The Secondary Damage Technique utilizes a vast number of razor-sharp etheric energy blades vibrating at the molecular level, greatly enhancing their cutting power. Tens of thousands of these blades phase into the spatial layer simultaneously, instantly shredding everything within a 70 cm diameter zone—inside and out—without discrimination.
This devastating attack is particularly effective against opponents like ogres, who neither evade nor defend. (Note: This curse spell can be countered by certain spatial defenses.)
The ogre had barely taken three or four steps when the damage sphere in Punk's hand vanished.
In the same instant, the space around its head dimmed slightly, as if shadowed by something unseen. Though fleeting, this signified that the ogre had taken the Secondary Damage Spell head-on without resistance.
Yet, with its last remaining strength, the brute hurled its massive wooden club at Punk, purely on instinct.
The club howled through the air, whipping up a violent gust as it passed. The wormwood at knee height, caught in the turbulence, bent and flattened under the force.
Punk, seeing the attack, activated the Apprentice-Level Deflection Barrier woven into his robe—usable twice per day.
An invisible field expanded outward.
Punk felt all foreign matter—air, dust, even the club—twist away from him, their trajectories skewed by the barrier's force. While the effect slightly thinned the air around him, his enhanced physique allowed him to remain unaffected.
The club, as if struck by an unseen hand, abruptly veered off course, narrowly missing Punk's side.
But he did not relax.
His expression remained indifferent.
Because… that direction…
Was where the donkey stood.
The ogre staggered two more steps before collapsing, its head reduced to a mangled mass of flesh.
The etheric blades had torn through bone, muscle, and brain matter with surgical precision. The creature's skull, once intact, was now an unrecognizable pulp, its contents spilled across the wasteland.
Its body twitched sporadically as residual nerve signals fired off, but even without casting Lesser Life Detection, Punk knew—it was dead.
No creature could survive a liquefied brain. Even a troll's famed regeneration could not undo fatal damage to the thinking organ. And at the soul level… the ogre's essence had already been swallowed by the River of Fate.
Without sparing a glance at the corpse, Punk turned toward the donkey.
He had no interest in the ogre's hide—despite its minor magical resistance, it was a low-grade material that required immediate treatment. Left untreated, the magic would dissipate before he even left the wasteland.
Not worth the effort.
At that moment, Kane emerged from the crater his shield had created, dusting himself off.
His eyes flickered with brief jealousy as he glanced at the ogre's ruined corpse, but his casual demeanor quickly returned.
"Oi, Punk, do you have a torture fetish? What the hell was that? Or are you just in the mood for ogre stew tonight?" Kane smirked as he walked toward the donkey.
But halfway there, they both stopped.
A massive wooden club stood lodged in the ground at an angle. Around it lay the shattered remains of the cart, smeared with blood.
The donkey's body was torn in half—its lower torso mingled with the cart's wreckage, scattered across the wasteland in pieces.
Punk's first thought was At least I won't have to endure the stench of that walking dung heap all the way to Konola City.
Kane, however, was livid.
"The hell, man! I bust my ass fighting that walking meat fortress, and now my shield looks like this?!"
He waved the mangled remains of his once-pristine shield in frustration.
"At least your shield is still usable," Punk replied dryly, plucking a small bag of Mock Village Speciality wheat bread from the wreckage before heading toward Konola City.
"Oh, now you care about salvaging supplies?" Kane scoffed, slinging a large bag of dried meat over his shoulder.
"But damn… my poor donkey… I can still see the red hair on his ears trembling…"
Punk pointed at the bloody mush near the club.
"The red hair on your donkey is definitely mixed in with that meat paste. If you're so sentimental, why don't you eat it? That'd be more useful than all this pointless whining."
Without another word, Punk turned and walked away.
"I swear, you're gonna die alone one day," Kane muttered, strapping his twisted shield to his back and gripping his rifle.
With a sigh, he followed after Punk.
The great red sun, Chicasa, had finally risen above the horizon, bathing the wasteland in golden light.
The battlefield's scars would heal soon—within a month, fresh grass would cover the torn earth, feeding on the remains of the dead.
Seven Days Later
Punk and Kane finally reached Konola City.
Fortunately, they had encountered neither the so-called Wood of the Dead nor any more of that merchant's "friends." But something in Punk's mind whispered that this wasteland, and the mysterious Wood of the Dead, would cross paths with him again.
Standing on a hill overlooking the city's towering walls, Kane spread his arms wide and bellowed:
"OH~ KONOLA CITY, I'M HEEEERE!!"
For a brief moment, he almost resembled a gallant knight—until he continued.
"Pretty ladies, wait for me! Your handsome and dashing Sir Kane is here to rescue you! Hahahaha~!"
Punk, maintaining an air of practiced indifference, strode past without acknowledging the fool beside him.
"Konola City… I hope I can gain some useful knowledge here."
As he gazed ahead, a cold blue light flickered in his eyes.