Perhaps sensing a familiar presence, the once-dormant mass of the Evil God shuddered violently, then slowly heaved its body upright as countless threads unfurled and drifted around the stone stele at its core.

  Glenn had already taken on the form of a formidable Seventh-Tier werewolf, the purity of his cursed aura so overwhelming that the two figures behind him were visibly shaken.

  The antlered man had previously discerned Glenn’s constitution as that of a Fifth-Tier werewolf, yet his earlier transformation had only displayed Third-Tier strength—enough to make the man wonder whether the Forest Will had been toying with them.

  But now, the werewolf before him had undergone a second transformation—surpassing the Fifth-Tier entirely. What exact level it was, he could not say, only that it was terrifying.

  "Be careful not to look at the stele beneath that thing. It’s dangerous."

  Glenn advanced toward the Evil God’s flesh-mass step by step, giving the warning.

  "So you’ve already suffered for it once," the antlered man said, as though unsurprised. "That stele is carved from the Evil God’s true bones. Without the proper constitution, one cannot gaze upon it."

  As they spoke, Glenn collided with the flesh-mass.

  The shockwave could not damage the terrain, yet for the antlered man and the mysterious sorceress, it was another matter entirely.

  They were forced to unleash their defensive powers to the fullest merely to avoid being torn apart by the blast.

  Even with a little experience, Glenn found himself struggling. He still could not break through the creature’s defenses, and its attacks were nearly impossible to evade.

  The crimson greatsword could not harm the flesh-mass either—it was far less useful than his steel claws, which at least served well for defense.

  This time, instead of expending all the Blazing Fangs’ draconic breath at once, Glenn coated his claws with it, striking whenever he found an opening.

  Their clash resembled a violent black tempest spiraling around a sphere. From afar, the two could scarcely make out Glenn’s silhouette.

  "Have you located the Evil God’s main root?" the antlered man asked, standing before the sorceress and shielding her from the blast.

  The sorceress, having set aside her staff, was tracing rapid sigils across the ground with both hands. She did not respond.

  The man understood—she had not found it.

  His gaze returned to the battlefield, awe rising in his chest at the ferocity of the fight.

  Glenn, meanwhile, was faring poorly. Those dense threads were impossibly hard to avoid; he had already been struck multiple times.

  He could heal his wounds in an instant, yet the threads siphoned his cursed power the moment they pierced him.

  The drain accelerated his expenditure and drastically shortened his transformation time.

  The flesh-mass was already covered in a lattice of claw marks—mere scratches across its surface, delivering no substantive harm.

  Glenn finally understood: there were no weak points on its body. So he shifted his target to the threads beneath it.

  He loathed approaching that place—the source of the threads. One mistake could leave him riddled like a beehive.

  But he had no time left.

  Finding an opening, he forced his way toward the underside of the flesh-mass, attempting to strike.

  But the difficulty was immense; several attempts ended in failure.

  Then he switched to ranged attacks.

  The flames along the bracers on his arms shifted subtly. Finding a narrow gap, he flicked several thin fire-blades into the air, striking the underside of the creature.

  The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

  Several threads were severed. The flesh-mass seemed unaffected, but its attacks grew noticeably sharper.

  Agitated? Glenn sensed hope, and unleashed more fire-blades, severing thread-roots again and again.

  The Evil God’s flesh-mass grew increasingly frenzied, swaying violently from side to side.

  The assault continued—threads snapping one after another—until the upper portion of the stone stele beneath became faintly visible.

  It was as if a switch had been flipped.

  A soul-shredding shriek erupted from the flesh-mass, powerful enough to burst eardrums.

  Even Glenn’s Seventh-Tier werewolf body was flung across the chamber, the crimson greatsword spinning away.

  A red, tongue-like appendage, dripping with viscous fluid, extended from the flesh-mass and slithered slowly toward Glenn.

  At such a sluggish pace, it should never have been able to reach him. But Glenn found himself frozen—locked in place—as though sealed. Raising even a single hand required all his strength.

  Even the cursed black mist around him froze entirely.

  He did not know what the disgusting appendage intended, but he knew that if it touched him, something catastrophic would occur.

  Should I transform again? He hesitated.

  Without the Moonstone, he would have to surrender a portion of his sanity—perhaps more than just a portion.

  He was already at the edge of losing control. His reason was a failing dam against a monstrous flood; once breached, it might never be restored.

  He might never awaken again.

  Just as Glenn prepared to let the wolf-poison expand further, an unfamiliar, extraordinary force surged into him, snapping his restraints in an instant.

  The tongue-like appendage trembled, then swiftly recoiled beneath the flesh-mass.

  Glenn turned sharply—and saw that a hole had opened in the antlered man’s forehead. From it drifted wisps of green energy, flowing toward Glenn and linking them.

  "This is the power unique to my clan! It will last for a time—and it restrains the Evil God! Hold on a little longer!"

  The antlered man shouted.

  Glenn only nodded. He knew the two were working toward something crucial—something essential for purging the Evil God.

  A new round began.

  With that strange power reinforcing him, Glenn finally tore open the flesh-mass’s hide.

  Corrosive divine blood gushed forth.

  Instinct warned him not to touch it too much, and the antlered man explained from afar:

  "The blood of an Evil God inflicts irreversible damage upon mortal flesh and soul—avoid it at all costs!"

  No sooner had he spoken than the sorceress lifted her hands from the ground. Magic surged, and a line of text appeared before him:

  I have found it. Tell him to withdraw.

  The antlered man immediately shouted, "Withdraw from the Evil God—prepare your defenses!"

  Glenn, who had been about to tear open more wounds, halted abruptly and sprinted back, threads lashing after him.

  But the sorceress unleashed her spell at that moment. A red flash streaked across the chamber, and all the attacking threads froze—then stabbed downward into the ground.

  As Glenn turned, he once again saw those uncanny human eyes—misplaced and monstrous—reappearing beside the flesh-mass, rolling wildly as though searching for prey.

  At last, they fixed upon the distant sorceress.

  Every thread surged toward her.

  But the spell had already been completed.

  The Evil God let out another earth-rending scream and tore its entire body free from the ground. Below it, a vast pit yawned open—and from its depths, divine blood erupted like a fountain.