{Chapter: 153: Dark Elf Vs Demon}
He knew this mob well. They were [Middle-level Demons], creatures born of the Abyss, powerful in their own right. Had they coordinated their assault, he might have been forced to retreat, perhaps even bleed.
But cooperation among such beings was a fantasy. Their own selfish nature, honed by centuries of betrayal and greed, made unity impossible. No shared strategy. No loyalty. Just chaos and instinct.
So although the battle appeared one-sided on the surface—a lone dark elf against a pack of nightmare fiends—in truth, he was fighting them one at a time. The longer he held, the more likely they'd turn on each other or flee in desperation.
So although the battle appeared one-sided on the surface—a lone dark elf against a pack of nightmare fiends—in truth, he was fighting them one at a time. The longer he held, the more likely they'd turn on each other or flee in desperation.
As a senior [Demigod], Emerson had learned long ago that real danger only came from equals or those above. It was unwise—and quite unlike his nature—to challenge a [Higher Demon] unless forced to.
Why bother?
Why seek danger, when he could instead bathe in easy victories?
This way, he gained military merits without risking his life. He crushed lesser foes, accumulated accolades, and all the while ensured no one could accuse him of slacking.
"Boom…"
Just as he opened his mouth to taunt the faltering demons, the sky erupted.
A sound like the cracking of the world rang out—a thunderclap multiplied by a thousand—and Emerson's smirk faltered. He turned, eyes narrowing, and found himself looking at an impossible sight.
A mountain-sized chunk of land had been torn from the earth and hurled skyward. No, it had not crumbled—it soared, like it had been wrenched free by an unseen titan. Then, like a sandcastle brushed by the wind, the mass shattered in midair. Thousands of tons of stone and soil broke apart in a rolling cascade, raining debris and death in every direction.
"What… in the gods' names…"
Before he could even decide whether to investigate or retreat, an oppressive force slammed into his soul.
It wasn't physical, but spiritual—a heavy pressure, full of killing intent so raw it made his heart skip. It was as if a knife was pressed against his throat, one made not of steel, but of power.
Danger. Not just danger—doom.
His instincts screamed, and his demigod senses surged. Without conscious thought, he swung his blade—a beautiful, obsidian weapon etched with glowing violet runes—directly at the upcoming meteor that had somehow turned molten in midair. It wasn't flying, it was hunting.
"Sizzle…"
The blade met the meteor-turned-liquid mass, and an enormous hiss split the battlefield. Vapor burst forth as magic and heat collided. The force of the impact sent shockwaves through the ground, kicking up clouds of fog thick as smoke.
The attack was momentarily halted—but not undone. The spellfire-laced mass split in two, yet instead of becoming harmless, it detonated. Magic within the rock reacted to the strike, converting into a downpour of molten droplets.
A blazing rain fell over a radius.
Wherever it touched, demons howled in agony. Their skin melted, bones dissolved, and even the battlefield itself was scarred—grass turned to ash, stones cracked and hissed, and the air stank of burning rot.
Emerson didn't hesitate.
With a whisper of elven tongue, he vanished into shadow—using an ancient technique exclusive to the dark elves, fleeing into the [Shadow Realm] to escape the blazing storm. For nearly a kilometer he raced through darkness, unseen, untouched, silent.
When he emerged on the other side, blinking back into the material world, his hand was already on his blade, senses alert.
He never finished drawing it.
Just a few meters ahead, a figure stood.
A figure that should not have been there.
Slim, unassuming in stature, yet cloaked in an overwhelming presence that made Emerson's blood run cold.
It wasn't his size—it was his aura. The sheer pressure that radiated from him was heavier than mountains.
The dark elf's pupils shrank. He could feel the malice, like a predator inspecting prey. And the terrifying part?
This was no archdemon. No recognized warlord. No feared legend.
No.
This was the [Middle-level Demon] Emerson had scoffed at earlier.
And yet now, standing before him—calm, emotionless, and radiating the raw power of a calamity—this "lesser" creature made his demigod instincts scream for flight.
Something was very wrong.
And Emerson, for the first time in centuries, began to sweat.
There was no warning. No negotiation. No words exchanged.
In the very next moment, Dex's enormous fist surged forward like a meteor crashing through the atmosphere — swift, unstoppable, and brimming with destructive power. It didn't matter that Emerson was a seasoned warrior with a thousand battles behind him. The sheer speed and weight behind that punch erased all thoughts of retaliation.
Dex stood over six meters tall, and his muscular legs were as thick as Emerson's entire torso. His presence was overwhelming — an avatar of brute force and malice made flesh. In comparison, the dark elf looked like a child about to be trampled by a god.
The incoming fist was the size of a boulder, and to Emerson, it was like facing a siege weapon at point-blank range. A punch from such a monstrosity could turn even steel into crumpled scrap.
The very air screamed as Dex's knuckles cut through it, and Emerson knew with bone-deep certainty — he couldn't take that hit directly.
His battle instincts, honed through centuries of combat, kicked in. He couldn't dodge in the usual sense — the attack was too fast, too close. Instead, in a moment of desperate ingenuity, he twisted his wrist and turned the blade in his hand sharply upward. With a grunt of effort, he slashed it along the edge of Dex's colossal arm, using the momentum to vault himself into the air. His body floated upward, carried by sheer willpower and muscle memory, using his blade as a pivot point to spin himself above the massive limb.
Steel bit into flesh.
As his blade carved into Dex's arm, Emerson felt the curses etched into his weapon surge with malicious intent, activating instantly. A dark shimmer pulsed along the edge of the blade as the enchantments triggered. But to his dismay, the blade met unnatural resistance — as though he were stabbing into a divine relic.
'It feels like I'm carving into a [Semi-Artifact],' he thought grimly.
Despite using all his strength, the blade barely managed to sink in, scraping against dense, armor-like skin that seemed forged in abyssfire and hate. Still, it was enough — a wound had been opened, and Emerson didn't waste a second. He mentally activated the reservoir of toxins within the blade, releasing a violent flood of venom into the narrow wound.
The strategy was brutal in its elegance: strike with overwhelming force, spread the infection, then vanish into the shadows.
But Dex was no mindless juggernaut.
Before Emerson could regain control mid-air, the unthinkable occurred — a sinuous, whip-like vein burst forth from Dex's wound like a living strand of crimson malice. It hissed through the air like a crimson snake, sentient and hungry, and drove itself into Emerson's exposed arm with terrifying precision. A surge of abominable fluid — thick, alien, and seething with corruption — was forcefully injected into his veins. The tendril quivered, as if satisfied, then snapped back into Dex's flesh with blinding speed, leaving only a burning mark and a growing dread behind.
Pain lanced through Emerson's body like wildfire.
In that split second, he made a decision only a veteran would dare — he focused his internal magic and detonated it from within his arm, severing the limb entirely.
A geyser of dark blood burst forth as the arm dropped to the ground with a wet thud, twitching, before going still.
Dex glanced at his own wound. The damage was already closing. The writhing blood vessels pulled back into the muscle, and the skin knit itself together with unnatural speed. The remaining toxins, still in his body, were ignored like a mild itch. His regenerative abilities were far beyond that of mortal beings.
A slow, malicious grin stretched across his face as he looked at Emerson. "Decisive," Dex said, voice a rumble of amusement layered with cruelty. "Very good. I was planning to inject all the toxins back into you…"
His tone was mocking, as if amused at the elf's attempt to harm him.
*****
You can support me by joining my Patreon and get upto 60 chapters in advance.
patreon.com/Eden_Translation