The ground cracked beneath Kyle’s boots as the new batch surged toward him.
Dozens of elite warriors, each brimming with divine mana and coordinated discipline, encircled him like a tightening noose.
Spears glinted, swords hummed with blessed enchantments, and shields thrummed with layered barriers. Unlike the last batch, they didn’t charge recklessly.
They moved with deadly precision—trained killers acting as one mind.
Kyle stood in the center of it all, unmoving.
From his distant perch behind the golden barrier, the God of War leaned back on his throne with a lazy, satisfied grin.
"How long can you hold on, Kyle Armstrong? Every breath you waste here is one less you’ll have when the real battle begins."
Kyle’s eyes narrowed.
He understood now—this was not about overwhelming him with power. No, the god of war was trying to drain him.
Not just his mana. Not just his stamina. But his focus, his edge. His intent was to bury Kyle under wave after wave of elite soldiers until he was too depleted to fight the god himself.
Kyle muttered, side-stepping an incoming blade, then slashing back with practiced ease. The soldier dropped, but another stepped in immediately, unfazed.
"They’re not here to win. They’re here to wear me down."
A spear grazed his arm, slicing through cloth and leaving a shallow cut. Kyle didn’t flinch, but he did sigh.
"Enough of this. Let’s end this farce."
The soldiers encircled him again, preparing for the next coordinated strike. But Kyle didn’t raise his sword this time. He raised his voice.
He said calmly, yet clearly.
The battlefield froze.
The name echoed across the field like a thunderclap, and for a moment, even the divine mana in the air seemed to hesitate. The elite soldiers paused, confused.
Then came the sound—mechanical, heavy, and unnatural. A rhythmic thud that seemed to shake the very earth.
A figure walked onto the battlefield—tall, imposing, and inhuman. General Runa, once a fearsome war hero turned god-forged puppet, now stood like a walking calamity.
His flesh, once riddled with divine symbols and magical seals, had been replaced with hardened exoskeletal armor fused with Kyle’s artificial mana. His eyes glowed like twin voids—empty, soulless, obedient only to Kyle.
One of the elite soldiers muttered.
"Kill it. It’s just a puppet."
Five elites charged forward as one unit, blades and mana techniques aimed for vital points.
Runa didn’t even block.
Their blades bounced off his hardened body with a shriek of metal against reinforced mana plating.
One tried to stab his eye—Runa caught the sword with his bare hand and crushed it. Then, with a swift turn, he grabbed the nearest soldier by the face and slammed him into the ground.
The divine barrier that protected the warrior shattered on impact.
One scream. Then silence.
The others hesitated.
He became a blur—an unnatural amalgamation of human speed and monster resilience. Every swing of his arms was like a battering ram.
Every movement sent shockwaves through the ground. He didn’t just fight—he tore through the elite soldiers with no regard for their technique, their sacred training, or their divine gifts.
They were elite soldiers in formation.
He was a walking apocalypse with no soul to fear death.
The remaining outsiders started screaming.
"Why isn’t he dying?!"
"I hit him with a divine spear! It didn’t even leave a dent!"
One of them turned to Kyle, who still hadn’t moved from his spot.
Kyle gave no answer. His sword was sheathed. His eyes remained cold.
Behind the golden barrier, the God of War’s amusement slowly faded into irritation.
"You brought that thing into my battlefield?"
Kyle finally looked up.
"Yes. You’re not the only one who’s been preparing."
"Do you think a puppet will stop my army? You cannot create more Runa, can you? Eventually, he will fall."
"Perhaps. But unlike your army, he doesn’t get tired. Doesn’t bleed. Doesn’t fear."
Kyle replied, watching as Runa continued to rampage across the battlefield, flinging corpses like ragdolls.
The god of war’s fingers twitched.
Runa’s presence wasn’t just a threat—it was a statement. A reminder that Kyle didn’t need to play by the god’s rules.
The puppet couldn’t be reasoned with, nor bribed, nor demoralized. It was pure will in mechanical form. And more importantly—it had no soul for divine influence to control.
The elites tried to regroup, retreating into new formations, launching long-range spells and coordinated strikes.
But nothing stuck. Runa’s body absorbed the mana like a sponge. His regeneration, amplified by Kyle’s core system, was faster than their damage output.
Panic spread among the outsiders.
The first line broke.
Then screams filled the air again—this time not of rage or arrogance, but of despair.
Kyle took a slow breath and stepped forward at last.
"Let him play with the toys. I’ll deal with the one behind them."
The god of war glared at him from his seat.
"You’ll regret this."
"I already regret wasting my time. Now let’s see how long your confidence lasts when your elites fall like insects."
Kyle said, eyes narrowing.
And as Runa’s roar echoed across the field, a chill ran through even the divine ranks.
Sparks flew as another soldier shattered beneath Runa’s fist, his divine armor crumpling like paper.
Blood sprayed, screams pierced the air, and even the bravest among the god’s elites began to falter. Their attacks, once elegant and synchronized, turned disordered. Formation collapsed as panic spread.
Runa was more than a puppet. He was a symbol. An unkillable being forged for war—built to break morale as much as bone.
One elite shouted, but it was too late. Runa surged forward, slamming into their ranks like a tidal wave. Shields were smashed, barriers crushed.
Those who stood firm were reduced to pulp. Those who ran were hunted down.
And yet, above it all, the god of war remained calm, arms resting casually across the arms of his floating throne.
"You don’t understand war at all, boy. This is a numbers game. Runa is impressive, yes—but what happens when he fights a hundred? A thousand? Ten thousand?"
He muttered, voice carrying unnaturally across the battlefield to Kyle.
"Then I’ll let him fight ten thousand."
The god scoffed, but behind his smirk, there was a subtle tension now—a flicker of doubt. His mana was still flowing out to empower his army. And the cost was mounting.
"You think this strategy will win you the war? You think one puppet can change fate?"
Kyle looked at the growing mound of corpses piling beneath Runa’s feet and then back at the god.
"I don’t need to win the war here. I just need to prove that your divine cycle is not eternal."
The god’s eyes narrowed.
Kyle stepped forward again, now walking casually across the bloodstained field as Runa cleared the path.
"Every soldier you send weakens you. Every failed wave is another crack in your delusion. You’re not invincible, God of War. You’re just... stalling."
Then the god of war’s smile returned—but it was strained now.
"Then let’s see how long your monster lasts, Kyle Armstrong."
He raised his hand. Portals shimmered to life again—more soldiers. More elites.
But this time, Kyle didn’t even look at them.