?While Ali was airborne, her adversary had a clear opportunity to end her life.

But he didn’t act; instead, he merely watched her with a cold sneer… a gesture more painful than death itself.

Defeated… again…

Her teeth bit through her lower lip, drawing a line of blood down her chin.

The confidence built from long hours of training was nearly shattered in these brief exchanges.

Taking a deep breath, Ali hid her despondent eyes.

Even if she was no match for her opponent, Lilianne was still in their hands.

Given this, she had no time for self-pity.

Even if it meant her death, she had to rescue Lilianne.

In a deserted alley, Greg hurried along, his package—now revealed to be a sinister weapon—in hand.

He glanced at the rooftops to his left and right; no one was in sight… but Greg dared not relax.

He knew the moment he showed himself, the enemy would not let him go.

Only with the war hammer in his grasp could he carve out a path to survival.

His goal to distract attention from Howard had been achieved.

Now, his mission was to survive.

Or to eliminate the opposition.

“Soma.” Greg’s steps halted, his gaze locked on a figure at the end of the alley.

“It’s you, as I suspected.”

The figure was a burly middle-aged man, standing over six feet tall, with muscles coiling around his forearms.

A terrifying scar slashed from left to right across his face, crossing his nose bridge and narrowly missing his left eye.

The man Greg addressed as Soma was also carrying a staff-like package.

“Were you the one peeping around just now?” Soma touched the scar on his nose, revealing a gruesome smile, “Lucky for you, the boss gave me a thorough dressing-down.”

“I won’t be able to face the boss unless I bring back your head.”

The air exploded with tension as Soma’s figure blurred into a shadow, rushing towards Greg with the ferocity of a storm.

Despite the sudden assault, Greg was not taken by surprise.

He was well aware of the kind of man his opponent was.

To describe him merely as a villain would hardly do justice; if one were to accurately define him, only one term would suffice.

A disgrace.

Disloyal to comrades.

Dishonest to employers.

Unfaithful to lovers.

He betrayed everyone, including himself.

Greg stepped forward, gripping one end of his package and whipping it upward with a force that sent it whistling through the air, striking directly at the heart of the storm with a flash of cold light.

The cold light veered off its intended path under the full force of Greg’s assault, retreating instead of advancing.

Greg continued to swing the package, fending off the cold light while stepping within arm’s reach of Soma.

“Break for me…”

A thunderous roar erupted as Greg’s left fist clenched tightly, muscles bulging, mana forming a bright white orb at the forefront of his punch, unleashed without reservation at Soma’s abdomen.

There was no spectacular light show, only a series of slightly dull thuds.

Thump!

That was the sound of Greg’s fist piercing through Soma’s mana defense.

Like a sandbag being flung through the air, Soma’s defenses, under the terrifying brute force of Greg, failed to serve their purpose, easily breached as if they were mere decorations.

The towering figure was sent flying backward.

“This punch, it’s what you owe me.”

With a single punch sending Soma flying nearly ten meters, Greg transferred the package to his left hand and methodically began to untie the knots.

As the wrapping fell away, Greg reached inside, grasping something and slowly drawing it out.

“Next, all that you’ve owed over the years, I’ll have you repay it bit by bit.”

It was a one-handed war hammer, though one-handed, its length exceeded 1.4 meters, making it nearly as substantial as a two-handed weapon in Greg’s grip.

The hammerhead, spiked like a melon with short spurs, was larger than two fists combined, creating a menacing whistling sound as it swung through the air.

It wasn’t hard to imagine the scene if such a heavy head struck a skull.

Probably much like smashing a watermelon.

Red and white bursting forth in a gruesome blend.

True to its name, Crusher.

Greg dragged the war hammer, its head thudding against the ground with every step.

As he advanced, the spiked head etched a trail of marks on the ground.

“You should have realized back then, all betrayals are washed clean by blood.”

Greg looked at Soma struggling to rise from the ground with an unprecedented coldness in his eyes, seeing not a living person but a lump of dead meat waiting to be crushed.

All the hatred would blossom into the most lurid of flowers under the nourishment of blood.

“Cough, cough, it seems you remember those events quite clearly,” Soma rose from the ground, wiping the blood from his mouth, his grip tightening on the handle of his blade, “Coincidentally, I too remember vividly the screams and wails of that young girl before her death. Do you know, she begged me for mercy, for her life.”

“But it was impossible, her scent was so enticing, and she had seen my face.”

“So, she had to die. The expression on her face when you found her must have been spectacular, a pity I missed it.”

“Today… you will die here as well.”

Soma sneered, his eyes bloodshot, breathing heavily like a wild beast.

“Just like that woman, turned into pieces.”

Mana exploded around him.

From stillness to explosive motion was but a moment, the distance between them erased in half a second.

Soma, laughing maniacally, swung his long sword, creating a chilling gale.

The blade, wrapped in crimson mana, carried explosive power with every strike.

Though physically outmatched, Soma’s control and advantage in mana were superior to Greg’s.

Greg, not primarily a fighter, lacked the combat prowess found in individuals like Antalya. .

Despite this, Greg managed to block every one of Soma’s frenzied attacks.

Being shorter wasn’t entirely a disadvantage; at least Soma had to adjust his usual angle of attack.

This change resulted in more openings between his moves.

So, even though it was a struggle and somewhat ungraceful, Greg managed to hold his ground.

“What’s wrong, weren’t you just blustering?”

“You wanted to kill me, right? To cleanse betrayal with blood?”

“Waste, you’re just as worthless as that woman.”

“Scream, panic, let me end you.”

Amidst his nearly insane onslaught, Soma did not lose his sanity.

Though the force behind his blade grew stronger, the speed of his strikes also increased, and the flaws in his technique became increasingly minute.

As a person, he may be a disgrace, but Soma’s talent for combat far surpasses Greg’s.

Despite the brief duration of their clash, he had already deciphered Greg’s combat style, adapting his own attacks in response.

As the battle intensified for Soma, the pressure on Greg mounted, yet no sign of panic or anxiety could be seen on his face.

Instead, he remained stoic, blocking Soma’s attacks time after time.

With each exchange, he sought Soma’s vulnerabilities, looking for opportunities to counterattack.

He did not believe he would lose.

Though at a disadvantage in terms of mana capacity, as an equipment craftsman, he possessed his own strengths.

His mana flux was something Soma couldn’t match.

If he could turn the fight into a war of attrition, victory would surely be his.

When Soma began to tire, that would be Greg’s moment to strike back.

What was needed now was restraint and defense, to parry Soma’s assaults, analyze and find his weaknesses, and prepare for the forthcoming counterattack.

A diagonal slash was blocked, and Soma, moving into a coldly calculated calm amidst his escalating frenzy, spun sideways for a backhanded strike.

This angle, a blind spot for both, made defense difficult for Greg, but equally challenging for Soma to pinpoint his attack precisely.

Thus, this move was a feint.

After diverting Greg’s attention, Soma shifted tactics.

His left leg whipped up suddenly, delivering a side kick to Greg’s shoulder.

Caught off guard, Greg took the hit squarely, losing his balance momentarily.

Though Greg quickly regained control, that brief lapse was all Soma needed.

With a loosen and tighten of his right hand, he reversed his grip on the long sword, lunging forward.

Leaning into the attack, his left foot stamped against the ground, drawing strength from it, power flowing up from his calf through his muscles, amplified by his waist and shoulder, and erupting from his right fist.

“This is for the punch you gave me.”

A muffled explosion of impact, Greg’s body was sent flying like a kicked ball from Soma’s ferocious punch.

“Ptui.” Soma watched Greg fly away, spitting out blood-stained saliva, “A blacksmith playing tough with me, wait for your death.”

With a flick of his wrist, Soma gripped his sword properly and began to advance towards Greg step by step.

That last strike had been delivered with full force.

Although Greg had managed some defense and not all of it landed squarely, organizing a defense would be difficult in the short term.

This was the difference between a professional warrior and a self-taught fighter; though their strength might not differ greatly, their tolerance for pain was worlds apart.

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