Chapter 476: A Single Move

Chapter 476: A Single Move

‘So, I can pull off one domain per transformation…’ Max thought to himself, his chest rising and falling with a measured calm as the last of the infernal energy settled into silence.

His eyes slowly shifted, locking onto the figure of Drevon, still hovering amidst the broken air, the glow around him faintly pulsing with restrained fury.

The Young Monarch was brooding now, his composure no longer unshaken—his aura coiled tighter than before, still regal, still overwhelming, but undeniably tainted with the sting of humiliation.

Max smiled, that sharp, confident grin playing across his face as he floated closer. “What do you think?” he asked, voice casual, even friendly, like two old acquaintances catching up. “Did you like it?”

He didn’t wait for a response.

“I killed your son in front of his mother,” Max continued, his tone low, venom laced beneath each word. “I slaughtered your entire army right before your eyes, while you stood there—confused, trying to understand my domain, restrained, unable to do a damn thing.” His words hit like knives, deliberate and unforgiving.

And then he chuckled—quietly, cruelly. “Tell me… did you ever imagine this would happen? When you arrogantly marched your grand army to the Lost Continent, did you ever think you’d leave with nothing but failure to your name? You thought everything would be fine, right? Just because you’re the Young Monarch. Just because people bow when you speak. Just because you carry that title like it’s the law of nature.”

Max’s smile grew colder as he pointed downward, at the ground far below where William, the prized hidden student of Drevon, now knelt in despair—his face pale, his body trembling, his arrogance shattered beyond repair.

“Now,” Max said, voice sharpened with deadly calm, “tell me, Drevon… will you take a sword from me? Or will you stand there and watch as I kill your precious student, too?”

The sky was silent.

The battlefield had become a graveyard.

And Max—smiling in the ashes—was asking for blood.

However, Drevon didn’t respond with words, taunts, or anger. He simply raised his hand, eyes cold and filled with the fury of a monarch who no longer entertained games. His lips parted, and a single word escaped—sharp, final, and absolute.

“Die.”

In that instant, a string of condensed flames erupted from his palm—no grand display, no roar of power, just a whisper of motion so subtle it was almost imperceptible.

But what followed was anything but. The strand of flame wasn’t fire as the world understood it—it was something beyond that. Compressed to its very limit, it shimmered with terrifying intensity, like the filament of a star wrapped in divine wrath. It didn’t burn the air—it unmade it.

Swish!

The sound barely reached anyone’s ears.

The flame shot forward at a speed no eye could follow—not even Max’s. Before he could think, blink, move, or defend, the strand reached him. One moment, Max stood tall, proud, smirking with confidence—the next, his body froze. Then, with a sound like silk being torn, a thin line of red traced down his form from the crown of his head to the soles of his feet.

And then… he split.

Right down the center—clean, brutal, instantaneous.

His body fell apart in two symmetrical halves, suspended for a moment in the air before gravity remembered its role and dragged them downward. There was no scream. No struggle. Just silence. The only trace left behind was a faint shimmer in the air where Drevon’s attack had passed—a straight, invisible line of destruction that had cleaved through everything in its path.

The battlefield, once thick with tension, fell deathly still.

The Monarch had finally struck back.

“My… my shadow replacement skill didn’t work for some reason…” Marcel muttered, his voice barely audible, laced with disbelief and creeping horror.

His eyes were locked on the two halves of Max’s body falling through the air, lifeless, severed cleanly from head to toe. He had marked Max with his shadow just in case—ready to swap his position at the first sign of danger, but it hadn’t worked. Something had disrupted it. Something beyond him.

“No…” Kate breathed, her lips trembling. Her hands balled into fists as her knees nearly buckled. She had watched it happen with her own eyes, but still couldn’t comprehend it. One moment, Max stood there defiant, unshakable—challenging a Monarch. And the next… he was just gone.

“Max…” Ralph muttered lightly.

Aurelia’s eyes were somewhere else as if Max’s death didn’t affect her at all.

“How could this be?!” Princess Lenavira who had been silently watching all of this covered her mouth in absolute terror. She couldn’t believe what she saw.

“Damn it!!” King Magnar roared, his voice thundering through the stunned silence. His aura erupted violently as rage flared in his eyes. He slammed his fist into the air, causing shockwaves to ripple across the sky. He had seen countless deaths—countless tragedies—but this… this wasn’t supposed to happen. Not to Max. Not like this.

Max was a genius who could stand toe-to-toe with Drevon, if given enough time, he could surpassed him eventually but he was killed right before their eyes.

The entire battlefield fell into a stunned silence. Not just the elves. Not just the humans of the Lost Continent. Even the demons stood frozen, unable to move, unsure whether what they had seen was real or some illusion.

They were prepared for an attack, yes. They expected Drevon to retaliate. But no one—not a single soul—had anticipated that it would come with such absolute finality. That it would come and be over in less than a second.

And now, in the quiet that followed, two halves of Max’s body lay falling through the thick air of the battlefield. Blood mist curled in slow spirals. His eyes, once burning with defiance and fury, were now glassy and dull.

The hero, the defiant genius, the boy who had made Monarch bleed—

Had been cut down in an instant.

But just at that moment, before Max’s severed body could even touch the ground, a pressure descended upon the battlefield—a pressure so sharp, so vast, it felt as though the very fabric of reality had been pierced.

It came without warning, without sound, and yet it was felt by everyone. The air froze mid-breath. The skies dimmed without cloud. It wasn’t heat or chill, not weight or wind—but a presence so ancient, so primordial, that it bypassed flesh and bone altogether and sank straight into the soul.

Every heart skipped a beat.

Even the strongest—Drevon, Magnar, Elarion, Aurelia, Kate, Marcel, the Commendments, the demons, the elven elders, the commanders of both continents—all of them felt it. Like a blade pressed against their necks from a hand they couldn’t see. Knees buckled. Breath caught.

Some instinctively summoned their energy shields, only to feel them shatter the moment they rose. Others tried to speak, but their voices caught in their throats like choking ash.

Marcel’s face drained of all color. “This… this isn’t normal pressure,” he whispered. “This is…”

“Concept of Sword,” Elarion muttered beside him, unable to tear his eyes away from the sky that was beginning to crack—hairline fractures forming in the very heavens, glowing with silver and black light.

Even Drevon, who had stood tall and unchallenged until now, narrowed his eyes sharply and clenched his jaw, his brows furrowing for the first time in genuine unease. “No…” he muttered under his breath, turning his gaze not to Max’s body, but above—to the source of that terrifying pressure.

Because something was coming for him.

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