Abyssborn: Sovereign of Sin and Ruin

{Chapter: 177: More Targets And Within The Defense Line}

A horde numbering in the tens of thousands was hot on their heels. Demons, creatures of all shapes and forms surged behind them like a living tide, relentless and vicious.

Each of the squad members clutched a magical compass, once considered a beacon of tracking precision. But now those compasses flickered madly with countless glowing points—like miniature night skies filled with stars. The sheer volume of signals was paralyzing.

'What the hell are we even chasing anymore?'

The same question rang in everyone's minds—soldiers and leaders alike. Even Clay, their once-unshakable captain, was now plagued by the same doubt.

They had first caught up with the target several days ago, cornering and vaporizing what they believed to be Dex after an exhausting and brutal battle. But moments after his destruction, more signals lit up the compasses—twice as many as before.

One target had turned into two. Then two became four. Four became eight. The phenomenon spread like wildfire, each kill resulting in even more targets appearing. It was as if they were trying to cut off the head of a hydra that multiplied instead of dying.

They had started this mission feeling like apex predators.

Now, they felt like fools caught in an elaborate farce.

A demigod's pride was not easily shaken, but now each of them carried the silent burden of humiliation. Whether they admitted it or not, it was clear:

They weren't hunting Dex.

Dex was playing with them.

---

Elsewhere, deep within a shadowed cave nestled between jagged cliffs, Dex was lounging like a man on vacation. He leaned back against a rock, a roasted leg of chicken in one hand and a magical projection spell floating in the air in front of him, displaying a live feed of Clay's squad fleeing through a ruined forest.

"Oho! That's a nice left hook—look at him go!" Dex laughed heartily, nodding in appreciation as one of his avatars sucker-punched a demigod from behind before vanishing in a puff of smoke.

He looked more like a spectator watching a sports game than a fugitive.

Over the past few days, Dex had been resting comfortably inside this cave, sending out projection clones to taunt and mislead Clay's team. He had deliberately infused just enough aura into each clone to make them traceable, baiting their compasses like lures on fishing lines.

It was all part of the game.

While the others ran around chasing shadows, Dex relaxed, confident and unbothered. Between watching the chaos unfold, he tended to his grill, occasionally flipping over the oversized roast bird sizzling over the flames.

Timing was important. He wanted the skin crispy, but not burnt.

His trusty mount—a rooster-shaped monster that had once tried to eat him—sat nearby. After a "friendly" beatdown and several days of being force-fed dried spicy fish, it had grudgingly become his steed. Dex had affectionately nicknamed it "Boomer."

Originally, Dex had no intention of keeping the beast. He figured he'd let it go once it served its purpose.

But now... well...

"It's been marinated from the inside after all that spicy fish," Dex muttered to himself with a wicked grin. "It'd be a shame to waste that flavor."

He tore a chunk of meat from the roast chicken and chewed thoughtfully. "I guess I'll put my conscience back after dinner. No sense rushing."

Thus, in that dark cave, surrounded by smoke, fire, and the echoes of a battle he was winning without lifting a finger, Dex lived like a man on holiday—while the world above burned and the proud demigods chased ghosts.

---

Another three days slipped by in tense silence.

Within the defense line, a haze of gloom and despair hung thick in the air, as though the very atmosphere had grown heavy with dread.

The streets—once lively and bustling with commerce and life—now lay abandoned and silent, choked with windblown trash and the stench of decay. No one had cleaned them in days. The joy, the vibrancy of human presence had long since been driven out by fear and ruin.

At a major intersection, Alison stood poised with a longbow in hand. Her sharp eyes narrowed on a grotesque figure not far away. It resembled a stitched abomination—its form a patchwork of flesh and unidentifiable materials. Scrap metal, bones, insect limbs, and rotting hide were embedded all over its body, pulsing faintly with corrupted life.

The creature bellowed in rage, its jagged mouth opening unnaturally wide as it attempted to lunge toward the soldiers stationed nearby.

Without hesitation, Alison let her arrows fly. Each shaft whistled through the air with deadly precision, punching through the monster's skull and pinning its limbs to the crumbling pavement. She watched it writhe for a moment, its life force slowly ebbing, until at last it lay still.

"Burn everything. I don't want even a scrap of it left behind," she commanded coldly, not taking her eyes off the corpse.

"Yes, ma'am!" a soldier beside her saluted and rushed to carry out her orders.

Alison exhaled quietly, her heart heavy, then holstered her weapon and sprinted toward the next location without another word.

Scenes like this had become a daily routine.

The defense line, once a safe haven, had gradually transformed into a death zone. It was now more perilous than the monster-infested forests and wilderness beyond. At least in the wild, danger came with warning signs. But here, in the crumbling heart of civilization, threats festered in every shadow, every home, every narrow alleyway.

The mutated creatures spawned by plague and parasitic infection were not just common—they were everywhere. Hideous insectoid beasts, plague-born horrors, and walking corpses with minds eroded into madness now prowled the streets like apex predators in a bleeding ecosystem.

Even the strongest warriors, including legendary heroes and demigods, were no longer fighting to win—but to maintain some semblance of order in a city slowly being consumed. Their mission now was endless and grim: extermination patrols, containment efforts, desperate reinforcement of collapsing barricades.

Their presence, their visible dedication, was the only thing keeping the line from falling into utter chaos. It was this resolve—these acts of silent courage—that gave the civilians and remaining military personnel the strength to hold on for just one more day.

Without that hope, morale would've collapsed long ago.

Yet even so, Alison could feel it—could see it. The defense line was terminal. Its decay wasn't just symbolic; it was physical, tangible, undeniable. And it was accelerating.

"It's too late…" she muttered under her breath as she turned a corner, her boots splashing through oily rainwater. "We can't save this place anymore…"

Even as she fought, even as she ordered others to keep fighting, a deep part of her heart had already begun to mourn.

The thought brought her back to the emergency meeting held only days ago—one she would never forget.

---

In Past.

Inside a secure war chamber lit by dim emergency lights, Henry Moore had addressed the highest-ranking officers and demigods remaining.

Though usually poised and charismatic, Henry had looked worn and sleepless, with lines of stress etched into his once-sharp face.

"I'll get straight to the point," he had said in a gravelly voice, void of pretense. "The line won't hold for much longer."

He let that truth settle into the room before continuing.

"I've already requested that the nations behind us begin construction on temporary fallback positions. Fortified shelters, mobile strongholds—anything that buys us more time. Because that's all we can hope for now: delay."

He paused, then dropped the next blow.

"As for the civilians still inside the city… preliminary samples indicate that at least a third are already infected."

Gasps had rippled through the room, but he raised a hand.

"And that's just the confirmed cases. Many strains are currently undetectable. The true infection rate may be much, much higher."

He didn't need to say more. Every person in the room—demigod or not—understood the implications. The civilians they were meant to protect had now become the greatest internal threat. Any lapse in containment could allow the plague to spread beyond the line, unraveling everything they had sacrificed to protect.

Silence had fallen over the chamber, thick and suffocating. Not even the sound of breathing broke it.

After a long moment, a deep voice had spoken.

"…I understand what you're implying."

It was an orc demigod—ancient, weathered, and wise. His kind had survived the rise and fall of empires, and in his long years, this was not the first time he had faced such impossible choices.

"If sacrifice is inevitable…" he continued, eyes heavy with sorrow, "then let us at least allow them some dignity."

His words were not a challenge. They were an acceptance—resigned, but firm.

Another human demigod nodded in agreement. And then another. One by one, the leaders of the defense line gave their silent consent. They didn't have to speak aloud the words they dreaded.

*****

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