NOVEL ONLINE FREE CHAPTER 220; GETTING SERIOUS
Goosebumps. That's what they all felt as Greg stopped the descending giant sword with just one hand, his figure standing firm against the impossible weight. The wind stirred faintly around him, rustling his coat as fragments of aura cracked in the air from the halted momentum. And that expression on his face—calm, unreadable, as if what he did required no effort—left their minds spinning in disbelief.
Only now did they begin to truly grasp the nature of the monster they had challenged.
At that moment, they all felt it—death itself, no longer a distant notion, but standing close, arms wide open, waiting to welcome them into the void.
"This can't be happening," the swordsman muttered, his voice trembling with denial as his knuckles clenched around his blade.
Greg looked back at them with an empty gaze, reading the horror in their expressions with a chilling detachment. "Shatter," he said in the ancient dragon tongue, his voice echoing like a distant thunderclap.
The sword—massive, forged from condensed energy—broke into a thousand shimmering fragments, then into dust, floating in the air like glittering ash under a dying sun.
"You all seem to believe I'm weak just because I decided to play around with you, huh?" Greg said, his tone devoid of malice, as neutral as the wind before a storm. "Well, there's no messing around anymore. I should just get on with it."
A blur. That's all they saw before he vanished from sight, faster than their eyes could trace. He reappeared right before them, Heaven Defier raised high like an executioner's blade. With one clean, fluid motion, he cleaved an archer in half—blood spraying across the frozen expressions of the others, who looked on in horror.
"Disperse!" the swordsman shouted, panic cracking through his voice like broken glass.
The elites scrambled in all directions, instincts kicking in. The loli mage, teeth clenched, willed the vines from beneath the earth to lash out toward Greg, a desperate attempt to buy them time.
"You're still looking down on me," Greg said, a frown darkening his features now—different from the expressionless mask he wore earlier. A storm brewed in his aura.
"Freeze," he uttered in dragon tongue again—but this time, it wasn't directed at a person or a spell. This time, the command reached out to the entire world.
The vines froze mid-whip, floating shields halted, lasers stopped mid-air. Even the elite themselves were trapped in their own skins, unable to so much as twitch a finger. Only Greg stood unfrozen, moving freely in a frozen canvas of impending death.
Their hearts pounded, frantic and terrified, yet they remained helpless, paralyzed as the sound of Greg's slow, deliberate footsteps echoed ominously around them.
Greg approached the nearest—another archer. His steps were unhurried, the picture of calm. He stabbed the archer cleanly in the chest, watching with clinical detachment as blood seeped out and the archer's HP drained rapidly.
Without a word, he moved to the next: a mage. The process repeated—one stab to the heart, clean and without cruelty. The mage's eyes widened in silent agony before fading into lifelessness.
Next was the tanker. But Greg didn't strike. He walked past him, offering only a cold glance. That glance alone was enough to flood the tanker's soul with dread. He remembered Greg's earlier promise. His face paled. Regret gnawed at him for the foolish words he had uttered in the name of comfort. Now he would live with the consequences.
Greg's feet came to a stop in front of the loli mage, her eyes burning with hatred as they locked with his. She trembled—not from fear, but from the sheer force of rage boiling within her tiny frame.
But Greg didn't care. Her hatred meant nothing to him. She would die anyway—why should he be bothered by the emotions of the already doomed?
He stared at her for a moment, as if reading her soul, then stabbed her heart without a word. The light faded from her eyes as he stepped away.
Finally, he reached the swordsman—the only one who seemed at peace with his fate.
"I must say," the swordsman whispered, awe heavy in his voice, "I'm in deep awe of your prowess and strength."
Greg gave a curt nod, acknowledging the words without pride, and then drove the sword into the swordsman's chest. The blade pierced cleanly, ending the man's life with dignity.
Only one remained: the tanker.
Greg turned toward him, the barest trace of a smile returning to his face. "Now… where should we start?"
---
**
The inner world shattered like glass after the tanker's death, collapsing with a silent scream. Greg's eyes opened as he returned to reality. The air felt heavier here, less ethereal, but the scent of blood still lingered in his senses.
He had enjoyed his time with the tanker, making sure the man's soul would tremble forever at the mere mention of his name. He didn't just kill them—he devoured the will manifestations of each elite, absorbing their strength into his own, deepening the abyss of his manifested will.
Greg turned his gaze toward the castle once more, remembering the real reason he came here. But before he could move—
Two shadows sprang from either side, silent and deadly. Assassins.
Greg's eyes didn't widen. Instead, he smirked. "Thought you wouldn't show up."
These two were the last of the Grey Empire's elite twelve. He had struck one earlier with his arrows, but left the other alone—on purpose. He had given the impression he hadn't noticed their presence. Both had waited, watching the battle unfold, seeking the perfect time to strike.
And they had found it. Or so they believed.
Their daggers glinted as they closed in, twin storms of death. But Greg didn't follow the script. Their attacks landed on empty air—he had already moved, shifting from their strike zone in a fraction of a second.
"It seems you two are the best among the elites," Greg said calmly, appearing behind them. "You weren't shaken by the deaths of your comrades. That's admirable."
He grabbed them by the necks before they could vanish again, each hand tightening around a throat. The assassins struggled, legs kicking, a mixture of rage and horror flooding their eyes.
"But then again," Greg continued, "you're assassins. Worrying over the dead would be a disappointment to your profession."
With one smooth motion, he snapped their necks—crack—ending their resistance.
Greg exhaled slowly, letting the silence return. "That should be done."
Then his eyes turned toward the horizon.
"Now, Emperor Augustus… it's finally time to deal with you."
A smirk tugged at his lips as his gaze locked on the golden-armored emperor riding forward with knights and mages flanking his sides. The final act was about to begin.