Imprisoned for a Trillion Years, I Was Worshipped by All Gods!-Chapter 646 - 202-Leave It to Me!

"Damn it—!"

Within the ancient ruins of Jacob, the chaos of battle had reached its peak. Alan, Fort, and their ever-reliable yet frequently reluctant comrade Francis were locked in a brutal melee with the surrounding attackers.

Numerically, they were outmatched—severely so. Their enemies outnumbered them several times over. Even if the attackers were to fight in rotating shifts, they could easily grind down Alan's group through sheer attrition.

In terms of mana, the disparity was even worse. The attackers were all tier-gold mages operating at peak condition. None of them had expended any mana prior to this confrontation, their energy reserves still brimming. In contrast, Alan and Francis had been through multiple skirmishes already. Their mana was severely depleted—less than half remaining. And that was being generous.

Even defending against this onslaught was beginning to wear them down, let alone launching counterattacks.

As the clash dragged on, Alan and his companions began to show signs of fatigue. They were forced to retreat under pressure, gradually being pushed back with each passing second. The tide of battle was shifting—and not in their favor. Their eventual defeat now seemed more a matter of "when" than "if."

The man in the single-layered tunic—the de facto leader of the attackers—noticed this shift immediately. A smug grin spread across his face. He coordinated with a hulking brute wielding a massive greatsword, and another attacker armed with a piercing shield, encircling Alan from three directions.

The trap was nearly perfect. Alan was surrounded on all sides, with only moments to react.

Had it just been these three, Alan might still have stood a chance. But what truly tipped the scales was the unseen hand—that damned leaf-thrower.

The rogue mage who had earlier demonstrated uncanny skill with dried leaves as deadly projectiles had gone dark once more. He had masked both his presence and mana signature so completely that neither Alan nor Francis could locate him.

To make matters worse, the trio were now clearly visible and isolated—glowing targets in the middle of a battlefield. Perfect prey for an assassin who thrived on stealth and ambush.

Their bodies bore the evidence of his strikes—thin, precise cuts caused by razor-sharp leaves. These were far more numerous than any injuries from their direct opponents. That was the true agony of being under attack by a hidden foe. It wasn't just the pain—it was the helplessness. The inability to retaliate, to see your attacker.

It was maddening.

Alan had had enough.

He could endure no longer—not just the physical harm, but the injustice of it all. And more importantly, he knew: if this continued, they would lose. It was only a matter of time.

Holmes may have guaranteed their survival, yes—but he had never promised how they'd survive. Whether they'd walk out whole or broken, conscious or unconscious, was left to fate.

Relying on Claude to step in and assist was also out of the question. The aloof, blade-wielding knight showed no signs of involvement.

This battle—they had to win on their own.

Clenching his jaw, Alan made a decision.

"HEY! Big metal block! Come take over here for a sec!"

Fort blinked in confusion. A beat passed before he realized Alan was referring to him.

"...New nickname already?" he muttered with a weak chuckle, then without delay, dashed toward Alan's location with heavy footfalls, armor clanking with each step.

At the same moment, Alan made his move.

Gripping his Elemental Sword tightly, he surged forward—his target clear: the rogue leaf-thrower. While many of the attackers were dangerous, that man was the greatest threat. If they couldn't deal with him, it didn't matter how many enemies they defeated—Alan and the others would still be sliced to ribbons from the shadows.

The man in the tunic noticed the sudden change in strategy. His grin faltered.

"He's going after the sniper!" he shouted, then barked orders to his comrades. "Stop him—now!"

"I'll handle it!" came a low growl.

The burly man with the greatsword stepped forward. His weapon, wide as a door and taller than most men, was already raised overhead in a mighty two-handed grip.

But Alan didn't stop. There was still at least fifty meters between them. He won't reach me in time, Alan thought. Not unless that sword suddenly extends into a forty-meter blade.

Then it happened.

The brute's sword never completed the downward arc.

Instead—mid-swing—he let go of the hilt, hurling the enormous blade through the air like a missile.

It cleaved through the battlefield, a blur of steel and death.

The watchers—friends and enemies alike—realized only then: the brute had never intended to strike with the blade directly. His entire stance had been a feint. The real plan was to throw it.

The sheer speed of the weapon tore through the air with a shriek, homing in on Alan like a falling star. For a heartbeat, it looked like all hope was lost.

But then—another sound.

"ALAN!!!"

A voice roared through the battlefield, followed by a shockwave.

A blur shot past the attackers, sending tremors across the ground.

It was Fort.

The metal-blooded warrior launched himself into the path of the flying greatsword with terrifying momentum.

BOOM!

The impact was deafening.

Fort and the greatsword collided midair with earth-shattering force. The impact sent shockwaves across the clearing. The ground beneath Fort's feet cracked as he was driven back. His boots carved twin trenches in the soil, but he held his ground—barely.

The sword, its momentum diminished by friction, was finally deflected. It bounced away, tumbling to the side like a broken tooth. Its once-pristine blade was dented, cracked, and nearly split in two.

But Fort hadn't escaped unscathed.

Though his body was forged from rare metal-element blood, he had yet to achieve full synchronization. Externally, he looked nearly invulnerable—but inside, his organs were still soft. The shock from the impact ruptured them.

He coughed blood.

His breath came in ragged gasps.

But he didn't fall.

Gritting his teeth through the agony, he planted a hand on his knee, stood, and charged once again—back toward the attackers trying to intercept Alan.

Why?

Because Alan had said, "I need you."

Even as pain racked his every breath, Fort would answer that call.

Yet fate had more cruelty in store.

Before he could reach them, a mysterious force slammed into him from nowhere—an invisible shockwave that flung his battered body high into the air. He crashed into the ground with a thud that echoed through the ruins, his limbs sprawled, motionless.

Elsewhere—Alan had finally reached his target.

With the greatsword deflected, nothing stood between him and the rogue attacker.

The man panicked. He backpedaled, wildly launching leaf after sharpened leaf at Alan in desperation. The air shimmered with dozens of deadly projectiles.

But Alan didn't slow down.

There was no turning back.

He summoned Lumen Sancta—the radiant holy blade—and raised it high.

"Judgment."

With a thunderous roar, he brought the blade down.

The sword flared with blinding brilliance. The air itself shimmered.

Every leaf that touched the light—vanished. Gone. As if erased from existence. As if they had never existed at all.

The assassin's eyes widened in horror.

Alan, blade raised, pressed forward—unstoppable, righteous, and wrathful.