"Another portal?"
Punk's gaze flickered across the battlefield. The astral oil–fueled blaze had nearly burned itself out, leaving only scattered embers dancing in the air. His opponent, battered from relentless attacks, was no longer capable of matching his strength.
This means… the high priest's last move will be a desperate, final strike.
At the very moment this thought crossed his mind, a faint spatial fluctuation rippled behind him.
"You didn't expect this, did you, boy? Hahahaha!"
Without warning, an oval-shaped portal of shifting light tore open at Punk's back. A charred, withered arm lunged forth, gripping a dagger radiating an icy gleam.
The high priest's body was in ruins, shattered like a broken puppet. Blood and flesh dripped from his mangled form, and his lower spider-like limbs had been obliterated, leaving only two twitching appendages. It was clear that, in the final explosion, he had sacrificed his arachnid lower half to absorb the blast, using the force to propel himself through the portal.
Now, with only a single bloodshot eye remaining, the high priest fixed his gaze on Punk's heart, his dagger thrusting forward.
Punk's golem was still too far to intervene. The priest's enchanted blade had already torn through the outermost layer of Punk's Deflection Ward, and the poisoned tip glinted as it closed in—less than ten centimeters away.
A fraction of a second later—
"Tsskk!"
The dagger shuddered to an abrupt stop.
Violent tremors wracked the priest's arm before it went limp, the blade slipping from his grasp as his severed limb fell to the ground.
Disbelief twisted the high priest's features.
He coughed up chunks of blood and viscera as seven or eight jagged spikes of earth—thicker than iron spears—impaled his body from below, suspending him in the air. Stripped of all mobility, he could do nothing but stare at Punk, whose face remained cold and indifferent.
Punk had acted the instant he sensed the portal.
With precise calculation, he had slammed the butt of his staff into the rocky ground, triggering the Emerald Staff's imbued spell—Earthspike Trap. The timing was perfect. Just as the priest emerged for his final strike, the conjured spikes impaled him.
Jumping backward to create distance, Punk only halted once he was safely reunited with Golem One. In one swift motion, he restored a new Deflection Ward around himself and regarded the high priest's dying form with cool detachment.
A sphere of Kinetic Burst flickered to life in his palm, its crackling energy ready to be unleashed.
"You're finished."
He didn't strike immediately.
There was always the risk of a final act of defiance—a hidden self-destruct spell, perhaps. Instead, he chose to strike at the priest's conviction, his voice laced with mockery.
"You're dying, whether as a failed mage or a devoted priest. But your so-called goddess Tishachar will not come for you. Your faith won't save you. It never had any meaning to begin with."
He expected resistance—perhaps one last curse or a desperate cry for salvation.
But the high priest only chuckled hoarsely, his breath ragged and weak.
"Hah… boy…"
He coughed, blood spilling over his lips.
"You… kill for gain… I… die for faith… but in the end… it is strength… that decides. Meaning? Heh… that is the real illusion."
His voice faded into incomprehensible muttering, then silence.
His one remaining eye dimmed.
Punk tilted his head slightly, watching the life fade from the priest's expression. After a moment of quiet contemplation, he gave a faint nod.
"A fair lesson."
His voice was quiet, but firm.
"The motives behind killing may differ, but for the slain, meaning is irrelevant. Only strength matters."
A slight smirk touched his lips as he added, almost to himself:
"I pursue power. Strength is my means. I have no need for excuses."
Without hesitation, he flicked his wrist, launching the Kinetic Burst at the priest's head.
Flesh and bone were obliterated in an instant.
Only then did Punk cast a series of divination spells, ensuring no lingering traps or traces of life remained.
It only took a few attempts. The priest's resistance to prophecy spells had died with him, and his soul had already been consumed by the River of Fate—now nothing more than nourishment for the flow of destiny.
Satisfied, Punk finally turned his attention to the spoils of battle.
"Now then… let's see what you've left me."
With a simple command, Golem One lumbered over to the corpse, stripping away the priest's equipment.
Watching the battered golem return with three pieces of gear in its grasp, Punk felt a rare flicker of anticipation.
Heh.
He had almost forgotten the feeling—like looting a boss drop in the online games of his past life.
His gaze immediately fell upon the most precious piece:
the robe.
This master-tier garment had caught his eye from the start. He had assumed it would be ruined in the explosion, but to his surprise, it remained intact.
Evidently, the high priest had instinctively shielded it with his own body at the last moment.
"Poor bastard. Dying only to leave me such a fine gift… A true martyr."
A faint smirk played on his lips as he ran his fingers over the smooth fabric.
The robe was deep black, with crimson runes pulsating across its surface like veins of molten fire. A strange, blood-like radiance flickered beneath the inscriptions, shifting and flowing in mesmerizing patterns.
More impressively, despite the carnage it had endured, the robe remained pristine, its enchanted fibers refusing to hold even a speck of dirt.
There was even an automatic size adjustment function—convenient.
As soon as Punk donned the robe and willed it to fit, the fabric constricted slightly, molding itself to his frame with flawless precision.
Yet, as he examined its enchantments, a frown crossed his face.
"A master-tier artifact… and yet, its core function remains beyond my analysis?"
Despite the system's formidable calculation ability, some of the robe's properties eluded him. His current knowledge reserves—limited by the memories of his 'inherited' master—weren't enough to fully unravel its mysteries.
"So… knowledge is becoming my bottleneck, huh?"
Pressing a hand to his temple, Punk sighed.
There was little he could do for now. He made a mental note to conduct deeper experiments once he returned to White Tower.
"At least the system's analytical power remains reliable… provided I have enough knowledge to work with."
He let the thought settle before shifting his focus back to himself.
A moment of self-examination revealed something unexpected—
a breakthrough.
His soul thrummed with newfound power, the magic within him denser, richer than before. In the heat of battle, he had unconsciously crossed the threshold.
His strength had advanced once more.
A slow, satisfied grin spread across his face.
"Level 11, huh? Not bad."
A well-earned victory.
A valuable lesson.
A worthy prize.
And above all else—
another step forward.