The Pleasure of Pain

The battle resumed in an instant.

Ashtor wasted no time, whirling around with lethal precision as he lunged toward Kuro once more. His blade gleamed under the dim, pulsating light of the Heart Nexus, its edge humming with a force that promised destruction.

But this time, Kuro was ready.

In a heartbeat, his form shifted—his sleek, predatory muscles hardened, thickened, his entire body restructuring into his defense form. His ribcage, now exposed like a fortress of jagged bone, intercepted the oncoming strike.

CLANG!

The impact sent sparks flying as steel clashed against reinforced bone, the force of the collision reverberating through the chamber. The sheer pressure of the strike forced Kuro back half a step, but his stance remained firm. He didn't flinch. He didn't buckle. He endured.

Kuro couldn't counterattack—not in this form. His strength had been sacrificed for durability. But he didn't need to.

The ground beneath Ashtor responded.

A ripple of movement—then, without warning, spikes erupted from the fleshy floor in jagged lines, their formation reminiscent of binary code, a pattern of sharp protrusions designed to impale anything in their path.

But Ashtor was already moving.

His form shimmered, his body dissolving into an eerie, translucent blur as he phased through the attack, his essence slipping effortlessly past the deadly obstruction. With a single bound, he retreated, landing gracefully in a defensive stance a few meters away.

The four of them stood in tense silence, bodies taut with anticipation. No one dared to move carelessly. The slightest mistake, the briefest hesitation—death would come swiftly for whoever faltered first.

By all logic, Ashtor should have been untouchable in this fight.

He had the advantage in nearly every way—more experience, superior control over his essence and advent, and raw physical prowess that was only matched by Kuro when the latter specialized in a single attribute. Yet, despite his overwhelming superiority, he was no longer invincible.

Because the trio had seen it.

His weakness.

If I noticed it, then Kuro and Eleanor definitely did as well.

Luke's mind raced as he replayed the moment in his head. Eleanor's arrow should have hit his chest, but when he phased, his entire body—including his arm that was about to strike Kuro—became intangible. Which means…

He can only phase his whole body at once.

That was the key. He couldn't selectively phase parts of himself—if he attacked, he had to be solid. Which meant that whenever he was striking, whenever he was vulnerable, they could fight back.

But knowing his weakness didn't erase the disadvantage they were still facing.

Kuro could stand at the frontline, but his options were severely limited. Either he remained in his defense form, absorbing attacks but unable to fight back, or he switched to an offensive stance, leaving himself open.

Eleanor was practically at a standstill. She excelled in evasion, but her arrows were next to useless against someone who could phase on reaction. Unless they took him by surprise, she had no way to land a hit.

That left Luke.

He was the most versatile of the three. His femur weapon could morph into any form—a blade, a hammer, a whip—and his ability to manipulate the environment gave him the best chance of setting up an attack.

The problem?

Ashtor knew it too.

Luke could feel the weight of Ashtor's attention bearing down on him. That unreadable, burning gaze—focused, expectant. Ashtor wasn't just keeping an eye on him. He was waiting.

A smirk tugged at Ashtor's lips. "A bunch of cockroaches who refuse to die, I see," he mused, his voice dripping with condescension.

Then, in an instant, he was gone.

His body melted into the ground, slipping into the fleshy floor like a shadow swallowed by darkness.

Luke's pulse spiked. Shit.

He barely had time to react before Ashtor reappeared—directly behind Eleanor. His blade was already descending, its razor edge aimed to carve straight through her.

But Eleanor wasn't afraid.

She was smirking.

"We got you," she whispered.

The next second, Kuro blurred past them, his form completely changed.

Gone was his bulky, defensive stance. In its place, his body had become sleek and aerodynamic, built for speed. He moved like a streak of lightning, grabbing Eleanor and whisking her away just as the blade came down.

At the same time, something else moved.

A vine—fleshy and pulsating, covered in shifting binary code—slithered up from the ground. Before Ashtor could react, it wrapped around his leg and twisted.

A sickening crunch echoed through the chamber as the vine attempted to snap his limb.

I can't use spikes. He would see them coming and phase through, Luke thought. But these flesh vines—they move subtly enough to catch him off guard.

The only problem?

It takes a second to actually break his leg.

Luke barely finished the thought before an eerie sound filled the room.

Laughter.

Low at first—then rising, escalating into a manic, disturbing crescendo.

Ashtor's shoulders trembled, his entire body shaking as his twisted, deformed grin stretched wider. His laughter echoed through the chamber, a sound so unnatural, so utterly wrong, that it sent chills racing down Luke's spine.

Kuro, Eleanor, and Luke all hesitated—if only for a second.

Why is he laughing?

Even as his leg was being crushed, he didn't seem to care. If anything—he enjoyed it.

Then, without warning, his body sank into the ground again.

A flicker of movement—before he reappeared.

Directly behind Luke.

Luke barely had time to register what was happening before white-hot pain exploded through his left arm.

Ashtor's blade had pierced straight through it.

A scream tore from Luke's throat as agony shot through every nerve in his body, his knees buckling beneath him. He collapsed, his fingers instinctively clutching at the wound, his vision swimming from the sheer intensity of the pain.

Through the haze, he looked up—only to meet Ashtor's gaze.

His face was twisted in pure, unhinged ecstasy. His deformed grin had stretched impossibly wide, his glowing streak of an eye flaring with something beyond joy—beyond pleasure.

It was rapture.

Ashtor's mangled, half-crushed leg twitched, but he barely acknowledged it. Instead, he let out another breathless, shuddering laugh, his entire body trembling as if overwhelmed by sheer bliss.

He leaned down slightly, his voice a near whisper—filled with raw, uncontained euphoria.

"I must thank you, Luke," he murmured, his breath hot against the air. His grin widened further, his jagged teeth glistening in the dim light.

"This truly is the best moment of my existence."