Ex rank talent Awakening: 100\% Dodge rate-Chapter 217: EMPIRE’S ELITE OF THE ELITE

"It seems he has some pretty good instincts, guys. I'll give him that one," said a heavily built man, tall and broad-shouldered, his voice crashing through the air like a thunderclap. He was clad in distinctive armor that differed from the standard-issue gear of the Grey Empire knights—sleeker, darker, and radiating a more elite aura—though the empire's sigil was still etched boldly on his chestplate. In one hand, he held a towering shield that gleamed menacingly in the sunlight, while a massive sword rested on his back. With confident strides, he stepped forward, his presence dominating the field.

"Indeed," purred a petite girl, licking her lips with morbid anticipation. Her small frame and short stature made her appear almost childlike, easily passing as a loli, though the cold cruelty in her eyes dispelled any notion of innocence. She had an average face, flat all around with no curves to speak of, but her aura crackled with magical energy. A slender wand rested in her hands as she grinned manically. "I'd love to tear him apart limb by limb… I want to see what's fuelling all that arrogance. That's going to be so enjoyable for me."

"Enough, guys. Let's get this over with," a blond man said nonchalantly, rolling his eyes. Two swords were sheathed across his back in an 'X' pattern. "I've got a date to catch."

One by one, eleven figures emerged, all clad in the modified gray armor of the empire's elite. They walked without urgency, speaking amongst themselves like they were at a casual gathering rather than on the verge of battle. To them, Greg's presence was insignificant. Escape? Impossible. Victory? Unthinkable. They didn't even consider it a real fight. That was how confident they were.

"Can you all shut up and come at me already?" Greg's voice cut through the air, cold and biting. He stood motionless, eyes narrowed, expression filled with disdain. "I don't have time to listen to your crap. The trash can is meant to store you guys after I'm done, not your words."

The idle chatter ceased. Eleven pairs of eyes turned to him in shock and irritation. Who was this insect to speak to them like that?

"Hey! How dare you speak to us so rudely?!" barked a bespectacled magician with dark hair, aiming his wand at Greg, fury flashing in his gaze.

"Yeah!" shouted the loli mage, her small voice ruining the threatening mood, but nobody bothered correcting her. "Just because you dealt with those pathetic regulars, you think you're something?!"

"We're the twelve special soldiers of the empire!" the berserker snarled, his tone thick with hostility. He clutched his sword tightly, the veins in his forearms bulging. "The elite of the elite! So I advise you to start shaking in your boots!" His eyes glinted with madness as he licked his lips, as if already tasting Greg's blood.

Greg rolled his eyes. "Arrows."

With a flicker of intent, eleven ethereal arrows materialized behind him, glowing faintly. With a single thought, they launched toward the eleven opponents like divine judgment descending from the sky.

But unlike the ordinary knights Greg had faced before, who died instantly under the barrage of arrows, these soldiers reacted with frightening composure. Shields rose. Barriers shimmered. One mage snapped her fingers midair, redirecting an arrow with a gust of wind, while another dissolved one midflight with a blast of raw mana. They defended themselves—not perfectly, but effortlessly enough to prove they were in a different league.

"It seems he's impatient. Very impatient," the tank rumbled, lifting his massive shield and leaping into the air. The ground beneath him cracked from the force of the jump, a crater forming in his wake. "Very well then… Let's fulfill his wish. Can't keep the little boy waiting, can we?"

"Vine!" the loli mage chanted gleefully. Thick, green tendrils burst from the ground, twisting and snaking toward Greg to immobilize him.

Greg made no move to dodge. He had no intention of retreating. The vines whipped toward him—only to shrivel mid-air as an unseen force repelled them. Even the tank's shield, which came crashing down with the force of a meteor, missed its mark. The trajectory had shifted at the last moment, as if fate itself refused to let Greg be touched.

Greg's eyes gleamed with contempt. As the tank landed hard nearby, confused, Greg's leg snapped up in a precise motion. His kick connected with the man's chest—BOOM!—sending the armored giant flying like a missile, crashing through a tree trunk before skidding to a halt in the dirt.

"If that's all you've got," Greg said calmly, brushing imaginary dust from his shoulder, "then I must say I'm very disappointed. You talked a lot. I expected more."

The remaining ten elite soldiers froze. Their expressions darkened, teeth clenched. He had humiliated one of their strongest without breaking a sweat.

"You bastard!!!" the berserker screamed, veins throbbing as he charged, sword raised. The swordsman followed close behind, his twin blades unsheathed in a blur of silver light. The second tank moved in as well, supported by another dual-wielding fighter, forming a quartet of relentless close-combatants.

Meanwhile, the three archers took position at the back, drawing their bows with smooth precision, while the remaining three mages began incantations, their chants weaving into the air like whispered threats.

The swordsman reached Greg first, blades slashing in a graceful, amphoteric dance. His coordination was exceptional, using both blades masterfully, striking from alternating angles in a flowing sequence. Greg parried and countered with ease, his movements refined, his reactions effortless.

"Guess I'll play with you all for a bit," Greg muttered, a rare smile tugging at his lips. "Concept… disable my absolute attack and defense. Let me feel the thrill again."

[Yes, Master. Done.]

The voice echoed in Greg's mind, and the shift was immediate. A grin spread across his face, wider and more genuine than before.

"What the hell are you smiling at?!" the berserker howled, enraged. He swung wildly, abandoning all defense. Each strike was meant to kill, yet Greg blocked every blow with lazy elegance.

This time, there would be no outside interference like before. The suppression of Greg's concept wasn't being forcefully applied by a hostile entity like the Concept of Death. This was his own will, applied selectively. His abilities were no longer absolute, but only for this battle—and only by his choosing.

The swordsman noticed an opening—Greg's stomach momentarily exposed due to the berserker's aggressive barrage. Without hesitation, he lunged in, his right blade thrusting toward the vulnerable spot with precision.