Chapter 60: Blood
Nathanael was groggy, eyes fluttering open from his awakening sleep.
"Go get some fresh air," Philip said calmly, without turning. Nathanael rubbed his face and trudged toward the balcony doors, leaving Philip alone with a deepening pull in his senses. Something wasn't right.
Seconds later, he heard the sharp intake of breath.
Then—
Boom.
A sudden shift in pressure. The air crackled.
Philip blurred forward in a flash, bursting through the door to the balcony—and stopped.
A woman stood at the railing.
She was beautiful in the way a blade glinting in moonlight was beautiful. Pale skin, raven hair that flowed unnaturally in still air, and a long crimson coat draped over an obsidian combat suit. Her eyes shimmered—a deep, otherworldly red that pulsed with ancient hunger.
She smiled.
Philip didn't wait.
He lunged.
His soul surged, his body vanished in a burst of speed, and his fist—wreathed in concentrated mana and soul force —thundered toward her face.
She vanished and reappeared at his side, laughing.
"You smell like a demigod," she said, dodging effortlessly. Her voice was smooth and silken, but behind it was something old. "But you're not one. Not yet. And your mana level?" She sniffed, then grinned wide enough to show a hint of fang. "Still weak. Interesting."
Philip narrowed his eyes. He didn't reply.
He clenched his fists—and conceptualized.
Power given form.
He imagined a perfect strike. A blow that shattered defenses and defied regeneration. Soul and mana surged together. He twisted, spun, and struck her square in the chest.
Boom—!
The impact was like a missile. She flew backward, crashing through the balcony rail and into the sky, where she halted mid-air—and with a snap of her fingers—
The world changed.
Reality folded. A battlefield field erupted into existence—dark, red, soaked in mist and shadow. A field of her own making. Domain.
The fight was on.
A second later, blood arrows rained from the sky—dozens of them, vibrating with vampiric sigils and soaked in cursed ether.
Philip raised his hand, channeling soul power into a shimmering wall of intent. The arrows slammed into it—shattering mana, burning through raw force—but the soul wall held.
Barely.
He retaliated.
Another soul fist, larger this time, streaked like a comet through the sky toward her.
She twisted—bones cracking as she contorted mid-air unnaturally—and let the fist smash into the terrain behind her, collapsing half the generated cityscape below.
The sky cracked.
Then she whispered something in an ancient tongue.
Blood surged.
From her hands, a crimson tidal wave erupted, screaming as it came alive—dozens of faces, shrieking mouths, grasping hands embedded in the blood. A curse-forged wave designed to rip through spirit and bone alike.
Philip's eyes glowed.
She uses blood… but it's more than that. The surrounding mana bends to her will.
He flared his aura. Intent shaped into action. Shields spun around him—barriers not of energy but belief, hardened into crystalline structures. The blood wave hit like a flood.
Crash!
The entire field trembled.
Philip grunted, knees bending, as the shields groaned under the weight of the attack.
The moment it subsided, she appeared behind him—fangs bared, claws drawn.
He spun, barely parrying with a barrier of soul-etched will.
They clashed in mid-air, fists and claws, blood and ether.
Each strike shattered the air. Her claws sliced through stone, steel, and shields. Philip's blows cratered the sky, rippling through the domain.
She caught him once in the ribs.
Slash.
Blood sprayed.
Philip backflipped mid-air, wiped his mouth, and growled.
"You want to fight?" he muttered, his aura beginning to twist—gold edged with blue. "Let's go, then."
He drew deeper—not just mana or soul, but willpower. The raw essence of everything he was.
He conceptualized destruction.
A thousand fists, descending like meteor showers.
She howled, unleashing bats made of blood, a spiraling storm of red blades that circled her like a vortex.
They collided in a storm of power, tearing apart the generated field, cracking sky and earth alike.
For the first time, her smile faded.
"You're not supposed to be this strong."
Philip bled, panting—but his stance never faltered.