Chapter 439 Chapter440-Neural Interface
?Where am I?
It feels as if I'm submerged under the sea, where sounds are muffled by the water, carrying a low echo.
What place is this?
Darkness surrounds me, devoid of any touch, my body seems to have detached from my soul.
How do I get out?
Greg attempts to open his eyes, but nothing changes, save for a vague sensation emanating from somewhere.
It's like distant calls, intermittent and faint.
His memory halts abruptly at Soma's devastating blow, like a film rudely cut short.
Greg realizes a fact.
He is likely blind.
Sensation might return, but the prospect of regaining his sight seems bleak.
Pondering over this grim conjecture, Greg feels his sensation slowly returning to his body.
Or rather, he is gradually reclaiming control over his body.
He does not know how long he has been unconscious, but judging by the aches scattered across his body, the battle seems to be ongoing.
He smells blood, the scent of pyrotechnics, and the charred odor of flesh; his skin can feel the air moving, his ears catch the "whooshing" sound of flames, moans from a corner, and footsteps that were approaching step by step before halting.
Those are Soma's footsteps.
"You really are tenacious." That is Soma's voice.
Perhaps the loss of sight has sharpened his hearing, for Greg detects weariness in Soma's voice, even his heavy breathing. ReAd latest chapters at n0v(e)lbin.co/m Only
Clearly, Soma is not faring well either, possibly in as dire a state as he is.
Groping and struggling, he manages to stand, staying motionless in his spot.
"As long as you're not dead, how can I afford to die!"
...
Greg stood up again, swaying, but he stood nonetheless.
Soma had never thought it possible for anyone to rise under such circumstances.
The likelihood of survival was negligible, let alone standing up by one's own strength.
His brain should have turned to mush!
Taking a deep breath, Soma suppressed his surprise.
If Greg wished to stand, then he would continue the assault.
If he wanted to stand, let him stand.
Before his demise, no matter how many times, Soma would oblige.
Once? Twice? A hundred times? Two hundred?
It didn't matter.
Soma would fight until Greg could no longer rise.
Greg's resilience excited Soma.
The desire for destruction was ingrained in his very bones.
He had thought nothing could satisfy him anymore, but Greg's tenacity at that moment stirred something in him.
More evidence confirmed it.
Thus, Greg began searching for Soma, but to no avail for seven years, until a month ago.
"It's quite the clichéd story," Greg said with a self-deprecating laugh.
"In these kinds of tales, the protagonist rarely ends up well, regardless of the outcome."
Losing loved ones, killing the enemy, what remains is nothing but emptiness.
Yet, such thoughts couldn't sway Greg's resolve.
Those who have never felt hatred might find it hard to understand, but the anger that erodes reason day and night can drive a person to madness.
Forgiveness isn't as simple as saying the words, and pardon is never just a matter of declaration.
Moreover, some people are beyond the reach of forgiveness and pardon.
Soma extended his arms forward, his movements stiff like a zombie, yet his arms remained strong.
He leaned in, intending to clutch Greg's throat, to put his thoughts into action.
Greg didn't step back; instead, he stepped forward, crashing into Soma's embrace!
All his strength burst forth in that collision, like a moth plunging into the flames.
Greg had no idea what lay ahead; vague sounds were his only aid in judgment.
He felt himself hitting a solid, slippery body, the smell of blood assaulting his nostrils.
Soma, already unsteady on his feet, wobbled under the impact, his body tilting to one side!
Greg firmly grasped Soma's limbs, slowly but resolutely climbing onto Soma's chest.
After Soma's degradation, he towered over two meters tall, while Greg stood merely at one meter thirty, not even as long as one of Soma's legs.
Yet, sitting atop his chest now, Greg instilled a sense of fear in Soma.
Greg grasped Soma's throat, the latter's last vestiges of strength scattered by Greg's impact, leaving him devoid of the capacity to resist.
His gaze held little fear.
Fear stems from the unknown, but he was acutely aware of what was to come, of what he was about to face.
"How do you plan to kill me?"
Soma's final question came as his consciousness began to drift away from his body.
"How did you kill Naya and Dora?"
Greg countered, breaths heavy, blood froth spilling from the corners of his mouth.
Soma managed a weak smile.
"You wouldn't want to know."
Greg nodded, his face void of expression, save for the twin trails of bloody tears streaming down from his deformed eyes.
"Then, I suppose, you wouldn't want to know either."
The last bit of mana, emanating effortlessly from the palm of his hand, invaded Soma's body.
With his internal mana depleted, the degradation spell began to corrode his body, now as fragile as a sandcastle on the beach, ready to crumble at the slightest wave.
The invasion of mana was cautious yet smooth.
Greg, with utmost concentration, controlled the mana as it gradually occupied every neural interface in the back of Soma's brain.
"Do you know?"
Greg gasped, the intricate operation draining much of his strength.
Although the loss of sight hardly affected the procedure—
arguably even aiding in focusing his attention—Greg's physical condition was no better than Soma's, hanging on by a mere thread of vitality.