Beyond the Apocalypse
Chapter 523: Demon Bloodsucking Sword

Chapter 523: Demon Bloodsucking Sword

Vlad hovered in the air, his eyes alight with admiration as he observed Torin’s meticulous work. Each strike of the dwarf’s hammer was purposeful, every movement imbued with the precision of a master craftsman.

Torin wielded heat and metal as if they were extensions of himself, molding raw materials into something extraordinary. The energy pathways he carved into the blade glowed faintly, ensuring that the sword would seamlessly channel and amplify magical forces.

"This is more than just talent or hard work," Vlad murmured, his voice carrying only to himself. A solemn light appeared in his gaze as he began to understand the depth of Torin’s abilities. "This is obsession."

Torin’s skill transcended the boundaries of mere technique. He was undoubtedly a powerful warrior and a capable leader, but it took only one glance from Vlad to recognize where the dwarf’s true passion lay. Blacksmithing wasn’t just a craft to Torin—it was his calling. A wide smile graced his face with every strike of the hammer, his joy palpable and infectious. It was clear that this moment, standing before molten steel, was where the dwarf felt most alive.

In the stands, the people of the Strong Hammer Kingdom watched in awe. Their cheers and murmurs of admiration filled the air as their king’s hammer sang against the metal. Yet their attention wasn’t solely on Torin. Opposite him, Jormungandr worked with alchemical precision, conjuring vibrant, unnatural flames that danced and twisted as if alive. The small yellow cat, a being of extraordinary power, manipulated his tools with supernatural skill, blending materials in ways that defied conventional understanding.

As the hour drew to a close, the tension in the arena became palpable. Finally, Torin lowered his hammer, his weapon complete. Across the way, Jormungandr extinguished his flames, placing his sword beside Torin’s. Both craftsmen stepped back, their work finished.

Vlad descended gracefully, his movements deliberate and measured. With a wave of his hand, the swords floated toward him, suspended in midair for all to see. The crowd fell silent as they took in the weapons—each a masterpiece, flawless in its design. Not a single imperfection could be found on either blade, their craftsmanship immaculate.

Vlad picked up Torin’s sword first. As he held it, he could feel the energy resonating within the blade, its power practically humming against his fingers. He channeled his energy into it, and the weapon responded immediately, amplifying his strength.

With a single swing, Vlad unleashed a massive arc of sword force. The energy struck the ground with a deafening roar, tearing a gargantuan chasm into the earth. The abyssal maw stretched so deep that most onlookers couldn’t even see its bottom.

Gasps rippled through the crowd. Even Vlad allowed a flicker of awe to cross his face. He had provided both craftsmen with identical materials, sufficient only for a Champion Tier weapon, yet Torin’s sword exceeded expectations. Its power enhancement matched that of a High Champion Tier treasure. Turning to the dwarf, Vlad gave a small nod of acknowledgment.

Next, Vlad turned his attention to Jormungandr’s sword. The moment he gripped the hilt, a strange sensation washed over him. Unlike Torin’s blade, Jormungandr’s weapon felt... incomplete. There was no immediate energy flow, and Vlad’s brow furrowed slightly. Without commenting, he channeled the same amount of energy into the sword and swung it.

The resulting energy arc struck the ground, carving a hole into the earth. However, the impact was far less impressive. The hole was only ten meters deep—a fraction of what Torin’s sword had achieved. Vlad’s frown deepened. By all appearances, Jormungandr’s sword was little more than a Mortal Tier weapon, its enhancement almost negligible.

For a moment, silence hung heavy over the arena. Then, the people of the Strong Hammer Kingdom erupted into jubilant cheers, chanting Torin’s name and celebrating their king’s undeniable victory. Pride radiated from the crowd as they reveled in the dwarf’s triumph.

Vlad, however, couldn’t help but glance at Jormungandr. Losing was one thing—Torin was undeniably a master craftsman—but the yellow cat’s weapon seemed underwhelming, almost embarrassing. For someone of Jormungandr’s abilities, this result was puzzling.

Jormungandr remained calm, unfazed by the roaring crowd. He allowed the cheers to continue until they naturally subsided. Then, with a sudden flare of his aura, he commanded the arena’s attention. With a flick of his paw, he summoned a massive demon corpse, its grotesque form floating in the air.

"Boss, pierce the corpse with my weapon," Jormungandr said, his tone steady and deliberate.

A flicker of intrigue crossed Vlad’s face as he complied. With a smooth motion, he drove Jormungandr’s sword into the floating corpse.

To the astonishment of the onlookers, the sword began to pulse as if alive. The blood from the corpse surged into the blade, flowing through the once-dormant energy pathways, which now glowed with vibrant power. The sword devoured the blood, and its aura grew stronger with each passing second.

A faint smile appeared on Vlad’s face. When the sword finished draining the corpse, he channeled his energy into it once more and swung. This time, the resulting energy arc struck the ground with far greater force, carving a chasm deeper than before. Though it still didn’t match the abyssal maw created by Torin’s sword, the improvement was undeniable.

"How strong can this sword become?" Vlad asked, his voice resonating across the arena. All eyes turned to Jormungandr, the tension in the air thick enough to cut.

"The Demon Bloodsucking Sword," Jormungandr began, his voice steady, "can continue to grow in strength as it consumes demon blood. Over time, it will evolve into a Low Guardian Tier Treasure. Once it reaches that level, it will stop growing in raw power but retain its ability to absorb blood and weaponize it with every strike."

The crowd fell into stunned silence, the implications of Jormungandr’s creation settling over them like a weight. This was no ordinary weapon. Unlike Torin’s masterpiece, which was a fixed testament to the dwarf’s skill, Jormungandr’s sword was a living weapon, one that would grow stronger with every battle.

Even Torin’s people, fiercely loyal to their king, found themselves contemplating the significance of Jormungandr’s innovation. The contest had proven to be more than just a clash of skills—it was a demonstration of two distinct philosophies, each with its own merits.