Transmigrated as the Cuck.... WTF!!!-Chapter 84. Beating

I gave a sneaky glance toward Celia.

And, yep.

She was enjoying this way too much.

The way her lips were twitching upward—like she was barely holding back a grin—told me everything I needed to know.

’She’s got her favorite student already. Damn teacher’s bias.’

Groaning beside me, Art finally sat up.

He winced as he pushed himself off the ground, brushing dirt and debris off his coat with a casual flick.

His uniform looked like it had been through a blender, but the guy still tried to look dashing. Priorities.

He gave me a sidelong glance. "Should we... proceed?"

There was a thread of genuine doubt in his voice, which coming from Art, meant something was seriously off.

I sighed and stood too, wincing as my ribs reminded me of Zyon’s "friendly" welcome. "Yeah. We started it—and look, he bled. That means he can be beaten."

I said it with confidence.

But inside?

Yeah, no chance in hell. I knew that crystal clear.

Still, I wasn’t going to stop. None of us were. There was something about fighting Zyon that felt... right.

The pain? The overwhelming strength? The challenge?

It was exhilarating.

Art felt it too—his smirk returned the moment I nodded. There was a hunger behind his eyes now.

A desire to push further. Maybe it was ego. Maybe stupidity.

Probably both.

And Emris?

Honestly, no idea what that guy was feeling. His face was half-covered in blood, half-covered in shadows, but he still got back up. Quiet. Ready.

He hadn’t quit either. That was enough for me.

Across the field, Zyon stood like a statue. Watching us.

His arms hung loosely by his sides, shoulders relaxed—but his eyes, sharp as razors, flicked between the three of us.

Calculating. Always calculating.

"You guys gonna continue?" he asked, almost bored.

I scoffed. "You’re in a rush to get beaten? Don’t worry. We’ll get there."

He actually raised a brow at that, a twitch of amusement breaking his otherwise stoic expression.

Blatant shamelessness? It was my best weapon right now.

He sighed, like a weary warrior humoring children. "Then let’s end this quickly."

He hunched forward, muscles tensing, ready to move like a spring about to snap.

But then—

Something shifted.

A ripple shimmered in the air—so faint you’d miss it if you blinked.

It began near his knuckles.

From the blood dripping off his hands.

The droplets... twitched.

And then they moved.

Backward.

Upward.

Against gravity.

The blood slithered along his arm like it was alive, thin tendrils tracing along his skin, coiling and slicing as they climbed.

They carved glowing red lines across his arms, shoulders, neck—razor-thin fissures.

More blood spilled.

Then more.

Tiny crimson rivers bloomed across his flesh like blooming flowers of pain.

He twitched—just slightly—but his eyes narrowed. Whatever that phenomenon was, it wasn’t under his control.

He got distracted.

And we didn’t miss the chance.

Art surged forward, his eyes lit up—not with mischief, but purpose.

Gone was the playful bastard.

In his place?

A genuine prince of the Crown.

"[Creation: Hell-Chains]!" he roared, his voice ripping through the air like a war cry.

The chains answered. Again.

But this time, they weren’t satisfied with just restraining.

They wanted vengeance.

They wrapped around Zyon’s body like serpents of hell—hissing, writhing, and this time, burning.

Purgatory fire licked across his skin, not just searing but detonating in tiny bursts.

Purple and black flames erupted wherever the chains tightened—turning restraint into punishment.

Art wasn’t done.

"[Creation: Chains-Burst]!"

The chains exploded at every link. Each burst like a miniature grenade detonating directly on Zyon’s body.

Blinding flashes tore across the field. The pressure alone sent cracks across the ruined ground.

And then—

Art raised both hands to the sky.

His eyes glowed gold. Voice thundered like divine wrath.

"[Creation: Rain of Death]!!"

And it came.

Thousands—no, tens of thousands—of golden spears manifested in the clouds above.

They shimmered like holy judgement.

And with one casual downward wave of Art’s hand—

They descended.

The sky fell.

Each spear struck the earth with the force of a cannonball, creating massive craters, pillars of dust and wind exploding outward in chaotic rhythm.

It was like a god had declared war on a single man.

And that man stood in the eye of it all.

Zyon.

This was it.

My time.

Electricity surged through my veins. My heartbeat synced with the thunderous rhythm of the raining spears.

[Phantom Surge]—activated.

I became a blur.

Then a dozen blurs.

Lightning danced along my arms, down to my fists. The air around me warped from the sheer force crackling off my body.

I slid between the chaos like I was born inside a storm.

Art had trapped him.

Burned him.

Pummeled him from above.

Now it was my fist that would knock him out cold.

I closed in.

One final breath.

And I struck—

—and I struck.

My fist collided with his jaw like a thunderclap.

BOOM!

The shockwave split the air, rippling outward in a crackling arc of lightning and raw kinetic force.

The impact cratered the ground beneath Zyon’s feet—dust and broken stone lifting off the earth in a miniature explosion.

I didn’t stop.

One. Two. Three.

Each punch faster than the last. Every strike channeled with lightning mana, every motion sharpened with Phantom Surge.

My phantoms swarmed from all directions, mimicking me, striking in unison, creating afterimages like a swarm of furious specters.

Art kept the Rain of Death falling, refusing to let up.

Spears crashed around us, their shockwaves thundering in our ears.

Zyon’s face twisted—not in pain, but in focus.

He moved.

Not much.

Just a tilt of his head, a subtle flex of his foot, a shift in weight.

But it was enough.

Suddenly, his body spun.

His right arm whipped out—and caught my fist.

Everything froze.

My momentum died in an instant.

Lightning fizzled on my knuckles.

His grip crushed through the surge like it was paper.

And then, slowly—calmly—he turned his head to face me.

Blood dripped down his forehead. One of Art’s spears had grazed him earlier. His lip was split. His bare torso, revealing red-lined bruises scattered across his chest from the chains and blasts.

But his eyes?

Crystal clear.

Not hazy. Not pained. Not even angry.

Just calm.

And disappointed.

"You’re fast," Zyon said. His voice was low, almost lost in the wind. "But you’re still holding back."

I blinked.

What?

Then—everything exploded.

Zyon’s body pulsed.

A wave of pure force erupted from him, shattering the spears mid-air, disintegrating my phantoms like vapor.

Art’s chains snapped with a deafening crack, recoiling back toward him.

I was thrown.

Launched like a ragdoll. I skidded through the dirt, rolled, flipped, coughed, and finally crashed into one of the stone barriers at the edge of the field.

Every bone in my body screamed.

Vision blurred. Breath knocked out of me.

I looked up just in time to see what came next.

Art flew in.

The madman didn’t stop. His golden gauntlets lit up with glowing glyphs. "[Creation: Core Imploder]!" he shouted, swinging both fists down at Zyon’s head.

Zyon raised one hand.

Clink.

He caught both fists.

Just like that.

Then he turned, one foot sliding back, and with a casual pivot—

SLAMMED Art into the earth.

The ground broke.

A web of cracks spread like lightning bolts beneath Art’s limp body.

And just before Emris could blink in from the shadows—

Zyon reached behind.

Grabbed him mid-teleport.

"Too predictable," Zyon muttered.

Then he twisted.

And threw Emris.

Not at the ground.

At Celia’s dome.

New one she had created to protect the spectating students from the collateral damage.

The invisible barrier shattered from the impact.

And Emris rolled to a halt, knocked out cold.

Silence.

Dust.

Sparks.

Crumbling earth.

And one man—Zyon—standing at the center of it all.

Chest rising and falling. Hands bleeding.

But unmoving.

Unshaken.

Untouched.

He exhaled. Then turned, looking toward Celia.

"Was that good enough?"

Celia, mouth agape, blinked twice before nodding—almost too quickly.

"...Yes. You pass."

Zyon didn’t smile.

Didn’t gloat.

He simply looked at the three of us—me, Art, and Emris—scattered like ragged dolls across the field.

Then he said, so casually I wanted to punch him again:

"Thanks for the warm-up."

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