The Divine Armor of the Old Century（Book 2）

Chapter 303

The battered and broken body slowly rose to its feet, limbs twisting at unnatural angles like a marionette manipulated by invisible strings into a grotesque form. Countless crimson threads swayed within Samuel's wounds like tendrils of seaweed, pulling and knitting his flesh back together. He smiled, as if untouched by the pain that should have accompanied such an ordeal.

Things had taken a turn for the worse. Lloyd's gaze was locked onto him. As a demon hunter, Lloyd knew well that their strength fluctuated with the rise of secret blood. Before reaching the critical threshold, where demonification begins, fatal wounds could still kill a hunter. For instance, if Lloyd were to be beheaded before his secret blood surged, it would be the end for him.

But when the secret blood boils over, infusing the body with forbidden power, conventional attacks become nearly useless. As long as a single breath remains, a hunter can push the secret blood to its limit and fully transform into a demon.

Samuel's secret blood hadn't yet reached that critical point, which was why fatal wounds still held him in check—a fact Lloyd had counted on. But it wasn't just that. Samuel had also invoked his authority, the same extraordinary gift granted to demon hunters when they draw their blades against one another.

"The Undying Yanar."

Lloyd murmured as the countless crimson threads thrashed wildly in the air like some unknown beast. Severing the head, piercing the heart—these methods could effectively end a demon hunter, demonified or not. But those of the Yanar faction were a different story, much like the Shanda branch, a highly specialized offshoot.

Raising his shotgun, Lloyd fired a scatter of rounds directly into Samuel's body. Yet, after revealing his authority, Samuel didn't even bother to dodge. The damage was inconsequential to him. The crimson threads writhed within his wounds, rapidly regenerating flesh and forcing out the embedded pellets.

This was the power of Yanar—unlike scorching flames, impenetrable armor, or glimpses of the near future. Yanar's strength was simple: the grotesque maximization of demonic vitality. No matter the injury, as long as there was even the faintest breath left, that overwhelming life force would restore them.

It was a power verging on immortality.

Lloyd's caution was well-founded. The terrifying vitality made it nearly impossible to kill them with mere heart-stabs or beheadings. Complete annihilation was the only solution.

"His Grace called it a power of honor."

Samuel stared at his now-healed hands, with only the remnants of crimson threads clinging to them. This was a power born of honor. The crisis of the Night of Sanctity was far beyond what the Medanzo hunters could contain. At the critical moment, the Yanar hunters arrived. With their immense vitality, even after succumbing to demonification, they remained difficult to kill.

The slaughter raged on within the Stagnant Sanctuary where sin had been born. Hunters battled demons, and when the demons were slain, they turned their blades on their demonified comrades. Many hunters fell, yet the Yanar hunters endured with their monstrous resilience, continuing the endless carnage. It wasn't until the last of the Yanar hunters finally succumbed that the nightmare truly ended.

Blades flashed, iron armor clashed, and blood splattered.

The spiked sword pierced Samuel's chest once again. As Lloyd drove it deeper, the crimson threads surged like wild vines from the wound, coiling around his sword. Simultaneously, the punctured flesh rapidly mended itself.

Samuel showed no intention of defending—because he knew Lloyd couldn't kill him.

Seething flames erupted, cleansing fire blazing on both their bodies, signaling that the secret blood was nearing its final surge.