Chapter 1345 Bloody Retribution (Long Chapter)

1345 Bloody Retribution (Long Chapter)

"You pathetic little fuck," Michael growled, his voice dangerously low. He stared at Thorfinn, really stared at him, and for a moment, the dwarf regretted pissing off the Dark Lord.

Thorfinn braced himself, expecting the killing blow. He'd seen what that obsidian blade could do, witnessed the way it cleaved through flesh and bone as if they were nothing more than thin paper. But the killing blow didn't come. Not in the way Thorfinn expected.

Michael, with a casualness that bordered on the absurd, simply tossed the sword aside. It arced through the air, a blur of obsidian and shadow, before landing with a soft click in the waiting scabbard on Michael's back.

"What—? What are you—" Thorfinn sputtered, confusion momentarily overriding his terror.

Michael didn't answer. Instead, he did something far more unsettling. He smiled.

It wasn't the cruel, mocking smile he'd worn before. This one was different. Smaller. Cruler. And infinitely more terrifying.

"You want to hurt me?" Michael murmured, his voice barely a whisper now, but every word carrying the weight of a falling mountain. "Fine. Let's see how you handle a little... disappointment,"

He could have killed Thorfinn with a thought. Vaporized him, just like that monstrous serpent had done to his demon army. But that... that would have been too quick. Too merciful.

For the first time in perhaps a very long time, Michael wanted to savor this. He wanted Thorfinn to feel every ounce of pain, every shard of bone, every drop of blood.

He drew back his fist. Even with his power restrained, even with the barest fraction of his true strength flowing through his arm, the air crackled with anticipatory violence. Thorfinn, despite his centuries of battle experience, despite the dwarven blood that ran thick and hot in his veins, couldn't help but flinch back.

But there was nowhere to go. He was suspended in midair, Michael's grip on his neck as unyielding as the chains of fate themselves.

The blow, when it came, wasn't precise. It wasn't surgical. It was a blunt-force trauma, a meteor made of flesh and bone connecting with Thorfinn's jaw with a sickening crunch. And then Michael, with a roar that echoed the rage of a god pissed off, launched the dwarf straight towards the monstrous, seven-headed serpent.

However, the seven-headed serpent, its reflexes honed by the combined instincts of seven ancient beings, twisted away from the hurtling projectile that was Thorfinn Borgersson. The dwarf, a mangled mess of broken bones and sputtering rage, sailed through the space where the monstrous creature's head had been a heartbeat before, slamming into the hull of a nearby Skyhall warship with a sickening crunch.

The impact reverberated through the air, a sound like a giant's fist colliding with a ripe melon. The warship, its shields already weakened by the demon army's relentless assault, crumpled inward at the point of impact. Runes, glowing moments before with celestial energy, flickered and died, their light extinguished like snuffed candles.

Thorfinn lay in a crumpled heap amidst the wreckage, his once-imposing frame a study in broken angles. Blood, dark and viscous, seeped from between his lips, his chest rising and falling in ragged gasps. Broken ribs, white and sharp, protruded from his chest at unnatural angles, and one arm, twisted at an impossible angle, lay slack against the deck. Even the hardiest dwarf couldn't have survived that kind of force. Nôv(el)B\\jnn

"Thorfinn!" Erael cried out, her composure, so carefully maintained throughout the battle, finally shattering. She made to move towards her fallen comrade, but a hand, cold and strong, gripped her arm.

"Don't," Devdan hissed. "He's done for, and we're no match for him in this state. We need to go, now!"

"But he's going to kill him!" Erael spat back, her voice laced with a terror that was as much for Thorfinn as for herself. "We have to do something!"

"And what, pray tell, do you suggest we do?" Devdan snapped, his gaze flickering between Michael's advancing form and the carnage unfolding around them. He took a deep breath, regaining a measure of control. "Our priority is survival, Erael. We need to get out of here, regroup. The Celestial Cannon—"

"He'll hunt us down," Erael interrupted, her voice shaking. "To the ends of the universe if he has to. You know this,"

"Then we'll be ready for him," Devdan said with resolve and decided to use their best weapon against the Dark Lord. "We need to use the Celestial cannon, Erael. It's our only chance."

But even as they spoke, Michael moved.

"But even the Cannon... it might not be enough."

"It will," Devdan said, his voice laced with a chilling certainty. "If we give it... the right fuel. We need to use the souls we collected as the fuel to the cannon,"

But even as they whispered their treasonous plan, Michael moved.

He floated now, rising from the battlefield as casually as if he was taking a stroll through a park. His eyes, still black pits of unrelenting rage, were fixed on Thorfinn, and a slow, predatory smile spread across his lips.

On the other hand, Thorfinn, his body screaming in protest, tried to pull himself upright. His dwarven blood, usually so quick to mend wounds and knit bones, felt sluggish, the chill of Michael's magic lingering in his veins like a poison.

He didn't even have time to scream before Michael was upon him again, his movement a blur of shadow and rage. One moment Thorfinn was staring up at the dim glow of the pocket dimension's artificial sky; the next, he was back in Michael's grasp, lifted effortlessly off his feet, his broken body dangling like a child's forgotten toy.

The seven-headed serpent, sensing an opportunity, changed course. It moved with surprising speed for something so monstrous, its scales a blur of sickly green as it shot towards Michael, jaws gaping wide to unleash a torrent of soul-venom.

But Michael didn't even spare the creature a glance. His focus, his entire being, was locked on the broken dwarf in his grasp.

And in that moment, Thorfinn knew. He wasn't just going to die. He was going to suffer.

"These hands," Michael whispered. It was a sound devoid of warmth, of any trace of humanity. Just... cold, echoing emptiness. He took one of Thorfinn's mangled hands in his own, his grip gentle, deceptively so.

"These fingers..." Michael continued, his gaze fixed on Thorfinn's face, watching as the realization, the sheer terror of what was to come, dawned in those pale, bloodshot eyes. "They slapped her, didn't they? Struck her, again and again..."

He squeezed, just slightly, and Thorfinn roared, a sound of pure, unadulterated agony as bones ground against bone, his mangled flesh protesting the impossible pressure.

"No, please..." Thorfinn whimpered, his bravado, his dwarven pride, crumbling before the abyss staring back at him from Michael's eyes. "I— I didn't..."

A sharp, cracking sound cut his words short. Then another. And another.

Michael, his expression unchanging, his movements precise and almost... delicate, began to peel Thorfinn's fingers back. One by one. Like someone peeling an overripe fruit.

Blood, thick and dark, welled up between his fingers, painting Michael's hand a gruesome crimson. But he didn't seem to notice, or care.

"And this hand," Michael murmured, moving on to Thorfinn's other arm, his voice as steady and calm as if he was discussing the weather. "This hand... this one grabbed her hair, didn't it? Dragged her across the floor..."

"Stop... please... I'll do anything! Anything you want!" Thorfinn's voice was a high-pitched whine now, the words tumbling over each other in a desperate attempt to stave off the inevitable.

Hearing the dwarf beg, Michael chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that sent shivers down Thorfinn's spine. "Pain and fear," he murmured, his voice deceptively gentle. "They have a way of... breaking even the strongest resolve. Even a stubborn little shit like you." He leaned closer ad said calmly.

"But you know what's funny?" Michael continued, and Thorfinn could hear the amusement in his voice now, a chilling counterpoint to the agony that ripped through his mangled body. 22:47

"She never screamed. Not like you, anyway. Not like a pathetic little bitch."

Thorfinn whimpered, a pitiful sound that was swallowed by the ever-growing chorus of screams echoing across the battlefield.

"This shoulder," Michael whispered, his lips barely moving, but every syllable dripping with ice-cold venom. "This one... it took the brunt of her falls, didn't it? As she tried to crawl away from you..."

He squeezed, his fingers digging into the joint with impossible strength, and Thorfinn screamed again, the sound high-pitched and ragged, like a rusty hinge protesting a lifetime of neglect.

"Holy shit!" a horrified voice gasped from somewhere below.

"I can't look," another voice echoed, tinged with a terror that was almost palpable.

But no one dared to intervene. The sight of Michael, his face a mask of chilling detachment as he methodically dismantled the dwarf, was enough to give even the most battle-hardened warrior pause.

A sickening crack split the air as Thorfinn's shoulder dislocated, bone grinding against bone with a sound that turned the stomachs of even the most hardened Skyhall angels watching from the sidelines. Blood, a crimson geyser, erupted from the wound, splattering against Michael's armor, but he didn't even flinch.

"And this leg," Michael continued, his voice as calm and conversational as if he was discussing the merits of a fine wine. He moved down Thorfinn's body, his grip shifting to the dwarf's mangled thigh. "This one... this one connected with her ribs, didn't it? Over and over again..."

"Fuck... you..." Thorfinn gasped as his vision blurred at the edges.

But Michael wasn't listening. He twisted his hands, a slow, deliberate movement, and Thorfinn's leg, already broken in several places, snapped again at the femur. The sound was like a dry twig breaking under the weight of a falling tree. "Well, I'm a fair god," Michael growled, his voice a guttural roar. "I believe in... equal retribution."