e-booksonline Chapter 621 - 136.11 - The Hunt
Chapter 621 - 136.11 - The Hunt
Chapter 621 - 136.11 - The Hunt
"Tell me. Was it worth it?"
I raised my hand slowly, watching Zharokath's broken form with a smile creeping across my face. The shadows around me began to stir, swirling as if they were alive, forming a small, protective shield that wrapped itself around my outstretched hand. The darkness pulsed with power, responding to my will as if it had always been mine to command.
"But still..." I said, my voice laced with amusement. "You know, it's quite ironic."
Zharokath's eyes followed the movement of my hand, and for a moment, confusion flickered across his face. I watched him carefully, waiting for the moment he'd realize. And when I saw that spark of recognition, I couldn't help but grin wider.
"Do these shadows feel familiar to you?" I asked, my voice soft, taunting. The words hung in the air, and I could see it—his body tensing, his eyes widening as the reality dawned on him.
"This..." Zharokath muttered, his voice weak, but filled with disbelief. His gaze locked onto the swirling shadows, and I could feel his shock, his fear growing.
I leaned in, letting the shadows wrap tighter around me, their presence palpable. "Indeed," I said, my smile widening. "It is the power of the Primordial of Shadows."
Zharokath's expression was priceless—the way his face twisted with horror, the way his mind tried to process what he was seeing. He had lost everything, and now, here I was, wielding the very power of a Primordial in front of him.
"But there's something special about me," I continued, my tone filled with satisfaction. "You see, I have the ability to absorb the power of demons. And what you see now... is just one of the many gifts I've taken from your kind."
His body trembled as he looked at me, disbelief flooding his face. "No..." he muttered, his voice shaky. "That's... impossible."
I laughed, low and cold, watching the despair deepen in his eyes. "Oh, it's very possible," I whispered. "I've taken the power of the Primordial of Shadows for myself, just like I will take yours."
The realization hit him like a hammer. Zharokath had spent centuries working to revive the Primordial of Void, pouring everything into a desperate attempt to restore his clan's glory.
"And then, I will use this power of yours to get rid of the primordial of Void."
Now, here I was, wielding the power of another Primordial as if it were nothing, reducing all of his efforts to dust.
"Do you understand now?" I asked, my voice filled with dark amusement. "You will be the one contributing to the death of your own ancestor. No matter what you do, no matter how much power you think you have... I will always be one step ahead of you."
The horror in his eyes was all the confirmation I needed. He knew, deep down, that his time was over. And that everything he had sacrificed would amount to nothing.
I let the shadows swirl around me for a moment longer, savoring the look of despair on his face. "And now," I said, stepping closer, "I'll make sure you never forget this feeling. Even if you're reborn, even if you come back, you will never be the same. You'll always remember what happened here, what you lost."
Zharokath's breath came in shallow gasps, his mind barely able to process the gravity of his defeat. I smiled again, satisfied, knowing that this moment would haunt him for the rest of his existence—however short that might be.
The shadows pulsed around me, a reminder of the power I had taken. And as I stood over him, watching him crumble, I knew that this was exactly what I had been waiting for.
Complete and utter destruction.
And it felt glorious.
Zharokath's body shook violently, his eyes wide, his lips quivering as the horror of his situation sank in. The once-proud demon, the being who had spent centuries crafting his plans, was now reduced to a trembling wreck at my feet. His mind was shattering, the realization of his failure hitting him with the force of a tidal wave.
"Ah....."
Zharokath's eyes flickered to the dagger lying in front of him, his gaze wide and unfocused. His trembling hands twitched, inching toward the blade, but hesitation rippled through his body. I could see it—the battle raging inside him, the primal instinct to live clashing with the overwhelming weight of defeat.
"No... no... no... I can't... I can't..." he muttered, his voice shaky and filled with desperation. His fingers hovered over the dagger's hilt, but he couldn't bring himself to grasp it. The fear of death, the fear of losing everything, still gripped him tightly, despite everything.
But there was something deeper at play here. What if that self-identity—everything that made someone who they were—was shattered beyond recognition? What would happen when they no longer saw themselves as worth saving? When they no longer believed in their own existence?
The answer was unfolding before me.
I watched silently, my mind strangely detached as I observed his struggle. It was a curious thing, really—how hard it was to break someone's will to live. No matter how much suffering they endured, no matter how much they had lost, that instinct to survive clung to them, even when all hope was gone.
'Every being with a sense of identity fights to stay alive,' I thought, watching Zharokath's trembling hands. 'No matter how broken, how defeated, they always want to keep existing.'
But there was something deeper at play here. What if that self-identity—everything that made someone who they were—was shattered beyond recognition? What would happen when they no longer saw themselves as worth saving? When they no longer believed in their own existence?
The answer was unfolding before me.
Zharokath's eyes darted between the dagger and the floor, his breath ragged, his body twitching with the effort of fighting the inevitable. He whispered to himself again, "I can't... I can't..." His mind was still clinging to the desire to live, but it was a fragile, flickering thing. The cracks in his resolve had deepened.
And then, slowly, it began to change.
The trembling of his hands grew worse, but not from fear this time. It was something else. Something more insidious. His eyes, wide with terror moments ago, began to dull, the light in them fading as the weight of his defeat truly sank in.
'I can see it now...' I thought, watching with detached fascination. 'He's losing the fight with himself.'
Zharokath's breath hitched, his hands slowly curling into weak fists. "Maybe..." he whispered, his voice barely audible, as if speaking only to himself. "Maybe it's better... to just end it... to forget..."
His gaze flickered back to the dagger, and this time, there was no hesitation. The fear of death was still there, but it had begun to wither, overtaken by a greater force—the desire to escape. To be rid of the pain, the shame, the endless torment that had become his existence.
His lips quivered, his body slumped forward as the last threads of resistance slipped away. "I... I don't want to remember anymore..."
And just like that, the battle was over.
Zharokath reached out, his fingers trembling as they curled around the hilt of the dagger. His eyes were distant, hollow. The fear was gone. The fight was gone. All that remained was the broken shell of what he had once been.
He was no longer fighting to live.
SPURT!
He just wished to disappear.
----------A/N-------------
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