Devil Gambit-Chapter 65 : The Butcher game

The Crimson Core reverted—no, collapsed—into a crimson dice, clinking softly into Dirga’s palm.

He didn’t like that sound.

Instinctively, he tried to will it back into a dagger.

Nothing.

It didn’t respond. No hum, no shift, no glow.

Just silence.

Like a parent too exhausted to help.

"...It’s in recovery," Dirga muttered, realization hitting like ice down his spine. "Shit."

This was a first.

And it couldn’t have come at a worse time.

"Run. Hide. Try to survive," Dirga said, his voice low but sharp as a blade.

"What?" Kaela stammered, eyes wide.

But Saelari didn’t hesitate—she grabbed Kaela and Theryn by the wrist and bolted.

Dirga stood alone.

He grimaced. Why had he brought them here again? Right—information.

But right now, that intel didn’t mean a damn thing if they died.

Hell, he didn’t even know if he could survive.

The hulking creature grinned, the mouth in its stomach widening, dripping thick strings of saliva.

The single eye on its face blinked sideways, a slow, reptilian gesture.

"Hohoho... brave," it said, voice gurgling with amusement. "What’s this? A sacrifice?"

The halberd rose slowly, lazily, its edge gleaming red.

"You can call me The Butcher. I carve out vessels for the Lord. One at a time."

Then it twisted and hurled the halberd—not at Dirga—but at the girls.

No you don’t.

Dirga’s eyes flared. Telekinesis burst from his mind, latching onto the halberd’s trajectory.

But instead of stopping it—

WHUMP!

He was yanked off the ground, slammed forward by the sheer force of the Butcher’s swing.

Too strong. Not just mass—Zarion reinforcement.

"Let’s finish you first, then," the Butcher growled.

His stomach-mouth bulged and spat something wet and red.

Blood?

No.

The blood twisted midair, forming into a solid, jagged spear—alive with malice.

It shot toward Dirga like a bullet from hell.

Dirga raised his hand. Gravity Surge.

A singularity burst to life near his flank—a gravity point that spanned five meters, pulling with crushing force within that radius.

The spear veered off course—just slightly—but enough.

THWUNK!

It embedded into the floor, vibrating violently.

The Butcher halted, stunned. "Well now... some tricks you’ve got there, human."

Dirga’s eyes narrowed. He lifted the lodged spear with telekinesis—then spun it, feeding the spin with pure kinetic momentum.

He hurled it back.

The spear howled through the air like a buzzsaw.

The Butcher raised his halberd—and blocked.

CLAAANG!

The impact knocked him back two full steps. The floor cracked beneath him.

"...Nice. Nice!"

The Butcher’s voice oozed through the blood-soaked air, a gurgling mockery of laughter that echoed against the throne hall’s broken stone. "Maybe you really are worth carving open."

Dirga’s breath left him in a slow, steady exhale.

His fingers tightened around the Crimson Core.

This... was the real fight.

...

Elsewhere in the ruin...

The girls crouched in a jagged corner, half-concealed by the warped bones of the architecture.

Kaela’s shoulders shook. Her hands were pressed tight against her mouth, her breath ragged.

"I... we need to help him," she whispered, eyes wide and glassy.

The scent of blood clung to everything—iron, thick and wet.

"But how?!" Saelari’s voice cracked, high with panic. Her heart hammered, her magic circuits sparking with scattered Zarion—like a wire fraying under pressure.

"That thing... it could level a city in my world... It’s not just a monster. It’s extinction."

Their fear hung in the air like smoke.

But Theryn’s golden, predator eyes didn’t blink.

She stared into the shadows, calculating. Measuring.

Hiding would get them all killed.

"Saelari," she said, calm but sharp.

The Niphari turned to her.

"You’ll assist Dirga from range. Use your runes. Anything disruptive."

"And you?" Saelari asked, voice small.

Theryn’s answer came not with words—but with movement.

The shadows around her feet stirred.

Alive.

...

Inside the shattered hall...

The Crimson Core pulsed—blood-red and burning with potential.

Dirga breathed once—then snapped it into motion.

The core split—blades of red energy forming instantly, two in his hands, two suspended in orbit behind him.

He moved like a phantom—fluid, relentless. The swords spun in tight orbits, striking with bone-cutting precision, every move threaded through with Gravity Surge.

Left. Twist. Pull.

He used gravitational fields to swerve mid-motion, redirecting attacks, disorienting the Butcher’s responses.

Steel howled against stone.

But every hit only left shallow scratches.

The Butcher’s body was a slab of blackened iron, layered in eldritch scale. Too dense. Too old. Too wrong.

"Fuck," Dirga hissed, sweat blurring his vision.

He needed space. A plan. An opening.

"HAHAHAHA! Is this it?! Feels like a mosquito trying to bite a god!"

The Butcher roared with joy, halberd sweeping in wide arcs, dragging trails of blood.

Acidic blood.

Every drop hissed on contact with stone—melting, burning, corroding.

Dirga rolled under the first swing. The tail followed—razor-edged, fast. He barely ducked in time, the wind from it cutting his cheek.

Then came the vertical cleave.

He had no room.

So he did the impossible.

Backstep.

The halberd cleaved the ground—

BOOOOM.

Stone split. Dust exploded.

Dirga’s eyes locked onto the embedded blade.

Now.

Using Gravity Surge, he locked the halberd in place, forcing its immense weight to sink deeper into the stone.

The Butcher snarled and tried to yank it free.

Too late.

Dirga sprinted up the halberd, boots pounding metal, each step crunching with force.

He reached the top—launched himself from the Butcher’s snout.

And then—

He soared high.

Now above the battlefield. Above the entire throne hall.

Dirga spun in mid-air, pushing his Concept to the limit.

Gravity roared.

He activated every strand of his power, pulling the Butcher downward—

And at the same time, he reshaped the Crimson Core into a new form:

A colossal hammer.

Larger than anything he’d ever created.

Its weight pressed against the very laws of the castle—warping the air around it.

His muscles bulged. His arms trembled.

But he didn’t carry it alone.

Telekinesis lifted it. Gravity accelerated it.

It hovered, trembling, above the Butcher’s chest.

Held. Aimed. Ready.

"You better die," Dirga growled, voice a low, ragged snarl.

The Butcher raised his arms, laughing with madness. "YES! CRUSH ME IF YOU DARE!"

Then—

The hammer dropped.

Gravity doubled. Tripled.

A vortex screamed through the air as the hammer fell, pulled by the weight of a dying star.

And when it hit—

BOOOOOOM!!!

The throne hall detonated.

Stone cracked and exploded outward. Black dust surged like a tidal wave. Walls buckled—crimson light flickering as ancient circuits shorted out from the sheer force.

The Butcher’s laugh cut off.

So did everything else.

Only the roar of impact remained, echoing through the castle like a scream from Hell’s own heart.

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