Blood Online: Evolving Endlessly-Chapter 167: Messing With A Forgeborn

Ryan’s massive fist connected with the first ninja’s torso, the impact creating a shockwave that rippled across the platform. The ninja’s body flew backward, ribs shattered, but before Ryan could capitalize, pain exploded in his back.

The second ninja had struck—daggers buried deep between his shoulder blades, angled perfectly to sever major muscle groups. But it wasn’t just the physical damage that made Ryan’s eyes widen slightly.

His regeneration was slowing.

He could feel it—the usual instant healing becoming sluggish, labored. The wounds weren’t closing with their normal speed. Instead, they leaked blood steadily, the flesh around the dagger wounds turning grayish and cold.

The ninja withdrew the blades and immediately struck again, this time targeting Ryan’s hamstrings. More cuts. More of that creeping numbness spreading from each wound.

’What is this?’ Ryan thought, forcing himself to turn and face his attacker. The ninja he’d thrown was already getting back up, broken ribs apparently not enough to stop someone of this caliber.

The second ninja’s eyes were visible above his mask—cold, calculating, and showing a hint of satisfaction. As if he knew exactly what his ability was doing.

Ryan’s keen observation caught it then—the daggers weren’t just weapons. They were covered in something, some kind of film that caught the light strangely. And wherever they cut him, his flesh took on that same grayish tint.

’They’re draining me,’ he realized with grim certainty. ’Not just cutting. Absorbing my energy, my regenerative capability. Eating it.’

The two ninjas coordinated their next assault with perfect synchronization. The one Ryan had injured moved to his left, forcing him to split his attention. The one with the energy-draining daggers pressed from the right, those terrible blades seeking more flesh to corrupt.

Ryan’s usual strategy—accept damage to create openings—wouldn’t work here. Every cut made him weaker, slower, less capable of the overwhelming offense that was his greatest strength.

For the first time in this tournament, Ryan found himself truly on the defensive.

---

Seth wasn’t faring much better.

His Martial God coating had stopped several killing blows, but the two ninjas facing him were adapting faster than he could compensate. They’d recognized his fore perception—understood that he could read their attacks before they fully committed.

So they stopped committing.

Feints within feints. Attacks that started one way and shifted mid-strike. Movements designed to overload his predictive abilities with too many possibilities.

The female ninja came in with what looked like a thrust to his throat. Seth’s fore perception screamed warning and he moved to deflect—only to have her shift the attack at the last possible instant, the dagger scoring a deep cut along his ribs.

Her partner was already there, exploiting the opening, twin blades seeking Seth’s eyes. Seth twisted desperately, the Martial God coating taking most of the impact but not all of it. Blood ran from a cut above his eyebrow, partially obscuring his vision.

’They’re too coordinated,’ Seth thought, wiping blood from his eye while keeping his guard up. ’Every time I counter one, the other’s already positioning for the next strike. It’s like fighting one person with four arms.’

His blue energy coating flared brighter, Martial God pushing his physical capabilities beyond normal human limits. But even divine martial arts had limitations when facing opponents who’d clearly trained specifically to counter predictive abilities.

The male ninja’s foot swept low, forcing Seth to jump. Mid-air, vulnerable, the female ninja’s daggers came for his exposed stomach—

Seth’s gauntleted fist caught her wrist, redirecting the strike. He used her own momentum to spin in the air, both feet coming around in a devastating kick that should have taken her partner’s head off.

Should have.

The ninja ducked under it with millimeters to spare, his own counter already in motion. Steel bit into Seth’s calf as he landed, drawing a hiss of pain.

’This is bad,’ Seth acknowledged, settling into a lower stance despite the leg wound. ’Really bad.’

---

Across the platform, Layla had dropped the large sack she’d been carrying.

Dead beast bodies spilled out—wolves, bears, even what looked like parts of the River Serpent they’d fought during the hunts. Creatures she’d specifically preserved for this moment, knowing she’d need every advantage she could gather.

Her hands moved through complex gestures, and sickly green smoke began pouring from her body. Not from her mouth or nose, but from her very pores, as if her flesh itself was exhaling poison.

The smoke flowed toward the corpses with eerie intelligence, finding orifices—mouths, wounds, any opening it could exploit. The dead beasts twitched. Spasmed. Then their eyes opened, glowing with the same green light.

Undead. Risen servants bound to her will.

{SKILL ACTIVATED: NECROMANCER’S DOMINION}

The notification appeared above her head, visible to all watching. In the divine realm, several gods sat up with interest—necromancy was rare, difficult, and made for spectacular entertainment when done well.

Layla’s hand moved to her hip, pulling out a whip that uncoiled like a living serpent. She ran her other hand along its length, coating the weapon in the same green energy that had raised her undead servants.

Beside her, Kira—her massive tiger companion—crouched low, muscles coiled and ready. The beast’s eyes had taken on a hint of that same green glow, suggesting some connection between them that went beyond normal taming.

Her two ninja opponents paused, reassessing. They’d been preparing to rush her, standard assassination tactics against a perceived mage. But now they faced not one target but six—Layla, her tiger, and four undead beasts that showed no concern for pain or death.

"Come on then," Layla said, her voice carrying grim determination. Her whip cracked, the sound echoing across the platform. "Let’s see how well you fight when the numbers aren’t in your favor."

---

Greg had taken a completely different approach.

While others engaged in close combat, he’d created distance—using the chaos of multiple fights to put space between himself and his assigned ninjas. Now he stood thirty feet away, his revolver already drawn and aimed.

The weapon looked antique, almost ornamental. But when Greg pulled the trigger, the bullet that emerged carried far more than kinetic energy.

BANG!

The shot echoed like a cannon. The ninja he’d aimed at tried to dodge, but the bullet curved mid-flight, following him like it had a mind of its own. It struck his shoulder and exploded, not with fire but with raw force that sent the ninja tumbling.

Greg was already moving, gun tracking to his second opponent. Another shot. Another explosion of force. This ninja managed to deflect with his blade, but the impact still drove him back several feet.

[God Poloneus: Enchanted ammunition? Interesting choice!]

[Goddess Jayne: Those bullets are EXPENSIVE. He’s burning through serious resources.]

[DaylithNight: Worth it if it keeps him alive though.]

Greg’s expression remained calm, almost bored, as he continued firing. Each shot was perfectly placed, forcing his opponents to constantly defend or evade. He wasn’t trying to kill them immediately—just control the space, dictate the terms of engagement.

But his revolver only held six shots. And both ninjas, despite being knocked around, were adapting. Learning the timing between shots. Preparing to rush him the moment he needed to reload.

---

Throughout the massive platform, similar desperate struggles unfolded. Survivors using everything they had—divine gifts, hidden skills, desperate tactics born of pure survival instinct.

But in the individual platforms where the newcomers fought, the carnage was worse.

Akhil’s eyes swept across the screens, cataloging who was winning, who was losing, who was already dead. Then his gaze stopped on one platform he’d somehow missed before.

The Dwarven King, Thorin, stood facing two ninja opponents. His massive war hammer rested casually on his shoulder, and despite the danger, he looked almost... annoyed.

One of the ninjas spoke—rare for these opponents, but perhaps intended to throw the dwarf off balance:

"Quite the weapon for someone so... vertically challenged."

The other ninja actually snickered. "Compensating for something, shortstack?"

The effect was immediate.

Thorin’s weathered face, already set in stern lines, transformed into something truly frightening. His eyes—which had been calculating and professional—now burned with pure, undiluted rage.

"WHAT," he growled, his voice like grinding stone, "DID YOU JUST CALL ME?"

The ninjas attacked, probably hoping to capitalize on his anger. It was a fatal miscalculation.

Thorin’s hammer came off his shoulder in a blur of motion that shouldn’t have been possible for a weapon that size. He didn’t swing it in an arc—he threw it.

The hammer flew like a missile, spinning end-over-end, covering the distance to the first ninja in less than a heartbeat. The ninja tried to dodge, but the hammer tracked him, as if drawn by magnetism.

Impact.

The ninja’s body simply... ceased to exist as a coherent form. The hammer smashed through him like he was made of wet paper, reducing flesh and bone to pulp. The weapon continued through, embedding itself in the platform’s barrier with a thunderous crash.

The second ninja, shocked by his partner’s instant death, tried to take advantage of Thorin being temporarily disarmed. He charged, blade seeking the dwarf’s exposed throat.

Thorin’s hand shot out, catching the ninja’s wrist mid-strike. For a moment, they stood frozen—blade inches from the dwarf’s neck, Thorin’s grip unyielding.

Then the ninja’s weapon began to change.

It wasn’t immediate, but visible enough to track. The metal aged years in seconds. Shine became tarnish. Sharp edges became dull. The steel itself seemed to rot, oxidizing and weakening at an impossible rate.

The ninja’s eyes widened in horror as he watched his weapon—crafted with care, enchanted for durability—crumble into rust-eaten fragments.

"Dwarven Forge-Mastery," Thorin said, his voice still carrying that dangerous edge of anger. "We don’t just make weapons, boy. We understand them. Their structure. Their essence. What makes them strong..."

His grip tightened.

"And what makes them weak."

The ninja tried to pull away, but Thorin’s other hand shot out, grabbing the second blade the ninja carried. The same aging process occurred—decades of decay compressed into seconds.

Both weapons shattered simultaneously, rusted fragments scattering across the platform.

"Now," Thorin said, finally releasing the now-disarmed ninja, "let me show you what happens when you mock a Forgeborn."