The punch carried pure Netherlord force, its wind growled with the promise of distant thunder.
“Netherlord Dominating Fist!” Fist and claw collided, the resulting boom muffled yet savage, like a drum struck inside a tomb. The crisp snap of breaking bone cut through the gloom.
Ghostshade shrieked, a thin, terrified note, while the infamous claws he trusted shattered under Neville’s single, unstoppable fist, splintering like dead twigs beneath a storm boot.
The demon spun away like a severed kite, a ribbon of inky blood arcing behind him before his body slammed into the distant wall, ruining the stone and sliding down in a boneless heap. One punch, nothing more, had done all this.
The disciples of Nethergate Sect erupted, thunderous cheers crashing against the trembling pillars; hope, long smothered, flared in their eyes.
The Soul Devourer’s eyes iced over.
“Useless!” he growled, the single word colder than deep winter. His cutting glare sliced across the remaining quartet beside him.
“Bloodshade, Boneshade, go! Bring me Neville Contreras, now!” the Soul Devourer commanded, each syllable a lash.
“Yes, my lord!” they answered in grim harmony.
The two stepped forward at once, shadows peeling from their forms as they obeyed.
The one to the left wore a robe dyed the color of fresh wounds; his face, knotted and cruel, steamed with roiling crimson mist; this was Bloodshade. To the right towered Boneshade, a gray-white hulk plated in bone, spurs jutting from every joint like broken pikes.
Each stood at the peak of Heavenly Immortal Realm Level Two, and while neither matched Ghostshade alone, their practiced twin-strike art made them far deadlier together.
They traded a silent nod, then lunged as one.
Bloodshade’s arms blurred, a monsoon of blood-red blades fanned out, screaming toward Neville, every shard laced with corrosive sorcery meant to rot flesh and weapon alike.
Simultaneously, Boneshade roared, bulk swelling; his bone-hammer fists swung with planet-cracking force, scything in from the flank.
One deft, one brutal, distance and angle perfectly woven, the assault sealed every path of escape.
Neville’s expression tightened; caution sharpened his gaze. He drew breath and flooded his veins with Netherlord force; black demon light boiled around him.
“Netherlord True Form!” he barked.
Muscle knotted, stature stretched, and demonic markings crawled across his skin, exuding a savage, pulse-pounding aura. Twin fists answered, left palm fanning into the bloody storm, right fist driving straight at Boneshade’s wrecking blow.
Impacts rang like war drums, echoing without pause.
Neville, one against two, unleashed Nethergate’s ultimate skill with terrifying fluency.
Shockwaves of palm wind and bone, blade lights, and fist shadows burst into deadly fireworks, painting the hall in lethal color.
Stone groaned; the great chamber quaked as if longing to collapse. Cracks webbed walls and columns, grit showering the combatants.
The trio whirled faster than lightning, each collision rattling heaven itself. Bloodshade’s blades probed ceaselessly, seeking to gnaw through Neville’s demon light. Boneshade’s tyrant punches landed like siege engines, churning Neville’s organs with every strike.
Neville fought like a hurricane hemmed in by two mountain ranges, every blow he threw swallowed at once by the choreographed ferocity of Bloodshade and Boneshade.
His cultivation kept him upright, his body—forged iron—but pinprick wounds began to bloom red across that iron skin. Each slash of pain warned him that the storm was turning against him.
Just beyond the whirlwind, Sylvia watched with her fists balled against her ribs. She wanted, ached, to charge in, to stand beside Neville, yet the hidden injuries Ghostshade had dealt her still throbbed beneath her robes.
One reckless step would shackle Neville instead of save him, and terror at that thought locked her in place.
Bloodshade feinted low and snapped a barbed arrow of blood across the arena. It skimmed Neville’s shoulder, searing flesh. He staggered, momentum faltering for a heartbeat, the exact heartbeat Boneshade had been hoarding, his hammer-big fist already cocked for Neville’s exposed spine.
