The golden armor was both divine and vicious—its texture and shape so natural it appeared less like equipment and more like something born directly from Thomas's flesh and soul. Every edge, every plate fit his massive frame perfectly, seamless as a second skin, merging power and majesty into one.
At this moment, Thomas's very existence underwent a fundamental metamorphosis. He could no longer be neatly classified as "human." The force surging within him, the essence of his being, had drawn closer to the Rulers than mankind.
"This time, I won't give you another chance!"
Thomas raised his golden-armored hand toward Scáthach in the distance.
"[CAPTURE]!"
The moment the word left his lips, an even more terrifying force erupted from his palm. Air shrieked, wrenched toward him. Gravel rose weightlessly, sucked into a torrent streaming toward his hand. Even the surrounding light bent and dimmed.
It was as though a miniature black hole had truly formed in his grasp—devouring everything.
"One glance and you know it's trouble…" Scáthach's eyes narrowed. "Getting dragged into that would be bothersome."
Her fingertips swiftly traced several Primordial Rune sigils shimmering with deep violet light.
The runes encircled her like living things, then branded themselves onto the ground beneath her feet—forming an immovable anchor. She fused herself to the bedrock, forcibly resisting that light-swallowing pull.
The black-hole-like sphere hovering in Thomas's palm suddenly trembled, as though reaching a critical threshold—and the devouring force abruptly stopped, severed like a snapped cord.
When he realized he couldn't simply drag Scáthach in, Thomas didn't hesitate. His arm muscles swelled as he hurled the unstable black sphere—compressed to its absolute limit—as though tossing a star of destruction straight at her.
The pitch-black orb tore through the air faster than sound, leaving a warped vacuum trail. It didn't simply fall—it was slammed into the ground by an invisible hand.
No ear-splitting explosion occurred immediately. As it touched earth, absolute silence descended first.
A hemisphere of darkness expanded soundlessly. Everything it touched—rock, soil, even air—was disintegrated into fundamental particles and erased.
Then, the energy pushed to its breaking point finally detonated.
A shock ring, mixing annihilating black radiance and blazing white energy, burst outward in a perfect circle. Wherever it passed, the ground peeled and shattered like brittle biscuits. Pulverized rock rose into a towering wave of dust tens of meters high, roaring as it consumed everything. The flash was so intense it briefly pushed back the eternal gray gloom—like a black sun born, then extinguished.
Thomas stood proudly at the crater's edge, silently watching the spectacle of ruin he'd created.
Then, without warning, he snapped his right arm upward. Golden aura instantly gathered at his fist, and he drove it down forcefully at his side.
BOOM!
A heavy impact. Air surged violently.
Scáthach, appearing beside him like a specter, caught the crashing punch with one hand—steady and unmoving.
Scáthach was no longer wearing the off-shoulder sweater and tight jeans. She'd returned to her dark-purple combat suit.
"What a shame. I rather liked that casual outfit…"
Her gaze leveled at Thomas held thick resentment. The earth-shaking attack hadn't hurt her—but it had ruined her clothes.
"RAAAARGH—!!"
Thomas roared deafeningly. His golden-armored fist crashed toward Scáthach like a siege hammer fired from a cannon.
Scáthach simply dipped her waist and leaned aside, composed. The ruinous fist howled past, barely grazing her lifted hair. Its pressure alone carved a crescent-shaped crater behind her.
"Your power's definitely risen," Scáthach said coolly, "but… your straight-line, inflexible fighting style is almost disappointingly easy to read."
Before the last word was finished, her counterattack erupted like lightning.
Detecting the slightest stiffness as Thomas withdrew his fist, she drove a precise, merciless straight punch—like a spear thrust—directly into his face.
BOOM!
A heavy impact, bone and flesh colliding with a dull crack. Thomas's helmeted head snapped back violently.
"Ghh… RRAAAAGH!!"
Thomas let out another thunderous roar, but before he could even bring his head back down, another ruthless punch landed—like a blacksmith's hammer smashing his face.
One punch after another.
Scáthach's fists pounded Thomas's face relentlessly. The majestic golden faceplate spiderwebbed with cracks before fragments started flying—shattering and falling away to reveal Thomas's true face beneath, twisted in pain and rage.
I… I'm going to lose?
The thought struck from nowhere.
How was this possible? Was this some kind of sick joke?
I'm a National-Level Hunter—Thomas Andre! How can I be beaten so easily, so pathetically?!
"AAAAAAA—!!"
Humiliation and unwillingness blazed into a raging inferno. Thomas screamed hysterically. The golden aura around him, already starting to fray, surged once more under his desperate will—burning recklessly, attempting to overturn the battle through brute force alone.
Observing the aura rise—still nothing more than a stubborn pileup of power—Scáthach lowered her lashes. A flicker of understanding passed through her deep violet eyes, fading into bored calm.
"Still obsessing over strength," she said, her voice clear and cool through the energy's roar. "Even now, you don't see what you truly lack…"
"Fine. Then it's about time we end this."
Thomas raised both arms high. The golden aura around them compressed to the extreme, radiating a heart-stopping wave of destruction. Anyone could tell—this would be an all-in strike capable of overturning the battlefield.
Scáthach stood directly before him. Her feet set into a simple, grounded stance—ancient and steady. Her breathing slowed, deepening; with each inhale and exhale, it was as if she resonated with the space around her.
At the instant Thomas's raging momentum peaked—
Scáthach stamped her foot.
The step appeared casual, far less dramatic than Thomas's punches tearing up the earth.
But the moment her sole landed, an invisible vibration pierced through the ground with perfect precision, striking directly into Thomas's center of gravity.
This wasn't physical impact.
It was disruption—an interception of "momentum" itself. Thomas's spirit and focus wavered for a single instant, his rising presence collapsing like a balloon punctured mid-inflation, dispersing uncontrollably.
"MY BAJIQUAN NEEDS NO SECOND STRIKE..."
Don't forget—Scáthach had trained in Bajiquan.
Forged through countless worlds of war, refined by memories and experiences carried within her Spirit Origin—drawn from many Servants—her Bajiquan had long surpassed mere technique.
Even if one couldn't say she fully surpassed the grandmaster who elevated fists to the "divine domain," Li Shuwen, her Bajiquan had reached heights that could be considered a Noble Phantasm.
And what she unleashed now was the famed "No Second Strike."
In that moment, her essence, breath, and spirit fused into perfect unity—complete, flawless.
Unlike Thomas's earth-shaking spectacle, Scáthach's punch contained everything—force, will, martial truth—sealed inward, without the slightest leak.
Her fist appeared to move slowly, yet it had already transcended speed. It carried the weight of natural law itself, soundless as it pierced space, driving straight into Thomas's centerline.
BOOM!
The strike landed squarely on the abdomen of Thomas's golden armor.
In an instant, a savage hidden force—like an awakened primordial beast—erupted from the point of impact.
It didn't stop at the surface.
It became countless invasive torrents tearing through his meridians, bones, and organs, spreading throughout his entire body within a breath.
Crack…
Crack… crack…
A fine, teeth-grinding shattering sound started from within the armor. Then twisted fissures crawled across the divine golden plates from inside out, spreading like living things.
Finally, with a pained wail of metal and power giving way—
BOOM!
The golden armor—the symbol of Thomas's absolute strength—burst apart completely, dissolving into a storm of golden light.
Thomas's knees buckled. His massive body could no longer support itself.
Thud.
He dropped to his knees, head sagging, eyes rolling white. His upper body pitched forward like a puppet with cut strings, and with a final flop, he collapsed face-first onto the ground—his consciousness utterly extinguished by that single punch filled with principle and hidden force.
Thomas Andre no longer had the ability to fight.
Scáthach had won.
"As expected… fighting humans just feels better."
As she spoke, she leisurely rolled her neck and shoulders. Her joints answered with crisp, satisfying cracks, as if her body was singing with the afterglow of a satisfying fight.
Then, as if sensing something, Scáthach turned toward the unconscious Thomas.
The golden motes scattered from his shattered armor hadn't dispersed.
Instead, they began gathering—drawn by an unseen will—swirling and condensing as golden light flowed between them. A golden figure, still hazy in outline yet carrying an entirely different air of authority, slowly took shape.
"What? Couldn't sit still anymore?" Scáthach stared directly at the blurred golden silhouette. Her lips curled slightly as fresh battle intent rose within her.
"Ruler."
She spoke the identity softly.
The power Hunters used on Earth all came from the Rulers. They had split off fragments of their strength and distributed it.
So why could only a tiny number of top Hunters—including Thomas—wield the Rulers' Authority, while the rest could not?
The reason was simple.
These top Hunters had been chosen by the Rulers. It wasn't merely a loan of power—they had become vessels capable of bearing consciousness. A Ruler's awareness dwelled within Thomas and those like him.
To the Rulers and Monarchs, Earth was far too fragile. Even aftershocks of their battles could destroy it completely. So before the war arrived, the Rulers created Dungeons and opened pathways between them and Earth—strengthening the world's stability.
The true bodies of the Rulers and Monarchs could not descend upon Earth. The only method was to find a vessel strong enough on Earth for their souls to inhabit.
Thomas was one such vessel chosen by a Ruler.
"What a gentle method," Scáthach remarked. "You could have erased their original consciousness and made these bodies your own—remade them to better suit your souls. But you didn't."
"Instead, you lent your power completely."
Scáthach was certain only the Rulers would be this "kind." If it were the brutal Monarchs, they would choose possession over coexistence—seizing the vessel's body and annihilating the original mind.
A Ruler's soul couldn't appear directly on Earth… but this was Scáthach's Land of Shadows, allowing a Ruler to manifest before her.
Yet even with Scáthach's battle intent pressing down like a tangible tide, the hazy golden figure showed no reaction—no willingness to fight.
"I'm not here to battle you," the Ruler said slowly. The gentle voice made hostility difficult. "I only ask you to spare this human's life…"
"The war with the Monarchs is about to begin. Every vessel capable of bearing a Ruler's soul is a critical combat asset."
Even standing at the pinnacle of this universe, the Ruler still lowered its posture when facing Scáthach.
---
T/N: EZ WIN
T/N2: heres ur updates :3 meeting the 4 chaps a week quota :3 do u think itd be better to do it earlier in the week to make u guys wait more for the bonus chapters
bonus chaps
100 stones -> 1 chapter
200 stones -> 2 chapters
300 stones -> 3 chapters
and so on
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