Up ahead, he saw swirling masses of golden runes stretched across the horizon. Golden light stole the moon's pale blue hue like a thief in the night. Faux-green life returned to the forest leaves, which shimmered in muted blue under the moon's somber grace.
Blanc stopped advancing. He was trapped in an array with no way out. Being Lariat had left him weak; his defenses were at their lowest, and fifteen years of peace had dulled his survival instincts. He should have noticed the game months ago. Or maybe he simply couldn't. That could only mean one thing—the Black Emporium had sent a ten-man squad of Platinum-Tiered Awakened.
He recognized the golden runes immediately. They belonged to a massive Gold-Tier Array, one capable of absorbing enough force to shatter a planet's core. Destructive output he no longer possessed. At least, not anymore.
Tapping one of Beth's pressure points, he sank his awareness into her internal systems, ensuring the previous battles hadn't harmed her. Relief washed over him when he found nothing amiss. He channeled more than half of his remaining internal energy into a protective barrier behind him, ensuring Beth would remain safe—for as long as he lived.
"I told you Blanc was too strong for a group of Gold-Tiered Awaken," a voice, far too sultry for the chilling atmosphere, wafted around him.
Runes glowed in his palm on instinct, and he drew a piercing blue blade. Its edge was so sharp it shredded the suffocating tension that had wormed its way into his bones. With the blade in hand, Blanc had reached the apex of his current combat capabilities. Pain—ignored for far too long—pierced his psyche like a tantrum-throwing, psychoactive child clawing at his sanity.
"These exact odds were within my calculations. The purpose wasn't to kill him, but to analyze his plausibility in completing the task at hand," another voice, cold and mechanical, infused the air.
Blanc scanned his surroundings, his eyes darting constantly. He searched for anything—a mana fluctuation, ill intent, a trace of internal energy. But nothing appeared on his radar, and his heart knotted tighter.
"That won't work. Your Gold Core is crippled. You simply don't have the energy to see us," said a jovial voice, washing away the thick mist of fear and battle instinct swirling around him.
This time, a figure emerged—a man dressed so casually one might think the forest was his backyard. He wore coarse shorts, a pair of slippers, and a button-up shirt. Blond hair cascaded over his awkward facial features—one eye noticeably larger than the other, though both sparkled with unmistakable joy. The smile hanging on his face, paired with his complete lack of awareness, nearly broke Blanc into Lariat. But Blanc prevailed. The lack of danger emanating from the man only made him more dangerous to Blanc's senses.
"So, why don't you drop your weapon and hear what I have to say? It's no different from what the previous leader stated. We have a job for you. One that requires your expertise," the jovial youth said. "A job that you'll do. Trust me on that."
Only three voices had spoken so far. But Blanc knew there were at least seven others. If he could break through, the Black Emporium might finally stop coming for him. The risk would far outweigh the reward. No. He was fooling himself. They'd never stop.
"Don't test my patience or magnanimity. I don't want to resort to drastic measures. Like that girl you're carrying on your back. She looks so much like… Jasmine."
"I'd rather die," Blanc said.
He moved like a specter, the blue blade alive in his expert hands. It slipped through the cracks of space like an ant creeping into an ear—silent, deadly, and maddening. The jovial youth anticipated the strike as if in slow motion, his movements fluid and unnervingly precise. With ease, he tapped the blade aside and smirked. The baleful superiority in his smile froze Blanc's intestines, and adrenaline slowed to a crawl as realization hit him.
*Beth!*
Internal energy exploded through every meridian in his body, worsening the condition of his Gold Core—the very thing keeping him alive. Blanc shifted, popping his shoulder to slide Beth safely to the side. He stepped to the right, placing himself between her and the lethal strike aimed at her. The brief window of death snapped shut.
Piercing the ground with the edge of his foot, he shuttled backward. But the youth followed, haunting him like the memories of his past—quick, horrifying, visceral. The youth spread his fingers wide, purple runes blooming in the air like the petals of death itself.
Blanc rejected the notion of defeat outright. Overexerting his internal energy, he burst blood vessels throughout his body. The comforting sting of pain didn't reach him. All that mattered was retreat. Slipping away like a fish in turbulent waters, Blanc evaded death as it clawed at his throat.
He slammed his palm into the ground, pivoting his body to the left. Spinning like a leaf caught in opposing winds, he catapulted backward just as a swarm of sharp needles tore through the earth. They reaped the land in decay, the very air dying in their wake. Grass within a hundred meters shriveled into dust.
Blunt force slammed into his ribs from the side, shattering two and fracturing the rest. He shifted his weight at the last second to shield Beth, but the cost was high. Blood spurted from his lips, staining the impeccable suit he wore. There was no time to savor the pain. Another blow sent his chin crashing into the ground. Yet, with sheer will, Blanc forced himself to his feet.
At that moment, the youth appeared directly in front of him. Blanc swiped, the edge of his palm catching the man's nose. But the reprieve was short-lived. A kick slammed into Blanc's chest, sending him tumbling. Blood splattered again, but he paid it no mind.
Digging deeper into his Gold Core, Blanc searched for scraps of energy. There were none. Every ounce of his strength had gone into ensuring not a single speck of dust touched Beth.
That left his body.
Steeling his resolve, Blanc clenched his fist and swung. The strike caught the youth off guard, rocking his balance. Blanc pounced, hammering blow after blow into the youth's midsection before delivering a thunderous punch that dislodged his jaw. Blood sprayed into the air.
A glint caught his eye—imperceptible to most, but clear as day to Blanc. Thousands of needles shot toward him. He cared not. Without internal energy or the abilities it granted, he used his body as both shield and weapon.
The needles wreaked havoc, tearing into him, but the grit forged over countless years didn't falter. Blanc gripped the invisible threads attached to the needles and yanked.