In Varkov's office, bones were scattered across the floor, forming a pale carpet of remains. The air was thick with the stench of death and burnt qi.
A lifeless body lay sprawled at the center — motionless, cold, defeated.
Alex stood over it, his shadow stretching long across the shattered tiles. His breathing was uneven, his chest rising and falling in harsh rhythm.
System messages flickered before his eyes — bright, insistent text boxes filling the air — but he didn't even glance at them.
His thoughts were elsewhere.
'Did Varkov… just call my name?' he wondered.
---
Just moments earlier, Varkov had been standing tall and confident, radiating arrogance. His staff pulsed with dark energy, veins of corruption crawling up its shaft. Everything about him screamed control — as if the battle was already won.
A thick aura poured out of his body, black as oil, coiling around Alex like a living serpent. The pressure in the room rose sharply. Each breath Alex took burned his lungs. His body trembled as the darkness closed in, stealing every ounce of air.
"Hahaha!" Varkov's laughter cracked through the tension like thunder.
He raised his staff and aimed it straight at Alex, ready to end it.
Then it happened.
Alex's leg gave out. One knee hit the ground hard, cracking the broken tiles beneath him. Pain shot up through his thigh as he gritted his teeth, but he couldn't rise.
His qi flow stuttered. His vision blurred.
'Damn it… not now…' he thought, trying to focus, but his body wasn't listening.
[30 seconds till Bloodline Power Deactivates]
'Shit… I have to do something. I have to do something now!' Alex's thoughts were frantic, sharp, and loud in his head.
The faint protection his bloodline power had been giving him began to fade.
The crushing weight of Varkov's aura pressed harder with each passing second. It was like being trapped under an invisible ocean — every breath heavier than the last.
He gritted his teeth. He never expected his bloodline power to have a timer. Not now. Not in the middle of this.
Thirty seconds. That's all he had left.
His grip on the axe trembled, knuckles turning white. Sweat ran down his temples, mixing with dust and blood.
'It seems like I still have a little juice left,' he thought, forcing a smirk that didn't quite reach his eyes.
Every part of his body screamed in pain — his chest burned, his legs felt like lead — but his right arm, the one clutching the axe, stayed steady. The pressure didn't touch it.
That was enough.
He drew in one last shaky breath, pulling every drop of qi he could muster into his arm.
The air around him warped, vibrating from the force gathering at his palm. The axe began to hum, trembling like a living thing hungry for release.
"Arhhhh!" Alex roared, thrusting his arm forward with everything he had.
[Buster]
The axe exploded out of his hand like a launched rocket. The ground cracked beneath his feet from the recoil.
As it shot toward Varkov, the dark aura surrounding the battlefield began to rip apart. The blade tore through it, carving a clear, glowing path straight ahead — a trail of light slicing through the black.
Each spin of the axe scattered fragments of darkness, revealing the clean arc of its deadly flight.
Meanwhile, the moment the axe left Alex's hand, the crushing pressure slammed into him like a raging storm.
It was instant — like the air had been sucked out of his lungs and the room itself. Every breath vanished. Every movement felt ten times heavier. The ground shook beneath him as his knees almost gave way.
He tried to inhale but couldn't. His chest refused to move. It felt like even the air inside his body had been burned away.
The axe screamed through the air, spinning wildly past the two skeleton guards. They swung their blades in perfect sync, but the axe was too fast — a blur that sliced between them before either could react.
Varkov saw it coming.
His eyes widened as the weapon tore through the shadows. With a desperate grunt, he yanked his staff across his chest, bracing himself.
CLANG!
The impact was deafening. Sparks burst from the point of collision. The staff shuddered, cracked—and snapped clean in two.
The axe didn't stop.
It tore through Varkov's defense and slammed into his chest.
A sharp gasp escaped his lips. His mouth opened, but no sound came out. The two broken halves of his staff slipped from his fingers and clattered to the ground.
Varkov's knees buckled. He collapsed, eyes wide, as the axe remained buried deep in his chest.
At once, the suffocating darkness lifted. The black aura swirling around the room dissolved into thin air, fading like smoke in the wind.
Alex dropped to one knee, gasping as oxygen rushed back into his lungs.
"Cough—! Cough! Cough—!" He hacked, his entire body shaking from exhaustion.
He ripped the mask from his face and sucked in deep breaths, the sound raw and desperate. Cold air filled his chest, stinging his throat but bringing life back to his limbs.
His vision slowly cleared, the world returning in uneven fragments.
Meanwhile, Varkov wasn't dead yet—but he was finished.
Blood streamed down his chin in steady drops, each breath coming out like a dying hiss. His body trembled as he tried to pull in air, his chest rising weakly. Every time he twitched, the axe buried in his chest pulsed faintly, drinking away what little life he had left.
The two skeleton guards began to crumble beside him—first the cracks, then the slow disintegration. Their bones broke apart, one piece at a time, collapsing into dust that scattered across the floor.
Varkov's mana faltered. He tried to hold his control, but it slipped away like water through open fingers. His mind was in chaos—pain clouded his focus, and the axe lodged in his chest, still carrying traces of Alex's bloodline power, was devouring the last of his energy.
It was hopeless.
Summoning more mana now was impossible.
Soon, the last fragments of his summoned undead collapsed completely, leaving behind nothing but silence and the faint echo of bone hitting stone.
Alex's coughing finally slowed. His breath came steadier, less ragged. He pushed himself up from the cold floor, one shaky hand after another, until he was standing again. His body screamed in protest, but he ignored it.
Step by step, he began walking forward.
Across the room, Varkov gathered what little strength he had left and reached for the axe handle with both hands.
"Arghhh!" he screamed, the sound raw and cracked. Pain ripped through his body like fire. The veins in his neck bulged, and his fingers trembled violently as he tried to pull the weapon free.
The axe didn't move. Not even an inch.
Instead, a shock of pain exploded from the wound, spreading through every nerve. His hands slipped off the handle as his body convulsed.
Then—footsteps. Slow, heavy, and steady.
Varkov lifted his head with effort. His vision blurred, but through the haze, he saw Alex walking toward him—bloodied, panting, eyes cold and steady.
Alex stopped a few feet away, raising his hand toward the axe.
"It's over, Varkov," he said, his voice low and hard. "You and your twisted operation end here."
Varkov's eyes locked with Alex's—cold, heavy, unblinking.
For a moment, neither of them moved. Just silence. Two fighters staring eye to eye, both knowing how this would end.
"You... Alex..." Varkov's voice came out weak, broken, like the air itself was too heavy for him to breathe.
Then, the axe twitched.
A wet, sick sound followed—shluk!—as it ripped itself free from Varkov's chest. Blood sprayed out in thin arcs, splattering across the floor and staining Alex's boots. The weapon spun through the air, a streak of red tracing behind it.
It landed neatly in Alex's hand with a solid thunk.
His grip tightened. The faint hum of his bloodline pulsed from the weapon, like the axe recognized its owner again.
Varkov's mouth opened slightly, as if to speak—but no words came. His eyes went wide, horror freezing on his face like someone seeing all his sins come alive in one instant.
His body tilted backward, slow at first... then dropped hard onto the cold floor.
Thud.
The light in his eyes flickered once—then was gone.
Alex stood there for a few seconds, breathing heavy, staring down at the fallen man. The axe still dripped red.