Ex rank talent Awakening: 100\% Dodge rate-Chapter 218: WORTH MY TIME

"An opening!" the swordsman thought, his eyes lighting up as he lunged forward, twin swords glinting with intent. Greg's posture had shifted—subtly, almost imperceptibly—but to a veteran like him, it screamed of vulnerability. He thrust his blades toward the exposed gap in Greg's stance.

"What? Impossible?" the swordsman's thoughts froze as quickly as his attack. The opening vanished like mist in sunlight. His blades met only air. Greg's eyes locked with his—calm, confident, mocking. A slow, knowing smile curled on Greg's lips.

Realization hit the swordsman like a boulder. He had been baited.

His stomach churned with humiliation. To be outplayed like this… by Greg of all people. It was an unforgivable disgrace for a proud swordsman like him.

Boom!

A powerful fist crashed into his face, sending him hurtling backward. His nose crunched under the force, blood trailing through the air as his body slammed into the ground.

The tankers blinked, stunned. Their comrade had been airborne one moment and grounded the next, broken and bloodied. They hadn't even registered the exchange. One punch. That was all it took.

They were too slow.

"Come now, no need to get distracted. There's more to come," Greg teased, his voice light, but his blade—Heaven's Defier—already whistled through the air. He struck at the berserker, whose attention had slipped. Steel met flesh with a heavy slash, leaving a vicious gash on the berserker's side. A critical hit.

"Heal!" shouted one of the magicians. Spells crackled in the air, bathing the berserker and the fallen swordsman in light. Their wounds began knitting together as their vitality was restored.

This was the strength of their unit—magicians who doubled as healers, an efficient composition meant to outlast even the deadliest enemies. But even they were struggling to keep pace.

"You bastard!" the berserker roared, veins bulging as the pain still echoed through his body despite the healing.

From the rear, the archers let loose a volley, seizing the moment as Greg engaged the frontliners.

Greg twisted, dancing through the air with elegant, deadly grace. Arrows passed within inches of him, some grazing his coat. He raised his sword just in time to parry a powerful downward smash from a charging tanker—but then he paused.

His legs wouldn't move.

Vines, thick and pulsating with mana, curled around his ankles, rooting him to the spot.

The magicians had acted.

"Good coordination," Greg muttered. His eyes gleamed with amusement. "You almost made me abandon my self-imposed restrictions—using my bloodline, increasing my stats. But that wouldn't be fun now, would it?"

Another tanker leapt into the air, shield aimed for a devastating bash.

Greg's blade angled upward—not at the center of the shield, but slightly off-center, towards an invisible flaw.

Crack!

The impact came. The shield shattered. The tanker's body crumpled mid-air, helpless. Greg's sword pierced his torso in the blink of an eye.

The flaw Greg targeted had been minuscule, hidden beneath layers of reinforcement—a spiderweb crack invisible to all but the most trained eye. Not even the blacksmith who crafted the shield had noticed.

The tanker's health plummeted. Blood sprayed from his mouth as his body sagged, heavy and defeated.

The magicians reached forward again, frantic.

"Heal—!"

"No, you don't," Greg whispered.

With a powerful jerk, he wrenched Heaven's Defier free and, without hesitation, swept it horizontally. The blade whistled.

The tanker's head flew from his shoulders.

Silence blanketed the field.

Greg exhaled slowly, his lips curled in a smile. "Alright. That's one down. Who's next?"

The remaining tanker, standing mere meters away, shivered. A coldness wrapped around his spine. One of their own had just died… and so quickly. It was only now dawning on them—Greg wasn't just another strong opponent.

He was a calamity.

The swordsman and the berserker, now fully healed, stood motionless, staring at their fallen comrade. Their hearts pounded in disbelief.

Greg sliced through the vines that restrained him with a swift arc of his sword. He stepped forward, hair billowing gently in the wind. That smile—once taunting—now sent shivers down the backs of the ranged fighters.

The archers and magicians, recovering fastest from the shock, launched another wave of spells and arrows.

"It seems it's you guys next," Greg muttered, dashing toward them with blinding speed.

"Protect the magicians and archers!" the swordsman bellowed, charging to intercept, followed closely by the berserker and the last tanker.

But as the swordsman reached him, Greg vanished—his movement a blur.

A fluid sidestep placed Greg beyond the intercepting line. The swordsman's feet skidded, eyes wide. Greg was already within the rear ranks.

"Shield!" three magicians shouted in unison, throwing up a defensive barrier.

It wasn't enough.

Greg ignored them, closing in on the archers instead. Before anyone could react, one archer fell, a clean slash cleaving his chest. Blood splattered the ground. The short-ranged defenders had failed to catch up.

"Come on," Greg taunted, eyes flashing with annoyance. "Stop surrounding me. If I want someone dead, no one can stop me."

He shifted again, weaving between attackers and defenders, moving like smoke through a battlefield. The remaining archers, desperate, drew daggers, trying to block him. But it was useless. Another archer screamed and collapsed, blade buried in his abdomen.

Only two remained.

Spells lit the air—light, flame, wind—all aimed at Greg. The magicians abandoned their shields, determined to protect the archers.

"Got you," Greg said, turning suddenly.

One magician froze as Greg's eyes locked on him. His body tensed, panic rising.

Before he could raise another shield, Heaven's Defier spun through the air, a silver blur.

The sword impaled the mage's skull, splitting it open with a sickening crunch. It exited through the back, embedding itself in the ground behind him.

The magician dropped like a puppet with its strings cut.

"That's two down," Greg said, sidestepping another frenzied charge from the berserker.

"You'll regret throwing your sword away!" the berserker howled. He charged Greg with feral speed, fury pushing him to new heights. His swings came in rapid succession, each one stronger than the last.

Greg's expression hardened. "Attacking blindly out of anger? You're supposed to be the best the empire has to offer. A little death and you've already lost your composure? How… disappointing."

He dodged with ease, slipping between blows before delivering a devastating punch to the berserker's gut.

Thud!

The berserker doubled over, coughing blood.

Greg stepped back, his empty hand raised.

Heaven's Defier shimmered back into existence, reappearing in his grasp.

"I'm not without a weapon, idiot."

With one smooth, merciless motion, Greg swung.

Slash!

The berserker's head flew clean off.

Silence gripped the battlefield once more. This time it was heavier. More oppressive.

Greg's eyes swept across the remaining members, all of whom were frozen with horror.

"You know," he said slowly, "I think I'm the first opponent you've ever fought that made you lose someone. That's why you're shaking."

His voice was colder now, no longer teasing.

"You all believed yourselves untouchable. Invincible. But now… you're just like everyone else."

He stared at them, disappointed.

"That's the problem with success. Like a scholar who's always come first… the first failure always hits the hardest."

No longer smiling, Greg let his blade fall to his side, his hair fluttering in the wind. The battlefield was painted in crimson and fear.

And the real fight was just beginning.