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Chapter 128: The Instant Collapse of the “Six Arms” | Humans Really Are Fragile
🕑 Added 2025-06-09 17:37:18 +0000 UTCA deafening explosion rolled through the courtyard.
Lyle stood alone on the immaculately trimmed lawn, the shadows of his hood obscuring his face as his gaze settled on the grand European-style manor ahead. The once-proud front gates now lay in ruins, thick black smoke billowing out like the breath of some dying beast.
"All wiped out in one blast? Impressive," he murmured, almost sounding like a teacher grading a student's disastrous exam.
A flicker passed through his mind—the abrupt disconnection of over a dozen undead he had stationed inside. That fireball had vaporized them instantly. He wasn't upset. If anything, he sounded genuinely admiring.
From the memories of a few unlucky guards he'd killed earlier, Lyle had learned that today was something of a rare event: the infamous "Six Arms" had all gathered at this Eight Fingers outpost. He hadn't dug too deep into the why of it. Frankly, he didn't care.
He spared a glance at his status panel.
[EXP: 20973 / 10000]
"Not bad," he muttered. "Eight Fingers grunts are worth something after all."
Just over 800 experience points from a dozen men. A decent harvest.
Truth be told, the Eight Fingers security division here was about as airtight as a soup strainer. The stationed personnel were few and scattered, with average levels hovering around six to eight—a level that would count as decent among regular humans.
Then—
BOOM!
A charred wooden door, engraved with a once-majestic lion, flew from the smoke and slammed into the lawn with a bone-jarring crash.
Moments later, silhouettes emerged one by one from the haze.
"Ohoho~ It really is just one man," came a sultry voice, as a woman stepped out, hips swaying in sheer fabric. Golden bangles at her wrists and ankles chimed musically with each step. "Are you sure, dear sir, that you've come to the right address for a fight?"
This was Edström the Dancing Scimitar, voice sweet as poisoned honey.
Next came Malmvist the Thousand Kill, lazily draped in a matador's coat embroidered with golden thread. His shirt was unbuttoned enough to hint at arrogance, and he frowned as he looked down at his outfit.
"This jacket cost more than a castle. And now it smells like burnt pigskin," he grumbled, his rapier dragging lightly along the ground.
Three more followed: Peshurian the Spatial Blade, his full-plate armor clanking with each step; Succulent the Phantom Devil, with a grin as thin as his emaciated cheeks; and finally, Davernoch the Undead King, whose crimson eyes shimmered like ghostly lanterns.
"Tsk tsk… Boss is going to be furious," Succulent muttered, scanning Lyle warily. "What's this guy's deal?"
Davernoch stared into Lyle's hooded face with an almost hopeful gleam.
"Not one of mine," he said flatly, disappointed.
He had hoped—just for a second—that Lyle might be like him. An undead of intellect, a scholar of the abyss, a fellow master of necromancy. But there was not a single wisp of death energy radiating from this intruder. He was… alive. Alive and very, very dangerous.
That statement changed everything.
The six elite members of Eight Fingers—the so-called "Six Arms"—immediately fell silent, their eyes narrowing in unison.
"He barges into our base alone… He's no fool. He's a threat," rumbled Peshurian from behind his helmet.
The fact that Davernoch, their resident undead archmage, had been outclassed in necromancy? Alarming. And the fact that he was alive? Terrifying.
This man might very well be in the hero tier… or worse, already beyond it.
THUD. THUD. THUD.
Heavy footsteps approached. The group instinctively parted.
A mountain of muscle covered in beast tattoos strode out, fists clenched and cracking like boulders under pressure.
This was Zero the Battle Demon—a man whose name was synonymous with carnage.
"The base is in ruins," Zero growled. "You've embarrassed me."
He stepped closer, voice low and venomous. "I'm a reasonable man. But right now, I'm also a very angry man. So I'll give you two choices."
He locked eyes with Lyle. "Serve me. Or die."
The tension thickened like honey left in the sun. Six pairs of eyes locked on Lyle, each gaze flavored differently—arrogance, curiosity, disdain, caution.
Lyle could feel the pressure. This wasn't a rabble of thugs. These were steel-ranked elites, all level 20 and above.
He sighed. "The Six Arms… all gathered in one place. Honestly, my luck's ridiculous."
His tone was casual, but his eyes under the hood grew sharp.
Sure, levels were just numbers. Real power was messy and complex. For instance, Succulent was technically high-leveled, but his build—basic fencer plus basic illusionist—was hilariously mismatched. A jack of no trades, master of none.
No wonder a newbie like Climb eventually took him out.
But Zero? That guy was a walking siege weapon. His class synergy was brutal, and he didn't pull punches. Even Brain, after slamming two potions, had trouble with him.
"So," Zero growled again. "What'll it be?"
Lyle finally spoke, voice calm.
"I think you misunderstood."
He took a step forward.
"I mean—this saves me the trouble of hunting you all down."
A beat of silence.
The Six Arms froze. Their expressions darkened.
"I've seen my share of arrogant idiots," Zero said, cracking his neck, "but I've seen even more of them weeping on their knees, begging for mercy before I ripped them apart."
He grinned, teeth bared like a beast. "Your head will look lovely on my wall."
Lyle tilted his head slightly. "You talk too much."
Shrink.
He vanished.
In an instant—one blink of an eye—he shot forward from dozens of meters away, a blur so fast it tore the air apart.
"So fast!"
Several of them gasped. This wasn't the movement of a mage. It was a nightmare wrapped in speed.
Zero raised his fists, instincts kicking in. Malmvist and Peshurian moved as well—trained reflexes reacting to a threat.
The others? Still stunned.
"Dark Wave."
The words fell like a curse.
A black wave of corrupted energy rippled outward, expanding five meters in every direction. Lyle had leveled up his Curse Knight skill tree—the effect radius had increased.
The moment it touched them, the Six Arms froze. Their muscles locked, joints stiffened, minds dulled.
Then—
Lyle was already in their midst, a rusted iron sword materializing in his hand.
This wasn't a fight he intended to drag out. He wasn't foolish enough to let them scatter and use teamwork. He needed dominance—immediate and absolute.
Fourfold Slash.
A flurry of blade-light cut the air apart.
Four blood-drenched blossoms bloomed simultaneously. Zero, Succulent, Malmvist, and Edström were hit before they even processed what happened.
Then Lyle pivoted.
His foot whipped around and slammed into Peshurian's chest. The man's armor crumpled like a beer can.
BOOM!
The impact echoed as Peshurian was blasted through the manor wall like a human cannonball.
Then came the screams.
"AAAHHH!"
"NOOOO!"
"IT HURTS!"
Succulent, Malmvist, and Edström writhed on the ground, blood soaking the lawn. Their faces were pale, their eyes glassy with fear and pain.
Humans, as it turned out, didn't have ogre-tier constitutions.
CRACK!
The earth trembled.
Zero snapped out of his daze, pain slicing through his body. Reflexes honed through years of brutal fights kicked in, and he leapt backward, fists raised, eyes wide.
"What the hell are you?!"
He skidded to a halt ten meters away, breathing hard, cold sweat rolling down his face.
The Six Arms… were down.
Just like that.
Succulent lay sobbing on the ground, blood pooling around him.
"Monster… He's a monster… I don't want to die. I don't want to die!"
Beside him, Malmvist and Edström were pale with terror, their wounds pulsing like open mouths gasping for air.
Lyle looked down at them, flicking the broken remains of his iron sword onto the ground.
"Humans really are fragile," he said, then looked up at the sky as if expecting more company to drop in.
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GigaChad
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