Intergalactic conquest with an AI-Chapter 422: Crucifixion

At the shocking sight before them, the soldiers who still had a clear view of Lyra could hardly believe what they were seeing. The once-invincible monster that had torn through squads and vehicles alike now looked like a broken shadow of her former self.

She was dragging her mangled body across the blood-soaked battlefield, trying desperately to stand, but her limbs trembled and failed beneath her.

Gone was the radiant beast of fury and power. Her face, now visible through torn strands of hair and blood, looked human again. Just a young woman, battered and vulnerable, her glowing eyes dimmed, her breath ragged.

She was no longer the terrifying creature that had brought death by the hundreds; now she looked like someone barely holding on to life.

What most of the soldiers didn’t know was that the power granted to her by Rex’s golden blood had finally reached its limit.

During the battle, her strength had pushed her to the very edge of Tier 4 peak, a level of might that her body was never meant to handle. And though her energy signature still read as Tier 4, the truth was cruel... her physical body remained stuck at Tier 2. That gap was too great to sustain for long.

Her borrowed strength was fading fast. And her body, riddled with burns, wounds, and broken bones, couldn’t take much more.

"All units stay sharp," the camp commander said through the radio system; his voice sounded cold but firm. "We’ve confirmed her identity. She’s the target we were hunting. Reports confirm she’s a member of the Blood Clan. Stay alert; she’s not done yet."

One of the soldiers standing nearby, the same one who had been watching through night vision goggles, finally removed his helmet. His face was pale while sweat was dripping down his forehead.

"Sir... is it really worth it?" he asked quietly. "All these brothers and sisters we lost today... just to capture her?"

The commander turned to him with a stony gaze. "Stop talking," he snapped. "You don’t get paid to ask questions. You knew the risks. We all did. This is what being a mercenary means. We fight, we die, and no one cries for us. Now get back to your post."

But even as he said those words, his heart whispered something else. Is it really worth it? That same question echoed in his mind. Still, he said nothing. No one forced them to sign the contract. No one forced them to wear the badge of a war dog.

With a quiet sigh, the commander began walking through the battlefield, the ground beneath his boots wet and sticky with blood. Bodies were everywhere, twisted metal and ash surrounding him. And as he walked, he noticed something strange.

The blood on the ground was moving. Slowly but surely, rivers of blood were pulling themselves toward a single point.

His eyes narrowed. "Hm? What’s this? She’s... absorbing it?"

It dawned on him then that the rumors, the whispers in mercenary bars and dark outposts, and the terrifying legends of the Blood Clan. He had thought them exaggerated. Now he wasn’t so sure.

"So the stories were true... The blood assassins really are immortal in planetary combat," he murmured to himself, both impressed and afraid. "Now I understand why people fear them."

When he reached the center of the field, he found Lyra collapsed on the ground. Her body was almost completely exposed, her armor burnt or shredded off. Her body was covered in cuts, burns, and bruises.

Electric harpoons were embedded in her flesh, still sparking with weak but constant pulses, designed to disrupt her regenerative abilities. Despite her pitiful state, she was... breathtaking.

Even now, beaten, bleeding, and barely breathing, she radiated a haunting beauty that left him stunned.

"So the tales about Blood Clan beauty weren’t lies either," he muttered while stepping closer. He crouched beside her, tilting her face upward with his hand, forcing her to look at him.

"No matter the year... no matter the species," he sneered, "the beautiful ones always end up as playthings for those with power. What a shame. A real waste." He gave a low chuckle that sounded totally dark and vulgar.

"Maybe I should have some fun with you before I send you off to that spoiled little brat of a client." But as Lyra looked up at him, her eyes did not show fear or defeat.

Then, with a voice that tore through the air like thunder, she shouted...

[By the Covenant of Pain and the Promise of Eternal Night... I invoke the Bleeding Cross!]

Her cry echoed across the battlefield. In the blink of an eye, every drop of blood that had soaked into the earth rose like smoke and rushed toward her body, wrapping her in a swirling crimson cocoon.

The commander leapt back in alarm, fear finally breaking through his mask of calm.

"Stop her! Electrocute her now! Don’t let her finish that ritual!" he screamed while scrambling away and yelling into his communicator.

The soldiers with harpoon rifles responded instantly, activating the electric pulses.

But nothing happened.

The blood kept moving. The energy sparks flickered and died. And the crimson cocoon continued to grow, glowing brighter with every second.

"Shit! Shoot her! All units!! open fire now!!" the commander screamed, his voice full of panic.

The soldiers obeyed, unleashing another hellstorm of bullets and energy fire. But it was too late.

The blood was fusing with Lyra’s body again... thickening, reshaping, breathing with power. Armor formed. Flesh healed. And something ancient and wrathful stirred within her aura.

The commander turned and ran as fast as his legs could carry him toward his transport ship. He didn’t care about orders anymore. Didn’t care about his men. All that mattered was survival.

After all, in the mercenary world, those who lived long enough to earn promotions weren’t the bravest.... they were the best at running away.

Even as the camp commander ran with all the desperation of a man who had stared death in the face, the soldiers he left behind continued firing. Their bullets rained down upon the massive, growing form made entirely of blood.

The armored vehicles added their voices to the chorus of destruction, their laser turrets spitting beams of focused energy across the battlefield. The tanks, no longer holding back, launched their full payloads of cannon blasts, explosive shells, and precision missiles.

But nothing worked. The blood mass didn’t slow down. It didn’t retreat. It didn’t even flinch. Their most powerful attacks might as well have been raindrops striking a mountain... and then... just as the tension reached a breaking point, it stopped.

The attacks ceased, the vehicles paused, and even the shouting from the soldiers grew quiet as the blood cocoon finished its grotesque evolution. The very last droplet of blood spilled on the battlefield was sucked into the growing mass, absorbed like water into a sponge.

Then came the whisper. So soft it almost went unheard but somehow, it reached the ears of every soul nearby...

[Let its thorns rise from my flesh... and bring silence to the hearts of the defiant...]

It sounded both human and not... like someone enduring unbearable pain, whispering through clenched teeth. The words were heavy, ritualistic, and ancient.

And as soon as they left her lips, the battlefield erupted.

From the core of the blood mass, hundreds of crimson roots burst forth like spears from the earth. They were fast... too fast.

Before many of the soldiers could scream or even react, they were impaled where they stood by Sharp, twisting tendrils of blood and bone that tore through armor, pierced shields, and rooted deep into the soil.

In the center of the madness, the true horror revealed itself.

A towering crimson cross had risen from the heart of the blood bloom. And nailed to it, with her arms stretched out, body slack but glowing with power, was Lyra.

Her body hung like a martyr, barely covered, streaked with scars and blood. And around her floated thousands of blooming roses, made of blood and thorns. They pulsed like hearts, and from them sprouted even more vines that were alive, angry, and hungry.

This was one of the Blood Clan’s forbidden arts, their ultimate technique. A death-bonded invocation... one meant to destroy everything in exchange for the caster’s life. It demanded an enormous amount of stellar energy, the kind only those near death or near madness would fully unleash.

"R-Run!"

"She’s a monster! What kind of freak is that?! How are we supposed to kill her?!"

"S-So... beautiful..."

"AHH! NOOO! Help me! Please!"

The screams of men, young, old, brave, and terrified, filled the air. Some tried to escape; others fired their weapons until the barrels overheated. But none of it mattered.

But Lyra didn’t hear them.

To her, their voices were just distant echoes, as if coming from another world. Her vision was blurry, her mind drifting between pain and clarity. Her body barely moved. But her blood... her blood obeyed.

When one of the crimson rose vines impaled a living soldier, it didn’t stop at the body. It reached into them, searching, devouring. A few seconds later, a thorned cross erupted from the victim’s back, crucifying them like her.

Their blood was drawn into the roots, and any trace of stellar energy within them was stolen to feed her spell.

Each life taken only made the bloodroots grow thicker, longer, and more violent. Her forest of death was blooming into something unnatural.

Meanwhile, at the edge of the camp, the commander had reached the transport ship.

"Get us out of here, now!" he shouted at the pilot, his hands shaking as he slammed the override code to disable the camp’s energy barrier. The pilot obeyed instantly, activating the engines, and soon after the ship began to rise.

And for a brief, shining moment, the commander felt a wave of relief.

*"Hahaha! I’ve made it again! Survived another cursed battlefield! I should call myself the Immor—"

This 𝓬ontent is taken from fre𝒆webnove(l).𝐜𝐨𝗺