The Demonic Champion: Book 3: A Progression Portal Fantasy Series by Gregory Gron

Author:Gregory Gron [Gron, Gregory]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2024-06-02T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 14. More frags! Moar!

I break into a sprint toward the edge. Five steps to the next enemy. Three. One.

A hail of stones flies at my face. I just bare my teeth wider. A Deflection redirects the technique to the side; nothing slows me down. Thunder Claws rip through armor along with bones and flesh. The gutted body folds like a broken doll. Minus one Berserker.

Simultaneously, I release lightning bolts, their glittering lines crawling across the burning earth. My opponents fall with screams, caught in the nets of blue discharges. Their armor, attacked by a powerful charge, flickers, prolonging the lives and suffering of the bandits.

Who are you, guys? At first, I thought of Count Longstride. The blond guy, of course, talked beautifully about mistakes and punishment, but Mazepa also poured it on thick with Peter the Great. I don't have confidence in words not backed up by actions.

"So, this is who Thuderer Devil is." A voice comes out from behind the trees. I immediately recognize Lukino by his ringing accent. "And here I was wondering why Barrow was dragging a commoner everywhere. Thought he was a new pet."

"You are behind the times, dago. I was given a coat of arms. Now we are in the same party. So, I challenge you, noble to noble, to a duel of honor. Fancy a fistfight?"

My harvest doesn't stop. Casually, I cut off the heads of the men on the ground.

"I'm afraid, in my view, you are still an Eastern pig. And pigs get roasted."

A new wave of Italians emerges from the forest. The attackers unleash world-shaking energies: fire, ice, hurricanes, rockfalls, even good old lead. But, of course, everything misses me. Shocked, some guys even double-check their rifle sights, and I take advantage of that opportunity, leaping at them with swinging claws. Four severed heads roll into the bushes.

Having looked at the assholes more closely, I can see that the way their meridians are hardened is unusual. But all the Italians are locked up in the royal dungeons… Where did so many come from?

The air trembles from the bursts of my aura. The psychic storm intensifies, sending black clouds at the stars. Enemies freeze on the battleground. Their eyes peer through the slots of masks as I spread my arms wide.

Lightning flashes, the skies shudder, and the trees around us ignite, turning into flaming pillars. As the heated threads ensnare the enemies, I run among them, slicing one after another. Soon, only a few fallen are left for dessert.

"Take off your mask," I command a crawling Warrior. The lightning that knocked him down weakens, and he can move his limbs.

With a trembling hand, he pulls off the balaclava. Curly black hair, a hooked nose. A typical Italian.

"Good. Put it back on."

Under the weight of the aura, the guy doesn't dare to disobey. The mask conceals his face, and with a swipe of the Claws, I chop his head off his shoulders. Then I move on to the next. A few more bloody

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