Unholy Player Chapter 497 The Owner of the Scarlet Sea (Part 2)

With their departure, her focus returned to the corpse resting within the pool of blood. Beneath her scarlet mask, her eyes glittered with intensity. Her crimson lips pulled back into a smile that was both gruesome and strangely alluring, flashing white teeth and pointed canines in the dim, pulsing light.

"The time is near. Soon, these lands will witness the arrival of a true God."

Success felt so close she could almost touch it. The anticipation caused a slight shiver to run through her, and she tightened her resolve.

Suddenly, her demeanor shifted. She whipped her head toward the darkness behind her, her gaze piercing the distant gloom where she detected a subtle movement, like a pebble disturbing a calm pond.

"Who goes there?" she demanded, staring into the void. Though her eyes saw nothing, her senses clearly picked up the presence of an intruder.

Simultaneously, the hundreds of cultists reacted. They sprang to their feet, forming a defensive barricade of black robes in front of the body in the blood pool.

"Easy now, I am not your foe." A bright, warm voice echoed across the desolate land, slicing through the oppressive atmosphere. Shortly after, a figure stepped out from the shadows, revealing himself to the assembly.

The man approached slowly, his hands held high as if surrendered. His gait was patient, yet deliberate.

He appeared to be a young man in his mid-twenties. His vibrant yellow hair stood out sharply against the grim surroundings, and his two pupils glowed like twin suns set in a pale, composed face.

"Whether you are an enemy is for us to decide." While the woman didn't seem panicked, her expression beneath the mask had twisted into a sharp, irritated scowl.

Any uninvited guest capable of infiltrating this secret sanctuary filled with experts was either incredibly powerful or possessed a reckless disregard for his own life.

Locating the cult’s hidden base was impressive enough, but his decision to walk directly into their midst convinced everyone that he was terrifyingly strong rather than merely foolish.

"I truly am not," the man replied with a soft chuckle. He added, "I have only come to inform you that the treasure—or rather, the remains you seek—is already gone."

Upon hearing this, the cult leader unleashed a crushing pressure that radiated in every direction. Her voice boomed, "What do you mean, gone?"

The man felt the atmosphere thicken with murderous intent. Though his raised hands shook slightly, his voice remained level. "It is gone. Finished. Someone claimed it and consumed every last bit. There is nothing left for you here."

As soon as the words left his mouth, his body abruptly detonated with a wet pop. Gore and bone sprayed across the ground, leaving nothing behind but fresh red stains on the floor.

The cult leader, her hand outstretched as though crushing an invisible object, stared at the mess. Under her mask, her red eyes flared like embers fanned by a breeze.

She was not the type to talk before acting. Quite the opposite, she resorted to lethal force the moment a conversation displeased her.

She turned her gaze away from the scattered remains to another spot, where the same man stood once more, perfectly unharmed as if the explosion had never occurred.

Smoothing out the creases in his white robe, the man frowned slightly. "Hey, now, was that really necessary?"

Before he could get an answer, his body burst again into a cloud of blood and flesh, adding a new layer of filth to the ground.

He manifested in a different spot, his body restored, and shouted with rising irritation, "Will you please stop that?"

Once again, his form was obliterated by a violent blast.

He reformed again, his brow furrowed in genuine annoyance. "You—" He couldn't even finish his sentence before he was blown apart yet again.

And again, and again, and again.

For the following minute, he was slaughtered the instant he reappeared. Blood bloomed repeatedly across the earth. He wasn't even granted the time to speak as his deaths looped in a macabre cycle.

By his thirty-third death, with the ground carpeted in his gore, he raised his hands in a gesture of desperation, his restored face etched with impatience.

Suddenly, color and sound drained from the world. Everything was rendered in stark black and white. All motion ground to a halt, save for the man. His yellow hair and solar eyes remained the only vibrant elements in the frozen landscape.

"Can you not be civil and listen?" he asked, his patience clearly exhausted. His breathing was ragged as the weight of thirty-three consecutive deaths finally began to take its toll.

The cult leader, trapped within the technique's influence, remained still like a colorless statue for a moment. Then, with a slow, grinding motion that seemed to defy the frozen time, her head turned toward him. The eyes behind her darkened mask regained their crimson glow, burning brightly in the monochrome world.

"Shit..." the man hissed at the sight of those menacing eyes. A second later, his body disintegrated once more. Reality snapped back to normal, color and movement returning as the skill deactivated.

The woman watched the rain of red fragments fall for the thirty-fourth time. Her voice, sharp with annoyance, cut through the sound of splashing blood. "You have three seconds." She shifted her gaze to the spot where the man had reappeared, whole once more. "Give me a reason to listen, or you will continue to die until it becomes permanent."

The man looked pushed to his breaking point. His breath came in heavy, uneven gasps, making it obvious that if this continued, he might eventually reach a death from which there was no return.