stretching hundreds of kilometers, deep and wide.

Mountains crumbled, trees splintered, hills shattered, and every living creature, beast and monster alike, within that range was mercilessly torn asunder.

But Mournak was far from finished. In one fluid, serpentine motion, his free hand lashed out, clamping around Therionisʼ ankles like a vice before hurling him sideways with immense force.

Therionis, however, did not falter. His gaze remained impassive as he streaked through the air.

He collided with nothing. Before any impact could occur, his assailants were reduced to literal ashes.

His body twisted gracefully upon landing, no skid, no stumble, just a flawless descent executed with breathtaking ease.

Therionisʼ eyes flicked to Mournak, who was already charging toward him.

But suddenly, Mournak halted as the earth before him writhed and erupted upward, twisting like living tendrils that bound him fast.

Before he could react, Therionis was upon him, his twin short swords flashing through the air like perfect mirrors of one another.

With ruthless precision, Therionis transformed Mournakʼs armor to mere cloth, his blades slicing through flesh as effortlessly as a knife through butter.

Black blood blossomed into the air, Therionis had drawn first blood.

This was Therionisʼ Talent.

TRANSFORMATION.

Silence descended over the battlefield, heavy and absolute. But before it could linger, a thunderous, maniacal laughter shattered the stillness.

”HAHAHAHAHA! THIS IS IT! THATʼS THE WAY, MORE! MORE! MORE!”

Mournakʼs voice echoed like a tempest, shaking the very ground beneath their feet.

Therionisʼ feet lashed out like whips, snapping against Mournakʼs temples with a force that seemed capable of sundering worlds.

Mournakʼs head jerked violently to the side, and before he could regain his footing, the twin short swords flashed toward his throat, Therionis poised to deliver the final strike.

But Mournak did not flinch. Instead, a wider grin twisted his lips, madness gleaming in his eyes as he hissed the words:

BLACK NOVA