SSS-Rank Evolving Monster: From Pest to Cosmic Devourer-Chapter 107: he was simply the first

Crimson lightning tore across the heavens, its chaotic arcs painting the sky with violent fury as blood surged upward, coalescing into a monstrous figure.

A giant was born—colossal and terrible, its form rising like a mountain of wrath, easily spanning hundreds of meters in height. Its very presence eclipsed the horizon, casting a vast, suffocating shadow that swallowed the land below.

Beneath that barbaric monstrosity stood Akroa.

In comparison, the once-mighty figure looked like a speck—an ant before a storm, a whisper before thunder.

It wasn’t just the visual disparity that made the air tremble—it was the overwhelming pressure, the crushing truth that sought to erase Akroa’s existence completely.

From dozens of kilometers away, Ricky stood frozen. His pupils contracted as he witnessed the impossible unfold. The towering creature radiated an aura so ancient and violent, even space itself seemed to recoil in protest.

He forgot to breathe.

"...What in the fucking world."

His voice came out hoarse, barely more than a whisper carried away by the wind.

"Such a thing was also possible...?"

He wasn’t expecting an answer. The words spilled from his lips as his mind struggled to process what he was seeing.

Meanwhile, the battle raged on like a nightmare carved into the world.

After his transformation, Darius moved like a wrathful deity incarnate. His blows no longer felt like physical attacks but calamities—each punch a concentrated burst of annihilation, raw and absolute.

Casual swings of his fists unleashed pressure waves that carved trenches into the ground and caused the air itself to tremble like a plucked string. Thunderous shockwaves rippled outward, each one louder than the last, shaking the clouds above and splitting the land beneath.

Nearby, monstrous beasts that had lurked in the safety of the forest stirred. They peeked through the foliage, only to shrink back in primal terror. The sky, to their eyes, was falling.

Akroa, though shielded by his spiritual field, reeled under the onslaught. His protective aura could absorb the brunt of the physical force—but the true horror wasn’t in the impact.

Each blow resonated with something deeper—a mysterious and ancestral force woven into Darius’ very blood. It seeped through all defense, ignoring logic, bypassing barriers. It attacked the essence, not the flesh.

The divine lineage of Eldros made itself known—not in spectacle, but in inevitability. It was like trying to resist the sea with your bare hands, trying to defy gravity by wishing it away.

It was a law, a decree carved into the fabric of this world.

Akroa clenched his jaw, unmoving.

Then came the decisive blow.

Darius hurled his fist forward with unrestrained force. The air screamed, the earth groaned, and reality itself seemed to crack.

A deafening boom echoed across the land as the punch connected.

For a moment, nothing moved.

Then, like fragile glass under a hammer, the world fractured. Spiderweb cracks spread out from the point of impact, branching wildly in all directions through the very air itself.

Akroa stood still—silent, proud. His expression remained unreadable, almost serene, as if the blow had failed to reach him.

But in the next heartbeat, his form betrayed him.

Thin fissures appeared across his body, glowing faintly with energy leaking from within. One crack. Then another. Then a dozen more, spreading like veins of destruction across his limbs, chest, and face.

The stoic warrior looked as though he might shatter at any moment.

Then—boom!

Like a mirror struck by divine fury, Akroa’s body shattered.

It didn’t explode in a rain of gore or vanish in a blaze of light—no, it crumbled with a brittle, almost fragile finality. One moment he stood, resolute and defiant. The next, he was dust on the wind, fragments of bone and flesh breaking apart like dried clay beneath a god’s judgment.

A Stage 3 warrior—one who had weathered centuries of war, who had outlasted kings and watched empires rise and fall—was gone in an instant.

He did not die whimpering, nor at the hands of obscurity. His fall came at the hands of an Eldros, and not just any Eldros—a bloodline awakened, transcendent and divine.

In a world obsessed with strength and honor, there could be no greater death.

And when, thousands of years from now, fresh warriors were asked to sacrifice themselves for their cause, they would remember this moment. They would recall the proud fall of Akroa, and they would raise their chins and say:

"Even he fell. So shall we." fгeewebnovёl.com

As Akroa’s fragmented remains faded into the wind, the divine behemoth above him began to unravel.

A hiss tore through the air—like a kettle shrieking at its limit—and then a burst of white vapor engulfed the battlefield.

The monstrous form dissolved, melting into mist, and from within staggered a human silhouette.

Darius.

He had returned to his former state, but it was clear the transformation had come at a heavy cost. His face, once sculpted with arrogant strength, now looked like a charcoal sketch come alive. The skin was blistered and blackened, as if scorched by an otherworldly flame.

Then he moved—just a step.

And with it, an entire layer of skin peeled away from his shoulder, slipping off like a silk robe. It dangled for a second before falling with a sickening wet sound to the bloodstained ground.

Like a serpent shedding its old self, Darius was being remade—each transformation leaving behind a cost, a husk.

Far away, Ricky’s eyes narrowed.

There was no pity in his gaze, only curiosity—piercing and profound.

He had felt something just now. During that eruption of power, a breath had stirred in the world—something ancient, something eerily familiar. A resonance deep within his soul, buried in his blood.

It was the breath of the True Eternal Origin Race.

Ricky’s lips curved into a half-smile.

"How interesting... how very interesting."

A glint flashed in his eyes, sharp and calculating.

For a few seconds, he simply watched Darius stumble through the aftermath of his glory. Then he decided. His voice—calm, composed, utterly unshaken—echoed inside Darius’ mind.

"Darius. Come back."

No shout. No urgency. Just the weight of command, borne from someone who didn’t need to raise his voice to be obeyed.

Darius barely hesitated.

Even after awakening divine blood, even after touching a power that bent the laws of this world... he could only nod.

Because Ricky’s voice did not offer a choice. His words were law.

The kind of law that did not bend.

His skills—every last one of them—seemed alien to the world’s natural framework. As if they didn’t originate from this reality at all. Not divine, not demonic... something else entirely.

Each one was a puzzle.

Each one, a miracle.

While waiting for Darius’ return, Ricky turned his gaze inward, his attention drifting toward his newest disciple.

Valemont.

The young alchemist was still hunched over the latest batch of alchemical recipes—ones far more intricate than before. His brows were tightly furrowed, sweat trailing down his temples as his fingers trembled slightly while flipping through the parchment.

To most, the silence might’ve been frustrating.

But not to Ricky.

Instead of disappointment, his heart swelled with a quiet, simmering anticipation. The longer Valemont took, the more Ricky believed in the potency of what he had created. Truly groundbreaking concoctions required time, after all.

In his mind, the logic was simple: if even someone like Valemont, blessed with talent and a well-trained mind, needed this long to decipher them—then these recipes were not just effective. They were exceptional.

A faint smile tugged at the corner of his lips. His sharp eyes shimmered with quiet satisfaction.

Then—footsteps.

Heavy, measured, unwavering.

Darius had arrived.

The man walked forward with his back straight, every step exuding the silent pride of a born warrior. His aura was slightly unstable, flickering from the toll of his divine transformation, yet the fire in his eyes remained untamed.

He stopped a few paces before Ricky.

Their gazes met.

In Darius’ eyes burned defiance—a stubborn ember that refused to die, no matter the humiliation or the power imbalance. He stood tall not because he didn’t know fear... but because pride demanded he not kneel.

Ricky regarded him in silence, unreadable as ever.

And within Darius’ heart, a storm churned.

So many conflicting emotions twisted inside him—resentment, disbelief, humiliation... and perhaps, buried deep beneath it all, a strange sense of awe.

It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t just.

He hadn’t been enslaved because Ricky had overpowered him in battle. No, it was something else—something deeper and far more disturbing.

He was caught in a trap before he even realized it was one.

And if it weren’t for the crushing laws of this strange inheritance space—this domain where Ricky’s influence reigned supreme—he might’ve broken free already. That secret technique, that enslaving power, felt tenuous... but held firm.

Darius clenched his fists.

This wasn’t a defeat he could rationalize through strength or strategy. It felt wrong. It felt like fate had played a cruel joke.

"I wasn’t enslaved because he was stronger," he muttered under his breath. "It was because I was in the wrong place... at the wrong time."

And then—

Crack!

It was as if a bolt of lightning split his mind, a sudden realization shattering through the haze.

Out of all the warriors in the world... why me? Why enslave me first?

Was it because he was the strongest?

Or because he was useful?

His mind raced. Possibilities bloomed like wildfire—some arrogant, others paranoid.

And then, like ice water poured down his spine, a chilling thought emerged.

What if this wasn’t special?

What if it wasn’t about him at all?

What if Ricky could enslave anyone?

A slow horror crept into his chest.

He hadn’t been chosen because he was unique.

He was simply the first.

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