NOVEL WEB Chapter 361: He's Something Else
Ding!
[Kill Count: 5,000 / 5,000]
[Sixth Summon Slot – Acquired]
The wind was colder now.
Not because the air had changed—but because Damien had. Something in his body, his soul, had shifted when that final kill landed. His system had recognized it. So had the earth.
But his bones?
His bones were tired. They were almost creaking underneath his skin. Or maybe they were and he just wasn't hearing it.
He stood still for a moment longer in the clearing, surrounded by demon corpses. The black blood soaked into the torn seams of his cloak. His legs ached.
His vision flickered with quiet system diagnostics and the faint shimmer of exhaustion warnings.
Ding!
[Stamina level critically low!]
He ignored the system notification like it wasn't meant for him.
Instead, he looked around at the few remaining shapes darting in the dark edges of the trees—low-grade demons, wounded and hiding.
He could end them.
Could.
But he didn't want to.
He wasn't a machine. Not even the system could force his body forward anymore. His shoulder screamed when he tried to shift his weight. His breath came unevenly, a wheeze catching at the end of every inhale.
He sighed.
And raised his hand.
"Let them go."
Skylar, overhead, roared once but didn't dive. Fenrir paused mid-charge in the trees and slowed his step.
Even Luton, now crawling beside him like a bloody crown of jelly, pulsed once in agreement—until one of the demons moved.
It was a lean, crooked thing—barely taller than a child, with back-split wings and talons crusted in dried blood. It had one eye, glowing dimly, and it watched Damien for a long moment.
And then…
It pounced.
Damien didn't move.
He couldn't even if he wanted to.
His body had warned him three times already. One more reckless motion and he'd collapse from internal core backlash and extreme fatigue.
But before the demon touched air, Luton moved.
Fast.
Violent.
Like a red bullet, it launched into the demon's path, expanded mid-air, and swallowed the creature whole in one vicious gulp.
There was no scream.
No resistance.
Just a wet, final sound and the echo of Damien's ragged breath.
He looked down at the slime beside him.
"…Still that hungry?"
Luton pulsed. Almost smug.
Damien glanced to the west. The sun was trying to rise again—low in the sky, casting the battlefield in an amber hue that made the blood look like rust.
Enough.
He didn't need to be standing.
He didn't need to walk back.
He just needed to be carried.
His voice cracked from dryness when he finally called out.
"Fenrir."
The silver blur appeared within seconds, tongue lolling, muzzle streaked with gore. It slowed as it neared, bowed its head low beside Damien.
Damien didn't wait.
He grabbed onto its thick fur, hauled himself onto its back, and exhaled deeply as his weight settled.
Every nerve screamed. His vision blurred.
But the warmth of Fenrir's fur beneath him was real.
And safe.
"Skylar. Cerbe."
His voice was low now. Almost whispered.
"Wipe the rest. I'm done."
"Luton, clean up the corpses and if you feel like joining the others, do as you want." His commands went out to his summons.
They obeyed.
Skylar dove again, setting fire to a copse of trees where demons had begun to regroup.
Cerbe barked—once, twice—then vanished into the thicket with bloodlust pouring from his mouth like mist.
The field behind him ignited in sound.
Luton on the other hand was devouring the corpses it could find. With the ever hungry Stellar Slime present, there could never be a left over corpse.
Screams rang out.
Wings flapped.
Fire consumed all.
But Damien didn't look back.
He leaned into Fenrir's neck, let his arms rest at his sides.
And let himself ride. Ge was being taken back to civilization. To a place with humans rather than demons.
A few minutes later, the trees thinned.
The slope of the land gave way to the upper ridge, and then Greshan's battlefield came into view—the charred barricades, the wounded mercenaries, the burned flags, the Dunters standing in silent groups watching the sun rise over the carnage.
They turned as Fenrir padded up the hill.
One by one, heads lifted.
Eyes widened.
Someone whispered, "It's him."
Damien didn't meet their eyes.
He just nodded once. That was all he could afford after all. His body didn't allow anything else.
Fenrir walked straight past them as though they weren't worthy of its glance.
Arielle stood near the ruined eastern checkpoint, arms crossed, blood still staining her sleeve. Her eyes locked onto Damien instantly.
She moved forward, calling out—but her voice caught in her throat when she saw him.
Not just riding Fenrir but half-unconscious.
Eyes open. Barely.
Body swaying in rhythm with the wolf's steps.
She reached him just as he slumped to the side.
She caught him, barely, her smaller frame trembling under the sudden weight.
"Damien—"
He opened his eyes slowly.
"I hit five thousand kills."
She blinked. "You… what?"
He smiled faintly, even as his head rested against her shoulder.
"I got it. The sixth one…"
Then his breath slowed.
And he passed out. This was the most kills he'd gotten in a single day and worst of all, he'd done it without rest. If there was a ranking for most demons killed in a single day, Damien most likely would be listed on it.
The number of kills was just abnormal and the fact that he'd even fought against an even more terrifying demon after all of that. One that even the commander couldn't face without consequences.
Arielle stared at him, stunned. "Everytime I think I've seen your limits, you go ahead to surpass it."
Around her, the world began to settle again. Mercenaries stared. Dunters whispered. Some looked at Damien with awe.
Others with fear.
The commander finally approached from the southern trench, still limping.
He stopped at the edge of the scene.
And said the words no one else would:
"…What is he?"
Arielle didn't know when she muttered. "He's something else."