SSS-Rank Evolving Monster: From Pest to Cosmic Devourer-Chapter 106: Divine Bloodline

Suddenly, a strange impulse struck Ricky like a lightning bolt to the brain—he wanted a disciple.

Not just any disciple.

One that could cook for him.

"Ahhh... just how good that would be..."

The mosquito’s multifaceted eyes sparkled with longing as his attention drifted completely away from the explosive clash happening outside. His thoughts floated into a blissful daydream, untethered and wild.

He imagined it vividly—

A petite, loyal disciple, diligently refining pills in a quiet corner, spiritual flames dancing under her cauldron.

Another, a cheerful cook, preparing freshly hunted beast meat into sizzling delicacies, every spice blending like a melody.

And then... a graceful, white-skinned female disciple standing by his throne, gently waving away all annoyances and enemies with a flick of her delicate hand.

Ahhh, yes. Perfection.

Within moments, the dream spiraled beyond his control. The only thing Ricky wanted now was to leave immediately and find disciples.

But then his gaze drifted to a bowl of still water sitting on a nearby table.

His reflection stared back at him—compound eyes, twitching antennae, and a monstrous mosquito snout.

Sigh.

Even now, after all this time, the transformation was hard to swallow. Just months ago, he had been human.

Now?

A terrifying bloodsucker with a thirst for chaos and lifespan.

"I just hope my future disciples won’t faint at the sight of their master..."

He muttered internally, antennae drooping slightly. Not everyone was as absolutely deranged as Valemont.

That guy was a special breed.

Ricky was convinced—if someone offered Valemont rare alchemical knowledge, he might even trade his soul and left kidney without blinking.

"Hmph. I need to collect enough lifespan and enslave him faster..."

That man is too dangerous to leave unattended.

Just the thought gave Ricky a headache. His sleep would never be peaceful until Valemont had a proper spiritual collar around his neck.

—

Meanwhile, outside the wooden castle, the sky rumbled and cracked with power.

The clash between Darius and Akroa had reached its apex.

Two Stage 3 beings, both surrounded by overlapping spiritual domains, stood locked in a violent dance of destruction.

Darius’s aura blazed like a rising dawn, radiant and crushing, while Akroa’s flames howled like the roar of an inferno, chaotic and hungry.

Torrents of crimson fire twisted into massive tornadoes, burning through everything in their path. Trees vaporized. The ground turned molten. Entire swathes of the forest were scorched into ash within seconds.

Ricky’s eyes briefly drifted to the battle, his casual expression sharpening.

"Tch. Annoying old man... stubborn to the end."

To most observers, it might have seemed like an even fight—but Ricky wasn’t most observers.

From his perspective, Darius was gradually gaining the upper hand. Still, Akroa wasn’t just some fodder warrior; the old monster had withstood the frontline of countless wars.

And even if he couldn’t win—he definitely wouldn’t go down easily.

The real problem was the scale of destruction.

Every blow between the two could reshape the land. The Emerald Green Forest, already wounded from the last war, was now caught in another cataclysm.

And Ricky could do nothing but watch—for now.

Ancient trees, thick as city walls and older than empires, were torn from the ground like weeds. Their roots twisted in the air before being consumed by spiraling tongues of fire. The flames fed into the raging tornadoes, empowering them like living beasts that roared with each new sacrifice.

It wasn’t just a display of destruction—it was a self-sustaining storm, an infernal machine that grew stronger with every passing second.

Darius’s advantage was slipping.

The Crown Prince, once pressing forward with calm and control, now found himself being steadily pushed back.

His radiant spiritual field flickered slightly under the weight of the flames.

Then, Akroa’s voice cut through the chaos, sharp as a blade.

"Is this all you’re capable of?"

The elder’s tone oozed contempt, his flaming form hovering in the air like an old god of war.

"The so-called Crown Prince of the glorious Eldros Kingdom... I expected more."

But Darius said nothing. He didn’t even glance at him. He focused entirely on reinforcing his spiritual defenses, stabilizing his field against the relentless onslaught.

His silence only made Akroa’s smirk deepen.

He chuckled, the sound cruel and deliberate. "Oh? You’re trying to buy time, aren’t you?"

"I know that look... silent, steady, hoping something turns the tide."

Akroa wasn’t surprised. Darius wasn’t a fool, and he certainly wasn’t weak. The man had clawed his way to the top of the Eldros royal lineage, trampling four gifted brothers to become the heir. That wasn’t something just anyone could do.

But strength alone was never enough.

It was about how you used it. And right now, Akroa smelled blood.

"Still so naïve, Crown Prince," he sneered, voice dropping into a darker register. "That’s why I didn’t support you back then. That’s why I chose your younger brother."

Then, with a glint of malice in his narrowed eyes, he struck the nerve he’d been saving.

Akroa’s lips curled into a vicious grin.

"Now I finally understand why your fiancée broke the engagement."

As soon as those venom-laced words reverberated through the scorched and fractured air, something changed.

Darius—who until now had remained composed and impassive, his presence like an unshaken pillar amid a storm—finally shifted.

A faint chill settled across his face, like the first breeze before a blizzard.

His eyes no longer looked at Akroa—they looked through him, as if weighing something far greater than the present moment.

Had he not made it clear in the past?

That her name should never be mentioned again?

Had the world forgotten his warnings? Or were people just that eager to court death?

But then, almost mockingly, that brief coldness vanished. His face relaxed, returning to its noble and tranquil mask. freeweɓnovel~cѳm

The only hint of danger lay in the soft words that followed:

"You shouldn’t have said that, Akroa... You really shouldn’t have."

For the first time in decades, Akroa’s breath caught.

His body locked up. His seasoned instincts screamed at him—something was wrong. Something ancient had stirred.

A suffocating silence wrapped around him, and the wind, once howling, stilled in reverence.

Then, a terrible realization bloomed in his mind.

His heart dropped.

"No... no, that’s impossible..." Akroa whispered, the color draining from his face. His eyes widened in disbelief, his voice barely a breath in the choking air.

"You... you activated your bloodline? But that’s not possible. The records said the bloodline was too thin to awaken!"

He wasn’t mistaken. Darius’s bloodline had long been considered a relic—too diluted, too faded to ever stir again.

But now, that blood—ancient, tyrannical, royal—was awake.

Before he could process further, the world detonated.

A wave of raw, untamed mana exploded outward from Darius’s body like a cataclysmic tide. It wasn’t just mana—it was primordial force, thick enough to ripple and distort space itself.

The pressure liquefied the surrounding atmosphere. Trees, stones, and air itself seemed to bend and flow like molten metal under the weight of it.

Akroa staggered back, teeth clenched, spiritual field instantly pushed to its limit just to hold his body together.

This wasn’t power born from training.

This was legacy.

The kind of strength passed down by divine bloodlines—the kind that broke empires and forged dynasties.

And Darius... he was just getting started.

Then it happened—sharp, sickening pops echoed through the battlefield, one after another, like bones snapping beneath divine pressure.

The sounds came from Darius’s body, now trembling as if possessed by an ancient wrath. Crimson veins lit up across his skin, glowing like molten rivers, pulsing with an ancient rhythm no longer meant for this world.

And then—

Boom!

In the blink of an eye, his entire body burst apart, reduced to clouds of dense, glowing blood mist, swirling ominously in the air.

Akroa didn’t relax.

In fact, his horror only deepened.

A tremble passed through his aged lips as he whispered the words—as if speaking them would bring doom faster.

"Divine Transformation... of the Eldros Blood..."

He knew what this was.

How could he not?

This wasn’t some forbidden technique or secret spell. This was a myth, a curse, and a legacy all in one.

The Divine Transformation—a technique that only one person in all history had used.

The founder of the Eldros Kingdom.

A warrior of such terrifying might that his name was feared even by the divine. A figure said to be blessed by gods, bearing a bloodline that bent reality itself to his will.

He was the man who had once united the fractured realms and created an empire that ruled half the world.

But that was long, long ago.

Over centuries, the divine power within the bloodline thinned—generation after generation, it weakened, diluted by time and conflict, until it became no more than a glorified title in royal records.

The Divine Blood of Eldros was thought to have died with the founder’s last direct descendant.

And yet...

Here it was.

Awakened again.

Unchained.

Alive.

The swirling blood mist that had once been Darius now vibrated with divine force, each droplet shimmering like a sun fragment.

Akroa’s pupils contracted.

"That bloodline should have vanished..."

He wasn’t wrong. It had vanished—or so they all believed.

And with its disappearance, the Eldros Kingdom had begun to crumble. The mighty empire turned into a fragile kingdom. A lion reduced to an old, blind cat clinging to past glories.

But now...

Now, standing before him—or rather surrounding him—was proof that the lion had fangs once more.

Akroa’s knees nearly buckled. He wasn’t facing a prince anymore.

He was facing a true heir of the Eldros line.

One who bore the will of the founder.

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