nagpurpolice Chapter 629 - 628- The Shock of A Maiden
Chapter 629 - 628- The Shock of A Maiden
Not cut. Sliced. The particular, hundred-pieces, diced, shredded, every-cell-separated destruction that occurred when sword intent met flesh. The monsters did not fall. They disintegrated. The particular, meat-confetti, where-did-the-goblin-go, there-is-now-a-pile-of-cubes transformation that Viktor’s blade produced.His body vanished.
The particular, teleportation, here-one-moment-gone-the-next, impossible-to-track movement of a man whose speed exceeded the eye’s ability to follow. He appeared behind a goblin. Slashed. Vanished. Appeared beside a boar. Cut. Vanished. Appeared in the center of a group. The particular, whirlwind, blender, everything-around-me-dies spin of a man whose body was a weapon and whose weapon was everywhere.
Thousands of swords surrounded him.
Invisible. The particular, sword-intent, summoned, manifest, blade projection that a sword god produced. The swords — the thousands of them, the air-blades, the intent-made-solid, the particular, invisible-to-the-eye, felt-by-the-flesh weapons — hovered around him. A halo of blades. A constellation of edges. The particular, omnidirectional, everything-in-radius-dies field of death that expanded as Viktor moved.
Any monster that entered the radius was sliced.
Into hundreds of pieces. Thousands. The particular, confetti, dice, mince, puree level of destruction that made the battlefield look like a slaughterhouse floor.
He cleared them.
Alone.
Thousands of demons. Thousands of monsters. The horde that had pushed a hundred soldiers to the edge of defeat — Viktor cleared it. Alone. In minutes. The particular, one-man-army, this-is-not-a-battle-it-is-an-execution, the-outcome-was-never-in-doubt dominance of a man whose power level was not on the same scale as the things he was fighting.
Evriana and Berenga watched.
They stood at the edge of the battlefield. Their swords drawn. Their bodies ready. Their mouths open.
The battlefield was — flattened.
The particular, post-Viktor, everything-is-dead, the-ground-is-red, the-air-smells-of-blood-and-nothing-else landscape that remained when he was finished. Sliced. Cut. Diced. The particular, found-of-the-kingdom-himself-has-swooped, this-is-legendary, this-will-be-in-the-history-books devastation that made the battlefield look like the aftermath of a natural disaster.
The soldiers stood.
Trembling. The particular, what-did-I-just-witness, is-that-man-human, I-was-healed-by-green-light-and-then-I-watched-him-kill-everything shock of men who had entered a battle expecting to fight and had instead been given front-row seats to a massacre.
Down the line — a man moved.
Not a soldier. Not exactly. The particular, trying-to-blend-in, wearing-the-right-uniform, moving-with-the-right-formation but-the-eyes-are-wrong, the-hands-are-doing-something-under-the-armor figure of a spy.
A spy who was recording.
The particular, magical, crystal-embedded, image-capturing device that was concealed in his armor — the tool that information guilds used to document events that were worth selling — was active. The lens was pointed at Viktor. At the hovering. At the healing. At the swords. At the killing. At the everything.
He recorded it all.
Every power. Every ability. The healing of a saint. The swordsmanship of a sword god. The speed of a speedster. The teleportation. The matter manipulation. The particular, comprehensive, impossible, this-man-possesses-every-power-that-should-not-exist-in-one-body catalog of abilities that the spy was capturing for someone who would pay a fortune for it.
Viktor landed.
The particular, gentle, controlled, descended-from-the-sky, feet-on-the-ground, the-show-is-over return of a man who had finished killing and was now returning to normal. His body settled on the blood-soaked earth. His violet eyes scanned the field. His expression was calm.
The soldiers trembled.
The particular, what-do-we-do, do-we-bow, do-we-run, is-he-going-to-kill-us-too panic of men who had just watched one person do what a hundred could not.
The company commanders moved.
The scarred, bull-kin men who had challenged Viktor in the tent — the ones who had floated, who had choked on their own swords, who had bowed and apologized — walked forward. Their faces carried the particular, overwhelmed, I-am-reassessing-my-entire-life expression of men who had just seen a god walk among them.
They bowed.
The deep, formal, forehead-to-the-ground, we-are-not-worthy bow of men who had been shown their place and had accepted it.
"Give your bow!" the scarred commander yelled. His voice cracked. The particular, emotional, I-am-yelling-because-I-mean-it, this-is-not-a-drill volume of a man who had been broken by what he had seen.
"He is Viktor Ktorian!" the commander continued. "The next in the line of succession!!"
The words landed.
’Next in the line of succession.’
The particular, nuclear-bomb, room-silencing, world-altering, everything-has-changed declaration that elevated Viktor from ’nephew of the princess’ to ’heir to the Ktorian family.’ The next in line. The one who would inherit. The one whose name would, one day, be the name that everyone in this family answered to.
Every soldier bowed.
The particular, instant, reflexive, knees-hitting-ground, heads-down, we-are-in-the-presence-of-the-future-patriarch response of men who had been trained to recognize rank and had just learned that the rank was higher than they had imagined.
Even Evriana was left shocked.
She stood. Staring. The particular, overwhelmed, I-did-not-expect-this, I-sent-a-woman-to-seduce-him-and-he-is-the-heir-to-the-throne realization hitting her like a physical blow.
And then she understood.
The purpose.
The particular, calculating, strategic, political, I-see-what-you-did recognition of a woman who had been raised in politics and could identify a political maneuver when she saw one.
He had brought them here.
To this place. Where the monsters would corner them. Where the soldiers would be pushed to the edge. Where he would have to act. Where he would reveal his powers. Where the spy — the spy she had not noticed but Viktor had — would record everything.
He had used them.
The soldiers, the battalion, the entire demon hunt — he had used them as an advertising board. The particular, cynical, strategic, I-am-using-your-presence-to-establish-my-reputation maneuver of a man who understood that power without reputation was wasted.
The recorded videos would reach the capital. The information guild would sell them. The footage of a man — hovering, healing, slicing, killing — would spread. It would not take long before everyone knew his name. Before every noble, every guild, every family in the kingdom knew that Viktor Ktorian was not a pretty boy in cheap armor but a power that could not be ignored.
She could not prove it.
She knew. In her bones. In the particular, political, I-was-raised-for-this instinct that she had inherited from the Ktorian bloodline. She knew what he had done. But she had no proof. No evidence. No particular, concrete, hold-it-up-in-court demonstration that he had orchestrated this.
She stood there.
Processing.
Overwhelmed.
The particular, my-nephew-is-a-political-genius-and-I-did-not-see-it-coming, I-sent-a-woman-to-seduce-him-and-he-seduced-the-entire-kingdom realization that made her legs feel weak.
A finger snap arrived on her face.
Not a threat. Not a weapon. The particular, casual, hey-look-at-me, I-am-talking-to-you finger snap of a man who was standing in front of her and wanted her attention.
She looked up.
Viktor stood there. Calm. Unbothered. The particular, post-massacre, just-killed-thousands, now-having-a-conversation, nothing-to-see-here demeanor of a man for whom the preceding events had been a minor exertion.
"Aunt," he said. "Shouldn’t you tell these guys that I am not interested in the seat of the useless Ktorians?"
The tent — the battlefield — the soldiers — the air itself went silent.
’Useless Ktorians.’
He had just called the Ktorian family — the royal family’s swords, one of the ruling bloodline, the particular, ancient, powerful, we-have-ruled-for-centuries dynasty that every person in this army served — ’useless.’
In front of everyone.
The particular, jaw-dropping, did-he-just-say-that, in-front-of-the-soldiers, in-front-of-the-commanders, in-front-of-the-princess, in-front-of-God-and-everyone gasp that swept through the soldiers like a wave.
They choked.
The particular, airway-closing, this-is-blasphemy, he-just-insulted-the-flag, we-are-all-going-to-die, how-do-we-react-to-this collective crisis of men whose entire worldview had just been insulted by the man they had just bowed to.
Evriana blinked.
The particular, overwhelmed, overstimulated, too-many-things-happening, I-cannot-process-another-revelation blink of a woman who had been hit by too many bombs in too short a time and was standing in the crater, swaying.
She had watched him fuck a woman last night.
She had learned that Celestia had fucked him.
She had sent a commander to seduce him.
She had watched him float swords.
She had watched him kill thousands.
She had watched the soldiers bow.
She had realized his political strategy.
And now he was standing in front of her, calling her family useless, and asking her to relay the message.
Her mouth opened.
Nothing came out.
The particular, brain-shutting-down, systems-failing, please-reboot, does-not-compute, error-error-error failure of a woman whose processing capacity had been exceeded.
"EHHH—" she started.
"—EHE—"
"—EHHHHHH!?!!!"