Chapter 97: Chapter 97: System's Spear

The spear cut through the air like a silver lightning bolt.

Elio's hand trembled slightly as he released it, his eyes fixed on Varen, who loomed over Lucien with murderous intent.

Time seemed to slow as the weapon sliced through the space between them. Elio's heart pounded, one beat an eternity.

He had made his choice. There was no turning back.

The spear found its mark with brutal precision, piercing Varen's skull, his half-formed fireball dissipating into harmless sparks. For a moment, he remained frozen, a macabre statue of death, the fifth trophy.

Then, with a soft gurgle, Varen collapsed, his body crumpling beside Lucien. Blood pooled around the spear protruding from his head, its metallic scent filling the air.

A roar of pure rage tore through the atmosphere.

The Patriarch's eyes, burning with an intensity that seemed to scorch the very air, sought Elio.

The killer of his last loyal Summoner.

But Elio was already beside him.

With an explosion of speed born from the deepest hatred, he closed the distance between them. His fist, charged with all the pain and anger of the day, connected solidly with Fathoran's jaw. The impact resonated through the street, a thunderclap of flesh against flesh.

Yet as the sound faded, reality reasserted itself with cruel efficiency. Fathoran was barely affected by the blow. A thin smile, cold and devoid of humor, played on his lips.

The System doesn't allow those of equal level to damage each other so easily. The attack of 5 is negated by the defense of 5.

But Elio was after something else. He spun, his eyes searching for his spear.

Fathoran, however, wasn't stupid.

With a brutal shove, he sent Selene crashing into Elio. They collided with a grunt, momentarily entangled. By the time Elio managed to stand, Fathoran had already reached Varen's body.

With a nauseating yank, Fathoran wrenched the spear from Varen's skull. Blood and worse spattered the ground, a grim testament to the day's violence.

Elio: 161 - 5 = 5 Resistance / 151 Armor Resistance

"Elio!" Lucien's voice, weak but filled with concern, reached him through the fog of pain. Selene had managed to help him to his feet, but he was far from battle-ready.

Elio spat blood, his eyes never leaving Fathoran. "Get out of here," he growled, the words causing fresh pain to shoot through his jaw.

"No!" Lucien protested, trying to step forward only to stumble. Selene caught him, bearing his weight. "I won't fail you again!"

A bitter laugh escaped Elio's lips. "I'm sorry," he said, his voice heavy with regret. "For everything. But please, go. Don't let my vengeance cost your lives too."

Fathoran watched the exchange with amusement, casually twirling the spear. "How touching," he mocked. "A little hero, trying to save the traitors... You remind me of someone... But anyway, tell me, who will save you?"

With deliberate slowness, Fathoran began to advance. His eyes gleamed with anticipation, a predator closing in for the kill. "Did you really think you could beat me? Me, who has ruled this city for a century? You're nothing but a child playing with powers you don't understand."

Elio raised the sword, his arms trembling from exhaustion. One more solid hit, and he knew he would be finished. But he wouldn't fall without a fight.

His only chance was to cut off Fathoran's head.

"You know," Fathoran continued, his voice conversational as if they were discussing the weather, "I'm impressed. You've left me speechless by returning from the sea of monsters. It would be a shame to kill you without you telling me what you did to survive."

He paused, a cruel smile spreading across his face. "But if you don't want to, it doesn't matter. If you could do it, sooner or later I'll figure it out myself. And when I've killed you, I'll take those cores from your corpse. I'll surpass level 6, and with that power, I'll reshape this city into what it was always meant to be."

Fathoran stopped just outside the sword's reach, the spear poised for a killing blow. "So, do you want to tell me, my dear subject?" he asked, false courtesy dripping from every syllable.

Elio straightened, meeting Fathoran's gaze with defiance burning in his eyes. Blood dripped from his chin, staining his robe, but he paid it no attention. At that moment, despite everything, he was every inch the warrior his mother believed him to be.

"Only this," Elio said, his voice firm despite the fear clawing at his insides.

"What are you made of, Motherfucker?"

Fathoran's eyes narrowed. He remembered the moment when Elio killed his descendants. Then, with a growl, he raised the spear.

Time seemed to slow as the weapon descended, its point aimed directly at Elio's face.