NOVEL NEXT Chapter 111: Human Flesh
The crowd wasn't cheering anymore. Not really. They had fallen into a different kind of silence.
The reverent, stunned hush of an audience realizing they were watching something too rare to fully process.
On the other screen, Blake Johnson was doing well.
Very well.
His advanced mecha sprayed plasma with expert control. He had felled a frost colossus, downed two storm wyverns, and tactically retreated when overwhelmed. Every movement was trained, learned, and sharpened by thousands of hours of elite American combat drills.
But it looked like a fight.
Damien's side looked like a demonstration.
Even the beasts began to thin.
Kill Count: 888.
His movements slowed.
Not from fatigue, but from concentration. There was a strange rhythm in the air. A pressure forming behind the wave. A heavier step. A louder roar.
The simulation was escalating.
The next wave came like a freight train of elemental chaos. Burning wolves, storm-charged gorillas, flying centipedes dripping with poison and fire and wind.
Damien looked up.
He exhaled once.
And then charged.
There was no hesitation. No second thoughts. He didn't analyze the threat or search for a plan.
He leapt into the storm.
His blade shimmered.
Black mist coiled at its hilt. Every motion became more fluid. Sovereign Stride intensified, dancing through molten air and hurricane pressure like it was no more than a gentle breeze.
In the observation halls, military tacticians stood frozen. The best pilots in the country—hybrid aces, generals, old war dogs—watched and knew.
This level of skill wasn't taught.
This was inherited.
There was no way any human being could learn and master such an incredible level of skill unless they fought non stop in the pits of hell for 50 years straight.
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Somewhere, far away, in a marble-lit hall lined with banners from every branch of the armed forces, Grand Marshal Li Qingshan sat at the head of a long obsidian table, surrounded by politicians, generals, and dignitaries from three allied nations.
The conversation had been dry. Battle logistics. Mana allocation. Beast incursion predictions. He hadn't touched his tea in over ten minutes, which, for him, was the rough equivalent of flipping the table and walking out.
Then the double doors burst open.
An aide stumbled in like he'd been chased by a dragon, face pale, uniform soaked in sweat, holding a data slate shaking in both hands.
"Sir! You need to see this!"
The entire table turned toward him in irritation.
Grand Marshal Li Qingshan didn't.
He remained seated, shoulders squared, fingers steepled beneath his chin.
His voice was quiet. Dangerous.
"If this is another false alarm," he said, not looking up, "I will rip your damn tongue out myself and wear it as a tie."
The aide hesitated only a second, then stepped forward and activated the display crystal in the center of the table.
The light flared to life.
The room darkened.
And Damien's feed filled the screen.
At first, no one understood what they were looking at. Just a single black mecha moving through a red-lit warzone.
Then it moved.
And everyone fell silent.
Grand Marshal Li Qingshan's fingers stopped moving.
On-screen, Damien's mech twisted through the heart of a beast wave like it was dancing with ghosts. He glided past a lunging serpent-beast, severed its spine with a single spin, then continued on, using the corpse as a springboard to launch into a pack of charging brutes. His blade moved once—just once—and four creatures fell in perfect, symmetrical pieces.
There were no wasted actions.
No hesitation.
Every step. Every breath. Every motion was a clean, practiced execution.
The room watched in stunned silence as Damien ducked beneath a winged predator's dive, twisted sideways to avoid a sonic burst, and stepped into the blind spot of a molten hound before sliding his blade into its core with surgical ease.
No words were spoken.
Someone dared to ask, "Sir, who is that pilot?"
The Grand Marshal didn't answer.
Because he didn't know.
But in his heart, in the depths of the instincts that had led armies and crushed empires, he understood something that terrified him more than any beast.
This was not a boy with a blade.
This was a message.
A warning from the future.
They would need his strength if they were to survive the Beast Onslaught.
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Damien stood at the center of the warzone.
The simulation was cracked earth and dying wind. Smoke choked the sky. Ash scattered across scorched buildings and shattered streets.
But there were no enemies left.
He stood there alone.
His blade hung limp in his mech's right hand, steaming faintly from overuse. His HUD pulsed softly, red icons blinking out one by one.
Enemies eliminated: 5,000.
It was a number so absurd, even the simulation had lagged when trying to display it.
Inside the other arena, Blake Johnson was breathing hard. His mecha was battered but still operational, standing atop a pile of scorched beast corpses.
Kill count: 512.
One man in a mecha actually slew 512 powerful mana awakened beasts.
It was an impressive number. Glorious, even.
Blake Johnson was extremely pleased with himself.
But the audience did not cheer for him.
In fact, they were strangely silent.
No music played. No celebration banners appeared. Even the commentators had gone quiet, staring blankly at their screens.
Grumpy Bear had taken off his headset.
Sleepy Smile had stopped sipping his tea.
The entire stadium sat there in stunned disbelief.
Five. Thousand.
It wasn't just impossible. It was… offensive.
An entire beast tide, wiped out by a single pilot in a basic mech with a titanium blade.
The number glowed like a glitch.
What the hell was that?
What the hell had they just watched?
And then the screen showed Damien's mecha lowering its blade. It didn't even pose. No theatrics. Just turned and started walking calmly toward the end zone marker.
Still, nobody said anything.
No fanfare. No analysis. No congratulations.
Just awkward silence.
It was so bad that Damien actually logged out.
The sim pod hissed open.
He stepped out, eyes calm, hair slightly tousled, rubbing the back of his neck.
"Hey, did the BGA lag or something? There was no sound at the end. Nobody was saying anything. What the hell. And guys, I'm hungry, you better have something really awesome to reward me for my hard work." he said while rubbing his tummy expectantly.
A voice shrieked from somewhere in the room.
"He's out! The beast killing monster is out!"
The generals surrounded him but kept their distance like terrified villagers spotting a ghost on their rice field.
General Riki pointed. "Is that flesh? He's not glowing? Why isn't he glowing?! Isn't he supposed to radiate angelic energy? Holy light? Somebody poke him!"
General Maru grabbed General Hong Fei. "You poke him!"
"Hell no! What if I get smited by divine lightning?!"
"He said he's hungry! What does that mean? Does he eat souls?"
"Does he eat other pilots?"
"DOES HE EAT HUMAN FLESH?!"
Damien stared up at them blankly.
"Can I get a bao bun or not?"
The generals froze.
Then General Maru raised a trembling hand.
"I'm getting you twenty. Right now. Pork buns, not human flesh buns"
General Hong Fei slapped his hand away. "No, I'll get them myself! Riki, bring the damn mana tea!"
Damien blinked once.
Then sighed deeply before turning to sit down on a nearby seat.
He knew the bunch of old men were nuts.
But they seemed nuttier than usual.
"I just hope insanity isn't contagious," Damien muttered, rubbing his temple.
His stomach growled loudly.
He sighed again, feeling hungry, tired, and now mildly concerned for his mental health.
Within the Battle Gods Arena, the audience slowly began to clap.
Not cheer.
Clap.
Like they had just watched something sacred.
Something terrifying.
And they weren't sure if it was allowed.