Imprisoned for a Trillion Years, I Was Worshipped by All Gods!-Chapter 605 - 161-Alan’s Hidden Trump Card

Alan didn't respond to the provocation.

Instead, he silently shifted the sacred sword-staff into his left hand and charged forward once more.

Though his right arm was still recovering from the earlier clash and couldn't be used effectively for now, he remained unfazed. After all, his opponent's right arm was similarly disabled—and Alan was banking precisely on exploiting this temporary gap in combat readiness.

Whizz! fгee𝑤ebɳoveɭ.cøm

The sacred sword-staff sliced through the air with a high-pitched shriek, a sonic crack trailing in its wake like a whip.

However, Ares made no move to dodge or block. He simply stood there—calm, grounded, and unnervingly still—as if he intended to take the full brunt of the strike head-on.

"That's suspicious…"

A fleeting instinctual thought surfaced in Alan's mind. Something felt off. But by that point, his weapon had already been thrust forward with full force. There was no room—or time—for hesitation.

And just as he feared, the strike passed cleanly through Ares's form… like mist.

There was no resistance. No feedback. No flesh torn, no armor cleaved.

It was nothing more than another illusion.

"Another phantom projection?!"

Alan clenched his teeth.

"Young man, you've got guts. And confidence. That's commendable."

"But tell me—why is it that you still insist on charging in without thinking?"

The sardonic voice echoed from above, dripping with amusement and irony.

Alan's head snapped upward.

There—suspended upside-down in the air—was Ares, eyes gleaming with battle-lust, his blade already raised high, glowing with compressed energy, ready to strike.

"What?!" Alan's pupils shrank in disbelief. "That's impossible! I crippled his right arm earlier—how can he still swing with it?!"

His gaze zeroed in on Ares's sword arm. The armor that had once covered it was now missing, revealing bare, blood-streaked flesh.

Alan could clearly see the injuries from their earlier clash. That had been Ares's real arm back then—no illusion.

So how could he be wielding a sword with it now?

Wait—what was that?

Alan's eyes caught a shadowy flicker near Ares's damaged limb. From behind the injured shoulder, a faint spectral limb began to emerge—its outline shrouded in illusionary mana.

He conjured an entire phantom limb?!

That's right—Ares had forcibly constructed a ghostly duplicate of his right arm to continue the fight.

"Watch out!" Fort cried from the sidelines, but his warning came far too late.

Ares's sword was already descending.

The air trembled as a terrifying pressure surged forth. All the trees in the surrounding forest began to sway and tremble violently, as if caught in the path of a violent gale.

The sword beam was colossal, radiating devastating magical power—and embedded with mana Overpressure.

This is death incarnate.

This wasn't a mere attack—it was a tier-platinum magus's ultimate technique, one honed to peak efficiency.

A skill like this didn't just injure—it annihilated.

Alan gritted his teeth. There was no way to run. Ares had locked onto his mana signature.

Even if he tried to dodge, the sword beam would follow, cleaving down on him from every direction.

The Overpressure prevented him from erecting defensive wards. His only option… was to counter.

"Light Sword Spell—Mana Rupture!"

Alan roared. In his hands, two sleek blades rapidly formed from condensed metal element. These weren't physical swords but ones forged entirely from mana.

He poured every last drop of his mana Overpressure into the twin blades, compressing it down until it shone white-hot.

Then—clang!—he merged them into one and hurled it straight into Ares's oncoming slash.

Clang! Clang! Clang!

The air between them exploded into a storm of sparks.

The sacred light sword and Ares's blade collided repeatedly in rapid succession, each clash sending shockwaves rippling across the battlefield.

Dozens of exchanges occurred within mere seconds—until finally, a deafening burst of mana erupted between them.

BOOM!

Both combatants were blown backward by the sheer force of the detonation, sent tumbling through the air.

But Alan was far from finished.

Even as he fell, he waved his left hand, manipulating an invisible filament—a tether made of translucent, molded mana. It wrapped around the sacred sword-staff still in midair, guiding it like a striking serpent.

It lunged forward, aiming for Ares's heart.

This was the true killing blow.

Alan hadn't embedded mana blades into the previous strike for a reason. That attack had been a distraction. A feint. A setup.

This—this was the real assault.

The sacred sword-staff, guided with surgical precision, gleamed with deadly resolve.

Ares looked surprised. Then he chuckled, low and amused.

"Oh? Well played," he said, smiling even as the weapon neared his chest. "I take back what I said earlier—you're no brainless brute."

Then—clang!

Just as the sacred staff was about to make contact—it rebounded sharply, deflected by an invisible force.

Alan's eyes widened.

Hovering before Ares's chest was a floating circular shield—crafted not of steel, but illusion.

A phantom buckler—willed into existence by Ares's mastery of illusion magic.

"Damn it!"

Alan cursed under his breath.

He should've known from the start.

Ares was dressed like a knight. And no knight went into battle without both sword and shield.

This man wasn't just offensively overwhelming—his defenses were airtight. He didn't just react—he anticipated.

Was this the true standard of a tier-platinum mage? Or… was it just Ares who stood at this height alone?

Alan didn't know.

But what he did know—what echoed loud and clear in his heart—was that the gap between himself and true power was still far too wide.

"If I were tier-silver," he thought, "this battle would be completely different."

Alan clenched his fists.

He had never, ever craved strength more than in this moment.

Just a bit more… if I were just a bit stronger!

Across the field, Ares let out a long breath.

He wiped sweat from his brow, exhaling deeply.

Though his face remained calm and composed, inside—he was rattled.

Alan's sudden counterattack had nearly pierced through his illusion. It had almost killed him.

He'd been forced to deploy his phantom shield—a rare trump card he almost never used.

That brat nearly had me, he thought. A tier-bronze magus, no less.

Ares shuddered to think what would've happened if Alan were even just one tier stronger.

Tier-silver? Tier-gold?

No—he didn't want to imagine it.

His years as a bounty hunter had taught him many lessons. Chief among them:

Enemies multiply your danger. Friends multiply your chances.

There was no honor in making a mortal enemy out of someone destined for greatness.

He made up his mind.

With a casual motion, he lowered his sword and raised both hands, palms open in a sign of peace.

"Whew… I'm done. I surrender. No more. You win, kid—your moves are vicious!"

Alan didn't buy it.

He glared at Ares, his eyes sharp, voice cold.

"Save your breath."

He knew all too well how cunning bounty hunters could be.

Now that Ares had the upper hand, why would he suddenly ask for a ceasefire?

Even a child wouldn't fall for that.

Seeing Alan's distrust, Ares shrugged. "No, seriously. I'm being honest this time."

And then—unexpectedly—he looked upward and shouted:

"Old man! You've seen enough, haven't you? Come out and explain already!"