Transmigrated as the Cuck.... WTF!!!-Chapter 108. Art Alaris

Zyon didn’t hesitate for even a second.

He bent down, scooping Amelia into his arms with a gentleness that contrasted sharply with the bloodstained and broken battlefield surrounding them.

Her breathing was faint, shallow, but thankfully present. That alone was enough to anchor his rushing mind.

"We’re getting out of here," he muttered, more to himself than to Art.

Art, however, lingered.

His golden fireballs still hovered in the air, casting flickering shadows against the cracked walls and broken chains that littered the room.

He turned his head, giving the scene one last, silent look—taking it all in, committing it to memory.

Then, he spun around and followed after Zyon.

They climbed the narrow staircase with urgency in their steps.

The light grew brighter as they neared the surface, the warmth of the outside world slowly replacing the cold void they had descended into.

When they emerged from the trapdoor, the guards standing nearby—previously skeptical of the duo—stood in stunned silence.

Neither Zyon nor Art looked approachable.

One carried a girl who looked half-dead, unconscious in a way that screamed of unnatural interference.

The other radiated power, irritation, and something far darker. A brewing storm, barely contained behind narrowed eyes and clenched fists.

The guards simply stepped aside.

No words were exchanged.

But just as they were about to step out onto the main road, as the cobblestone came into view and the manor loomed in the distance, a figure materialized in front of them.

A cloaked man—tattered black robes, hood drawn low, voice sharp like rusted blades. He raised a hand in greeting, as though they were acquaintances meeting under casual circumstances.

"Well, well. Not so fast, lads," he said, his tone raspy, crooked with mock cheer. "We’ve still got a bit of time left before the main event. How about we kill some time together?"

Zyon froze, eyes narrowing.

Art didn’t even blink. He simply stepped slightly forward, shielding Zyon and Amelia behind his frame. His fingers twitched.

The cloaked man didn’t radiate overwhelming power, but there was something off about him. His posture was relaxed—too relaxed. And the air around them had suddenly shifted.

Then he snapped his fingers.

A low hum echoed around them. The metallic fragments embedded in the walls and ground—unnoticeable until now—began to vibrate.

The air shimmered, and then, all at once, hundreds of razor-sharp shards came to life, drawn toward them at breakneck speed.

"Ah, hell," Art muttered, irritated. "I’m really getting tired of this."

He raised his palm.

"[Disintegration]."

A dome of golden light exploded outward from him, serene and blinding. The air shimmered like liquid gold, and the attacking metals didn’t just melt—they vanished.

Not a trace remained. Each piece reduced to particles, undone at their very core, scattered into the void of nothingness.

The cloaked man let out a low whistle. "Oh. That’s a bit of a problem."

Art took a step forward, eyes glowing faintly with residual mana, and tilted his head. "Zyon," he said without looking back, "Take Amelia. I’ll handle this clown."

Zyon wanted to protest. His instincts screamed at him to stay, to help, to not leave his friend alone. But he knew that lingering would only make things worse. Amelia needed to be taken to safety, now.

He gritted his teeth. "Okay. Don’t die, idiot."

Art grinned. "I never do."

With that, Zyon jumped. His feet cracked the pavement, sending splinters and dust flying as he launched upward with a burst of pure physical strength.

Amelia was cradled tightly in his arms, protected from the shockwaves. The explosion of debris flew outward—

—but never touched Art.

The remnants disintegrated mid-air, reduced to nothing before they could even graze his shoulder.

The cloaked figure’s eyes trailed after the retreating silhouette. A sharp click of the tongue escaped him, and he moved to pursue.

But he didn’t get far.

Art surged forward like a bullet, appearing right in front of the man in a flash. His fist connected squarely with the cloaked figure’s jaw before the man could even flinch.

CRACK.

The man staggered backward, a spray of blood and shattered teeth leaving his mouth. His hood slipped slightly, revealing a scarred jaw and cracked lips. frёewebnoѵēl.com

"Ugh... Attacking out of nowhere?" he growled, clutching his face. "Don’t you punks have any pride?"

Art exhaled slowly, rolling his wrist. "Pride?" he echoed, voice low and mocking. "You were too busy drooling over your little speech to pay attention. That’s not me lacking pride. That’s just you being a dumbass."

The cloaked man hissed. "You little—"

"It’s called taking advantage of an idiot," Art interrupted again, his smile widening with something dangerous. "You should try it sometime. Oh wait, you can’t. Because you are the idiot."

The man’s eyes blazed with hatred.

Art’s stance shifted. His mana began to leak out in soft golden streams, the glow intensifying with every breath.

"Now," Art said, his voice dropping into a low rumble. "Let’s make this quick. I’ve got a friend to check on, and you’ve got a face that really needs breaking."

The cloaked figure let out a twisted laugh. It was raw and crooked, brimming with contempt.

"You talk too much."

As if to punctuate his words, the ground suddenly trembled.

A deep, mechanical rumble echoed beneath their feet, and then—with an ear-piercing screech—giant metallic rods burst from the earth.

They shot upward like spears, twisting unnaturally as if alive, jutting out at odd angles like the tendrils of some buried machine god.

But Art didn’t flinch.

He stood calm, composed. The golden dome surrounding him hummed faintly, a subtle pulse of mana radiating in rhythmic waves.

The rods, upon breaching the dome, disintegrated instantly—turning into glittering motes of nothingness the moment they touched the edge.

The figure grunted in frustration, lips curling in disdain. "Tch."

With a flick of his wrist, the cloaked man summoned forth something far worse.

His entire body became enveloped in a black, pulsating metallic substance—alive and constantly shifting.

It crawled over his skin like veins of molten steel, wrapping around his arms and face until he looked like a humanoid amalgamation of armor and flesh.

Art’s expression twisted in visible disgust.

"Seriously?" he asked, stepping slightly to the side, inspecting the transformation with a squint. "That’s what you decided to do with your life? Cover yourself in a walking pile of sentient garbage? You could’ve picked literally anything cooler."

The man snarled. "Shut up and DIE!!"

He surged forward like a missile, his form cutting through the air so fast the cobblestone beneath cracked from the pressure.

The metallic tendrils trailing behind him hissed, slicing through the wind with frightening sharpness.

Art exhaled—bored.

With one hand, he lazily brushed his hair back, the other still buried in his pocket. At the last second, he leapt into the air with casual grace, flipping backward as the cloaked figure barreled past him.

The man missed his target completely and slammed into the stone wall behind them, utterly demolishing a large portion of it.

Debris and dust exploded outward. Part of someone’s house now had a gaping wound in it.

The cloaked man growled, visibly furious. He pulled himself from the rubble, grinding his teeth together. His eyes flicked to Art—still floating gently back to the ground, untouched, unimpressed.

This kid was infuriating.

He was cocky, sure—but not without reason. So far, he hadn’t made a single mistake. Not a single scratch marked his body.

That golden dome of disintegration was still intact, still disintegrating every single attack like it was nothing.

No weakness.

But then the man’s eyes drifted—past Art. Just a few meters behind him, the guards were still standing near the trapdoor. They’d been silent, still, too overwhelmed to act.

A slow grin crept across the man’s face.

’You’ll do nicely,’ he thought.

He snapped his fingers.

Dozens of boulder-sized chunks of sharpened metal formed instantly above him, hovering menacingly.

With a grunt, he hurled them at Art in quick succession—massive, spinning projectiles that tore through the air like wrecking balls.

Art dodged, weaving between them with effortless agility.

But when he landed, it was in front of the guards.

Just where the cloaked man wanted him.

Art gave the guards a side glance, raising an eyebrow.

Then, his lips curved into a sly grin. "I see what you’re trying to do."

The cloaked figure grinned right back. "Good. Then let’s play, little magician."

He raised his palm to the sky.

"[Metallic Wave]!"

From his hand, a great surge of liquid metal erupted forth. It looked like water at first, but it moved far too deliberately.

It shimmered with unnatural brightness, the same pulsating rhythm as the armor on his body. It hissed as it moved—eating away at the ground it passed over.

Acid. Weaponized.

The wave tore through the air, straight toward Art and the guards. Its movements were fast, fluid, and entirely unnatural, as though the wave wanted to devour them.

The cloaked man laughed maniacally. "Let’s see how you protect them now, boy!"

But Art didn’t panic. He didn’t raise his hands, didn’t bark out another spell, didn’t summon some divine shield.

He just... shrugged.

Then, with a slight bend of his knees, he jumped straight into the air.

"What?!" the man gasped, his glee breaking instantly into confusion.

The metallic wave slammed into where Art had been standing, but the golden dome flared and—fsshhhhh—the entire mass evaporated on contact.

It was as though it had never existed. The guards didn’t even feel the heat. The acid didn’t splash, didn’t corrode, didn’t burn.

Everything was gone.

Above them, Art hovered, suspended by pure mana manipulation, his foot tapping against the air like he was standing on invisible steps.

"You really don’t get it, do you?" he said, finally pulling his hand from his pocket.

He held it out.

A soft sphere of golden light bloomed in his palm—calm, elegant, divine.

"You’re not fighting a kid... you’re fighting someone who’s already bored of winning."

The cloaked man’s jaw clenched.

Art smiled wider. "So... shall I show you what serious looks like?"

This content is taken from (f)reewe(b)novel.𝗰𝗼𝐦