HP: god of potions

Chapter 141

Grey moved with precise control, his magic now so evolved that he stood toe-to-toe with the horror without aid. Any other being would have mistaken his current strength for godhood. But he knew better. Even after nearly three millennia of battle and evolution, he had not yet reached the realm of true divinity. He had countless theoretical potion formulas, all designed to break the barrier between mortal and god, yet not a single ingredient to complete them. But that was a problem for another time. For now, there was only the fight.

As powerful as Grey had become, Y'thural-Zog remained indomitable. The horror was not a being that could be destroyed so easily. Even as its form unraveled and reformed under Grey's unceasing barrage, it adapted, countering his magic with pure, incomprehensible force. The void twisted in unnatural directions, distances warping as the entity lashed out. A single swipe from its immense mass tore through layers of space, its claws of shifting paradox raking against the unseen boundaries of existence itself. Grey's domain erupted. Where before he had wielded magic alone, now he unfurled his domain, and the abyss bent to his will. No longer did he fight as a sorcerer. Now, he was the world itself.

The moment his domain expanded, the battle truly shifted. Before, he had fought on even terms. Now, he stood as an equal. Y'thural-Zog, for the first time in the entire loop, faltered. Grey's domain was absolute. It reshaped the battlefield into something of his own making—an expanse where the laws of reality bent only to him. Concepts twisted. Matter obeyed his command. Within this space, his will was reality, and his power surged to an unfathomable peak.

Blades of crystallized void rained down in a storm, their edges so sharp that even causality itself seemed hesitant to allow them to exist. Fragments of shattered universes coalesced into meteoric lances, hurling forward with devastating precision. Each strike struck true, each impact sending Y'thural-Zog reeling, yet still, the horror endured. They clashed, unrelenting. Grey pressed forward, his apathy replaced by the cold, calculated need to push further, to reach past his own limitations. The horror, though beyond comprehension, recognized that it was no longer fighting an insignificant mortal but an equal—a force that threatened to truly oppose it.

And yet, after what felt like an eternity, the balance remained unchanged. Grey was no longer losing, but neither was he winning. It was a draw. A draw was unacceptable. Grey closed his eyes. The battle had taught him all he needed to know. He had reached an impasse, and there was only one solution. A quiet thought flickered through his mind before he let himself go. Y'thural-Zog's tendrils lashed forward, piercing him through the chest. Grey exhaled softly, feeling the familiar sensation of his body breaking apart. His consciousness flickered, then faded. Darkness. And then—Time reset.

In the void between worlds, Grey floated, bare-chested, wearing only a pair of loose, dark pants that clung to his frame. His body radiated an aura so intense that space itself warped, trembling under the weight of his presence. His flesh was inscribed with an uncountable number of runes, glyphs, and sigils, each pulsating with an eerie, arcane glow. These symbols, infused into his very being, shimmered with the essence of power beyond mortal comprehension, carved through countless iterations of death and rebirth.

The universe itself strained around him. He exhaled, his breath distorting the void as waves of raw force rippled outward, colliding against unseen cosmic fabric, bending the laws of reality. He had consumed the Essence of Transcendent Shimmer, refining his form to absolute perfection. He had mastered every facet of his existence, every cell honed to a level beyond conceivable perfection. The Elixir of Absolute Perfection had sculpted his body into something that defied the very concept of limitation.

And now, he was ready to test it.Y'thural-Zog, the Great Cosmic Horror, emerged from the abyssal expanse, its incomprehensible form seething with unfathomable malevolence. Its vast, writhing tendrils of non-existence coiled and uncoiled, its countless eyes blinking in staggered patterns of insanity, and its maw—an endless abyss of unmaking—gaped as it beheld Grey. And then, it shrieked.

A soundless, mind-shattering wail that should have unmade the fabric of time itself reverberated through the void. But Grey remained unmoved. He clenched his fist. His knuckles cracked, and the space around them shattered, rippling in concentric waves of devastation. He surged forward, propelled by nothing but the raw might of his perfected form, and struck.

His first blow landed upon Y'thural-Zog's twisted mass, and the horror convulsed. A shockwave exploded outward, distorting reality itself as the monstrous entity recoiled. A star system light-years away was obliterated as a consequence, wiped out by the sheer force of Grey's strike. His fist buried itself deep into the writhing abyss of Y'thural-Zog's existence, and for the first time, something unnatural happened—the horror felt pain. Grey did not stop.

His body moved with a grace that defied comprehension, a fluid blur of absolute power. He launched a flurry of strikes, each one detonating like a primordial force of creation and destruction intertwined. The Horror shrieked, its screams twisting the fundamental laws of physics, attempting to unravel Grey from existence. But he remained. Each tendril that lashed toward him was shattered with contemptuous ease. Each strike sent echoes across dimensions, breaking through barriers that should never have been broken.

Y'thural-Zog retaliated, unleashing attacks so beyond mortal comprehension that they did not exist in any tangible form. Beams of nullity, cascading void-fires, spirals of reversed causality—all of them clashed against Grey. And all of them failed. The perfected body did not merely endure these cosmic horrors; it bulldozed through them. Grey's footwork was like that of an apex predator. He weaved through the onslaught with an efficiency so sharp it bordered on divinity. When he dodged, it was not out of necessity but out of curiosity—to test his limits, to push further. When he blocked, his forearms crushed incomprehensible forces as if swatting away mere wind. And when he struck, reality itself recoiled. The Horror began to panic.

It writhed, twisted, and contorted, its maddening form pulsing with desperation. It called upon the unknown, reaching into forbidden depths of reality to summon powers that should not be. Planes of existence shattered as it tried to erase Grey from all conceivable timelines. But it was futile. Grey grinned.Then he struck again. A punch so fast and so powerful that time itself hesitated. The Horror's incomprehensible flesh was ripped apart, fragments of its very essence disintegrating into nothingness. It howled—not in rage, not in dominance, but in bewildered agony. Never had it known such suffering, never had it imagined such a force could exist. The perfect warrior, a being sculpted by relentless refinement, stood before it, unyielding and indomitable.