MIGHT AS WELL BE OP-Chapter 410: Shadow [Ko-Fi Bonus - ]

Dale's eyes narrowed, and in that split second, the world seemed to slow.

His feet shifted, his entire being swayed just out of reach of the deadly swipe.

He did not retreat; rather, he moved as though the air itself had submitted to his will.

His spear came alive in his hands.

A flick of his wrist, and the spear arced with deadly grace, the tip finding its mark in the creature's chest with surgical precision.

The sound of rupturing flesh echoed, and the beast's cry was choked off as its body disintegrated into a black mist.

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With a single thrust, it was as though the monstrosity had never existed.

But there was no time to linger on the ease with which it fell.

Another surged toward him, this one larger, more agile.

It rushed forward, claws extended, venom dripping from its maw.

Dale did not flinch.

His spear became an extension of his will as he pivoted sharply, his movements a blur.

The tip of the spear shifted through the air with a smooth, fluid motion, cutting through the chaos with the precision of a surgeon's scalpel.

In a single strike, he pierced the beast's throat, and as it crumpled to the ground, blood and black ichor splattered across the cracked earth.

As the abomination's form crumpled, Dale stepped forward with an uncanny grace.

His spear whipped out once more, the spearhead laced with shadows, and he plunged it into the next enemy without hesitation.

The creature's cries were but faint echoes in his mind, drowned by the overwhelming presence of his own darkness.

With each strike, Dale's control over the battlefield deepened.

His mastery of the darkness element allowed him to manipulate the very shadows around him, using them to blur his movements, creating false impressions in the minds of his enemies.

To the creatures, it seemed as though he was everywhere at once, an ethereal wraith, flickering from one point to another, never allowing them a clear target.

But it was not deception alone that made him a deadly force.

His control over blood allowed him to exploit every weakness, every vulnerability in his enemies' forms.

His spear wove in and out of the abominations' defense with uncanny precision.

The weapon shifted from one hand to the other, its speed barely perceptible, as though the spear itself were an extension of his thoughts.

Blood sprayed into the air, and shadows twisted to his will, the battlefield bending to his every command.

In the midst of the turmoil, Dale remained composed, a quiet storm amidst the chaos.

His movements were flawless, calculated, and with each passing moment, his opponents grew more and more desperate.

He did not need to see the life leave their eyes.

He did not need to hear their screams.

Dale fought with a dispassionate grace, his every movement a testament to his control.

He did not waste a single motion, a single breath.

His blood manipulation allowed him to twist the life force of his enemies in ways that defied comprehension, manipulating it like a puppet master pulling the strings of the marionettes in his grasp.

He could draw the very essence of life from his foes, their blood responding to his will, obeying him as though it were a mere extension of his own body.

In the blink of an eye, one of the abominations leapt toward him, its fangs bared, claws extended in a brutal strike aimed directly at his throat.

But Dale was already moving.

His spear swung outward in a wide arc, the shadowy tendrils of the darkness element wrapping around the creature, binding it in place for just an instant.

The abomination was unable to react before the spear found its mark, plunging through its chest with the sickening sound of snapping ribs and ruptured organs.

Its body collapsed, crumbling to dust as the darkness that had held it dissipated.

Dale's expression remained unchanged.

His red eyes scanned the horizon, the abominations still coming in relentless waves.

But it mattered little.

He had no need for the theatrics of war, no desire to bask in the glory of a drawn-out conflict.

His spear struck with the speed and lethality of a storm, a storm that swept across the battlefield, leaving nothing but destruction in its wake.

The next wave came, but it would meet the same fate as the first.

Dale was untouchable, his mastery over his powers so refined that each movement seemed effortless.

His spear danced through the air, his blood manipulation weaving around his enemies, turning their own blood against them.

The abominations tried to fight back, but they were nothing more than fleeting distractions.

For every thrust of his spear, for every movement of his body, the battlefield shifted and contorted under his control.

His spear was a force of nature, a deadly extension of his very essence, and the darkness that wrapped around him seemed to deepen with every passing moment.

The battlefield, once chaotic and maddened with the sound of war, became silent in comparison to the precision of his strikes.

Each of his foes was reduced to nothing, mere echoes of a struggle they would never win.

The air was thick with the scent of blood, the mist rising from the bodies of fallen abominations that littered the battlefield.

Dale's movements were a study in fluidity, as his spear cut through the ranks of monsters with the calm precision of a master sculptor chiseling away at his marble.

Yet there was no artifice in his battle; only ruthless efficiency, a choreographed dance of death that seemed effortless in its execution.

He was untouchable.

His spear, a gleaming extension of his will, cleaved through the monstrous tides without hesitation.

He was a specter, silent, deadly, and merciless.

The abominations, with their grotesque forms and mindless aggression, were but fleeting shadows against his superior control.

Their lumbering strikes, full of ferocity and fury, barely registered as more than a nuisance.

Their limbs tore through the air in a mindless frenzy, but Dale did not even need to engage them directly.

His mastery of blood manipulation allowed him to control their very essence.

A particularly large creature, its body grotesquely armored with jagged protrusions, lunged toward him.

It was fast, faster than the others.

Its mouth opened wide, revealing rows of sharp teeth, ready to rend him apart with a single bite.

But again, Dale's composure did not falter.

His spear swept through the air in a sweeping arc, the shadows around him shifting in tandem.

The spearhead flashed with a sudden, ethereal gleam, as though it were part of the very darkness itself.

As the beast closed in, Dale's blood manipulation flared, and the air seemed to thicken.

With a mere thought, he drew the creature's blood into his control, tugging at it with his will.

The beast's body stiffened, its movements slowed, and the dark shadows that spiraled around it coiled tighter, like chains formed from the very night itself.

For the briefest of moments, the abomination was suspended in midair, helpless.

And then, with a brutal twist of his wrist, Dale sent his spear shooting forward.

The creature's chest erupted with a sickening crack as the spear pierced its heart, the force of the blow splintering its ribcage.

Blood sprayed from the wound, but Dale was already moving, the shadows receding and allowing the body to crumple into a heap at his feet.

He did not linger.

There was no need for him to relish in the carnage; he had already moved on to the next target, his spear sweeping through the battlefield with deadly purpose.

His blood manipulation was a deadly art, capable of controlling his enemies' life force as easily as one might manipulate a puppet's strings.

He had already siphoned the life force from several of his foes, their blood swirling around him like a dark storm before being consumed entirely.

The abominations' struggles to break free were in vain.

They could no more resist the pull of their own blood than they could resist the inevitable pull of death itself.

It was an elegant, efficient destruction, a ruthless precision that left nothing but the hollow remnants of battle in its wake.

Even as the abominations kept coming, more numerous and monstrous, Dale's composure remained unshaken.

His blood manipulation continued its deadly work, and his spear danced in the air like a specter of death.

He seemed to glide through the battlefield, an unstoppable force.

He felt no fatigue, no anger, only an unyielding control that allowed him to dictate the pace of the fight.

The monstrous tide was relentless, but they were no match for him.

One by one, they fell, their bodies torn apart with surgical precision.

His spear never wavered, never faltered.

It became a blur of shadow and blood, the point of it piercing through the creatures' hearts, slicing open their throats, severing limbs with ease.

There was no struggle, no contest.

Dale was a force of nature, and these creatures were little more than leaves in a storm, helpless before the oncoming gale.

A particularly large and grotesque beast, its body covered in spiked, crystalline armor, charged toward him with reckless abandon.

It was faster than the others, its massive frame seemingly unhindered by the weight of its unnatural armor.

The creature let out a guttural roar, its jaws snapping open in an attempt to tear Dale apart.

But Dale did not flinch.

His spear darted forward in a sudden, fluid motion, its blade slicing through the air with eerie precision.

He let the darkness flow through him, allowing his shadows to wrap around the beast, binding it in place for a brief, precious moment.

Then, with a powerful thrust, the spear found its mark, driving deep into the creature's chest.

The beast staggered, its crystalline armor cracking under the force of the blow, and with a deafening roar, it crumpled to the ground.

Dale did not waste a moment.

The shadows at his feet swirled and converged, rising up like tendrils to lift the massive creature's body, pulling it from the ground.

His blood manipulation surged again, and he wrenched the creature's life force from it, draining its essence until nothing remained but a husk.

The abomination's once-powerful frame now lay lifeless, crumbling into dust as its blood was consumed by the darkness that seemed to follow him wherever he went.

His spear shifted effortlessly through the battlefield once more, and his blood manipulation continued its deadly work.

He wove through the abominations with practiced ease, his spear a blur of motion, cutting through the air with deadly accuracy.

No matter how many times the creatures leapt toward him, no matter how many clawed hands reached for his throat, they were always just a moment too slow.

Each of his strikes was like a note in a symphony, each movement deliberate, each strike part of an unspoken rhythm.

Dale was not merely fighting; he was composing a masterpiece of destruction, a war symphony in which he dictated the tempo and cadence.

The creatures could do nothing but dance to the tune of his spear, their movements only hastening their inevitable demise.

As the last of the monstrosities fell, their bodies littering the battlefield like discarded playthings, Dale stood alone, unmoving.

The shadows around him had long since receded, and the blood that had once surged through the air was now quiet, like a river that had run dry.

The abominations were nothing more than husks, empty vessels whose only purpose had been to test his resolve.

They had failed.

Dale's eyes, still sharp and unblinking, swept over the carnage.

The battle was over, but there was no satisfaction in his gaze.

There was no joy in victory, no bitterness in defeat.

There was only the quiet, unspoken knowledge that it had been too easy.

The monsters had never stood a chance.

And with that, Dale turned, his spear still gleaming in the faint light of the battlefield, and moved forward, silent, composed, and in control.

There was no need for him to linger.

His work here was done.