Chapter 157: Fall of the Coward

Paul and Luke stood facing one another in the middle of the ruined street, surrounded by silence and shadow. Only the moon lit the rubble, casting cold silver across fractured stone and ash. There was no one else. Just the two of them, both knowing it was a trap. One waiting for the other to make the first move.

The stillness lasted a heartbeat. Then the earth trembled.

A roar tore from Paul’s throat as mana-forged arms erupted from his back, dozens of them, coiling into the sky like serpents made of spectral steel. They spun outward in spirals, forming a crown of blades and fists above his head as his feet lifted from the ground.

“You’re the last obstacle in my way,” he muttered, eyes gleaming. “And you’ll be erased.”

But even before the words left his mouth, his eyes widened. Luke was gone. No sound. No warning. Just a blur across the air, like shadow cutting through smoke. Paul twisted on instinct—barely in time. A kukri sliced clean across his cheek, leaving behind a burning trail of blood. Snarling, he pushed off with a burst of energy, retreating.

“I should thank you for saving Allison for me,” he spat. “Getting angry, Luke?”

But Luke said nothing. He tightened his grip, and vanished again. The arms snapped to shield Paul, forming a barrier of solid mana just in time. Luke struck. Flashes of movement. Above, behind, below. He wasn’t attacking to kill. Not yet. He was testing. Watching. Calculating. Probing for openings like a surgeon circling the incision point.

Paul screamed, and his spectral arms exploded outward, spears and claws lashing like hydras. They tore chunks of stone from the street, hurling shrapnel through the night. And then, a hit. A punch struck his jaw. The arms were too slow. The blow snapped his head sideways. His footing faltered.

“You’re going to die!” Paul roared, fury overtaking calculation. He dropped back to the ground and shifted into a sprint. The arms followed him in a storm of motion, dozens of them, blades whirling like a hurricane of razors.

But Luke… he danced. Gliding through the attacks with inhuman precision. Each swing missed by inches. Each arm was batted aside, redirected. And with every dodge, a shadow followed behind him. A delayed echo, like a phantom stitched to his movements.

Paul’s eyes narrowed. Where is he?

He spun—too late.

Luke dropped from above, kukri drawn in a tight spiral. Paul threw up an arm just in time to block, but the weight of the impact cracked the earth beneath him. He staggered, summoned more arms, formed a dome of defense.

“Are you going to cry over Angelica?” he shouted, venom in his voice.

Luke materialized within arm’s reach, no longer silent but focused. Terrifyingly still. He drove a fist into Paul’s gut, and air vanished from Paul’s lungs. His body flew backward like a cannonball, crashing through a wall and into the skeleton of a collapsed house.

Dust fell. Rubble shifted. When Paul’s eyes opened, Luke was already inside. He tried to react, calling the arms to skewer the space, but Luke slipped through like smoke, stepped in again, and punched him clean across the jaw. Paul spun, dazed. Another blow followed. Then another. The arms tried to respond. Some shattered mid-summon, others severed at the joint.

Luke didn’t pause. He pressed in, relentless. A flurry of strikes followed. Bone meeting steel. Flesh meeting mana. Paul stumbled, off balance, breath ragged, unable to regain control.

“Say something!!” he screamed, his voice breaking.

But Luke remained silent. His eyes were empty.

“SAY IT!” Paul bellowed, hurling weapons through his conjured arms while others flung stones, steel, anything to crush Luke beneath the weight of sheer force.

“Weak,” Luke answered.

Just one word. Quiet, flat, final. But it landed deep.

Paul froze for half a heartbeat, something twisting behind his ribs. Rage rose to bury it. He screamed, unleashing every arm at once, a tidal barrage of spears and blades, hundreds of phantom limbs converging like a swarm.

Luke moved through them like smoke through fingers. Every step, every pivot, was impossibly smooth. He ducked low, slid between two slashing blades, vaulted over another. Untouchable.

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Paul’s eyes widened. How the hell…?

He didn’t need an answer. He already knew. Perception. Reflex. Prediction. Luke blurred forward in a clean, straight dash, kukri raised, the air around him warping with momentum. Paul readied his sword to block, but the blade never came.

Instead, Luke’s free hand snapped forward and drove a punch straight into his nose. Bone cracked. Blood sprayed. The arms pulled Paul back automatically, but Luke had already followed. Another blow, clean across the jaw.

“You’re nothing compared to the Midnight Warden,” Luke said, calm as a scalpel.

Paul roared. Mana erupted. Dozens of arms burst forward like shrapnel, each holding steel. He sprinted too, turning himself into a living army.

Luke didn’t flinch. He met the storm head-on. The kukris spun from his hands, cutting arcs of silver-black. Each spectral arm shattered. Each summoned blade clattered to the ground.

Luke threw both kukris upward, spun on his heel, and his foot connected with Paul’s face. The world tilted. Paul hit the earth hard, his breath torn away. Above, the kukris fell, and Luke caught them mid-spin, seamless, fluid. He hurled them again. Midair, they split, duplicated, each one a perfect phantom.