Reborn as a Devouring Dragon with a System-Chapter 58: Going on Killing Spree (12)

At the edge of Bestial Forest, though it wasn’t as eerie and foreboding as the deeper reaches of its inner and outer rings, a scene was now unfolding that drowned the area in unspeakable horror. Blood flowed like water, thick and dark, coating the ground in rivers of crimson. The very air reeked of death and massacre, heavy and metallic, as if the forest itself was holding its breath.

A masked man with jet-black hair darted through the terrified crowd like a phantom. With each swing of his scythe, heads rolled, severed cleanly, tumbling to the blood-slick earth. Within minutes, over fifty Cultivators had fallen—lifeless bodies scattered like broken dolls, their corpses littering the ground in grotesque silence.

No matter how the Cultivators tried to defend, no matter how they screamed or fled, it was useless. Futile. They were nothing before this grim reaper—a bringer of death who harvested their lives like ants crushed underfoot.

The onlookers trembled, paralyzed by fear. Their minds couldn’t comprehend the carnage—they could only watch as Drake unleashed a one-man apocalypse, sparing none, showing no mercy.

"Please, show mercy! We’ll never do it again!"

"I don’t want to die!"

"Somebody help me! I don’t want to die!"

"May the Heavens deal with you!"

The rest of the mob—those who had once brayed for Drake’s blood—lost their will entirely. Even those at the Origin Warrior Realm had been butchered with laughable ease. Many tried to run. But fleeing was a death sentence. To run was to draw Drake’s gaze. And when he focused on you, you were already dead.

They never saw how he moved.

He vanished.

Then reappeared beside them.

And claimed a life.

Those with weaker hearts dropped to their knees, pleading for mercy, their cries echoing through the blood-soaked air. But their words passed through him like whispers in the wind. He gave no answer. Only silence.

And so, they began to curse him—screaming that Heaven’s judgment would fall on him, trying to wound him with words when death was certain.

Blood dripped endlessly.

The Death Reaper’s once gleaming scythe was now soaked and stained a deep red, blood cascading from its curve with every slight movement. Drake’s body radiated a sinister Death Aura, but it was different now—twisted, corrupted, mingled with the brutality he had just unleashed.

Death, after all, comes in many forms.

There is Death by Killing.

Death by Illness.

Death by Poison.

Death by Suicide.

And more—so many more.

Suddenly, Drake paused.

He stood there, unmoving.

A statue of slaughter.

His clothes were drenched in blood, every inch of him a testament to the massacre. The air thickened. The world seemed to hold still.

Then—

Tainted Death Aura burst out from him, forming a dark, whirling vortex around his body. The cursed energy surged into his scythe, which began to pulse with an eerie glow.

Drake moved.

But it wasn’t movement—it was art.

Rhythmic, graceful, and hypnotic.

He stepped forward, using Phantom Step, his body flickering with spectral grace. The crowd fell silent, utterly entranced. Not one dared to move.

Then, his voice echoed like a death knell:

"Death Art: Death by Killing."

He raised the scythe high.

And then—

He vanished.

SWOOSH!

SWOOSH!

A gust of wind rushed past them. Then—silence.

A moment later, heads fell. Dozens.

Toppled clean from shoulders, their eyes still wide—entranced. They died without pain, without resistance. As blood rained from above, a lone figure stood in the center of the crimson field. His mask dripped. His black hair clung to his skin. And those golden eyes—those glowing, red-hued eyes—shone like the judgment of death itself.

The Grim Reaper had harvested more than a hundred lives.

The Killing Spree had ended.

Those who hadn’t joined the bloodbath watched in silent horror. Step by step, they backed away, hearts hammering, instincts screaming.

From the shadows, unseen figures observed. Some with widened eyes. Others... with smiles.

Regardless, one thing was now certain: Drake had left a mark.

Bestial Town would remember.

They would remember the man who butchered over a hundred people as easily as slaughtering chickens—blood flowing like rivers, their screams forever swallowed by the forest.

Ding!

[Host has killed more than a hundred Cultivators at once. Killing spree recognized. Title earned: "Butcher of Battles."]

[Butcher of Battles: Allows user to deal increased damage to enemies whose health falls below 50%.]

"Uh... what happened?" Drake gripped his head as a searing headache lanced through his skull. His golden eyes, once glowing with a crimson hue, dimmed back to their natural gleam.

What met his gaze was a scene drenched in horror—bodies strewn like discarded dolls across the blood-soaked earth. The stench of death hung thick in the air, cloying and metallic. A wave of nausea rose in his throat, and instinctively, his hand moved to remove his mask.

"If you remove your mask, you expose your identity."

Drax’s voice echoed like a warning bell in the silence, halting him just in time. But the nausea didn’t subside. The massacre pressed on his senses like a living nightmare.

"What happened, Drax?" Drake’s voice trembled slightly as his eyes scanned the carnage.

"You killed all of them yourself," Drax replied, his voice grave, weighty.

"What do you mean?" Drake asked, disbelief crawling through his words. How could he have done this? On Earth, guilt always gnawed at him whenever he killed even a fowl or goat during festive seasons. And yet... this?

"Check your system notification," Drax said, refusing to elaborate.

Drake opened the system interface with shaking hands—and there it was:

[Butcher of Battles: Title Acquired]

In that moment, something inside him snapped. A blinding pain surged in his head as the visions returned—memories like broken glass slicing through his mind. He saw himself, soaked in blood, cutting down his enemies with mechanical precision, devoid of mercy or hesitation.

"How... did this happen?" he whispered, staring down at his trembling hands, as if they belonged to someone else.

"The Devouring. It kicked in. Most likely triggered by your rage," Drax explained, his tone low and solemn.

Drake fell silent, deep in thought. He hadn’t meant to slaughter them all. That first kill—the loudmouthed fool—was meant as a warning. But they kept coming. His anger boiled over... and something ancient and terrible had awakened.

His eyes locked onto him—the root of it all.

Leo.

He stood there, unharmed, untouched, watching the carnage like a puppeteer admiring his work. His expression wasn’t one of horror—it was amusement. Anticipation.

"You knew," Drake’s voice turned cold as a winter gale. He appeared in front of Leo in a blink, face inches away, eyes glowing faintly in the shadows beneath his mask. "You knew they would die. And you led them to it."

"Why would you say I enticed them to death?" Leo smirked, not a hint of remorse in his voice. "I gave them a chance. They failed. But they served their purpose. Your Originat should be depleted significantly."

A moment passed.

A breath.

A heartbeat.

Then Leo’s world shattered.

A fist slammed into his face, cracking bone and sending him flying.

"But for your information," Drake said coldly, standing amidst the blood-drenched earth, "I haven’t even used thirty percent of my Originat."

Leo crashed into the ground with a groan, stunned. His eyes trembled with disbelief as he pushed himself up, blood dripping from his nose.

"Impossible... how can your Originat still be this strong?" fгeewёbnoѵel.cσm

Drake’s eyes narrowed. "Ask your father."

Then came the fists.

One after another, fast and ruthless. Each strike was a storm, each blow a tempest of fury. Drake unleashed his anger in silence, his fists painting Leo black and blue.

"You leave me no choice," Leo growled, blood staining his teeth. From within his robe, he pulled out a golden toy car—small, harmless, absurd in the moment.

Yet something about it felt... familiar.

Drake’s eyes narrowed as Leo injected Originat into the toy. It quivered, then expanded, transforming before their eyes into a full-sized golden car—the very same that had nearly mowed them down upon entering Cerulean.

"It seems fate has a twisted sense of humor," Drake said with a dark chuckle.

Leo grinned. "Let’s see if you can still joke after this."

VROOM! VROOM!

The golden car’s engines roared like a beast awakened, echoing through the silent forest. Leo climbed in, slamming the door shut with purpose.

Then—a blur of motion.

The car shot toward Drake like a bullet of light, engines howling. The ground trembled with its fury. At the last instant, Drake sidestepped, narrowly avoiding the impact.

But the car didn’t stop.

SCREECH!

It drifted a perfect 180 degrees, skidding in a blaze of golden sparks, and faced him again—like a predator realigning its aim.

This time, as it accelerated, it lifted off the ground—a gleaming streak of gold against the bloodstained sky.

And what Drake saw... made his eyes widen.

Something terrible was coming.

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