Imp to Demon King: A Journey of Conquest-Chapter 430: When Gods Bleed

The promise of eternal Kleos, a legacy unmatched, drove Achilles’ arm. Fire overwhelmed the icy waters of the Styx that rushed through his veins, searing his muscles, fueling his will to kill a god with his own hands.

The Pelan Ash spear glinted under the two suns as he hurled it inside the abyssal maws that threatened to consume them all in an agony of divine flames, of inescapable dread.

Bahamut’s eyes locked on the spear that appeared no bigger than a splinter; the flames roiling in his throat roared in answer. "Let this be your final attempt to resist the divine, son of Tethis. Powerless, pathetic, fighting for things greater than men, and in the image of your cursed life."

As Bahamut’s words echoed, the abyssal maw was abyssal no more. The flames in his throat surged, the light blinding every man on the battlefield, vaporising moisture, air, and pieces of reality itself.

The spear swerved against the air currents, its supple shaft coming aflame before even reaching the maw. Ash spear... it was turning to ash, with melted bronze dripping, and the scent of burned timber floating in a last resistance against the encroaching scent of sulfur.

Achilles snapped his eyes shut, his grip on his shield tightened as a horizontal pillar of flames that seemed to engulf the earth, the sky, and everything in creation rushed at him. "Thank you for your years of service... Thank you for forging me the best partner, Chiron."

Yet, amidst the annihilating blaze, his back remained straight. From his right hand, a light, drowned by Bahamut’s flames and fleeting, rippled, extending into an ethereal shaft.

A triangle tip formed—no, not a triangle. As the light solidified, it became a paradox of steel and shadow, humming with malevolent intent. Its shaft, of an impossible black, seemed to drink the light of the dragon’s flames, yet intricate Nordic runes pulsed along its length, a faint, chilling violet glow in the suffocating heat.

There were no barbs, no familiar curves. Instead, the spearhead was a nightmare of craftsmanship: a corkscrew-like spiral of blackened metal, sharp as a needle, blurred with an inner, supernatural speed even before it moved. It was a drill, designed not to wound, but to unravel reality itself. Dark veins, like poisoned blood, snaked across its twisted form.

He didn’t just hold it; it became an extension of his will, a physical manifestation of defiance against a god. The air around the spear began to warp, the very space shivering with contained power. This wasn’t a weapon for a fight; it was a weapon for the impossible.

Bahamut’s breath collapsed onto his shield, hurling him against Gawain’s screeching hippogriff, the flames separating into two streams that seared his scalp, his legs, and his heel.

But as the dragon god’s lips curled into a smirk, he smirked back. Weakness? He had none—not anymore.

Simultaneously, his spear shot past the shield’s protection, into the inferno. Flames twisted upon contact, straying as the spinning tip pulled them into a maelstrom that grew with each passing second.

Before Bahamut’s widening eyes, his breath thinned, stolen, condensed into a third sun. He closed his mouth, opened it, then closed it again—a single question thundering in his mind: a mortal, how?

Achilles, however, didn’t linger. With a spin of his spear, he hurled the condensed breath back. Even as it crashed against Bahamut’s chest, causing the titanic dragon god to wince, he supported himself on Gawain’s hippogriff. Veins bulging on his thighs, eyes locked on his target, he propelled himself horizontally.

Bahamut slammed the breath away with a hand, the other hurled into a wrathful fist.

The pressure hurled wind against Achilles’ shield, the impact like thousands of arrows, the knuckles, scaly mountains.

No dodging. No doubts. He would pierce the mountains!

CLANG

A wind blast spread outward from the collision, travelling north to south, east to west, shattering the few buildings that had endured Bahamut’s earlier strike. Debris was hurled outside the city, along with men, and women, and children’s mangled corpses. Further, trees were uprooted and crushed like mere twigs over rising rivers and rumbling mountains.

Amidst the spark and shrill noise of drilling, Achilles gritted his teeth. His arm exploded into a bloody mist that marred his face instantly before a fresh one sprouted as fast, and his fingers gripped his unbending spear again.

It happened twice more, then a noise, loud and clear, overwhelmed his agony—made his twisted lips smirk.

CRACK

A scale erupted into shards, hairline dents spreading around it. They deepened, snaking around the knuckle into a complex spiderweb as the feeling of digging into flesh registered in his hand.

And with it, blood surged from the cracks like waterfalls as Bahamut drew his arm back with a pained gasp.

But he knew the quantity of blood loss to someone as titanic as Bahamut was a mere drop in the ocean... for now.

As Bahamut scowled at his knuckle in disbelief, he sensed something drill into the one beside it. He snapped his eyes to Achilles’ figure, which was now falling to the ground, his confusion deepening.

Another pain assaulted him, on his thumb this time, then another at the back of his hand; more scales shattered, and more blood poured, a dozen, a hundred, a thousand times.

How could the scales that had endured cosmic forces fail him against a mortal? Who was striking him like a phantom?

But again, those mortals didn’t give him a second to ponder. Scalding arrows and solar blasts rained on his torso. They were like ants crawling on his limbs, trying to suffocate him. But it only caused his eyes to narrow into slits.

His city was already ruined. Maxwell was searching for Adam inside the portal. Nothing held him back anymore.

With a mighty flap of his wings, he soared high, his voice thundering. "You pests overstepped your boundaries for far too long. Witness and despair, tremble, and regret, the power of a major god."

The halo of light on his back roared to life, drawing tempestuous winds as it spun. Arcs of energy rained like lightning bars, searing the ground black, melting the weeping earth. Two mana orbs condensed into his palm, their brightness enough to blind any man who glanced at them even for a second. From his mouth, another breath charged.

If he had nothing more to protect, he would annihilate any life form below. That was what a god could do. That was the power mortals could never grasp.

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AN: The spear’s stats for those curious:

Name: Jörmungandr’s Kiss

Introduction:

A divine aberration of steel and myth, Jörmungandr’s Kiss was reforged by the cursed swordsmith Muramasa and the dwarven prodigy Durgrim, heir of Sindri. Stripped of its barbs and remade with a spinning, rune-etched tip, this legendary spear now drills through all resistance, divine or mortal. Each thrust tears the fabric of reality itself, turning a single strike into an avalanche of death. Feared even among relics, it is a weapon not wielded—but unleashed.

Rarity: Divine

Level Requirement: 90

Stats:

Strength: +30%

Agility: +70%

Penetration: +200%

Divine Damage: +40%

Attributes:

Piercing: Ignores armor and magical barriers.

Cursed: Causes lingering wounds that cannot be healed by normal or divine means.

Enhancements:

Drill Tip: The spearhead spins at a supernatural velocity, massively increasing penetration.

Reality Rend: A successful thrust fractures spacetime, replicating the impact across multiple vectors. One hit becomes a thousand phantom strikes, each capable of lethal damage.

Soul Splitter (Passive): Has a 5% chance to inflict a soul wound, permanently reducing the enemy’s spiritual cohesion