Chapter 72: The King of Close Combat
Lower Brick District, in an alley where even sunlight could not reach.
Divoman’s already tall frame appeared even more imposing at this moment.
No, it didn’t just appear so—this was reality.
Extraordinary individuals who advanced along the Warrior path would experience improvements in their physical qualities, including a noticeable increase in height.
This, in turn, made Sylvia, standing behind him, seem all the more petite.
As he walked, he moved his arms a little.
At the same time, he felt a bit embarrassed about accidentally tearing the door off its hinges earlier when he had failed to control his strength as they were leaving.
"I won’t make a move."
Sylvia, her figure wrapped in black gauze, spoke in a teasing tone:
"Unless enemies at the second stage or above appear."
"Of course, the chances of that happening are quite low."
"I understand, Your Grace."
Divoman nodded, then asked with some curiosity:
"Which of the thirty-two extraordinary paths do they belong to?"
"None of them."
Sylvia, who had previously scouted the area, shook her head slightly and gave her answer:
"Their path is called ‘the Loathsome,’ a new path pioneered by the King of Loathing and Hatred."
"Extraordinary individuals who walk this path possess strong close-combat skills in the first stage. They can also provoke your emotions through speech and body language, drawing your hatred and eventually causing you to lose yourself in rage."
"Is that so?"
Hearing that their opponents also followed a new path woven by an other... non-Orthodox deity, a trace of wariness appeared in Divoman’s eyes.
Sylvia, noticing this subtle change, revealed a slightly mocking smile:
"You’re overthinking this."
"Don’t fear them, and don’t be intimidated. Remember, not every deity outside the Orthodox faith is my Lord."
"Moreover, the path of the Loathsome only goes up to the second stage. That alone shows its significant flaws—it is far from perfect."
"And the abilities of a Warrior often counter them. After all, no one can confidently claim to defeat a berserking Warrior in close combat."
"Also, remember the original sin you bear is called ‘Pride.’"
"Yes, Your Grace."
After nodding, Divoman’s stride became noticeably more confident, and his chin tilted upward slightly.
However, as Sylvia watched him, she couldn’t help but feel that this wasn’t so much pride, but rather resembled a word from a dialect of her homeland—
Show-off.
...
At the end of the alley, behind a grimy, oil-streaked window, a family was devoutly praying before a small idol.
The idol was pitch-black throughout, humanoid in shape but sculpted with partial scale-like structures.
This was the external form of Hethorik, the King of Loathing and Hatred.
Kneeling in prayer before it were a married couple and a middle-aged man whose attire clearly didn’t belong to this area.
Suddenly, the middle-aged man raised his head, his gaze locking onto the direction of the rear window.
“Mick, what is it?”
Beside him, a slightly younger man looked at him in confusion.
And just then—
“Boom!”
A loud, dull sound erupted from the direction of the rear window, followed by the crash of shattering glass.
“Who’s there!”
The man called Mick rolled abruptly, grabbing a straight sword from the corner of the room.
His eyes were now fixed on the shattered window.
A second later, something flew in through the broken window, and before his mind could fully react, his body had already moved.
He rolled forward, and his straight sword struck with unerring precision, slicing the stone that had flown in through the window as if the blade had eyes.
Damn, it’s a trap.
That was the first thought that flashed through his mind.
But the instant he saw a tall figure wearing a vest climb in through the window, his spiritual intuition triggered immediately.
Sensing the unrestrained malice emanating from the intruder, along with the unstable, leaking spirituality of someone who had just recently advanced—
An extraordinary! But a rookie who only just completed their metamorphosis!
That was the second thought in his mind.
When the intruder took advantage of the gap created as Mick tried to retract his sword after the collision and struck with a sandbag-sized fist at a wicked angle, Mick, unable to dodge in time, was hit square on his left cheek.
This... this seems like a Warrior!
With some knowledge of military affairs, he made the instant judgment.
That was the third thought in his mind.
But there was no time left to think.
The immense force sent his body reeling backward, and the intruder’s other hand, like an iron clamp, shot forward with incredible speed and seized his sword-wielding right wrist.
A surge of sharp pain followed, and Mick’s right wrist instantly went limp and dropped.
Just as his face twisted in pain, Mick caught a glimpse out of the corner of his eye—his younger brother had let out a cry and was lunging toward the attacker.
"Falk! Watch out!"
He shouted and then adjusted his posture, catching the falling straight sword with his left hand, intending to counterattack and cover his brother.
But it was already too late.
Divoman didn’t even look back. Using the momentum of retracting his right fist, he slammed his elbow sideways into the charging Falk. At the same time, he shifted his body to the side, dodging the wildly flailing fists.
With a muffled grunt, Divoman’s elbow struck Falk’s left chest squarely.
Amid the sound of bones cracking, Falk’s grunt turned into a scream as he was knocked backward.
Divoman didn’t look back. Instead, he contorted his body in a strange motion to sidestep Mick’s thrusting sword.
Simultaneously, he twisted his waist again and threw another punch.
But at that moment, a pure light flashed across Mick’s straight sword, and the sword tip veered midair at an unnatural angle.
Unable to dodge, the glowing tip stabbed directly into Divoman’s left arm. However, his fist once again struck Mick’s face, who also failed to evade.
As Mick collapsed unconscious from the double blows to the head, Divoman reached out with his right hand, twisted his body, and yanked the sword from his left arm the moment he grasped the hilt.
With a spray of crimson blood, he let out a muffled grunt, but his expression quickly returned to normal after a brief contortion.
Then, with a look of disdain, he glanced over the three—one injured, one unconscious, and one weeping—before locking his eyes on the writhing Falk on the ground:
"You dare defy someone who wields the Power of Pride?"
He didn’t know what those words truly meant, but Her Grace had told him that saying this would help him understand what true pride was.
"Who the hell are you?"
Gasping for air and no longer screaming, Falk lifted his pale face, staring at Divoman with a mix of anger and fear as he shouted the question.
In response, Divoman’s smile turned increasingly cold:
"Who am I?"
He repeated the question, but instead of answering, he responded with a question of his own:
"Do you remember the young man you killed a week ago—his name was Frank?"
"Frank..."
Falk muttered the name, and then his eyes suddenly widened:
"You... you’re with the Dork Party! You... you’re the ‘Golden Lion,’ Divoman Wood?"
"You were just an ordinary person!"
"Hmph, if trash like you can step into the extraordinary, why can’t I?"
At this moment, his tone and words brimmed with arrogance—confidence born from the battle just now.
However, Falk’s expression suddenly calmed. His voice turned icy as he said:
"Enough, time’s up."
"Thank you for wasting so much time chatting with me."
Seeing this unfold, Sylvia, standing outside the window, couldn’t help but let out a sigh.