The land of death body

Strength: 311 | Speed: 313

Rantaro's dark energy surged—no longer hidden, but pouring from his body like a living storm. The very air trembled around him. The ground beneath his feet began to sizzle. Heat rose in thick waves, distorting the battlefield into a twisted mirage of smoke, flame, and ruin.

Every step scorched the earth. The soil melted in his wake, forming blackened craters. This battlefield was no longer a place of war—it had become a graveyard. Mangled bodies lay strewn across the field, some torn apart, others half-buried in scorched dirt. Blood soaked into the ground. The silence was heavy, broken only by distant crackles of fire and the hiss of burning bones.

Then, he unleashed Dark Berserk — 70%.

His body blurred.

To anyone watching, he vanished.

To the monsters, death had arrived.

He tore through them like a storm of blades. Speed made him invisible. In seconds, a dozen creatures were reduced to pieces—limbs flying, torsos spinning, heads rolling across the battlefield. His sword flashed faster than lightning, guided by instinct, by bloodlust. It cut through flesh, armor, and bone like paper.

Each swing was brutal. Precise. Beautiful in its savagery.

Then, it appeared.

A towering brute—ten feet tall, body armored in thick, jagged plates. Its eyes burned with rage. It let out a roar that shook the ground and charged, swinging a massive spiked club with enough force to crush stone.

Rantaro stood still.

No fear. No hesitation.

He moved.

A jump, a twist mid-air—and his blade descended.

SHHHRAAK!

From shoulder to hip, the beast was split in two. Its roar was cut off as both halves crashed to the ground, steam rising from the clean cut.

Before his feet even touched the ground, another monster lunged from behind—fangs bared, claws raised.

Too late.

Rantaro twisted sharply.

CRACK!

His heel slammed into its spine. Bones shattered. The monster hit the ground like a puppet with its strings cut, twitching once, then still.

His summoned beasts spread across the battlefield—creatures of pure dark energy, with glowing red eyes and shifting, shadowed forms. They tore into the remaining enemies with savage hunger. Each kill fed them, made them faster, sharper, more vicious. They moved like a pack of demons, merciless and unstoppable.

The weaker monsters were gone in moments. The stronger ones hesitated. Some tried to run.

None escaped.

Rantaro walked forward, slow and steady, his blade dragging beside him, its edge glowing faintly with dark power. His body was surrounded by a faint haze of black energy—alive, pulsing, whispering like it had a mind of its own.

From above, a screech rang out.

A monstrous winged serpent dove from the sky—long, armored, eyes burning, jaws open wide to swallow him whole.

Rantaro didn't raise his blade.

He simply lifted one hand.

Dark energy crackled in the air, forming a jagged blade mid-flight—sleek, black, and pulsing with power.

SLASH!

One clean strike.

The serpent didn't even scream. It split in two instantly, its body crashing to the ground in a wet explosion of flesh and scale.

And then—

Silence.

No enemies left. No breath but his. Only the low hum of his dark energy, still alive, still hungry, circling his body like a predator waiting to strike again.