The Divine Armor of the Old Century（Book 1）

Chapter 170

The sky was ablaze, a vivid red so intense it seemed to bleed crimson. Everything was bathed in this fiery hue as the demon hunters approached under the gaze of the dying sun.

Like the final chapter of an epic tale, two arch-nemeses met in the midst of this breathtaking landscape, knowing only one would leave alive.

They began with cautious steps, then quickened their pace, and finally charged, their blades slicing through the air like iron-feathered eagles. The shriek of metal clashing echoed, sparks flying and winds whipping around them.

Their swordplay was fierce, each swing unleashing unstoppable force, scattering dried grass like shattered ashes swirling in the air.

Secret blood surged and awakened, releasing forbidden powers not meant for mortals. Muscles strengthened, bones hardened like steel, and hearts pounded like war drums, circulating this mystical blood rapidly through their bodies.

With each mighty blow, steel shattered and blurred into shadows. Deep gashes appeared on Lloyd's sturdy blade, but the craftsmanship of the cleansing mechanism kept it combat-ready. He gripped his weapon tightly, drawing his Winchester and firing at close range, the spread of pellets forming a deadly cone.

But it wasn't enough. As if anticipating it, Father Lawrence's spiked sword deflected several bullets mid-air, the remaining ones tearing more holes in his crimson robes.

Lloyd gave him no time to think. Ever since that fateful night, Lloyd had pondered how to defeat Father Lawrence, a man who could see the future. The answer, he realized, was simple: be faster.

No matter what future Father Lawrence saw, Lloyd's sword would already be descending. He needed to compress the time between "seeing the future" and "it happening" to give Lawrence no time to react.

"That's why Melanzon is the best power," Lloyd whispered.

Unlike other eerie abilities, Melanzon's power wasn't particularly flashy. It simply provided demon hunters with a sturdy armor, which blocked most injuries and increased their survival chances in deadly battles, enabling them to fight with abandon.

Flames roared from the gaps in his divine armor as Lloyd switched to a full assault. His blade moved with blinding speed, driving Father Lawrence back. Lloyd abandoned defense entirely, allowing the spiked sword to strike his armor.

Lloyd could take numerous hits, but Lawrence could not afford even one. Each of Lloyd's blows had the potential to inflict severe damage.

The spiked sword shattered Lloyd's scales, but new, hard layers quickly formed. Despite the armor's cracks and breaks, Lloyd's relentless attack finally overwhelmed Father Lawrence's foresight. The sword's cold gleam reflected Lawrence's face as it closed in.

"Well done!" Father Lawrence praised, but his spiked sword parried the falling blade. Immediately, gunfire followed.

"You're too slow," Lloyd said coldly.

Though the bullets missed, Father Lawrence sidestepped them, only to fall into Lloyd's trap. Trapped in a corner, Father Lawrence raised his sword against the falling blade. The Winchester was empty, and Lloyd had no time to reload. But he didn't need to.

A white light, accompanied by a howling wind, descended. Father Lawrence's spiked sword deflected the blade again, but this time, the blade slipped from Lloyd's grasp. He saw the demon hunter closing in, and then felt the crushing punch.

Sometimes, the body is the deadliest weapon. Empowered by secret blood, Lloyd's punch landed perfectly on Father Lawrence's abdomen, channeling all his rage into that frail body.

Lawrence retched, another punch landing. Pain steadied him, and he swung his sword, razor-sharp even in its dulled state, ready to sever flesh and bone. But this time, it met the unyielding divine armor.

The blade struck the armor, sparks flying. It couldn't break the armor, nor could Lloyd's furious fists break the sword. In their frenzied clash, the spiked sword penetrated the armor's gap, piercing Lloyd's arm.

The sword drove through, blood spurting, but Lloyd didn't flinch. His next punch struck Father Lawrence's chest hard.

Lloyd tried to press his advantage, but Father Lawrence recovered, dodging another punch. He grabbed the sword embedded in the armor, pulling it out with a crimson spray.

"Not bad, child," he said, not counterattacking but creating distance. Flames sparked in the grass between them.

Lloyd remained silent, reloading his Winchester, firing again.

Seeing the future was not invincible. Fatigue would eventually set in. Lloyd aimed to exhaust Father Lawrence's strength.

Blood dripped from the armor's seams, but Lloyd didn't mind the wound. He retrieved his fallen blade, seeking another opening.

"You learn fast, child. A hunter as skilled as you should be known to me," Father Lawrence said, regaining his calm. His gentle smile belied the recent deadly clash, his eyes reflecting the Black Knight's form, pondering his identity.

The Melanzon branch hunters should have perished, yet here was a nameless survivor. Lawrence was intrigued.

"When I kill you, you'll know I was your best student," Lloyd responded coldly.

"How arrogant," Father Lawrence said, not scolding but admiring, gripping his spiked sword tighter as he glimpsed a bloody future.

Blood ran down the black armor, soaking the shotgun, covering a line of poetry.

"Do not go gentle into that good night," a prayer-like voice echoed.

Gunfire shattered the prayer, white light bursting from the Winchester, a dragon's breath enhanced by holy flames. White fire swept through the grass, igniting everything, a fiery sea advancing on Father Lawrence.

Seeing his white apocalypse, Father Lawrence retreated. He lacked Melanzon hunters' defensive prowess, but he heard heavy footsteps following his retreat, so heavy they seemed heavenly.

In that moment, a vision of divine death, the sharp blade cut through the white inferno. The Black Knight, ablaze with holy fire, appeared angelic. Lloyd had charged through the flames, using their brilliance to close in on Father Lawrence.

With searing heat and the scent of ash in his nose, Lloyd whispered a curse from beneath the armor.

"I will kill you, Father Lawrence. I swear it."

The blade fell.

The thin figure was impaled, Lloyd wrenching the blade out, tearing Lawrence's left shoulder apart. Blood, flesh, bone, and all hatred and rage were severed.

Blood spurted from the wound, staining the black armor. The blade fell again. This time, the spiked sword met it weakly, and with a clash of steel, the blade broke and pierced Father Lawrence again.

"Ah, the long-forgotten pain," Lawrence muttered, surprised by Lloyd's ability, his eyes showing complex emotions behind his twisted mask.

"What's the difference between the gap and reality, child?" he suddenly asked.

"Is this a dying man's last words? I thought you'd say something useful," Lloyd replied, twisting the blade to widen the wound.

The distorted sensation of tearing flesh brought Lloyd unparalleled joy, feeling like part of the madness.

"How could it be? I've long planned my last words, but not for now," Father Lawrence said casually, gripping Lloyd's hand with unexpected strength, like iron.

He pushed Lloyd's hand, slowly extracting the blade from his body.

"This is a world of the mind, child," he emphasized.

Suddenly, rain poured down, quenching the fiery sea, soaking the dead grass.

"You can't kill a will like this," he sneered at the bloodstained blade. The ground lost its color, replaced by gray squares, collapsing into unreachable darkness, starting from Lloyd's feet.

"This is a new lesson, child," Father Lawrence's voice echoed as Lloyd's vision twisted, stretched into pure lines, intertwining into a vortex swallowing everything.