Chapter 1181: Meeting, past, and journey

Swoosh!

Figures tore through the air, descending like dark meteors cloaked in the black robes of the Gluttony Army. Their presence twisted the heat around them, cooling it into a tense, electric pressure that made the hairs on Sergine’s arms stand on end. Each one radiated raw murderous intent; their eyes gleamed with a cold, insatiable greed, like predators sensing prey.

The cavern trembled under their arrival. Sparks flew as their aura clashed with the searing heat of the magma. Shadows stretched unnaturally along the walls, flickering like living specters. Even the molten rivers seemed to hiss in protest, recoiling from the malevolence in the air.

Sergine’s breath caught in her throat. She felt the weight of the oncoming storm pressing down, not just the Gluttony Army, but the inevitability of the battle that was about to erupt in this infernal chamber.

Eztein looked at the group and let out a laugh. "Aren’t they weak? Their target is you, so I expected people capable of subduing you."

Doranjan sighed. "I’ll explain later."

Sergine stayed quiet. She had been terrified the moment she learned these people were from the Gluttony Army. Yet Eztein’s casual remark calling them weak left her confused. From her perspective, the energy radiating from these figures was overwhelming.

But neither Eztein nor the dragon seemed to be joking.

"Then let me finish them," Eztein said as he stepped forward, his voice echoing across the area.

His entire demeanor shifted.

A slow smile formed on his lips as he stared at the Gluttony Army members.

The people of the Gluttony Army glanced at Eztein, narrowing their eyes. They had no idea where his arrogance came from, but an uneasy feeling crawled up their spines. They couldn’t explain it but something about him felt dangerously wrong.

"Prepare yourself."

The words had barely left Eztein’s mouth before his figure blurred and vanished.

Swoosh!!

He materialized in front of the nearest Gluttony Army member, appearing so suddenly the man’s pupils hadn’t even dilated yet. Eztein raised his hand slowly, almost gently.

"I don’t know why no capable individual came with you... so you’ll die here."

Mana roared around the soldiers like a volcanic eruption as they scrambled to respond.

Too slow.

Eztein’s fingers clamped over the man’s skull. His flesh writhed and split open, revealing tendrils of muscle and jagged bone that twisted like living blades. They burrowed into the man’s body with a wet, tearing sound.

Crack—splurt!

The man didn’t even scream. His limbs burst apart as if a bomb had detonated inside his body. Shredded meat and bone fragments sprayed across the ground, painting it red. Half of his torso slid off what remained of his spine before collapsing into a pulpy heap.

Swoosh!!

The others froze where they stood, horror locking their throats. They just stared unable to look away from Eztein’s arm.

It was no longer a hand.

It was a grotesque amalgamation of muscle fibers, snapping tendons, and splintered bone segments constantly wriggling and flexing. Blood oozed between the shifting pieces, dripping in thick, dark strands onto the ground.

"Let me be clear," Eztein said, his voice disturbingly calm. "You’re all too weak for me to bother using my skills."

The abomination on his arm pulsed and then exploded outward.

Dozens of flesh tendrils shot forward, each one tipped with serrated bone. They streaked through the air like bloody javelins.

WHIP—WHIP—WHIP!

Every strike sounded like meat being slapped against stone.

Tendrils punched through ribcages, hooked into spines, and ripped organs free with wet, sucking sounds. Bodies were dragged, twisted, and torn in midair, showering the clearing with gore.

Sergine slapped both hands over her mouth, eyes trembling. The scene before her was so grotesquely violent that bile clawed its way up her throat. The air was thick with the iron scent of blood... and the sound of tearing flesh.

It was a horrifying sight. One that carved itself into memory the moment it was witnessed.

In just a single heartbeat, Eztein had annihilated elites of the Gluttony Army. People who, under any normal circumstance, would’ve crushed Sergine without effort.

And he did it as if swatting insects.

Eztein flicked his wrist.

The writhing mass of flesh on his arm convulsed violently before retracting with wet, squelching sounds. Muscles knotted inward, bone shards folded back into place, and in the span of a breath, his hand returned to its ordinary, human shape—clean, composed, deceptively harmless.

He descended slowly, landing with a soft thud.

His eyes shifted to Doranjan.

"So," Eztein said quietly, "are you going to tell me now?"

Doranjan didn’t reply not because he didn’t want to, but because something else drew his attention. He glanced toward Sergine.

She stood frozen at the edge of the clearing, lips pale, knees shaking so violently she could barely keep herself upright.

"E-Eek...!" Sergine let out a tiny, strangled sound, hands clamped over her trembling chest.

Eztein’s gaze slid to her next, cold, unreadable, unnervingly calm.

The moment his eyes touched her, Sergine felt as though her breath had been stolen. Her heart pounded so loud it drowned out every other sound. Her vision swam. The scent of blood in the air made her stomach twist violently.

She opened her mouth, but nothing came out.

Her throat was locked.

Her body numb.

Finally, with her voice cracking, she forced the words out:

"I-I will... leave..."

"Appreciate it," Eztein replied with a small nod. "We’ll escort you back to your school later."

Sergine didn’t wait for anything else. She spun around and bolted, nearly tripping as she fled. Every instinct in her screamed that staying even a second longer would shatter whatever sanity she had left.

Behind her, the clearing was drenched in blood... and the two beings standing there spoke calmly, as if nothing had happened at all.

After Sergine’s footsteps faded into silence, Eztein shifted his gaze back to Doranjan. This time, there was no impatience, only a cold, piercing demand for truth.

Doranjan exhaled slowly. "Ever since the battle back then..."

His voice trailed off as the memories dragged him back whether he wanted them or not.

The battlefield resurfaced in his mind: a world drowning in darkness, the sky split apart, and Souta standing alone against ten Freedom Realm demons. Their clash wasn’t a fight. It was a calamity that warped the very land. Space fractured. Mountains were torn from their roots. Storms of raw power swallowed entire regions.

Doranjan remembered the shockwave that tore them apart, scattering everyone like broken leaves in a typhoon. He remembered running, not out of cowardice, but because the world itself had been trying to kill anything that moved.

When the destruction ceased, he returned.

But what greeted him was not a battlefield.

It was a graveyard of laws and logic.

The center was a swirling hell of violent remnants, chaotic arcs of cosmic energy that felt like they could peel the soul from a living body. Even taking a single step closer made his scales vibrate in warning. Death whispered directly into his ear.

So he retreated.

He stayed hidden. Alone.

Searching, always searching.

And then came the truth he feared most.

Souta had vanished.

Rumors crawled through every tavern, every hidden corner of the world. The Blood Lightning Monster—dead. Obliterated. Pulverized into nothing by the force even gods would dread.

Doranjan refused to believe it...

But disbelief didn’t erase the hollow ache tightening in his chest.

He kept searching anyway.

He encountered monsters, officials, and beings who sensed his weakened state and pounced. He fought—bleeding, exhausted, cornered—but he survived through sheer stubborn will.

Just when he thought things couldn’t worsen, he stumbled upon a city engulfed in flames, its people crying as members of the Gluttony Army butchered them mercilessly.

He didn’t think. He acted.

Doranjan tore through the attackers like a storm of vengeance but victory turned to disaster when a powerful officer appeared. Their battle shattered the city’s remains. Doranjan’s blood stained the streets. His bones cracked. He barely crawled away with his life.

And the Gluttony Army didn’t stop.

They pursued him relentlessly, sensing the wound in his strength. They hounded him like predators chasing dying prey.

"So I kept running," Doranjan whispered, eyes darkening. "Running until I found this place."

He finished his story—a tale of fear, blood, and desperation that stretched across months.

Eztein was silent.

For a long moment, the only sound was the dead wind brushing against the blood-soaked earth.

"You went through hell," Eztein finally said, his tone heavy.

Doranjan didn’t respond. He didn’t have to.

Because Eztein understood.

He, too, had walked through carnage. He had forced himself to evolve, to grow stronger, to endure. He knew the bitter truth that haunted both of them:

No matter how strong they became...

No matter how much power they clawed from the world...

It still wasn’t enough.

Not when Souta—their anchor, their monster—was missing.

"Do you know the whereabouts of the rest?" Doranjan asked, his voice low, carrying the weight of months of uncertainty.

Eztein slowly shook his head. "No. I haven’t found any trace of the others."

Doranjan’s shoulders tensed, but Eztein continued.

"But," he added, eyes narrowing slightly, "I do have a clue about Vashno."

Doranjan straightened immediately. "Oh? Where?"

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