Free Web NovelChapter 2790: Chapter 930: When the Fated Moment Lies Before Us...
Yet this strike did indeed inflict an unbearable wound upon The Master of Hunting, who had already walked to the very end of His path, blowing apart a section of His body amid His most agonized roar; "Divine Bone," gleaming like blood‑jade, scattered everywhere, still wreathed in searing vapors as it struck the ground.
"His shell is collapsing! The hour of His fall is at hand!"
Granny Bach issued her warning, shouting loudly:
"All warriors below the level of the Golden One, withdraw from the combat circle at once. The curse power at the moment of a Divine Spirit’s fall will harm you!"
Lord Paryen strode forward, Holy Spear in hand, as the others drew back; the humming blood‑halo radiating from Eternal Silence caused any foul-blood constructs that neared to collapse of their own accord. The watcher of a thousand years lifted his head, gazing upon The Master of Hunting, now at His end, while that savage single eye glared back at him in wrath.
Then the Holy Spear swung up, and beneath the extremity of Sin Judgment it was cast by the Lord with merciless precision, turning into a spinning ray of light that pierced through this enemy whose bow was already drawn to its last, feeble inch.
It delivered the final blow upon that godhead, shattered from the start.
"Clang."
The sound of glass shattering resounded throughout the entire Scorched Earth Divine Kingdom, heralding the final road of The Master of Hunting.
The scene was like a blood‑red mountain collapsing upon itself in an earthquake; the Evil God’s remaining body crumbled swiftly like flowing sand, disintegrating from the half‑severed skull downward, and those keening, curse‑like monstrosity‑sounds, mingled with waves of explosions and collapse, proclaimed the death of the symbol that was a mighty existence.
These symbols would not vanish with the death of The Master of Hunting. Perhaps in days to come, other beings would, by pursuing the ultimate interpretation of these conceptual powers, step upon the road of the hunt, but never again would there appear an "Evil God" such as The Master of Hunting.
After all, it would be difficult indeed to find, upon the material Continent, a civilization like the Wolf People, who had carried on savage tradition for a full thousand years. Without such a foundation, it is no easy thing to shape so towering a Giant Spirit.
Gods have never arisen from nothing!
The collapsing blood‑sand scattered around the fractured throne, as though a crimson Sand Sea still cast back its uncanny gleam; and from the center of the throne, Lord Paryen drew back the Holy Spear, his face untouched by joy or sorrow.
As the God Slayer who delivered the final strike, he did not suffer the curse of a falling Divine Spirit; this meant The Master of Hunting had chosen to flee at the last instant.
What a coward.
But that did not matter.
He turned, looking upon the God Slayers standing behind him, gasping for breath amid the shattered Scorched Earth Divine Kingdom. He raised high the Holy Spear in his hand, stained with Divine Blood.
In the next instant, cheers thundered through this broken firmament.
Victory!
The Evil God has fallen; this war is won!
-----------------
"Aaaah!!!"
Surging roars echoed behind Huggesen, who walked alone through the marshes, like the wretched cries of a collapsing camp. Those howls, which should have been fierce and pitiless, were now filled to the brim with fear and bewilderment.
They could no longer hear the roar in their minds, could no longer see that blood‑red world, could no longer sense the presence of the Divine Spirit.
This cast The Master of Hunting’s fanatical rabble into terror and total loss.
But Huggesen’s face was expressionless.
Upon his Throne Wolf, he closed his eyes and kneaded his splitting, agonized brow, as though a tumor were being born within his inner world, or as though some heavy, shapeless thing had already descended along the so‑called path of faith.
That abomination took root upon his Spirit, extending countless blood‑threads to bind his will.
Huggesen could mount no effective resistance. From the moment he accepted the identity of God’s Chosen, his body had already become a vessel offered to the Divine Spirit; all honor and all waiting had been for the arrival of this very instant.
His body was being taken over by the broken Divine Soul of The Master of Hunting, who had fled here in disgrace, to become the last dwelling‑place of a god already cast down.
This is the most pitiful fate of God’s Chosen.
They gain power, yet in so doing forfeit their future.
On this, Huggesen had no special opinion, no regret, no sense of loss.
He knew the destined hour he had always awaited had come. In the face of The Master of Hunting’s seizure, Huggesen offered no resistance, allowing his own consciousness to be suppressed, to fall into that blood‑red ocean resounding within his mind.
It was as though he had returned to the swaddling‑cloth of his birth, closing his eyes once more in a comfortable posture.
Mm...
At last, he could rest properly for a while, waiting for the day of his death to come... no, waiting for the day when he and the Evil God he had served would die together.
This body was not merely a hiding‑place, but the final prison that would confine Him; and the ruthless jailer was already in position. That Judgment was about to begin.
Murphy, God’s Chosen of the creator, wondrous one.
Come.
Bring down your blade of execution.
Cleave, once and for all, the rusted shackles that bind the Wolf People, and as you have spared no effort to protect your subjects, stretch out your final hand of aid to those already mired deep in the bog.
The future, we entrust to you all.
