193 - Insatiable Predator

Finally, all the red crystals around the military camp lit up, a futile warning trying to alert its camp to a threat already present.

It was already too late. Rygar was among them, like a fierce and sinister shadow, heralding the death of everyone there.

That camp was relatively strong.

Three Saints defended it—a considerable number for any military force in the region—along with more than a hundred well-trained crusaders following them.

The soldiers, despite the initial shock and panic caused by the appearance of the Red Wolf, still began to regroup into organized formations.

But that order was illusory. Chaos had already been sown.

If anyone still harbored any hope of facing him, that hope died when Rygar killed a Water Saint with a single blow.

Two of the Saints were still alive. Recognizing the insurmountable threat, they made the only rational decision: to retreat.

But Rygar had no intention of letting them flee. His roar cut across the battlefield.

The Howling Magic sounded throughout the battlefield, exploding from his throat like an ancestral roar.

The sound reverberated with pure power, accompanied by a shockwave that shook the ground, rattling bones and shredding sanity.

The weaker soldiers fell unconscious immediately and were thrown away by the sonic impact, as if their souls had been ripped from their bodies.

Even the most experienced staggered, their senses scrambled and their movements sluggish. An art known only to the beast race, but elevated to a new level by Rygar.

The four prisoners—two beastfolk, one human, and one demon—were the only ones spared from the devastating impact, protected by the sound barrier that Rygar hastily conjured.

Soon after, chaos was unleashed.

Lightning tore across the battlefield like divine spears, guided by the fury of the Beast God.

Bolts struck tents, makeshift huts, arsenals, and watchtowers, setting everything ablaze or sending incandescent metal shards flying.

The ground trembled with each impact. Pure fire magic condensed and struck the field like tactical bombardments.

Trails of white-silver mana slithered through the camp like blades of light, like serpents in fury, reaping the lives of soldiers who tried to respond.

Fissures were left by Rygar's superhuman movements—cuts that even the most trained eyes could not follow.

In the blink of an eye, heads rolled. An instant later, entrails painted the ground.

Amid the collapse of the military unit, the two Saints barely managed to join forces in a desperate effort.

One was a Water Saint, the other a North Saint; both advanced with brute strength and unpredictable movements, alternating between defense and lethal counterattacks.

Crusaders joined around them, dozens of warriors trying to create a wall of steel and flesh against the incarnate fury.

Rygar watched them for a moment, amused.

With a slight smile, he sheathed Watermirror. He took a deep breath. And then he whispered:

"Instant Light Flow."

The world seemed to freeze.

The sword was unsheathed in the blink of an eye—but in that instant, dozens of cuts occurred.

There was no way to count, no way to follow with the eye. Each movement was a line of destruction, as if light itself were used as a weapon.

Horizontal cuts, vertical cuts, diagonal cuts—each one opened bodies, pierced armor, split men and women in half. A microcosm of war encapsulated in an instant.

A moment before, a small army had been trying to hold out with courage and determination.

The next moment, their bodies collapsed, one after another, like autumn leaves carried by a cruel wind.

The ground was covered with blood, entrails, and broken steel. The sounds of the battlefield were replaced by a sepulchral silence.

Rygar remained at the center of the carnage. Around him, smoke rose from the burning tents, the flames consuming all that remained.

Watchtowers collapsed, stone and wooden structures crumbled under tremors caused by the lightning and magical blows.

The once-imposing military camp was now a flaming cemetery.

Some soldiers tried to flee. They ran with all they had, dropping shields, weapons, and dignity.

But Rygar did not pursue them—not immediately. Instead, he observed.

He analyzed his technique.

His body still pulsed with the energy of the Holy Beast Battle Aura, warm blood, and a sharp mind.

Rygar observed the fallen bodies around him.

He assessed the cuts he had delivered with Instant Light Flow. Despite the carnage, he noticed small imperfections.

Not all the cuts were clean.

Two enemies still writhed on the ground—one with both legs severed, the other cut diagonally but still alive, eyes wide in agony.

"Tch…" he murmured, raising one hand.

Two wind bullets spun around his fingers and fired. Two muffled snaps. End of pain for the two mutilated warriors.

Many strikes also hit regions other than those intended—cuts aimed at the neck hit the chest instead, horizontal cuts became diagonal.

The result was still lethal, of course. The bodies around him bore witness.

But perfection was not what he sought. Even so, it was already far above what he had achieved a year ago.

With that more or less resolved, he approached the prisoners in the center of the military camp.

The eyes of the four surviving prisoners—two of the beast race, one human, and one demon—trembled at what they had witnessed.

Their bodies were wounded, partially burned. Behind them, the bonfire had gone out, now fed only by ashes and debris.

Rygar cut the ropes and chains that bound them with a quick gesture of his claws and conjured a healing spell, sealing the open wounds and burns with a greenish glow.

Without caring about thanks or reactions, Rygar used Gravity Magic to magically lift himself off the ground.

He floated slowly, letting the black and silver cloak he wore flutter in the hot wind of the devastated field.

His demonic, golden, and penetrating eyes lit up with intensity.

His senses expanded to the maximum—sight, hearing, magical perception. He felt every heartbeat, every trembling breath, every anxious step of those who had managed to 'escape.'

These military camps of Milis, though composed of powerful warriors, were still considered "intermediate" targets for his current level.

But they were perfect targets to refine his various techniques—Instant Light Flow, the Holy Beast Battle Aura, Lightning Magic, control over his internal and external mana, among many others.

Moreover, as powerful as he was, Rygar was still getting used to his new lethality.

Most of his focused training had taken place at the Sword Sanctuary. He had learned and grown much there, undeniably.

But in comparison, he had not fought many life-or-death battles.

One could say that at the beginning, he could still give his all fighting Reida and Gall, but over time, he also began to hold back a bit with those two.

Badigadi was a convenient exception—Rygar could test many techniques at their maximum lethality after having the Immortal Demon King as his training partner.

It was also precisely to refine his techniques that he chose to use Watermirror instead of his favorite blade, Tsukikage.

The silver sword, although not yet enchanted with a magic stone, by itself amplified his focus, his perception, and his connection to mana as a whole, enhancing his magic and his touki.

It was the perfect sword for technical training.

Only battles to the death forged truly fearsome warriors, and what better place to find such battles than a war?

Rygar wanted—no, he needed—to become the sharpest of them all.

In the air, suspended like a spirit of the wind, Rygar continued to track the fugitives.

There were many of them. To the east, a lone knight running in panic.

To the south, a group mounted on horses trying to flee at a gallop.

To the north, three soldiers huddled in a shallow cave.

And more—dozens in various directions, crawling, staggering, hiding under bushes or inside fallen tents.

Even the concealment barriers that some used were not enough to escape Rygar's detection.

To deceive his senses, a high-level barrier would have been necessary. Those were toys in front of him.

Raising his right hand, Rygar began to gather wind-element mana.

A sphere formed above his palm, spinning, pulsing, compressing the air around it with such intensity that the space seemed to distort the very light.

The sound vanished, as if the entire field held its breath.

His cloak rippled. His eyes shone. His presence was like a living calamity.

"All right…" he said softly. "This should do."

The sphere exploded with a silvery flash.

Twenty-nine supersonic wind bullets were fired in multiple directions, like fragments of a magical grenade, each guided by a fragment of Rygar's perception.

The lone knight in the east did not even have time to look back before feeling a void in his throat.

His neck had been pierced so smoothly that his body still took two steps before collapsing, without a single drop of blood spilling.

In the south, the mounted troop leader's eyes widened as he heard a slicing whistle. A fraction of a second later, his skull was pierced by a wind spear.

The horses neighed, out of control, as their riders died one by one.

In the north, the three soldiers hiding in the cave sighed with relief—for a second. Three sharp snaps echoed. Three bodies fell. No words were spoken.

Every fugitive, every fleeing shadow, every heart beating in fear, was silenced by the invisible wind projectiles.

All died. Fast, efficient, and clean.

Rygar then descended slowly to the ground, his body hovering until touching the wreckage of what, only minutes before, had been an advanced military post.

The field was in ruins—craters, destroyed tents, bodies scattered like broken dolls.

He was more or less satisfied.

When Rygar landed among the rubble of the destroyed camp, the four survivors had already regrouped.

Three of them wielded stolen weapons—shields and swords taken from the bodies of the crusaders—and the fourth carried a worn leather backpack, clearly hastily prepared with recovered supplies.

The eyes of the four shone with respect and reverence upon seeing him.

One of them, a tall warrior of the beast race, with deep scars across his body and eyes hardened by months of fleeing and fighting, stepped forward, bowing slightly.

"Leader Rygar… thank you for saving us. And… I'm sorry for not recognizing you sooner…"

Rygar crossed his arms and watched him for a moment before opening a faint smile. The glow in his eyes had already faded, and the wind around him had returned to calm.

"It's all right. You did well surviving until I arrived."

He approached, his steps soft over the scorched earth and smoldering debris. "Are you all members of the Legion?"

Rygar confirmed that the four were the last survivors of an Iron Legion squad.

The small squad had escaped complete annihilation after a brutal ambush several weeks ago.

Since then, they had spent almost two months fleeing through the forests and hills of Milis territory, constantly pursued by fanatical knights and church spies.

Hope had already abandoned them when they fell, by sheer bad luck, into the hands of a large withdrawing force.

They were captured, interrogated, and finally condemned to death by fire. If Rygar had not arrived, their fate would have been sealed.

"Then you did not know I had returned?" Rygar asked, watching their faces marked by exhaustion and relief.

"No, sir," replied the same warrior. "I only… I only realized who you were because I saw you when you were younger. I never forgot seeing you destroy the Black Troll's base."

Rygar nodded slowly. After a few moments of conversation and recognition, he indicated a safe route that they could follow to reach one of the nearest assault divisions.

After gathering weapons, supplies, and some clothes from what remained of the camp, the four prepared to depart.

One of the four particularly caught Rygar's attention: the youngest, a twelve-year-old boy, also of the beast race.

His long, blond hair matched the leopard ears that twitched restlessly.

He had heterochromatic eyes—one red and one gray—and a determined expression that did not match his age.

"What is your name?" Rygar asked, with genuine interest.

"Jal, sir! Jal of the Igaly Tribe!" the boy replied with a disciplined bow.

Despite his age, Jal was already an advanced swordsman in the Sword God Style. His movements, even tense with fatigue, were sharp.

There was something about him that made Rygar want to memorize the name. That boy had potential.

After confirming that there were no more living enemies or hidden prisoners, Rygar watched them disappear down the indicated path, until their footsteps vanished in the distance.

Alone again, Rygar turned his eyes to the horizon.

"Next…" he murmured.

He knew that his next battle would probably be against something different.

A powerful fortress awaited him further ahead, perhaps even one of the legendary Ten Generals of Milis. A subtle smile formed on his face.

The path of war had only just begun.

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