Boom!
The ancient temple shattered and collapsed. The earth heaved. That hand rising from the ground like a sky‑piercing pillar thrust up from below, belching roiling rot.
The eerie, putrid aura stained every flower and blade of grass black in an instant. They didn't die—they warped and twisted; leaves and petals curled into grotesque shapes, patterns like eyes budding across them.
Damian and Shura broke off at once and turned toward the giant hand reaching from the ground.
The soil blackened under a strange, nameless power—as if that hand were the very source of the corruption.
Shura and Damian both fell back at the same time to avoid contamination.
The ground ahead cracked and sank. The hand clutched at the earth, a brace as something hauled itself up.
Crash…
A head larger than a locomotive bulged free, followed by a body like a mountain and legs as thick as train cars.
A skyscraper surged up in a blink—straight for the sky.
No—the "skyscraper" was a giant.
Seventy meters tall, maybe more, with a single blood‑red eye on its massive head like a searchlight.
Tumors pocked the giant head to toe; its build was misshapen and vile—right arm overgrown and deformed, one half of the body bloated and lumped, the other knotted with tumors—a towering hunchback.
Ugly didn't begin to cover it—like a cross between a giant and a "believer."
A Cyclops from myth?
The giants and believers handling the sacrifices fell to their knees before the powerful colossus, each going mad—tearing open their chests with warped hands to rip out their hearts and offer them to the Cyclops.
So the Cyclops was the source of the evil god's blood.
Its single eye glowed with bloodlust and corrupt malice—and in one glance it picked out the two outliers, Damian and Shura.
Awooo!
It opened its maw in a low bellow like a Great Horn blast, belching rot.
The foul breath, rank with filth, made one retch—made one's head swim.
Damian rolled his eyes at the stench. After a few millennia of sleep, that breath could fumigate a city.
In myth, the Cyclopes were the children of Uranus and Gaia—defining trait: one eye set in the center of the forehead.
Uranus, fearing their strength, imprisoned them in a dark abyss. Later, Zeus freed them to fight the Titans.
In gratitude, they forged thunderbolts for Zeus, the trident for Poseidon, and the helm of invisibility for Hades, helping Zeus and his siblings overthrow Kronos.
That's the Cyclops from Greek myth.
By the myths, Cyclopes were gentle giants—masters of forging and building, craftsmen through and through.
But the Cyclops before them was warped head to toe, tumors all over, even a hand turned to tentacles, its entire being reeking of rot and evil.
Just looking at it felt like pollution.
It was either terminally diseased—or genetically scrambled.
No wonder they called it an evil god.
.
A black tower under rolling clouds, thunder and lightning.
In the top room, the woman in the black gauze dress watched the scene in her mirror.
The Cyclops roared, killed, devoured, pursued.
To the Cyclops, the Saint and the masked mystery man were two ants—beneath notice.
"Miss, the Cyclops has revived. Once it eats all the humans on Sicily, it will grow stronger still. Taking the Sanctuary will be within reach."
The middle‑aged man in a tailcoat smiled. "Miss, the show's only begun. Shall we send the Cyclops to feed in the towns now?"
"No need."
She laughed softly, eyes on the giant in the mirror. "Let it crush those two bugs first."
"As you command."
The man dipped his head. His right eye flooded with deep blood‑light, and his will reached hundreds of kilometers away…
.
Roar…
The Cyclops turned rabid and lifted a massive foot toward Damian and Shura.
"Holy Sword!"
Shura wasn't one to run. He snapped his arm and hurled a slash—golden sword‑qi screaming as it hacked a bleeding gash into the giant's sole, flesh flying.
The Cyclops howled and stomped anyway.
Boom!
Dust billowed. The earth blew apart.
It stomped empty ground.
The two below had slipped away at lightning speed.
Whss-whss-whss…
Sword‑qi tore the sky—Shura's blades carving more bloody tracks and gouges from the Cyclops.
Damian wasn't idle. A Plasma Lightspeed Punch blew blossoms of blood from the giant, chunks flying.
He also tried a Scarlet Needle and a Sekishiki Meikaiha.
They did little. The skyscraper‑tall brute only hopped in pain, shedding blood and meat.
Their attacks only made the misshapen monster wail—so shrill it made the head spin.
Useless.
Damian watched its wounds knit at a speed visible to the eye.
Yes, the Cyclops had hyper‑regeneration—giants' healing, and more.
This kind of attack wouldn't do against such a thing.
"Holy Sword!"
Shura roared and lopped off two toes at the root, making the giant yowl. The digits regrew in a blink.
"Shura—are you a pedicurist now?"
Damian shouted over.
Shura flushed and gritted his teeth. "At my peak, I could take the whole foot."
He'd fought twice already—first the Apostle, then this masked man—and taken wounds. He'd been knocked off peak form.
His Holy Sword could split mountains and cleave ridges—but on this mythic monster it barely scratched. A blade that could shear Cloths did limited harm to such a massive, over‑tough target.
Which meant even at his peak he couldn't fell the Cyclops before them.
Too big, too hard, too much life—each slash did less than the Cyclops healed.
He had to admit—it did feel like a pedicure.
Such was a monster of legend.
You couldn't simply "cut it down."
So… galling!
Mm!
Just then, a woman fell into Shura's arms.
He looked down—it was Marin, Aquila's Silver Saint.
The masked man called over: "Get her somewhere safe. The Cyclops is mine."
"Yours? Are you insane?"
Shura couldn't help it.
A Cyclops, being a monster of myth, could only be killed if His Holiness came in person.
The masked man was absurdly strong—but not enough to slay a monster from the mythic age.
Damian didn't answer.
He vaulted into the air, muscles swelling, gold blazing from his whole frame, Cosmo surging to a peak. He raised his hand and slapped down at the Cyclops, voice cracking like thunder:
"Titan Nova!"
(End of Chapter)
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