Endless Debt Chapter 1064 - 107: Good Deeds (Part 3)

Mocking laughter seemed to echo within the roaring storm.

Ever since forming an alliance with Bologue, Palmer's own capabilities had been completely eclipsed by his partner's brilliance. However, Palmer harbored no envy; instead, a sense of relief washed over him.

Palmer was, by nature, an avid idler, and seeing as Bologue relished combat and the act of dispatching foes, he was content to delegate these tasks.

In truth, ever since Bologue joined him, Palmer seldom exerted himself fully—it was unnecessary. Bologue would inevitably cleave the heads off all their adversaries.

Now, however, it was Palmer's own juncture for retribution, a moment to unleash his suppressed might.

Morrison fought to regain his composure; his ether reserves were dangerously depleted, leaving him with no room for waste. The swirling dust obscured his sight, and without Palmer's distinctive bloodmarking on the Chasing Sword, tracking his movements was impossible.

This relentless storm felt akin to a drawn-out execution.

Execution?

A sudden realization dawned upon Morrison: Palmer's intention was not a straightforward duel for vengeance, but rather to let Morrison perish slowly in utter despair.

Indeed, what torment could be more maddening than the fleeting glimpse of hope, only to have it cruelly extinguished?

"Scoundrel!"

Morrison spat the curse, but only a mocking sneer answered him.

Another agonizing cry pierced the air as a Wind Blade tore savagely through an enemy’s chest, the potent gust drawing out his very lungs. He became a spectacle for the storm, his blood vessels rupturing under the immense pressure, painting a gruesome tableau of crimson across his attire and skin.

Yet another foe met his end, his neck bisected by a Wind Blade. A gurgling moan, saturated with his lifeblood, was immediately swallowed by the tempest's roar; his form was violently swept into the obscuring grayness, vanishing without a trace.

The storm raged with the fury of a cornered beast, relentlessly consuming adversaries and leaving behind a scene of chilling devastation.

Morrison's breathing grew increasingly ragged. Gripping the Chasing Sword firmly before him, he understood that Palmer, merely a Prayer Believer, could not sustain such a colossal storm indefinitely through his etheric capacity. Should he manage to weather this onslaught until the storm's intensity subsided, victory would be within his grasp.

"The Clarks, the heir... the Wind Source!"

His focus sharpened to an extreme degree as fragments of their earlier conversation replayed in his mind, coalescing into a coherent understanding.

Finally comprehending the true nature of his adversary, Morrison reacted with belated awareness.

Ethereal specters materialized from the tempest behind him. Sensing this sinister presence, Morrison whipped the Chasing Sword backward, Light Feather poised for immediate deployment.

His blade met only empty air. Then, searing agony erupted from his back as two Flying Knives embedded themselves deeply into his shoulder and waist. Morrison emitted a low, pained groan, the horrific sound of torn flesh and fractured bone echoing his distress.

"Face me directly!"

Morrison challenged, acutely aware that his Etherealization state was systematically draining his precious ether. To prolong this confrontation meant inevitable demise.

Palmer had achieved his objective; his show of apparent compassion had inadvertently reignited Morrison's desperate will to survive. Morrison resolutely refused to meet his end there, fighting with every fiber of his being for survival.

"Gladly."

A voice, chilling to the bone, echoed once more from the unseen space behind him.

Swiftly, Morrison activated Light Feather, unleashing a blinding radiance that engulfed everything. Any who dared to gaze upon Morrison now endured the agonizing torment akin to staring into a blazing sun.

Yet, a frigid Blade pierced through the incandescent brilliance, burying itself into Morrison's abdomen. Blood and internal fluids instantly mingled, slowly oozing from the gaping wound, forming a raw, corrupted amalgamation of mangled tissue.

Their proximity was so intimate that, even blinded, Palmer managed to deliver a killing blow.

While Palmer had enjoyed considerable fortune earlier, his luck seemed to have abandoned him this time. A volley of Light Feathers struck his chest, but he narrowly evaded the Chasing Sword's sweeping arc, using the gale's assistance to dart back to Morrison's side.

With his vision severely impaired, Palmer retreated. Against the oppressive darkness of the sandstorm, Morrison's emitted glow blazed with startling intensity.

It was like a beacon.

Palmer launched a cascade of daggers; some flew wide, others were deflected by the Chasing Sword, a few grazed Morrison, while several found their mark, burrowing deep into his body and lodging against bone.

Excruciating pain wracked him from within, inducing uncontrollable muscle spasms, causing his body to sway precariously. His eyes, once filled with defiance, now swam with pain, tinged with burgeoning despair and fear.

Palmer's dagger throws possessed immense power, each impact supercharged with Ethereal Amplification, striking Morrison's form with the force of cannonballs.

Serrated blades skewered through nearly all his vital organs, ruthlessly crushing Morrison's will to live and pushing his body towards an imminent, complete collapse.

Remarkably, Morrison remained standing; his consciousness clung tenaciously to existence. He fought against the inevitable, gasping for breath, struggling valiantly—a fierce, primal instinct driving him to close the distance with Palmer. However, his body grew increasingly leaden, his strength rapidly fled, rendering him incapable of even shifting a wounded limb.

"Damn it all."

Morrison felt on the verge of tears; Palmer spoke with ostensible disdain for Bologue's brutal tactics, but in truth, how was he any different from Bologue himself?

Bologne's onslaught was a brutal display, shattering bone and flesh, while Palmer, with his insidious tactics, played with minds, trapping them in ultimate despair.

Morrison's pained cries echoed as daggers were plunged into him time and again, leaving gaping wounds.

Overwhelmed and facing his doom, Morrison grasped a final, desperate opportunity. An unseen chain of ether, extending from his Secret Sword, latched onto the fleeting form within the tempest.

This was the last gambit of Light Feather.

As Morrison's final gamble began, a furious surge of ether erupted.

Palmer tossed aside the spent injector. Within the Alchemy Matrix, the Mang Silver Soul rapidly processed, expending his every drop of ether to deliver the final blow.

Skill: Secret Energy·Furious Wind Pardon!

A violent whirlwind engulfed Morrison, its Wind Blades tearing his body and limbs to shreds, scattering gore and mangled flesh across the earth.

Morrison's screams grew faint and sharp, like a dying beast's wail; his muscles were ripped, his bones shattered, his limbs torn away and flung wildly within the gale. The heroic figure Morrison once cut was now utterly annihilated; he became a shuddering, tumbling tumbleweed in the storm, a heap of flesh diced to pieces by the relentless Wind Blades.

This was no mere storm, but a monstrous meat grinder armed with countless blades.

Faint echoes of torment gradually ceased.

Wounds festered from the Wind Blades' assault, as a spectral figure continued to cast its limbs outward. Each piece flung away was pulverized and vanished mid-air. In the end, Morrison's form dissolved into a heap of bloody, fleshy fragments, leaving only a pool of blood and a scattered, broken skeleton upon the ground.

As the ferocious winds died down, Palmer took a deep breath of the desolate, foul-smelling air, the metallic tang filling his lungs. A profound sense of satisfaction bloomed within him.

Palmer remembered an old newspaper article he had once read: If two people spend enough time together, they start to acquire each other's mannerisms.

Gazing upon the gory remains on the ground, and recalling Bologne's grim sense of humor, Palmer found a strange resonance with that statement.

Palmer paused, retching violently; the act itself, performed by his own hands, was still somewhat unnerving. His physiological discomfort and ether exhaustion mingled, clouding his mind, yet entwined with an unexpected surge of exhilaration.

A near-sickening laugh escaped him.