Beyond the Apocalypse-Chapter 759: Unique weapon

"I will win this tournament—and I will treat you fairly."

If Freya had felt anger before at being looked down upon, it was nothing compared to the pure fury that now surged within her. The moment the Legendary Viking, Alrock, gazed at her as nothing more than a prize—a trophy to be claimed—her heart ignited with unrelenting killing intent.

Her aura flared like an inferno, energy bursting from her body in golden waves as the Sun Armor activated, amplifying her physical prowess to extraordinary levels. In a single, fluid motion, she raised her mace high above her head, her voice cold as winter steel.

"Die with honor, Legend."

Alrock sneered, his lips curling in a confident smirk. His energy surged outward, creating a vast ocean of Force that reinforced both his body and his armor. His entire form radiated with the might of a true Legend.

"You may be fast," he declared, his voice booming across the arena, "but no matter your speed, if you cannot overcome my defenses, you will be crushed as if colliding with a mountain."

The countdown of the battle clock flared red, digits flashing in a blur before slamming down to zero.

Not even a nanosecond later, Freya shot forward like a golden comet, her speed and momentum shaking the ground with each step—an explosive force worthy of a warrior at the Legendary Rank.

Alrock’s eyes narrowed slightly, his pride undeterred. He had to admit, Freya’s speed was impressive for a Sage—but to him, it was not enough.

With a calm, assured expression, he braced behind his massive right shield, preparing to absorb the full impact of Freya’s blow. His body was a fortress; no matter how strong the strike, he believed she would break against him like a wave crashing upon stone.

But then, it happened.

Just as her mace was about to make contact, a horrific aura erupted from it, flooding the arena like a demonic storm. The golden glow of the Sun Armor dimmed beneath the overwhelming darkness that emanated from the weapon.

Alrock’s confident smirk froze in place. His eyes widened in shock as he realized the truth: this was no ordinary attack. That mace was infused with not one, not two, but dozens, or maybe even hundreds of Sage-tier demonic souls. Those souls seemed to collapse in on itself, burning like a star on the verge of supernova.

Desperation surged through Alrock. He tried to raise his energy defenses, to reinforce his shield and armor—but it was too late.

His arrogance had delayed him for a split second too long.

The moment Freya’s mace struck his shield, it felt as though a demonic ocean was crashing down upon him. The sheer pressure was unbearable—an unrelenting force that shattered his defenses like brittle glass.

"CRACK!"

The sound of metal shattering echoed across the arena like a thunderclap. Gasps erupted from the crowd as Alrock’s right shield splintered into countless shards, unable to withstand the overwhelming power unleashed. The shockwave continued, slamming into Alrock’s right arm with such ferocity that every bone in it shattered in an instant.

"AHHHHH!"

Alrock screamed in agony as he was sent rolling across the ground, his massive frame bouncing and tumbling like a ragdoll.

It took him several precious seconds to regain control of his body—but by the time he did, Freya was already upon him.

Her eyes blazed with lethal intent. She did not pause, did not hesitate. Her attacks came down like an unstoppable storm, each strike of her mace a declaration of finality.

Alrock’s face twisted in fury. His confidence had evaporated; now, he fought with the desperation of a man who realized too late that he had underestimated his opponent. With a shattered right arm, his battle strength was severely diminished. He barely managed to raise his left shield, but Freya’s strikes battered it aside like paper, sending him crashing into the ground again.

The Vikings in the stands watched in stunned silence, awe filling their hearts. Freya—a Sage—was overwhelming a Legend. She wasn’t just holding her own—she was toying with him, dominating the battle with ease.

Whispers spread through the crowd, voices filled with wonder.

"How did she become so powerful?"

"Is she even still a Sage?"

But those in the high podiums—the true powerhouses—saw deeper. They understood the truth behind her advantage.

Yes, Freya was strong. Her mastery of technique was exceptional, her timing perfect. She had taken Alrock by surprise, but the real reason for her dominance was her weapons.

They could see it clearly—the intricate runic engravings etched across her mace and armor, each line pulsating with a sinister glow. Those runes housed a literal horde of demonic souls. Every time Freya attacked, a portion of those souls ignited, unleashing a burst of demonic energy that supercharged her strikes.

Triggering such complex soul bursts at the precise moment required near-perfect technique and absolute focus. It was a level of skill few Sages could ever hope to achieve, let alone master.

The battle raged on for less than three minutes, yet by the end, Alrock’s body was battered and broken—more shattered bones than whole ones. His entire frame was bleeding, his breath ragged. A crushing sense of dread gripped him as he realized just how precarious his situation had become.

"I..."

He tried to speak to surrender—but Freya was not the forgiving type.

Before the words could leave his lips, her mace slammed into his jaw with bone-shattering force. The sound of cracking bones filled the arena, silencing any thought of surrender.

Alrock trembled, unable to lift his arms, unable to defend himself. And then the final blow came—Freya’s mace descended like the hammer of the gods, crushing his skull, shattering bone, and sinking deep into his head. Bits of brain matter and blood splattered across the arena floor, a gruesome testament to her power.

A heavy silence blanketed the arena.

Freya had killed Sages before, but this was different. A Legend had fallen—a warrior who had traveled to other worlds, a living weapon of mass destruction—and yet Freya had ended him as if he were nothing more than a footnote.

Raising her bloodstained weapon into the air, Freya’s eyes flashed with unyielding determination and lethal resolve. Her message was clear to all who watched—those who sought to claim her as a trophy, to strip away her freedom, would face the same fate. She would show no mercy. She would kill them all if she had to.

"Freya! Freya! Freya! Freya! Freya!"

Even though the man she had slain was a Legend of Valhalla, the people still cheered her name, their voices rising like a storm. They understood the injustice of the tournament. They saw the truth—that even Legends who participated in such a farce deserved their fate.

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