Imprisoned for a Trillion Years, I Was Worshipped by All Gods!-Chapter 654 - 210-You’d Better Not Spare Me!

Clang!

Suddenly, a sharp sword cry rang out, cutting through the air like a divine trumpet. The crimson-robed elder's attention was instantly drawn. He whipped his head around, only to see Bruce being struck down by a single blow from Alan's blade.

Bruce, now sprawled in the dirt, looked nothing like the divine figure who had hovered loftily in the skies just moments ago. Covered in dust and debris, he appeared wretched, stripped of all his former majesty.

Before Bruce could even scramble to his feet, Alan had already appeared behind him, pressing the tip of Lumen Sancta directly against his heart.

"Put down your staff, you little bastard!" the crimson-robed elder roared, his voice tight with both urgency and rage. "I'm warning you—if you so much as harm a single hair on his head, the royal family of the Jiner Kingdom will—"

Schluck!

Before the elder could finish his threat, Alan's brows furrowed—and with a cold, determined push, he drove the holy blade straight through Bruce's chest.

"Urgh… Guhh!!"

Blood gushed from Bruce's chest, and more burst from his lips. But Alan didn't stop.

He wasn't satisfied—not yet.

He lunged again.

A horizontal slash.

Then a vertical one.

An uppercutting blow. A sweeping diagonal strike.

One strike after another. A blinding, ceaseless torrent.

Dozens of strikes.

Then hundreds.

Until Bruce's body was reduced to an unrecognizable pulp—mangled flesh, splintered bone, and a pool of gore staining the ground.

Finally, Alan exhaled slowly. He retrieved Lumen Sancta, allowing the radiant weapon to vanish back into his body.

Then he turned, his eyes gleaming with unrestrained arrogance as he met the elder's gaze.

"You'd better not spare me," Alan growled coldly. "Because if you do… I'll erase your Jiner Kingdom from the world map myself."

The threat wasn't just for show—it was a necessary warning.

Alan was no naïve young novice who had just stepped into the world of magi.

He had long since learned a painful truth: cut off the source before it flows, pull out the roots if you cut the grass.

Any enemy he spared today would, without question, return to kill him tomorrow.

Even if he had shown mercy to Bruce, what would it have changed?

Bruce had already come today under the excuse of a bounty order. Tomorrow, it would be another excuse. Another attack. A more dangerous threat.

Alan knew better. He was no fool.

Outwardly, he may still appear youthful, innocent, even slightly green.

But after all he had endured, his heart had grown as clear and sharp as polished glass.

Mercy in battle was the same as handing your fate to your enemies.

And Alan… would never do something so stupid.

The crimson-robed elder clutched his chest, fists trembling with fury, veins bulging from his forehead. His face was a picture of wrath and despair.

Who was Bruce?

He was the Jiner Kingdom's most carefully nurtured prodigy—a rising star upon whom the entire nation had pinned its hopes. They had poured resources into him, waited for him to ascend to Legendary-tier, to bolster their international standing.

And now?

Dead.

Slaughtered.

In front of him.

Worse still, Bruce wasn't just a student. He was family—like a son. The pain of losing both a disciple and a child merged into a torment beyond words.

"I'll kill you... I'll kill you!"

The elder's body swelled suddenly, muscle surging beneath his robe, causing the fabric to stretch taut.

His mana surged.

But just as he was about to strike, a single step from Old Gayle changed everything.

He moved lightly, yet the gravitational field over several kilometers rippled violently in response.

The once-clear sky darkened in an instant. From within the clouds, dark specks began to form—shining stars from beyond the heavens, drawn down like meteors by his will.

The stars' gravitational fields activated, locking onto the crimson-robed elder.

His limbs twisted, his head pulled sideways, as if invisible chains dragged his body in every direction.

No matter how hard he struggled, he could not break free.

In desperation, the elder slammed a palm against his chest, forcefully shattering the bindings through sheer will.

With a crash, he plummeted to the ground and vomited a mouthful of blood.

Staggering out of the crater he'd created, he looked upward at Old Gayle—his face a mix of astonishment and barely suppressed terror.

He was a true Legendary mage, yet even so, he couldn't withstand a single move from Old Gayle.

This battle is lost... it seems I have no way to deal with this Alan today…

He muttered to himself, reaching into his robes to retrieve a silver pocket watch.

Emblazoned faintly on the casing was the royal crest of the Jiner Kingdom.

Just one glance at the insignia restored some color to his face. His fear faded.

He realized something important—Old Gayle might be strong, but he stood alone.

The elder, however, had the Jiner Kingdom behind him.

While Jiner wasn't the most powerful magus nation in the world, on the Kener Continent, it was a force no one could afford to ignore.

If war truly broke out, the Plantagenet Kingdom wouldn't stand a chance—let alone a lone old man like Gayle.

"This isn't over. We'll settle this later!"

With venom in his voice, the elder spat a threat at Gayle. Then he turned to Alan.

"You cursed little bastard! I don't believe he can protect you forever. What's he gonna do? Guard you for the rest of your life?!"

With that final curse, the crimson-robed elder summoned a teleportation circle and vanished without a trace.

Old Gayle descended calmly to the ground, his face unchanged, completely unfazed by the elder's final words.

He simply looked at Alan, his voice soft and filled with concern:

"Don't push yourself too hard. Always act within your limits."

And then, just like that, he too vanished into his own teleportation array.

Alan nodded silently, turned around, and headed toward Rosalia.

She sat wounded nearby. Her entire right arm was shrouded in strange black mist, and a web of blackish-purple patterns spread across her delicate face like some poisonous tattoo.

She had clearly endured a brutal battle of her own.

Alan wanted to help—but the moment he tried, he realized his vital energy had been completely exhausted.

He would need time to recover before he could use it again.

Just then, his eyes caught something strange behind Rosalia.

From her shadow… black tendrils began to writhe and twitch ever so subtly.

Alan's face tensed.

Without hesitation, he lunged forward, stabbing Lumen Sancta directly into the shadow.

The tendrils sensed the impending threat and abruptly detached themselves from Rosalia's silhouette, morphing into a wraith-like entity that fled into the distance.

"Oh? Trying to run? Did I say you could run?"

Alan launched into the air, moving faster than before. fгee𝑤ebɳoveɭ.cøm

Lumen Sancta trailed behind him, tethered by thin streams of mana like an unbreakable cord, sailing forward in pursuit of the fleeing shade.

Just as the holy sword was about to pierce the shadow, the strange creature transformed once more—melting into dark mist and sinking into the ground.

Lumen Sancta lost its target and slammed violently into a nearby tree trunk.

Alan narrowed his eyes, convinced that the threat had passed for now.

But then—his own shadow began to move.

Slowly, it rose up behind him… forming a figure identical to Alan's own.

It drew a sword of shadow, and without a sound—stabbed toward Alan's back.