Lord of the Myriad Worlds

Chapter 183: The Final Battle

At this moment, George wasn't particularly worried. Hathaway had revealed her hand — and the Grand Witch Luna, whether she died or survived, had taken a crippling blow.

Two things remained.

First: the archers at the summit. Several should have been taken out already, but some were surely still active. He needed to go support.

Second: the black-robed Witch Mixi would close in soon from the southern face. Even mounted on a Blood Wolf, five minutes at the fastest. That was the advantage earned by Little John's sacrifice — he had bought them the opening.

Which meant George might need to intercept Mixi personally. His nominal fiancée of the story. His destined adversary. His bittersweet foil.

He allowed himself a small smile, then drew another strip of Three-Star dried venison from his pack and chewed it slowly. His Stamina had already recovered to 220. With this piece, he'd continue restoring up to 300 over the next hour.

Then, unhurried, he unstrapped the hardwood arrows from his pack and dropped them. He discarded the short bow. The training wooden sword — gone. The iron spear — gone.

He needed to reduce his load and shed the dead weight.

From the hilltop, the sounds of combat were enormous — rolling, shuddering booms, as though two titanic creatures were tearing each other apart.

Under those conditions, the number of archers who retained the focus to watch him was likely small — but not necessarily zero.In fact, four elite archers were at this moment descending the slope in a cautious spread formation, moving to encircle the tree George was hiding behind. Once they reached their positions, they would have him in a crossfire.

George responded by leisurely taking a drink of water. He capped the water pouch and stowed it without rushing — a display of composure that was almost offensive.

This wasn't posturing. It was confidence.

In other areas — managing a settlement, political maneuvering, reading people — he was nowhere near the top. Compared to someone like Joffrey, he wasn't fit to carry the man's bags. But in combat? He was not looking down on anyone. Every non-Boss enemy — even a Fallen Three-Star Garrison Knight — simply wasn't enough of a threat.

He was the number-one Rookie from a field of fewer than thirty — but he was also the figure with the best shot at the Rookie King title in a century.

You were good, or you weren't.

This steep, shrub-covered mountainside — those four archers thought they held every advantage. High ground, numbers, control. What they didn't know was that George had locked onto each of their life signatures the moment they appeared.

He closed his eyes. Three-Star War Bow in hand, a bodkin arrow pinched between two fingers, he breathed slowly — and in that breath, he seemed to dissolve into the trees and undergrowth around him. Even the great trunk at his back felt like an extension of his body.

He was waiting. For any of the four archers to expose a weakness. Because at this angle, on this seventy-degree slope, moving through dense shrubs while holding a drawn bow — however well they managed it, a flaw was inevitable.

In front of him, they were nothing.

Seconds later, one archer misjudged a step — nearly caught by a tangle of grass, his body swaying for just a fraction of a second.

George glided out from behind the tree like a ghost. Without looking, he loosed a single arrow — aimed at the most experienced and focused of the four, the one who had never wavered. Headshot.

That archer had fired simultaneously. He'd predicted George would target the stumbling man, and had pre-aimed accordingly.

He'd miscalculated. George was better.

His arrow missed. The price was his life.

But that was just the beginning.

Because the moment the first arrow left George's bow, he was already drawing the second. The second arrow followed three seconds later. The third, four seconds after that.

Three shots. Three kills. All headshots.

Only the stumbling one remained.

He was stunned — but quick-thinking enough to roll immediately into the shrubs and freeze. Hoping to hide his way out of this.

George gave a cold, short laugh, raised his bow, and loosed an arcing shot into the air above him.

The arrow came down and struck the man's torso.

Not an instant kill — a slight fault on George's part. But the man was effectively combat-incapacitated.

George turned unhurriedly and looked not at the hilltop duel above him, but up into the open sky. Five large Blood Ravens were circling over the rocky hill.

And at the base of the hill, five Blood Wolves had arrived — fast. But no black-robed Witch visible.

She had circled around. She was approaching from the southern face, climbing up.

Smart enough.

George drew out another strip of dried venison and chewed it without haste. He did not look at the ravens overhead. Instead, he nocked a Two-Star armor-piercing sniper arrow, drew the bow to a perfect moon, and held.

"Kraa!"

Several Blood Ravens circled lower, even began a possible diving run — but George didn't flinch. 'Come down if you dare.'

The bowstring sang. The Two-Star armor-piercing sniper arrow erupted outward with a sharp, splitting crack — initial velocity at least twice that of a standard arrow, which was exactly what made the Three-Star War Bow terrifying.

Below, the Blood Wolves tried desperately to dodge. George didn't bother watching. 'Are you joking?'

Thwack.

A dodging Two-Star Blood Wolf's head simply burst — headshot from above. A steel-piercing shaft traveling at close to ninety meters per second, fired downhill. George wasn't even trying to thread through the eye socket. Any hit to the skull was lethal. No exceptions.

He reached for the second sniper arrow with the same unhurried ease. Two Blood Ravens chose that moment to dive — one pulled up sharply at thirty meters out, like a spotter setting a screen, while the second accelerated and drove straight for his eyes.

At five meters, a flicker of light — a thrown dagger — detonated the Blood Raven from the air on the spot.

'Mixi. You've grown since the Stone Quarry battle, I know. But did you think I was standing still?'

If he couldn't produce results like this, what business did he have competing for the Rookie King? He'd have abandoned ship the moment he saw through Hathaway's plan.

He wanted the Rookie King because he had earned the right to take it. Hathaway's cooperation, or lack thereof, changed nothing.

He'd been mentally braced for the battle below Kakh City — honestly, that battlefield made him nervous. Too many enemies. One unlucky moment, one Fallen Three-Star Knight landing a lance strike true — he'd be gone just as easily.

But here, in forest and mountain terrain that was practically his home turf — he almost owed Hathaway a thank-you.

The second sniper arrow sang from the bow. The Blood Wolves below surged and feinted and charged with everything they had — and it made no difference. They were targets walking toward their own ends.

There was no outcome to be in doubt about.

Because the master of this battlefield was Li Wei.

"Kraa! Kraa!"

The remaining four Blood Ravens wheeled frantic circles in the sky but refused to drop below two hundred meters. Below two hundred — throwing daggers. Beyond that — sniper arrows. This was not a problem they could solve.

They could only watch George draw, nock, and release with the calm of a craftsman at work.

The Blood Wolves charged fast — but a slope this steep left them no options. They needed time to climb. And at this pace, one per arrow, George had all the time he needed.

Three sniper arrows spent. No matter — switching to One-Star penetrating arrows worked fine at close range, even better for precision.

One minute later, the last Two-Star Blood Wolf's dying howl faded into silence. George ended the slaughter.

He unslung his pack, set down the Three-Star War Bow, and dropped the iron spear. He retrieved his dagger, picked up the heavy training wooden sword, and slung the two Bloodthirsty Spears over his shoulder. Then he began climbing toward the summit.

All cards were on the table now.

What remained was close-quarters killing.

Against the black-robed Witch, arrows were useless. She carried a strange barrier before her. He might have handled the lesser enemies with rapid-fire volleys, but against a Final Boss who may well have risen to Four-Star — nothing at range would work.

Nothing at all.

When George crested the hilltop and saw the wide stone platform — and the devastation that covered it — the black-robed Witch Mixi was climbing over the southern edge at exactly that moment. The timing was uncanny.

A destined adversary, truly.

The battle playing out on the platform, though, was something beyond what George had expected.

There was no Hathaway. There was a massive bear and a towering, blood-flesh giant locked in ferocious combat.

The earth had been hammered into a crater fifteen meters wide and several meters deep. The bodies of archers lay scattered across the ground — most reduced to something resembling pulp.

"George! Help me!"

The bear spoke with a human voice — Hathaway's voice. At the same moment, she expelled a torrent of ice-flame from her mouth, flash-freezing the blood-flesh giant where it stood.

The giant thawed almost instantly, new arms sprouting grotesquely from its bulk — seven, eight arms, in rapid sequence.

George ignored her. He had no attention to spare. His eyes were locked on the black-robed Witch Mixi — she was his fight.

In that moment, Mixi lifted her hood. She revealed a flawlessly beautiful face, eyes hazy and filled with infinite sadness.

"George — wake up. It's your Mixi. Look at me — that creature is the real demon. It killed Hathaway and stole her body. Can't we start over, just the two of us?"

Her voice was a murmur, carrying a subtle supernatural pull, and for a moment George felt the world sway.

Almost simultaneously, the bright, sorrowful eyes of the black-robed Witch Mixi ignited with a sudden streak of crimson. Spider-web veins of bloody red erupted across her face.

"Kra!"

Above, a circling Blood Raven blazed with blood-light — and dove at twice its normal speed directly toward George, blood-light condensing into a sweeping, massive Blood Raven specter, ready to tear him apart in the blink of an eye.

And in the same instant, George's eyes went perfectly clear. He flung his dagger in a single fluid motion — and the Blood Raven, specter and all, exploded in mid-air.

"Ahh!"

The black-robed Witch Mixi screamed. Blood poured from both of her eyes. The pain drove her to her knees, barely keeping her upright.

Twice she had fallen into the same hole. Some people simply did not learn.

George didn't spare her a second glance. With Mixi destabilized and the Grand Witch Luna's monster temporarily frozen, he hurled the first Bloodthirsty Spear with full force — aimed directly at the back of Luna's monster-form's skull.

The impact was instantaneous. The creature erupted outward like popping corn — a violent detonation, black blood spraying over a ten-meter radius.

If George had charged in recklessly, that detonation would have been his end.

The black blood was catastrophically corrosive. Even Hathaway's bear form had its fur dissolving and falling away — she shrieked and stumbled back, reverting instantly to human form.

And from within the spreading torrent of black blood, the Grand Witch Luna herself emerged — her two curved blades swinging in a frenzy at Hathaway.

Hathaway, to her genuine credit, drew a short sword and matched her stroke for stroke.

Evidently, the Grand Witch had been driven to her third form.

But the delay had cost Mixi time to recover. She had grown stronger — undeniably — but the Grand Witch's severe injury seemed to have carried a cost for her as well, especially in the moment of the black blood detonation. George had seen Mixi's cloak flicker, as though something had thinned or weakened.

Now Mixi was panting, her strange blood-shot eyes blazing with pain and fury as they locked onto George. She opened her mouth wide, swallowed the remaining three Blood Ravens still circling above — and in the very next instant, she closed the distance in one leaping stride, short sword in hand, driving straight at George.

George didn't hold back either. The second Bloodthirsty Spear left his hand like a thunderbolt.

Mixi evaded it. With that terrifying, spectral speed and agility of hers, she twisted aside from a throw that should have been inescapable.

Then swordlight filled George's vision. Her swordsmanship had grown devastatingly sharper.

George did not dodge. Both hands closed around the heavy training wooden sword, and he charged straight in at full speed — into the storm of blade-light, concentrating every ounce of strength and awareness into a single forward thrust.

Not because he had become a master swordsman.

The truth was that in a pure sword-versus-sword exchange, his technique was so far below Mixi's that she could have made him kneel just with her footwork. He knew that clearly.

So his only real window was to trade life for life. Kill her or be killed — but make sure if he died, she died too.

That was also why he had set Mixi aside earlier and attacked Luna first. Hathaway almost certainly had moves left in reserve — which meant his body wouldn't be seized by the Grand Witch. At worst, he'd lose one Profession Card.

And beyond that—

Frankly, it didn't matter. Was this really the moment to be weighing detailed outcomes?

Did the Rookie King title matter that much?

Was that what he needed to prove?

Did winning or losing matter?

Maybe the only thing he truly needed was a fight without reservation. A fight where life and death were just background noise.

He wore the Tracker title now. Perception +1.

His Strength wasn't the highest. His Agility wasn't the highest. But with Perception he could read the seams in Mixi's movements — find the breaks between heartbeats, the places a blade must pass through.

Kill her, and she would die. Simple as that. Pure.

It was that simple.

In the next flash of an instant, Mixi's straight sword moved like a striking viper — silver light lancing for George's throat again and again — and again she was forced to keep falling back, unable to capitalize, unable to hold position.

Because she genuinely did not want to die. She hadn't yet tasted the full reach of her growing power. She wanted more.

But George wanted only her death.

The wooden sword swept in wide, reckless arcs — which looked brutal and crude, but every single stroke carried the weight of someone who had written off their own survival. Each strike was committed to mutual destruction.

Mixi's swordsmanship was extraordinary — but under George's elevated Perception, she couldn't exploit it freely. Every second George became a hunting predator, relentless, closing down space, his momentum building — and in this contest where one side cared nothing for their own life, the other was being driven steadily backward, increasingly outmatched.

On flat ground, Mixi could have dragged this out indefinitely, ground him down through pure attrition. Wait for your stamina to fail, and then kill you.

But this was the summit of a rocky hill — limited space — with another pair of combatants consuming half of it.

The margin Mixi had left was disappearing.

"Mixi — my child, don't fear death. Your mother will always love you. I brought you back once, I can bring you back again!"

Luna, fighting on the other side, had clearly read the situation. She threw Mixi an assist — a verbal one.

But at that exact moment, Hathaway abruptly abandoned Luna and drove straight toward Mixi.

At the same instant, as if connected by instinct, George and Hathaway switched targets as they passed each other. George gripped his training sword and threw himself at Luna in a full, suicidal assault.

Yes — it was a pure trade. Luna or Mixi, in the short term the exchange value was equal.

George met Luna in a whirlwind. His wooden sword swung frantically, relentlessly — but Luna was on a clearly higher tier. Even momentarily occupied, she opened a dozen cuts on George's body within seconds.

The wounds weren't deep — but three to five more seconds and he would either be finished or thrown off her. And yet—

That was still enough.

Because Hathaway against Mixi was a complete dismantling.

Mixi couldn't go all-in the way George had — and Luna's words had done something to her, shaken her just enough. In the balance shifting between the two of them, it took less than three seconds — Hathaway, with superior swordsmanship, took Mixi's head.

"No!"

Luna erupted. Raging, she was a tornado — three brutal strikes shredded the training sword from George's hands, a blade drove into his chest, another severed his right arm. The third stroke was descending in a killing arc when Hathaway arrived at full speed.

In the same instant, George wrapping both arms around Luna's legs — but this woman's strength was simply inhuman. One kick launched him dozens of meters through the air.

Too late for Luna, though. Hathaway closed the gap by a hair's breadth, drove her sword through Luna's eye socket—

And then took her head.

"Ahh—!"

Still the severed head screamed. The body's cavities erupted with black blood, tentacle-like, trying to pull the head back, to reconnect and regenerate.

Hathaway gave a cold laugh, produced a jar of rendered fat, and smashed it onto the ground.

The fire roared upward. Shrieks continued from inside the flames — tendrils of black reaching toward the edge, probing for escape. Hathaway drew her long sword and cut every last one.

From where he lay half-conscious meters away, George could feel it clearly — some strange force gathering in the fire, trying to coalesce, to be reborn — and then dissolving. Burning away to nothing.

This time, the Grand Witch Luna was dead beyond any possibility of return.

He almost laughed.

Finally. Finally it was over.

George felt his life draining away, and accepted it. Losing a Profession Card was probably unavoidable now. But it didn't matter.

Hathaway walked over quickly. She poured a Life Potion into his mouth, then rapidly bound his severed arm — and activated a peculiar healing tool card over it. The arm reconnected.

When it was done, she sat beside him in exhaustion. The mountain wind rolled over them. She gazed out at the distant shape of Kakh City with an expression too complicated to name.

There was sorrow in it — something even the bright autumn afternoon sunshine couldn't wash away.

"George," she said at last. "Congratulations. Your Rookie King title is secure. But my Four-Star Lord mission has failed — again."