SSS-Rank Evolving Monster: From Pest to Cosmic Devourer-Chapter 120: Blind

Ricky stared at Valemont for a long, quiet moment. His glowing compound eyes dimmed slightly, and after a heavy silence, he gave a slow, deliberate nod—as if burdened by the very weight of the task he had placed upon his disciple’s shoulders.

The gesture was subtle, but it carried gravity.

It was the kind of nod a war general might give to a soldier marching off to certain death.

Valemont felt it.

A strange pressure settled in his chest—not fear, not hesitation, but something heavier.

And then he saw it.

For a fleeting second, buried deep behind Ricky’s alien visage, there was something human—something soft. A flicker of concern, like a master silently mourning the cost his student might pay. free𝑤ebnovel.com

That glimpse was enough.

Valemont’s grip on the bundle of alchemical ingredients in his hand unconsciously tightened. The heat from his own body seemed to set the dried herbs trembling.

Inwardly, he made a quiet vow, his thoughts burning with resolve:

No matter what it takes... I will find a cure for this poison.

Even if I must burn every night of rest and scald my hands raw in alchemical fire—

I will not let my master’s trust go to waste.

As the flames of determination ignited within him, a faint glow shone in his eyes—bright and unwavering.

Ricky, just about to turn, caught the light in his disciple’s eyes.

He paused.

A faint, gratified curve lifted the corners of his mandibles. It wasn’t quite a smile, but something deeper—approval forged in quiet pride.

Yes, this had been the right decision.

There would be no turning back now.

Without saying another word, Ricky turned away, his wings fluttering softly as he began gliding toward the hallway exit.

There was still much to do today—many responsibilities yet to be seen through.

---

Meanwhile...

On the sprawling outskirts of the Emerald Green Forest, change had taken root like wild vines climbing a ruined temple.

Cities had begun to blossom across the verdant land, springing up like green shoots after the season’s first rainfall.

Among them, one city stood out—New Moon City, a thriving hub teeming with activity.

Its streets pulsed with fresh life and untamed hope. Children’s laughter rang like wind chimes in the breeze, echoing between the buildings as they dashed barefoot through narrow alleys and market squares, chasing dreams and each other without a care in the world.

But their innocence was not shared by all.

Beneath the surface of that joy, a stark contrast lingered.

The adults—the guardians, the elders, the refugees—stood in silence. Their faces were marked with furrowed brows and clenched jaws. Shadows pooled beneath their eyes, worn from nights without rest and the heavy memory of war and blood.

In the heart of New Moon City, a meeting was underway.

Inside a modest, circular stone building reinforced with wood and spiritual inscriptions, several elders, cultivators, and merchants had gathered.

Their clothes were clean, but the dust of travel and toil still clung to their boots.

A map of the region had been laid across a wide table, surrounded by worried faces. Fingers pointed, voices argued, and sweat formed along brows.

The Emerald Green Forest had brought safety—but for how long?

No one said it out loud, but the fear was there—etched into every whispered concern, every cautious glance toward the forest that now held both salvation and mystery.

Most of the individuals seated in the meeting chamber were mid-level Stage 1 cultivators—men and women hardened by labor, war, or both. A few dignified figures, clearly city officials or battle-hardened veterans, had reached the peak of Stage 1. But among them all, only one presence truly stood out—the City Lord of New Moon, a calm and steady Stage 2 existence.

This man alone anchored the city’s strength.

Though still a fledgling settlement compared to central powerhouses, New Moon’s presence was steadily growing on the outer fringes of the kingdom.

But strength alone wasn’t enough to erase fear—and that fear was now thick in the air, clinging to every corner of the meeting room.

As the discussion reached a critical juncture, the mood grew heavy, and expressions grew more and more grim. Grim enough to turn wine bitter.

And then—crash!

A goblet shattered against the stone floor.

The abrupt sound silenced the room like a blade drawn in church. All heads snapped toward the source.

A middle-aged man dressed in worn but well-maintained leather armor stood at the edge of the table. His hand still trembled slightly from the throw.

Frowns immediately formed across the room. Discontent, irritation, and disbelief clouded the air.

Even the City Lord himself leaned slightly forward in displeasure, his expression darkening like a looming storm.

But the man didn’t flinch.

He didn’t care about their glares. In fact, he met them with a defiant stare—one that burned with something more potent than rage.

Grief.

His eyes scanned the room slowly, judging each and every one of them. In that gaze was contempt—not for what they said, but for what they didn’t.

He looked at them as if they were spineless ghosts draped in skin.

Then, like a volcano that could no longer suppress its fury, he erupted.

His finger shot out, stabbing the air at each council member in succession, and he roared:

"You! You! You! All of you—bloody fucking blind cowards!"

The room recoiled.

Even those who had once stood shoulder-to-shoulder with him looked away uncomfortably, unwilling to meet his glare.

But he didn’t stop.

His voice cracked with fury, the veins in his neck bulging, his face flushed a shade of deep crimson.

"When the City of Moon fell to those corrupted undead bastards, I was there! I SAW IT!"

"I watched them rip apart every living thing—didn’t matter if it was a crying child or a trembling elder!"

"They split bellies open and chewed on warm innards like wolves!"

"Mothers watched their sons die before them! Wives were torn from husbands! Lovers ripped apart by bloody jaws!"

His fists trembled now, clenched so tightly his knuckles turned white.

"And the humans! The humans who should have helped—"

He spat the words like venom.

"They didn’t lift a finger! They raped the women who survived! They stole from the dead!"

His voice cracked into silence, chest heaving.

"If we don’t prepare..."

He lowered his hand, sweeping it across the table.

"If we don’t build, fortify, and arm ourselves, that same tragedy will repeat here. And then what? Where will you run when there’s nowhere left to run?"

A heavy silence fell.

Not the tense kind filled with thoughts, but the kind that rang with guilt.

His face was drenched in sweat. His jaw quivered, but he didn’t avert his eyes—not even for a second. His voice might have cracked, but his will had not.

And in that silence, some began to feel it.

That creeping dread.

That whisper in the back of the mind reminding them: He isn’t wrong.

Just as Mios was about to launch into another tirade, the air in the chamber shifted—thickened, like a storm looming on the horizon.

Thump.

A single, heavy step echoed through the chamber.

Then another.

The massive figure at the head of the long, stone-carved table slowly rose from his seat.

The leader of New Moon City.

He was an imposing figure—well over ten feet tall, with shoulders broad enough to cast shadows like walls and a presence that eclipsed even the tallest men in the room.

His dark cloak rustled softly with the motion, and his armor creaked under the strain of muscles coiled like steel cables beneath.

As he stood, the entire atmosphere fell into an oppressive silence.

His aura—a suffocating peak Stage 2 pressure—washed over the room like a tide of gravity. Conversations choked off. Even Mios involuntarily clenched his jaw to resist the force pressing down on him.

There was no hostility in it—just weight.

According to countless whispered rumors, the blood of giants ran through this man’s veins. Some even claimed his ancestor was a war-god who once roamed the continent bare-handed.

No one dared to ask if the tales were true—but no one doubted them either.

He stood still for a moment, scanning the crowd.

Then finally, in a deep voice that seemed to shake the room’s very foundation, he spoke.

His words were not loud—but each syllable felt like a hammer striking an anvil.

"Mr. Mios... I understand your rage. Your pain. And your loss. You have every right to be angry."

"But righteous shouting—no matter how honest—won’t build walls. It won’t sharpen blades. And it won’t keep our people alive."

His gaze, sharp and unyielding, locked onto Mios. The air between them thickened.

"Do you believe us all to be blind? That we’re deaf to screams? That we sleep soundly while the undead grow stronger?"

The silence returned—heavier now, more suffocating.

"If you have a solution—if you have a plan—"

He extended one massive hand toward Mios, palm up.

"Then speak it. Not as a broken soldier... but as a man who wants to protect what’s left."

His words were not a challenge, but a summons—calling Mios to rise above pain and step into leadership.

The room remained quiet.

Mios, though overwhelmed for a moment, did not falter.

His spine straightened once again. His eyes locked with the towering giant’s.

"I do have a plan," he said, voice hoarse but steady. "And if everyone’s ready to listen, I’ll speak."

With the room’s eyes now fixed solely on him—silent, expectant—Mios stepped forward and began to outline his strategy for resistance against the undead horde.

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