{Chapter: 150: Warm-up Exercises}
In the orc's stunned gaze—full of confusion, disbelief, and even a touch of dread—Dex calmly reattached his severed head.
The movements were fluid, practiced, and shockingly mundane, as if he were simply adjusting a misaligned collar. There was no blood, no grotesque tearing of sinew or bone, just a soft click—like a key fitting into a lock—as the neck joint reconnected. The skin reknit itself in an instant, like water flowing backwards into place.
And then, as if nothing had happened, Dex gave his neck a few casual rotations to test alignment.
Crack. Crack. Crack.
Three sharp pops echoed in the tense silence. The demon rolled his shoulders, eyes falling lazily on the orc who still held his scimitar raised high. But now, hesitation trembled in the orc's arms. His grip wasn't as tight. The gleam of certainty in his eyes had dulled, cracked.
Dex's voice broke the silence—smooth, unhurried, mocking yet casual.
"Your swordplay isn't bad," he said, adjusting his collar with one hand, "but your temper... your temper is worse than that of a demon. And I would know."
The orc didn't respond. His nostrils flared with every breath, his lungs pulling in air like bellows under pressure. His body was built like a war beast—muscles thick, skin tanned and crisscrossed with ceremonial totems—but right now, there was something else flickering behind those warrior eyes: uncertainty.
Dex's smile deepened. "You know, when I was still learning the martial arts of your world, I noticed something... interesting. Across every discipline—knights, monks, spellblades, gladiators—there comes a point where skill alone isn't enough. They all eventually turn inward. They train not just the flesh, but the will."
He stepped forward slowly, boots pressing against the ancient land beneath them. His hands were behind his back, relaxed, as if on a stroll through a garden rather than a battlefield.
"They speak of it in many names—martial will, spiritual focus, the cultivation of soul and essence... But it all comes down to one thing: domination. Control over your body, your pain, your very being. Turning the flesh into something more."
The orc growled lowly, an animal sound from deep in the throat. His muscles tensed. But still, he did not strike.
Dex tilted his head thoughtfully. "I wonder... Have you reached that stage yet? Or are you still relying on brute strength, ancient totems, and inherited weapons passed down like bedtime stories?"
A pulse of fury rippled through the orc's frame. The blade in his hand flared with red enchantment, the Exorcism Rune pulsing faintly.
Dex's gaze flicked to it and back. "Ah yes, your little blade... A fine piece. Shame you wasted it on a demon who doesn't bleed the same way."
He stopped, just a few feet from the orc now, and tapped his temple with one finger. "You see, long ago, I studied under a soulcrafter who believed that true immortality didn't come from flesh... but from imprinting your will into every single cell. Not just surviving death—denying it. Refusing its logic."
Dex's voice lowered, gaining gravity.
"I took that teaching seriously. I went further than he ever dared. Decades passed, then centuries. I learned to speak to my cells. Command them. Instruct them to remember me, even if torn apart. So now, unless someone obliterates me on a cellular level? I don't die. I reassemble."
As he spoke, his hand extended, palm upward. A flicker of blood flame danced above his skin, before vanishing into nothingness.
"That little party trick of removing my head?" He chuckled. "That's just the beginning. I can shed my bones, run my skeleton like a puppet, liquefy into shadows, or turn my heart into a decoy bomb if needed. But... I rarely need to. Most of my enemies fall long before such performances become necessary."
Ever since he learned various fighting skills, he found that no matter which school or profession.
After reaching a certain stage of practice, people will focus on the practice of will, and use this to derive the so-called martial arts will, spirit, soul sense... and constantly strengthen their physical fitness.
So with the idea of going in the direction of a wider road, Dex has always paid more attention to the cultivation of his will. He doesn't know if it is because of his ability, or he is just good at it, or maybe it is because his brain and thinking are not normal as a demon.
On this road that others thought was extremely difficult, he had never encountered any so-called bottlenecks or mental demons. It could be said that everything went smoothly without any troubles.
In the hundreds of years in the wizarding world, he had already reached the stage of imprinting his will into his own cells.
At this stage, his vitality as a demon, which was already far superior to that of ordinary creatures, was further enhanced. Unless he was damaged at the cellular level, he could basically ignore conventional physical damage.
Even if swords were stabbed into his body, as long as his cells were not destroyed, he would be able to automatically recover instantly when the sword was pulled out, achieving a quick recovery with zero loss. An operation like taking off the head and putting it back on was just a basic application in his opinion.
Although he couldn't be reborn by dripping blood like Deadpool or Lobo for the time being, as long as he wanted, all the bones in his body could automatically separate from the flesh and blood, and he could run out to do a few sets of military boxing or something, and then put them back on like putting on clothes.
But he himself felt that it was meaningless, maybe he could only keep it to scare women...
But he felt that it was at least a method and might be useful in the future.
It can be said that if the orc's weapon had not been carrying an exorcism rune, he would not have wanted to take a couple of hits to test the effect and experience the magic weapons of this world for himself.
If he had used ordinary weapons, it would not be a big deal for him to just stand there and let the other party chop him. Unless the added force exceeded the upper limit of what he could bear, that kind of attack would never be able to kill him.
The orc stood firm, broad-shouldered and battle-scarred, a symbol of tribal honor and centuries of tradition. His grip on the hilt of his massive blades had begun to falter. Before him stood a being he could barely comprehend: a demon, tall and lean, his movements fluid like smoke curling around a flame. This creature did not behave like any opponent the orc had ever faced. There was no aggression in his stance, no tension in his limbs—just a cold, effortless calm that mocked the orc's very existence.
Despite the determined frown etched into the orc's face, his heart churned with doubts he dared not speak. His entire life had been spent honing his combat abilities, training under elders, fighting in blood rites, and perfecting ancient sword techniques passed down through generations. His blade had brought down beasts, men, and even a few mages in his time. But now… none of it seemed to matter.
His most precise strikes had been dodged with the ease of a flicked wrist. No counterattack, no injury—just evasion, like the demon hadn't even seen him as a threat worth engaging. It wasn't just a mismatch; it was humiliation.
'What am I fighting?' the orc thought bitterly. Is this… even a fight?
The warrior's fingers twitched on the hilt of his blade, but the once-commanding strength in his posture had all but dissolved. His back was no longer straight. His knees, though locked, subtly trembled beneath the weight of understanding: he was outclassed. Not just in skill—but in nature. The creature before him did not obey the laws of flesh and blood. It was something else entirely.
The demon—began circling him, like a predator that had already decided its prey wasn't worth killing. His hands rested behind his back as he walked, calm and calculated, his voice low and piercing when he spoke.
"I'm guessing your people," Dex said thoughtfully, "believe that strength is earned through pain. That the more you endure, the more valuable your soul becomes. That if your muscles don't tear, you haven't grown. If your blood doesn't spill, you haven't lived."
He paused, letting the words settle like dust.
"It's an interesting philosophy. Crude... but functional."
Dex stopped directly behind the orc, his voice lowering to an almost whisper, so close the warrior could feel the warmth of his breath against the back of his neck.
"But tell me, warrior… how many of your kind have faced an enemy that can walk without bones, speak without a head, or stand in divine flame without a single burn?"
Silence.
There was no answer. There could be none.
The only sound was the soft groaning of leather straps as the orc slowly, reluctantly, lowered his blade.
Dex didn't smirk or gloat. He didn't revel in dominance. Instead, he exhaled softly—a sigh filled not with satisfaction, but something bordering pity.
"You didn't ask for this," he said quietly. "You were just following orders. Or maybe chasing some fool's dream of honor. But now… now you've seen what stands at the edge of your world. And you know you can't cross it."
Dex stepped forward once more, returning to face the orc. His glowing red eyes met the warrior's. There was no malice in them—just inevitability.
A long, heavy silence followed. Somewhere in the distance, fire crackled against stone and a wounded beast howled. But here, it was still.
The orc took a deep breath, eyes narrowing, and slowly released it. Then, with a resolute calm, he activated his backup plan.
This was not cowardice—it was survival.
Though a warrior by blood and tradition, and proud of every scar earned in battle, the orc was not a fool. He knew this was no ordinary war, and this battlefield no longer belonged to mortals. The conflict had escalated to something far beyond pride or honor. This was about survival—about preserving the future of his people. Glory had no place here. Dying for its sake would be wasteful, even selfish.
I will not die here, he vowed to himself. Not now. Not unless it truly matters.
His grip tightened on the blade, knuckles pale beneath green skin, and a distant regret flickered in his eyes. Not for his own fate—but for what he was about to do. It would go against everything his people believed in. Everything he stood for.
He looked up at Dex and gave him a single glance—filled not with hate, but with apology.
Dex furrowed his brow in confusion. Something about that look unsettled him.
What is he thinking?
A sudden instinct urged Dex to strike, to end the mystery before it unfolded. His body tensed, ready to tear into the orc's flesh and devour whatever memory he needed from the lifeless corpse.
*****
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