Chapter Twenty-Eight: You're Too Slow

"We need to go faster!"

The voice roared through the comms channel as the high-speed craft tore through the air. Doom and Harlan were racing through the canyon on anti-gravity bikes.

"Stay behind me! Just focus on me, don't worry about the changing terrain!"

Doom twisted the throttle, and his anti-gravity bike let out a roar, surging to supersonic speeds to take the lead, providing a reference for Harlan's positioning while guiding the way.

With reaction speeds exceeding nanoseconds, the rapidly shifting scenery appeared to him like slow-motion footage.

To Doom, the supersonic sprint of his mount felt like riding a snail.

When they first set out, Doom had offered to carry Harlan to speed things up, but he had been sternly refused.

"Beep, beep, beep!"

The anti-gravity bike's scanner issued a warning: a squad of Greenskin Orks was patrolling the canyon exit ahead.

"Don't slow down! Keep moving!"

The roar of the anti-gravity bikes quickly drew the attention of the Greenskin Orks, who shrieked with excitement, rolling up their sleeves to prepare for a brawl.

Hummmm~~~

The two anti-gravity bikes did not slow down, vanishing with the characteristic whistle of supersonic flight.

Before the Greenskin Orks could even mock the cowardice of their enemies, an iron fist loomed large in their vision.

By the time the lead orc reacted, it could no longer feel its limbs; its head seemed to be held by a giant human?

In the moment they crossed paths, Doom leaped off his bike, using 0.2 seconds to wipe out the ten-orc patrol squad with his bare hands.

With a burst of speed, he caught up to the bike still moving at supersonic velocity.

He crushed the skull with ease, scooped out the fresh brain matter, and swallowed it in one gulp, the orc's complete memories appearing in Doom's mind.

After a year of training, Doom had mastered this skill, partitioning a section of his brain to store acquired memories so they would not interfere with his subjective judgment.

"Follow me!" Doom shouted. "Twelve degrees to the left! There's a valley ten kilometers away with about three thousand Greenskin Orks gathered there!"

Doom intended to wipe out this small force of Greenskin Orks; after all, it wouldn't take much time.

Ten kilometers away, the bikes maintained their speed, racing through the winding canyon.

"I'm going ahead!"

Harlan activated his bike's defensive field, triggered his armor's shield, lit up the Nul Crystal beneath the bike's front armor, and deployed large, fin-like Dimensional Blade.

"You Greenskin scum!"

Before he even arrived, his roar was faster than the whistle of the bike. After a long time, the Champion Swordsman once again issued a challenge to his enemies: "Your grandfather is here!"

The Greenskin Orks were setting up camp in the woods when they suddenly heard a roar. The shrill, provocative bellow sent their rage surging.

A fight delivered to their doorstep? Just do it!

The Greenskin Orks excitedly grabbed whatever was at hand—blades, spears, clubs, primitive firearms—and surged out in a swarm!

In the narrow valley, the Greenskin Orks' formation resembled a twisted green snake, exactly what Harlan had hoped for.

The Cutting Cannon at the front of the bike fired silently, unleashing a massive Cutting Ray that maximized its lethality in the confined terrain.

The high-speed bike was like a bullet fired into unprotected flesh; the Dimensional Blade and the ray reaped lives, leaving the ground littered with corpses after a single pass.

Nothing could withstand the light blade that tore through dimensions.

Harlan's bike was like a harvester driven into a wheat field; on both sides and in front, the Greenskin Orks were sliced in two.

Scalding blood sprayed, and severed upper limbs still twitched and shrieked, crawling along the ground while clutching weapons.

Strike once and succeed! He immediately adjusted his altitude to disengage, the man and his bike stained red with gore, fleeing like a blood-tipped arrow.

An ancient cavalry tactic, but effective nonetheless.

The next moment, a man dressed like a gladiator leaped down from the heights.

Doom's upper body was covered only by straps holding his shoulder guards to his belt, his chest nearly bare. His lower body wore faulds that barely covered mid-thigh, and his combat boots reached his calves, leaving his knees and half his thighs exposed.

This savage attire wasn't for show; it was a simple compromise.

Doom grew too fast, and the master smiths had no fixed measurements to forge him custom power armor.

A forced compromise. This simple armor had no power source, relying entirely on Doom's own savage strength to move.

With fist spikes embedded in his left gauntlet and a Dimensional Light Sword in his right hand, the man jumped straight into the pile of Greenskin Orks.

Without a roar or a shout, Doom's silent slaughter began!

In that instant, his figure vanished from the Greenskin Orks' retinas; their bodies could not capture his speed.

With a light punch, he turned the head of the orc in front of him into powder, kicked a rock to pierce through several more, and swung his azure Dimensional Light Sword into a ring.

The Dimensional Blade swept through, passing through the Greenskin Orks' bodies without resistance, leaving wounds as smooth as mirrors.

Before the first drop of blood could spray and before the Greenskin Orks could even feel their lives fading, Doom had already finished his harvest.

8!

As Doom killed his eighth enemy, his fluid movements never faltered, but his hyper-acute senses detected that some strange gaze had fixed upon him.

The new Warlord swung his blade without pause, venting a stifling frustration.

Worries for his father and speculations on the situation were all swept into the radiance of his blade, vented away in their entirety.

88!

He was invisible, his figure impossible to capture; he was visible, and wherever the blue light passed, there were only the shredded corpses of Ork.

Harlan parked his mount on a high hill; he did not participate in the subsequent assault, leaning instead against his motorcycle to ease the fatigue of the journey.

He knew the restlessness in the heart of Doom; the young man was impatient, hoping to be of help to his father as quickly as possible.

Watching the valley, which had become a slaughterhouse, he sighed repeatedly at the strength of Doom. His psychological expectations, already high, continued to soar.

Blood flowed across the valley, and mangled limbs flew through the air. Harlan could not catch a glimpse of Doom, seeing only the light particles left behind by the azure sword-glow and the river of blood trailing in his wake.

Harlan sensed an abstract beauty; amidst the blooming sea of blood-red flowers, a blue butterfly fluttered its wings, and wherever it passed, the crimson bloom grew even more intense.

The readings inside his helmet were sounding alarms; the usually sensitive sensors could not scan Doom, and the targeting assistance system could not keep up with his movements.

If I were to fire upon him, how would I aim? How would I predict his position?

Almost subconsciously, or perhaps inadvertently, this thought suddenly popped into Harlan's mind.

A chill rose from his spine, giving him such a jolt that he hurriedly banished the absurd thought from his mind.

888!

In the span of a few breaths, thousands of Ork lay in pools of blood, not even understanding what had happened, their confusion frozen in eyes that had lost all luster.

Doom could feel the gaze in the void growing excited, trembling for the slaughter.

He did not pay too much attention to that gaze; Doom could roughly guess what it was—in all likelihood, that entity calling itself the God of Warriors.

If it likes to watch, then let it watch. Doom felt no great resistance in his heart; he could do nothing about it, and it was merely watching, causing no impact.

"Gork and Mork are..."

The Ork's frantic howl came to an abrupt end; its jaw and tongue were swept away by a single sword stroke, and its severed head slid slowly to the ground.

"I know your Gork and Mork are up there!"

Doom's slaughter was unshakeable; while his heart remained calm, he mocked the Ork's faith in Gork and Mork.

Having consumed the brain tissue of the Ork, he naturally knew of the two deities they worshipped.

Gork and Mork! Gork is cunning but brutal, Mork is brutal but cunning!

There are no gods in this world! Wait...

A spark of inspiration suddenly flashed in Doom's mind, bringing forth a familiar question he had never carefully considered.

On the blood-splattered battlefield, Doom's extraordinary brain began to think at high speed, re-indexing the information in his head.

The image of Isaac falling into the blood-mud, weeping bitterly, gradually became clear, and the fragmented words he had spoken began to connect.

Doom's expression grew colder, and the slaughter in his hands grew faster.

Carefully analyzing Isaac, connecting it to the City of Truth, then to faith, and finally...

God! It seemed to be a point that could not be bypassed!

"So that's how it is!" Doom muttered to himself, lifting his foot to kick an Ork into fragments, having reached a preliminary conclusion in his heart.

One minute. The residual warmth of the first Ork's blood had not yet faded, and there was not a single living Ork left in the camp; all three thousand Ork had been executed.

Doom stood in the mountain of corpses and sea of blood, his blade pointing at the ground. His breathing was not the least bit hurried, his body bathed in blood, the filthy gore of the Ork flowing down his body along the lines of his muscles.

Harlan descended from the heights and shouted to the white figure appearing outside the valley: "You all arrived too late!"