Divine System: Land of the Abominations

Chapter 513: Ruins and Flowing Energy (2).

Sucking in a deep breath, there was a brief pause before he exhaled.

"That was intense..." Nero muttered.

His voice sounded small in the open space, swallowed quickly by the forest around him. The clearing had gone quiet again, the unnatural stillness settling back into place as if the violence had never happened. No howls followed. No distant cries answered. Even the wind seemed to hold itself back.

Nero frowned and flexed his fingers slowly. The muscles in his hands trembled in protest, the dull ache traveling up his forearms and into his shoulders. His grip still felt tight, as if he were holding something that was no longer there.

Then he glanced in the direction of his throw.

His brows trembled.

"My spear... My catch..."

His throw had completely eviscerated the body of his catch. There was no corpse to kneel beside, no torn flesh to harvest from. The thing had ceased to exist in any meaningful way.

He had wanted to absorb the Ein Sof from the body of the creature after the kill. He had needed it. His chest still felt hollow, the familiar ache curling deep beneath his ribs. But now there was nothing left. No vessel. No residue. Just churned earth and scattered remains that carried nothing useful anymore.

And to make matters worse, his spear had continued to travel further, vanishing into the dark forest far beyond his field of observation. It had not slowed. It had not lodged itself visibly in any tree. It was simply gone.

There was no weapon for him anymore.

He stood there for several seconds longer than necessary, staring into the shadows where it had disappeared. The forest did not give anything back.

He smiled bitterly.

"At least the thing is dead..."

The words did little to comfort him. Still, he reached down and touched the hilt of the knife at his side, reassuring himself of its presence. He was not unarmed. Not completely.

He tried to convince himself that it was enough.

Nero waited, listening, his breathing gradually evening out as the adrenaline drained from his body. He considered whether it was worth searching for his spear. The thought surfaced, lingered, then sank under the weight of practicality.

Eventually, he decided against it.

There was no point. The forest was vast, and lingering invited attention. He could not afford to waste any more time wandering blindly. If something else found him while he was unarmed and distracted, the outcome would not be favorable.

He turned away from the clearing and started moving again, his pace steady but cautious.

He only prayed he would find another hunt soon.

Fortunately for Nero, the gods, dead and alive, seemed keen on answering his unsaid prayers.

After running for nearly an hour, pushing his body through uneven terrain and dense undergrowth, he caught the sound first. Wet, tearing noises. The low, guttural breathing of something feeding without restraint.

He slowed immediately, dropping his weight and shifting his steps to avoid snapping branches or rustling leaves. He crept closer, keeping the wind at his face.

The sight that greeted him was unpleasant.

With disgusting sounds, an Abomination dug its large snout into the gutted body of a hunt, tearing free strips of flesh and swallowing them without pause. Its frame was hunched and broad, its limbs too thick, its joints bent at unnatural angles. Plates of hardened growth jutted from its shoulders and spine, and its claws were stained dark with old blood.

Nero quietly regarded it for a moment, assessing distance, posture, and movement. It was large. Larger than the last one. But it was distracted, buried in its meal, its awareness dulled by gluttony.

That made it a good hunt.

He drew his dagger slowly, feeling the familiar weight settle into his palm. The balance was not ideal for this, but it would have to do. He adjusted his grip and crept forward, keeping low. The creature did not notice him. Its breathing was heavy, its attention fully claimed by the carcass beneath it.

When he was close enough, Nero shot forward.

His body seemed to blend with the shadows, his movement sharp and direct, cutting a straight path through the air. He aimed for the base of its neck, where he expected flesh to give way.

CLANG!

The sound of metal gnashing against metal rang out violently, echoing through the trees.

The Abomination’s head snapped toward him with terrifying speed. Wicked eyes locked onto his, glowing faintly with a sick light.

Crap.

Nero barely had time to register the failure before the creature reacted. Its claws came up instinctively, a crude but effective guard formed by raw strength rather than technique.

Nero moved anyway.

He pushed through the guard, twisting his body and slipping inside the creature’s reach. His dagger slid past its claws and slashed across its arm, opening a thick, bloody gash. Dark fluid spilled freely.

The creature roared and swiped at him with its other arm. Instead of retreating, Nero stepped in closer, letting the massive limb pass just behind him. He could feel the wind of it brush his back.

His fist balled up and drove forward, smashing into the creature’s nose. Bone cracked under the impact. Before it could finish recoiling, he reversed the motion and stabbed at its neck, forcing the blade in as deep as he could manage.

This was the brutal, offense-heavy style of the Order of the Crimson Crucible. It did not rely on finesse or prolonged defense. It was built to overwhelm, to press forward relentlessly until the enemy collapsed under the weight of aggression.

However, Abominations were abominable for a reason.

Madness and corruption churned deep within the creature. Pain did not slow it. Fear did not take root. It lashed out wildly, driven by instinct and rage.

The creature was much larger than Nero. With a sudden shift of its weight, it broke through his hold and slammed into him, forcing him backward. Nero gritted his teeth as his boots dug into the ground, muscles screaming as he fought to stay upright.

Sergeant Vane’s training echoed in his mind. The stance. The balance. The demand for absolute commitment.

To be oppressive required overwhelming force. There was no room for hesitation. A Templar was a pillar of strength, even in the sloshing seas of darkness.

That was what made the style so terrible and brutal toward its user.

It offered no leeway.

This was do or die.