Under the crushing pressure of Rocks' killing intent—so tangible it felt like matter—time crawled forward like a man walking on the edge of a blade.
The members of the God's Knights—executioners who normally stood above all others, treating common people like weeds—now found even the right to breathe stripped away.
Cold sweat soaked through their armor, slid down their cheeks, and dripped onto the blood-red earth.
Fear has a limit.
And when the pressure surpasses that limit, the string of sanity snaps.
"AAAAAAAH—!"
Finally, one Knight broke.
His pupils completely unfocused.
"AAAH—!!!"
A scream no human should be able to make—half collapse, half madness—tore through the dead silence.
He threw away his sword, clutched his head with both hands, and ran.
Crawling, stumbling, scrambling like a dog fleeing slaughter.
He only wanted to escape this battlefield that made his very soul tremble.
That act was like a stone thrown into still water.
The remaining Knights "woke up" from their nightmare, survival instinct overriding everything.
They turned, preparing to flee.
Rocks didn't even look at the deserter.
His gaze stayed level ahead, as though he were staring at something boring.
Only a thin thread of impatience crept onto his arrogant face.
His lips moved, and the words were so light only the wind should've been able to hear them.
"Annoying."
The moment the word fell—
His right hand moved.
The hand resting on the hilt exploded with force at a speed the naked eye couldn't even comprehend.
Clang—!
A clear, ringing dragon's cry echoed across heaven and earth.
No one saw the motion.
Not the fleeing Knight, not Garling Saint backing away, not even Lucian watching from afar.
All they saw was light.
A thin, pure streak—
A black line that split space itself.
That black thread began at Rocks—
And cut straight across the entire battlefield in a single flash.
Then—
Everything fell silent.
Click.
A soft sound.
Rocks had already sheathed his blade again. His right hand dropped from the hilt, posture identical to how it had been before he drew.
As if he'd done nothing at all.
The battlefield remained frozen in absolute silence for a full second.
The Knight who had been sprinting for his life stood stiff, one foot lifted mid-step.
Every other Knight, mid-turn, locked into twisted poses—motionless.
One second.
Just one second.
And then—
It began.
A thin, straight, perfectly clean line of blood appeared around the waist of the first fleeing Knight.
Then identical lines bloomed simultaneously around the waists of every God's Knight still standing.
No screams.
No struggle.
Not even time for pain to register.
Their upper bodies slid slowly sideways along that fatal line—
Thud.
Thud.
Thud.
Heavy impacts echoed one after another.
Only after their torsos fully separated from their legs and hit the soaked earth—
Did the blood mist finally erupt skyward from the severed remains.
One slash.
Just one slash.
Every elite warrior the Celestial Dragons and World Government took pride in—
Was erased in a single instant.
The field was cleared.
Rocks never once looked at the scattered chunks of corpses.
To him, these so-called elites were no different from roadside pebbles.
He stepped forward, calm and steady, crossing over the carnage toward the only enemy still standing.
Saint Figarland Garling.
The battered commander had only just managed to climb up again—
And now stared in blank disbelief.
Saint Garling watched his subordinates get bisected before his eyes, and the sheer shock shattered the final scrap of dignity he had left.
A freezing chill surged from his feet straight into his skull.
"N… don't… don't come closer…"
A whimper squeezed out of his throat.
His legs gave out—
Thud.
He dropped to his knees.
He was afraid.
Truly afraid.
Then, the exalted Celestial Dragon noble—the supreme commander of the God's Knights—
Actually began crawling backward on hands and knees, utterly pathetic, desperate to escape the approaching death god.
He barely crawled two steps.
A shadow swallowed him whole.
Rocks' figure appeared before him without warning, blocking every route.
Garling Saint jerked his head up in terror and met Rocks' eyes—playful, cruel, and merciless.
"Still trying to run?"
Rocks grinned, flashing teeth white as bone.
"Where do you think you're going?"
Before the words even finished, he couldn't be bothered to draw his blade.
He swung his arm back—
And slammed the heavy, ancient scabbard into Garling Saint's chest with a tearing howl of air.
BOOM—!
Another deep, crushing impact.
The scabbard struck perfectly—right into the fist mark Lucian had left, the wound that hadn't even begun to heal.
Crack… crack crack crack…
A series of dense bone-splitting sounds rang out, sharper and more complete than before.
Garling Saint's chest caved inward at an even more horrifying angle.
"PWAH—!"
He was sent flying again, carving a long trench through the ground.
But that was only the beginning.
Rocks took a single step—and vanished.
In the next instant, he was beside the tumbling, ruined Garling Saint.
Hand up—
Blade down.
This time, it was real steel.
"AAAAAAAH—!"
Saint Garling's scream was shrill enough to shred the soul.
Cold light flashed.
Flesh exploded.
Rocks' movements were absurdly fast—within a single second, he carved Garling Saint's limbs and body into pieces, scattering them across the ground.
Even so, thanks to the immortality Im had bestowed upon him, Garling Saint's severed head still lived—eyes burning with venom as he stared at Rocks.
"Y… you… just wait… That Lord… that Lord will never let you go!"
He forced out the most vicious curse he could muster.
"Oh? Still barking?"
Rocks' expression turned icy. He lifted his foot without hesitation.
THUD!
One stomp.
He drove it straight down onto the face Garling Saint once believed was handsome.
The force crushed his cheek into the hard earth, warping it instantly into bloody ruin.
"Chasing me earlier, weren't you pretty damn arrogant?"
Rocks ground his heel down, voice dripping with brutality and satisfaction.
"Go on! Be arrogant! Why aren't you arrogant now?!"
"Damn it—I've been holding back on you for way too long!"
Thud! Thud! Thud!
He stomped down again and again, each impact making the earth quake.
Then he planted his foot and pushed down with savage force—
Squelch!
Saint Garling's head was forcibly crushed deeper into the soil.
At last—
The world became quiet again.
Only then did Rocks casually brush his hands, like wiping away something disgusting.
He turned around, and that terrifying killing intent vanished without a trace.
He walked toward the man who had never moved from his spot—
The one wearing the pure white mask.
His eyes finally landed on the figures behind them.
The golden threads had withdrawn.
The black miasma was completely gone.
Those clan members, slowly regaining human form, were beginning to awaken.
For the first time, Rocks' arrogant brow tightened into a hard knot.
He stopped before Lucian, voice carrying a weight and urgency he didn't even seem to notice himself.
"Brother."
"My old man and the others…"
"What the hell is going on here?"