When it came to technology, Orsaga didn't know much—and frankly, he didn't really care to learn at the moment.
Whether it was magic or technology, the processes might differ, but the outcomes weren't all that far apart.
At the end of the day, both paths led to the same destination.
The enemy had managed to dodge his attacks without moving a single step.
And since the lizardman hadn't used any space-based techniques like phase-shifting or dimensional slipping, that narrowed down the list of possibilities considerably.
All Orsaga had to do was eliminate each possibility, one by one. Once he figured out how the enemy was dodging his attacks, he'd know how to kill him.
He could have ended it already—freezing the enemy with a complete spatial lockdown, for instance—but that would've been too easy.
This was the first time he'd ever been injured by a sneak attack. Until he skinned this bastard alive, Orsaga knew he wouldn't feel satisfied.
Even though the enemy hadn't said a word, Orsaga—being a demon—could clearly sense the negative emotions emanating from him.
It was the unmistakable scent of intelligent thought. No puppet or automaton could give off that kind of aura.
Suddenly, Orsaga's tail lashed out and pierced through the enemy's body—but once again, he felt nothing. No resistance. No substance. Like he'd just slashed through air.
And yet his eyes and his spatial perception told him the lizardman was standing right there. He hadn't used any optical distortions to hide.
Something that gets hit should cause a physical response.
If there was no tactile feedback, it meant there was no contact. A simple, undeniable truth.
So what kind of trick allowed the enemy to stand there and still evade attacks?
Ignoring the now-unbound lizardman as he darted around him again, Orsaga sank into deep thought.
Perhaps sensing Orsaga's confusion, the lizardman grew bolder. His body blinked out of sight and instantly reappeared behind Orsaga, arms extended once more—trying to repeat his earlier sneak attack.
This time, though, he went all out—determined to leave a lasting impression.
Just as he was about to strike, a slender tail whipped out from an impossible angle, aiming to skewer both his hands.
The lizardman's eyes widened. He tried to pull back, planning to use the same evasion technique again.
But he was a split second too late.
Before his brain could even issue the command, the armor on his hands reacted automatically, as per its preset defensive program.
Zzzzzzzt!
A piercing screech rang out—like a buzz saw cutting into steel.
At the moment of impact, a burst of sparks exploded where the tail met his armor.
Orsaga casually flicked his tail, which hadn't suffered even a single scratch, and smiled.
He'd just felt a sharp cutting force radiating from the enemy's fingertips—like a chainsaw—but at an even higher frequency. So high, it was almost imperceptible.
Even in that brief contact, he'd felt hundreds of thousands of vibrations in an instant.
It reminded him of something from his previous life—a high-tech sci-fi weapon known as a vibroblade.
He remembered that such weapons worked by vibrating at ultra-high frequencies to destabilize molecular structures, making solid materials easier to cut through.
Still, unless the frequency surpassed a certain threshold, it would never be able to break through his exoskeleton.
His exoskeleton wasn't just armor—it was a part of his body, a biological organ. Under the boost of his innate powers, he could control it like muscle tissue, perfectly integrated with his will.
It didn't behave like conventional material—meaning it couldn't be broken down so easily.
Then another realization hit him: since the impact had produced sparks, at least one side must have sustained wear.
And as far as he could tell, his tail remained perfectly intact.
That could only mean one thing—the lizardman's vibroclaws had taken damage.
The damage might've been microscopic, but it was there.
That led Orsaga to a key insight: the enemy might be invulnerable while passive—but the moment he went on the offensive, his invulnerability dropped, making him vulnerable to damage.
'Bait him into attacking... then kill him.'
The thought appeared in Orsaga's mind like a whisper.
But after a moment of consideration, he shelved the idea.
"Nah. Killing him head-on sounds way more satisfying."
---
After a few more probing exchanges, both sides still appeared unscathed.
But unlike the calm and unhurried Orsaga, the lizardman—Glenva—was starting to grow restless.
He knew what it meant to be delayed in his enemy's stronghold for this long. By now, the outside must've been locked down, a trap waiting to spring.
Grinding his teeth in frustration, he muttered in his native tongue, "Damn barbaric creature…"
He didn't think the other could understand him.
But Orsaga was a demon—capable of communicating with any creature, no matter the language.
Naturally, he heard every word loud and clear.
With a mocking grin, he replied in Demonic Tongue, "Technologists mock the supernatural as savages, and the supernatural mock technologists as weaklings. What a classic, tired little superiority complex."
Though Glenva couldn't quite understand the full meaning behind the words, he was visibly shaken by Orsaga's ability to speak his language. For a moment, he even wondered if he'd forgotten to disable his translator.
Before he could say more, Orsaga continued with a smirk:
"I just caught a whiff of fear. You're afraid of being ambushed, aren't you? Don't bother. You won't make it to them—I'll kill you myself. I've always wondered what lizard brain tastes like. This is the first time anyone's successfully ambushed me. I can't let that slide without compensation…"
Sensing the pure, unfiltered killing intent from Orsaga, Glenva's expression turned grim.
"You're welcome to try," he said.
Orsaga just sneered in return.
After the recent exchange, he'd pieced together the truth.
Through his Plague-sense, he realized the lizardman wasn't a solid being at all—but a composition of countless microscopic machines.
'Nanomachines? Or perhaps something else?'
Orsaga didn't care.
What mattered was that he now understood why his attacks hadn't landed. Every time he struck, those micro-machines would separate at the last moment—too small to see without enhanced perception—then rapidly reassemble, creating the illusion that his attacks had passed through harmlessly.
Self-replication, cloaking, high-speed movement, rapid healing, energy resistance.
Just the detectable features of these machines were already staggering.
But Orsaga still wasn't worried. Everything had a limit. Just because he hadn't burned them yet didn't mean that was all he was capable of.
As that thought solidified, the barrier made from Deathblossom began to contract rapidly.
At the same time, the bloodflame Orsaga controlled began to spike in temperature.
10,000 degrees.
20,000 degrees.
40,000 degrees…
All that heat, compressed under his will.
And then—a single, blood-red point of light appeared.
He looked at the restrained Glenva and smiled.
"Hope you like this."
The flexibility and adaptability of micro-machines meant nothing in the face of spatial force. Space didn't care about size. Its effect was total and absolute over the entire area.
Finally, Orsaga pressed that crimson light into Glenva's chest.
Light and heat exploded outward.
Under the influence of Orsaga's will, the energy distributed itself with perfect precision across every microscopic component of Glenva's body.
In less than a second, those nanomachines—capable of withstanding temperatures of hundreds of thousands of degrees—melted into slag.
No amount of rapid healing could keep up with the rate of destruction.
Flames and light poured out of every pore in Glenva's body.
Before the corpse was even fully charred, Orsaga casually plucked off the lizardman's head and smiled.
"I told you—I was curious what lizard brain tastes like. Let's hope it's not disappointing."
---
Stepping out of the Deathblossom barrier in his human form, Orsaga was greeted by a frowning Hawthorne.
"What happened in there? Why was the energy so intense?"
"Just an interesting intruder," Orsaga replied nonchalantly, holding up the severed lizard head. "Did you bring what I asked for?"
Hawthorne glanced at the grisly trophy in Orsaga's hand, his expression complicated, and handed over a bag of barbecue seasoning and a spoon.
Taking the items, Orsaga grinned even wider.
"Thanks."
Then he casually tossed a memory crystal to Hawthorne.
"This is what I extracted from his brain. Thought you might find it interesting."
With that, he turned and strolled off, clearly heading somewhere to enjoy his meal—leaving Hawthorne behind, still visibly puzzled.
He still had no idea what exactly had just happened.
All he could do was stare at the memory crystal in his hand...
___
T/N:
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