Imprisoned for a Trillion Years, I Was Worshipped by All Gods!-Chapter 647 - 203-True Despair

Seeing that his surprise attack had failed, the leaf-wielding assassin didn't try again. Instead, he turned tail and ran—abandoning all sense of tactics or dignity. His only goal now was escape.

Yet in the world of mages, there is an old saying:

"Never turn your back on your enemy."

Clearly, that adage had long since slipped from the man's mind.

He bolted through the battlefield, back to Alan, fleeing like a frightened animal, uncaring of the risks. But Alan wasn't about to let him go.

Locking eyes on his retreating figure, Alan gathered strength into his limbs and sword. The Elemental Blade gleamed with divine light, and with a mighty swing, he unleashed a sweeping arc of golden energy.

Shraaak!

The soft swoosh of the blade light cutting through the air was almost serene—right before it tore through the man's torso.

The leaf-wielder didn't even have the chance to scream.

His body kept running forward—but only from the waist down.

His upper half remained behind, frozen in place for a second longer, then slumped over lifelessly. The lower half staggered forward another two steps before it, too, crumpled to the ground in a bloody heap.

Blood gushed like a fountain from the bisected torso, dyeing the earth red. It pooled so thickly around the upper body that, by the time it stopped flowing, the corpse appeared taller than it had been in life.

But something was wrong.

The golden arc that had ended the assassin's life did not fade. It didn't even slow down. If anything, its brilliance intensified, continuing forward as though it had only just begun its rampage.

And its new target?

The tunic-wearing commander and his cluster of attackers.

Their eyes widened in horror.

Yes, they wanted Alan dead—but not at the cost of their own lives. The golden blade light surged with overwhelming mana and destructive power. As peak tier-gold mages, they felt it in their bones. This was not something they could withstand.

"Fall back!" one of them shouted.

The brute who had earlier hurled the greatsword was the first to move. He sprinted to where his shattered blade lay in the dirt, gripping it with a single hand despite its battered state.

Then, with a roar, he raised it and charged forward to meet the incoming sword light head-on.

The moment steel met mana, the battlefield screamed.

CRACK—CRACK—CRACK!

The air itself fractured, each shockwave a deafening explosion. The force behind Alan's golden arc shook the terrain, and the greatsword trembled violently in its bearer's hands.

The cracks along the sword's body multiplied at an alarming rate. The brute's arms wavered, struggling to maintain his grip. But before he could even think of releasing it—

SHATTER!

The sword exploded like brittle glass.

The brute stared, dumbfounded, shards of his weapon raining down around him. He stood frozen, unsure of what to do next.

But the golden arc was not done.

It had shattered the blade—and now it wanted him.

Once more, the sword light gathered force, roaring forward like a divine judgment. Just as it was about to strike, a figure leapt in from the side and lashed out with a whip-kick, hitting the arc's flank.

The trajectory shifted.

The blade of light missed—barely.

The figure landed, panting slightly, and barked, "What are you standing there for? MOVE!"

It was the tunic-wearing commander, his face twisted with both urgency and frustration.

The brute finally snapped out of his daze. He turned to flee—but just as he moved, a chill ran down his spine. Something… was above him.

He didn't think. He just swung his fist upward instinctively.

But his punch was half-hearted. He wasn't focused on attacking—he was trying to escape.

"Idiot—what are you doing?" the commander tried to shout a warning, but it was already too late.

Alan descended from the sky.

He had launched himself into the air and now came crashing down, fist-first. His strike met the brute's rising punch—and utterly obliterated it.

The difference in strength was overwhelming.

Alan landed steadily, barely reacting. He flexed his wrist slightly, as if he'd swatted a fly.

The brute was less fortunate.

A guttural scream tore from his throat as he clutched his now-limp arm.

"My hand! My arm!"

Alan frowned and snapped, "Quit your screaming. Isn't it still attached to your shoulder?"

Startled, the brute opened his eyes, teeth clenched against the pain. He looked down.

Yes. His arm was still there. Still hanging.

Relief surged through him. It hurt like hell, sure—but it wasn't crushed beyond repair. He could recover. Given time, he could return to peak form.

Then—

Thud.

His arm hit the ground.

His detached arm.

The shoulder socket bled freely, golden light flickering at the severed joint like an afterimage of divine fury.

That was despair.

True despair.

Not the kind you experience after being beaten again and again, when you've accepted the hopelessness of it all.

No—true despair was being handed hope, watching the clouds part and the sun break through—only for it to be snatched away the moment you reached out to grasp it.

That was what the brute felt in that final moment.

But he never had the chance to tell anyone.

With a piercing shing, Lumen Sancta thrust through his chest. A geyser of blood erupted from the wound, splattering across the battlefield.

It sprayed for nearly half a minute.

When the last drop fell, the brute slumped to the earth like a rag doll—lifeless, limp, and utterly silent.

Seeing their comrade fall, the last of the original trio—the spiked shield bearer—let out a primal roar and charged.

But unlike the brute, he didn't come in unguarded. As he rushed forward, he held the spiked shield in front of his body like a rampart. No matter how skilled Alan was, he would have to go through that first.

And those spikes? They weren't for show.

This tactic was straight out of nature's playbook. Hedgehogs, porcupines—creatures whose defense wasn't strength, but deterrence.

And it worked.

The shield's spikes scraped Alan's limbs with every clash. His arms, legs—even his abdomen—began to show bloodied streaks. Not deep wounds, but enough to slow him down.

Frustrated, Alan kicked off the ground, leaping backward to create space.

That was when the tunic-wearing commander rejoined the fray.

While Alan was still recovering from his engagement with the spiked shield, the commander struck with lightning-fast whip-kicks.

Alan was forced to split his attention—dodging sharp steel from one side, and a barrage of snapping limbs from the other. His stamina, both physical and mental, plummeted.

He was close to his limit.

Alan clenched his jaw. It was time. He reached into his storage space, preparing to pull out the Stone of the Sage—to gamble everything on one final transmutation.

Then—

Two daggers appeared beside him, slicing through the air like venomous fangs.

And a figure streaked past him, a gust of perfume brushing his nose.

She moved like a dancer—elegant, deadly.

The woman seized the ends of the spiked shield and, with both hands, jammed her blades into its joints. Using the leverage of her entire body, she twisted it violently.

CRACK!

The shield spun 180 degrees in an instant.

The attacker's arms, still gripping the shield, were wrenched in opposite directions. He screamed, reeling back as the joints of his elbows cracked like dry twigs.

The tunic-wearing commander froze. With his ally disarmed and Alan no longer outnumbered, he hesitated.

Then, without a word, he melted into the shadows of the canopy above, hiding, observing—waiting.

For now.