Blood Online: Evolving Endlessly-Chapter 164: Jeren’s Strength [Bonus]

They’d seen Henry’s attitude before—the confidence that bordered on arrogance, the refusal to acknowledge danger, the need to prove himself stronger than everyone assumed.

"If you do this," the spear-wielder said quietly, "you might get us all killed."

"Or I might save us all," Henry countered. "Kill Jeren, end the tournament. That’s what Aria suggested, wasn’t it? Take out the head, the body dies."

He watched Jeren begin walking, moving between platforms, heading in the general direction of Seth and Ryan’s location. The path would take him right past Henry’s platform.

’This is it,’ Henry thought, his heartbeat accelerating. ’My chance. Everyone thinks I’m all talk? That I don’t have the guts to act when it matters?’

His mind raced ahead, already picturing the aftermath. Jeren dead. The tournament ended. And everyone—especially Akhil and his group—forced to acknowledge that Henry had been right. That immediate action was better than careful planning. That sometimes you just needed the courage to strike.

’After this, everyone will respect me. They’ll see I’m not someone to dismiss, not someone whose advice you ignore in favor of some kid with a fancy weapon. I’ll be the one who ended this nightmare. The hero.’

Jeren was getting closer now, walking with that same casual grace, his attention clearly focused ahead on the fighters who’d impressed the gods. His guard was down. His focus elsewhere.

Henry adjusted his grip on his war hammer, feeling the comfortable weight of it. He’d killed plenty of monsters with this weapon. Crushed skulls, shattered spines, pulverized opponents into paste.

One more target. One perfect strike. That’s all it would take.

Jeren passed within striking distance.

Henry moved.

His war hammer swung in a devastating arc, every ounce of his considerable strength behind it. The weapon cut through air with a whistling sound, aimed precisely at the back of Jeren’s skull. A killing blow. Instant, brutal, final.

His eyes leaked killing intent—raw, undisguised desire to end a life. And in that moment, he was certain it would work. Certain that his strike was perfect, his timing impeccable, his courage vindicated.

’Got you!’

At the last possible instant—the fraction of a second before the hammer connected—Jeren’s head tilted slightly.

Not a full turn. Just a casual glance, as if he’d heard someone call his name from behind.

Their eyes met.

Jeren’s bright gaze held no surprise. No fear. Just mild curiosity, as if observing an interesting insect that had wandered too close.

Then Henry disappeared.

Not gradually. Not stumbling away. Simply gone, as if reality had erased him from one location and pasted him several meters distant.

He materialized mid-swing, his hammer completing its arc through empty air, momentum carrying him forward in a stumbling step that almost made him fall.

Confusion hit him like a physical blow. ’What—how did he—’

But Henry had never been one to hesitate. Confusion or not, he was committed now. He’d made his move, revealed his intent. No going back.

He charged, bringing his hammer around in another crushing strike. Faster this time. More desperate. Putting everything into ending this before Jeren could react properly.

"Such insolence."

Jeren’s voice was cold—all the false warmth and cheerful theatricality stripped away, leaving something ancient and terrible underneath.

His ornate fan snapped closed.

What happened next lasted less than a second.

The fan moved—a single, casual gesture, as if swatting away an annoying fly. There was no visible energy, no dramatic light show, nothing that looked remotely dangerous.

But Harry’s body simply... came apart.

Not exploded. Not torn by visible force. Just separated, as if the bonds holding flesh to flesh had been severed by invisible blades. His body divided into perfectly clean sections—dozens of them, geometric precision that no natural weapon could achieve.

The pieces fell separately, hitting the platform with wet sounds. Blood sprayed outward in patterns too precise to be accidental, as if even the liquid had been instructed where to flow.

Henry’s expression—visible in the split second before his head separated from his shoulders—showed pure shock. No pain, just complete disbelief that his perfect strike had resulted in this.

Then there was just meat and blood, arranged in neat sections on the stone platform.

The arena fell absolutely silent.

Every fighter—survivor and newcomer alike—stared at what remained of Henry. At how effortlessly he’d been dismantled. At how Jeren had barely even paused in his stride.

The Titan of Tournaments looked down at the corpse with the same expression someone might give a spilled drink—mild annoyance at the mess, nothing more. 𝒻𝑟ℯℯ𝑤𝑒𝑏𝑛𝘰𝓋𝑒𝓁.𝒸𝑜𝘮

"I do wish people would learn," Jeren sighed, stepping carefully around the blood. "Interrupting me during preparations is quite rude. But I suppose the lesson is clear now, isn’t it?"

His eyes swept across the other fighters—not threatening, just... informative. Making sure they all understood exactly what had just been demonstrated.

"I am not your opponent. I am your host, your guide, your provider of entertainment. Attacking me accomplishes nothing except..." he gestured at Henry’s remains, "unpleasantness."

He snapped his fan open again, the motion casual and elegant. The cold undertone vanished from his voice, replaced by that familiar cheerful theatricality.

"Now then, where was I? Ah yes!"

He continued walking as if nothing had happened, his path taking him toward Seth and Ryan’s platform. The servant maids moved efficiently to clean up Henry’s remains, their faces showing no emotion—they’d clearly dealt with such things before.

Seth and Ryan watched Jeren approach, their expressions carefully neutral. Layla and Greg had gone quiet, the easy conversation from moments before evaporated.

On screens throughout the settlement, Akhil watched the scene unfold with grim vindication. He’d known. Had predicted exactly this outcome. Henry’s arrogance, his refusal to acknowledge danger, his need to prove himself—it had all led inevitably to this moment.

’That’s what happens,’ Akhil thought coldly, ’when pride overrules sense. When you can’t distinguish between courage and suicide.’

Around him, his group stood in shocked silence. Even those who’d disagreed with Akhil’s cautious approach, who’d sympathized with Harry’s aggressive stance—they understood now.

Jeren wasn’t someone you attacked on a whim. Wasn’t a target you could eliminate with a surprise strike. He was a Titan, backed by divine power, orchestrating a tournament that had claimed hundreds of lives already.

And he’d ended Henry with less effort than most people used to swat a mosquito.

The message was clear, brutal, undeniable:

Obey the rules. Fight your assigned opponents. Entertain the gods.

Or die uselessly, your death meaning nothing, teaching nothing except that resistance was futile.

The tournament ground on.

And now everyone knew exactly where they stood.

The tournament went on.

And there was still no escape.