Chapter 130-131

Chapter 130

Earlier—before we enter this trial—I pulled Iskara aside.

“I got a new Skill,” I told her. “I’ll use it to win.”

She studied me, golden eyes narrowed. “A new Skill?”

“Yes. I’ll use it when the moment comes. Trust me.”

She frowned, then nodded once. “Then I’ll wait. When I say so, I need you to transfer all your buffs to him. Can you do that?”

“Jacob, if I do that—”

“Just trust me.” Iskara looked at me with a conflicted expression, then agrees.

*

Now, as Azrakel’s power swells to new heights—pushing well past the peak of Diamond Rank, almost brushing True Diamond—he starts to lose his mind.

“All these Skills will be mine! HAHAHA! Finally, the tyranny of the System will end! You will all be punished and my hard work rewarded!”

Can he absorb Skills? What is he talking about?

Those blessed by Asmodeus can do terrible things, Jacob Cloud. Focus on the battle, for now. He can’t take anything from you if he’s dead.

I’ve managed to accumulate just enough power to unlock the last of the Five Deadly Arts.

Now, the moment comes.

Azrakel lifts the hammer again. His veins split further, violet fire pouring out of them. His body shakes, but his strength keeps climbing. He points the weapon at Iskara.

“This is the end.”

She steadies her stance. Her fists blaze with light, yet her arms tremble with each breath. Her body cannot keep up with the storm inside her veins.

I clench my fists. The Skill pulses in my chest, waiting.

“It’s time,” I whisper.

[You have learned the fifth art of the Five Deadly Arts.]

[You have learned a new Skill — Hellish Reversal.]

[Hellish Reversal (Diamond) — Any enemy that has active buffs at the Rank of Hellish Reversal or below will have them turned into debuffs. The intensity of the debuffs scales with the level of Hellish Reversal.]

“NOW!” I shout to Iskara.

She doesn’t question me. She turns her head toward Azrakel, golden eyes locking on him. She lifts both hands, and her voice cuts through the heat.

“Boon Transfer.”

The gold in her veins surges. Lines of light rip out of her body and race across the broken ground. They strike Azrakel and sink into his flesh. The air twists when they enter him. His aura swells again. His grin widens.

“Have you lost your mind, Iskara? Is this the last gift you want to give me before I take everything from you? Everything that was supposed to be mine?”

Iskara’s light dims at once. Her knees shake. Blood runs from the corner of her mouth. She takes one step toward me, then another, and then her legs give out. She hits the stone and does not rise. Her chest still moves, but her eyes close.

I throw my will into the new Skill.

“Hellish Reversal.”

A harsh pressure slams outward from my core. The world tilts for a breath. The glow around Azrakel snaps and turns inside out. Every single buff on him twists into a weight on his flesh.

[Strengthen → Weakness.]

[Haste → Slowing.]

[Regen → Hemorrhage.]

[Aura Polish → Aura Rot.]

[Armor Skin → Fracture Risk.]

[Mana Hyperconduction → Mana Leak.]

…

The list runs on—every buff now sitting on him, including those Iskara just transferred.

Azrakel’s head jerks to the side. His pupils tighten. He staggers and almost drops the hammer. The warhammer’s light gutters. The black and violet lines on his skin stop spreading and then split further without closing. Steam vanishes from the stone under his feet.

His aura falls in one long drop. It stops at Peak Platinum and hangs there like a dead weight.

“What… what did you do?” His voice cracks. He looks at his hands and then at the dim glow clinging to the hammer. “What did you do?!”

“Orrivane,” I shout, “kill him now—”

Azrakel bares his teeth. He lifts the hammer with effort and takes aim before the drop fully settles. His eyes burn, and his voice turns into a growl.

“Soul Shock.”

The wave bursts from Azrakel. Orrivane tries to raise the void but fails. His body jerks, blood sprays from his mouth, and he drops to the ground. He does not get back up.

Azrakel staggers but keeps the warhammer in hand. His aura collapses down to Peak Platinum. His skin tears. Black and violet blood and fire leak from the cracks.

“You… you think you’ve won because you cut my strength?” he growls, spitting blood. “Even weakened, I’ll crush you. You are nothing but the most useless Champion. I am ROYALTY! I AM AN INFERNAL! YOU ARE NOTHING!”

I summon Hellbane’s Sword and the Dark Blade, fusing them into Black Flame without effort.

I can’t use Tribulation of the Damned now. If it doesn’t kill him, his strength will be fully restored after consuming the debuffs.

Azrakel squares his stance. His warhammer drags against the ground, sparks bursting with each scrape. His breathing is heavy, uneven. His aura flickers and fails to settle. Still, he points the weapon at me.

Behind me, Iskara lies still on the broken stone, her golden veins dimmed. Her body has given out under the strain she forced through it. Orrivane is down, his void gone.

It’s only him and me now.

Do not take him lightly, Jacob Cloud. He’s not as talented as his sister, but this is a member of the Three Great Races you’re facing. Even in his weakened state, he has more than enough power to rip you apart.

I know.

I set my jaw. I stop thinking about anything else. I read his stance. I read his breath. I read the stone under my feet.

I activate the Grimoire. Architect’s Insight runs through my head. Greater Mineral Sense, Vibrational Hyperawareness, Heavenly Intuition—everything comes online at once. The world narrows to lines, to openings, to the exact millimeter where force will break armor and bone.

Infernal Veins wakes. Black lines rise under my skin. Flame Armor snaps over my body. Mana Well opens. My reserves fill. I do not hold anything back.

Azrakel raises the hammer. He charges. He swings slow and heavy. He wants one strike to end this.

First Step of Mephistus gets me out of the path. Fault Line Instinct tells me the exact moment his weight will shift. I move on a sliver of uneven ground with Quake Balance. The hammer misses my head by a hair.

I cut.

“Diavolo Draw,” I mutter.

I drive the slash up along his forearm toward the hand that holds the hammer. Shard Dominion locks the force of his counterstrike into the air. The hammer glances past me. It does not reach my body. The shock goes somewhere else.

My blade bites through plated muscle and corrupted flesh. Azrakel screams. The warhammer drops. Metal scrapes stone, sparks die. His hand is shredded to bone. Blood and black fire spill.

He reels. His balance breaks.

He forces Corruption through the wound, trying to graft the debuffs back into himself—trying to heal by burning whatever remains. He pushes pain into power to cover his fall.

I use that moment.

Web of Withering wraps his legs. Sigil of Baal marks his chest. Greater Striking Rhythm times every blow. I do not overcommit. I hit the exact points the Grimoire shows: the exposed tendon at the wrist, the cracked rib under the left lung, the thin seam where his aura threads meet.

Black Flame cuts through bone and sealed veins. Each strike drains him. Blood runs black, then violet.

He snatches the warhammer and throws a wild swing before he can fall. I parry with Shard Dominion. The shock snaps into the shards of pressure I set on the ground; it collapses around him instead of forward. The blast tears the stone where he stands. He’s thrown back, clawing for me as he falls.

I go in.

I split the swords for a breath, striking from both sides with the simplest cuts, exploiting the weak points the Grimoire paints for me.

He reaches with his remaining hand, grabbing for my throat. I step past him. First Step of Mephistus carries me behind his flank in one breath. I plant my foot and drive my blade into the joint of his shoulder.

The blade finds the seam of his Corruption. The black and violet lines convulse. The Corruption spasms and recoils. The marks on his skin split. He howls. His armor of power flickers like a dying lamp.

He makes one last reach for the hammer. He’s half on his knees. He cannot lift it. He cannot focus. His aura pools and fragments. He tries to speak, but his voice cracks.

I shut it down.

I flood Black Flame with Mana Well until the blade is a lance of pressure. I thread Web of Withering through the wound and anchor it. I force every ounce of control into the strike that follows. The Grimoire shows the last lattice node left in his chest. I drive the blade through it.

The black fire tears the node apart. Azrakel convulses. His corrupted veins burst like a struck drum. Violet smoke rises from the wound and collapses inward. His breath is no longer his.

He goes still.

He does not die at once. His chest heaves. His eyes roll. He reaches for the hammer and fails. His remaining strength drains out of him like a leak. The black marks fade to thin cracks. The violet flame sputters low.

I take a step back. I do not take another. I do not gloat. My hands shake. My lungs burn. Behind me, Iskara lies unconscious. Orrivane does not move.

Azrakel coughs blood. He looks at me with a face drained of color. He tries to speak; only a wet rasp comes out. His voice is small.

“Do it,” he says. “Finish me.”

I look at him. I look at the warhammer at his side. I look at the ruined hand.

I don’t reply.

I raise an empty hand. “Any last words?”

“Yes, I—”

“Tribulation of the Damned.”

The Skill triggers.

Every debuff on Azrakel ignites at once. Web of Withering strangles his legs tighter. Sigil of Baal burns on his chest, spreading across his torso like fire searing into his veins. Aura Rot eats through the last of his defenses. Mana Leak drains the flow of his Core dry.

Azrakel jerks forward as if his own body turns against him. His knees slam into the stone. His back arches. The air bursts out of his lungs in one long scream.

A bolt erupts from above, wide and jagged, slamming straight into him. The impact throws his body to the ground with such force that the wetland floor splits apart in a circle of dust and stone. The air shakes with the sound.

Azrakel thrashes inside the crater. His warhammer clatters aside, its glow dying to embers. His aura breaks apart completely.

His eyes roll back, his limbs shudder, every debuff pressing harder and harder until his body nearly tears itself in two.

I keep my hand raised until the glow of the Skill fades.

When it ends, Azrakel lies on the ground.

Dead.

“Bring your last words to hell with you,” I say, sighing as the energy leaves my body.

The silence after Tribulation feels unreal.

I lower my arm and let Black Flame die in my grip. My chest heaves, every breath raw. My legs tremble from the weight of what I just forced through them.

I turn my head.

Iskara lies on the stone. Her body doesn’t move except for shallow breaths. She looks fragile, nothing like the force that stood against her brother moments ago.

Orrivane lies farther back, head turned to the side, blood pooling from his mouth.

The Champions scattered around us still do not stir.

It’s only me left standing.

I run through options. My Mana is drained. My Skills are cooling down. If any monster comes, I have nothing left but the bare core of my strength. For the first time in this fight, the edge of fear presses at me.

I have to wake the Champions. Let me check on Asterion.

CLOUD! THE CRATER! LOOK AT THE BODY!

King Baalrek’s alarm snaps through my soul. I turn back to the crater.

Azrakel’s burnt body twitches once. His chest rises with a shuddering breath.

I freeze.

The cracks along his skin split wider—and what lies beneath is not flesh. It is black.

Pitch‑black scales crawl out, layer after layer, covering his chest, his arms, his face.

An aura erupts from him, so heavy it feels like the whole wetland bends toward it. I stagger back. I can’t even measure it.

“Grimoire,” I whisper.

[Analysis Requested…]

[Divine Entity — Impossible to Analyze at your current Rank.]

Chapter 131

Baalrek’s voice hammers into my head.

Jacob Cloud. This is no longer Corruption. This is intrusion. You face something far beyond mortals.

Azrakel’s eyes snap open, burning with an abyssal light. His body is now fully scaled, each plate of black shimmering with faint gold lines within. His aura erupts higher—far beyond Diamond, far beyond anything I’ve faced.

The crater glows with a faint, unnatural light. The air itself grows still, like the world is holding its breath.

Azrakel’s body shifts. Slowly, impossibly, it rises—not standing, but lifting from the ground as though pulled by invisible chains. His limbs hang loose, his head tilts forward, blood sliding down his chin in slow rivulets. His feet leave the stone entirely.

The sight is wrong. The way he floats makes my stomach turn, as if I’m watching a corpse move without life inside it.

The black scales spread, sealing wounds, hardening into plates that shimmer like oil. Thin cracks of gold pulse beneath them, each beat sharp enough to make the stone under me shake.

I grip Black Flame tighter. My voice comes out hoarse.

“…Who are you?”

Azrakel’s head lifts slowly. His neck jerks like it doesn’t remember how to work. He doesn’t answer. He only tilts his head, eyes glowing with abyssal light—unreadable, inhuman.

Then a voice—not Azrakel’s—rolls from his throat. Deep. Ancient. Layered like a thousand whispers stacked together.

“It is sad,” the voice says, steady and cold, “to have to wear the flesh of one who knelt to me. But I felt a thread of Karma too great. A thread that could not be ignored.”

The air grows heavier, pressing down on me like a mountain. My knees almost buckle.

“Sometimes,” the voice continues, each word shaking the ground, “I myself must come and pay the price to sever it. To make sure the weave of fate runs the way it should.”

Azrakel’s body floats higher, arms spreading. Black flame leaks from his scaled skin, curling into the sky like smoke that refuses to disperse.

King Baalrek’s voice is a snarl in my head.

Jacob Cloud—this is Asmodeus himself.

The abyss stares at me through Azrakel’s eyes as a slit—golden and malicious—opens in each iris.

Asmodeus smiles at me.

Jacob Cloud. You are about to die.

I swallow. My mouth is dry. I can’t steady my breath. The Champions are down. And even if they wake, they can’t help.

I have nothing left. My Skills are cooling. My reserves are low.

“What do I do?” I ask aloud. My voice sounds small.

Silence. I feel King Baalrek thinking. The delay is a weight.

Then, low and certain.

Give me control.

I blink. “What do you mean, give you control?”

Asmodeus just looks at me, amused, through Azrakel’s eyes—waiting. A god doesn’t concern himself with what I’m trying to pull.

Lend me your body.

Panic flares. My heart hammers. There’s no time to argue. No time to weigh anything.

How?

Just say you allow me to take over.

“Do it,” I say. The word is forced. I close my eyes. “Take it. Do whatever you have to. Just—just don’t leave me dead.”

I will return it to you soon, son, King Baalrek answers solemnly, before his tone regains its edge. Right after I beat the living shit out of a god.

The command lands inside me. Cold. Raw. Immediate. My limbs go heavy. My vision narrows. My will dims like a candle being covered by a hand. Panic slides under the surface. I grip the hilts and try to hold on. Something else pushes.

Muscles seize. Bones feel like iron. Breath comes in a different rhythm. A presence floods my chest—older and harder than mine. Black Flame flares, then steadies under a new hand. My feet find the ground with sudden weight. Strength returns in a clean, precise rush.

My consciousness blinks out.

*

Jacob’s skin shifts at once. The pale red of strain deepens into a solid, burning crimson. Across his face, from brow to jaw, a skull‑like tattoo etches itself in black lines, sharp and merciless.

The translucent horns harden—solid and real—jutting forward with weight. A crown of gold forms above them, not delicate but massive and heavy, pressing down like a burden carved into reality.

The wings stretch wide, longer and broader, each five times its former span. Their edges scrape the air with every shift, black flame coursing across them in violent waves. His body swells, bones thickening, muscle packing on until his frame towers over what it was.

The ground protests. Stone cracks beneath his feet. The wetlands shudder under the weight of something greater than mortal.

Asmodeus stops smiling. His scaled face twists into a snarl. The abyssal light narrows. “Baalrek.”

Jacob’s mouth opens, but the voice is not Jacob’s. It is King Baalrek’s—deep, grinding, contemptuous.

“Little black lizard,” King Baalrek says from Jacob’s body, thick with disdain. “You thought you could take this kid out without any problem?”

An aura to rival Asmodeus’s intrusion erupts from Jacob’s body.

Asmodeus hisses, voice like broken stone. “You dare show yourself in my presence, Baalrek? Through a mortal vessel?”

King Baalrek laughs through Jacob’s mouth. It isn’t warm. It isn’t human. It’s heavy and sharp—the sound of an ancient king who once ruled hellfire.

“Through this boy, I could break ten of the current you. And you know it.”

Black flames writhe higher from Asmodeus’s scaled form, but King Baalrek’s aura crashes against them, pressing them down. The forces grind into each other, tearing the air where they meet.

“Words of a fool,” Asmodeus says. “Just like when you were still alive. I will erase this nuisance and you with it.”

“Little black lizard,” King Baalrek answers, voice shaking stone, “you talk too much. You always did.”

“Kneel, Baalrek. Beg for erasure and I won’t torment this piece of your soul once I’m done with your vessel.”

“I don’t kneel,” King Baalrek says, raising a hand and summoning a three‑meter trident of black flame. “Not to you. Not to anyone.”

He beats those massive wings and takes to the air. “Oh, and by the way? He’s not my vessel.” King Baalrek slams a hand to his chest. “This is the first disciple worthy of the name I’ve had.”

Asmodeus’s slit pupils tighten.

King Baalrek disappears—then reappears a breath later behind him, close enough to whisper. “Your intrusions are slow as always.”