Rise of the Rejected Deity from Chaos-Chapter 58 - 57: The Bloodied Path to Freedom XI | Plans Set in Motion VII

As Eiro’s hand fell lifeless to the ground, Hayne immediately seized it, clutching it firmly in his warm grasp. "Eiro… please," Hayne begged, his breath ragged as he strained to hear Eiro’s faint, shallow breathing.

"No!" A boy from the third floor shouted. His bulky frame and low fade haircut complemented his chiseled features. "We can’t let Eiro die like Suhei! We’ve just lost him, and now we’re about to lose another. We can’t let that happen!" He snarled, his gaze fixed on the girl still sitting amidst the rubble, cradling Suhei’s lifeless form.

"Not while Riena is here," he added, his eyes burning with intensity as they pierced the back of Riena, whose heart ached with the loss of Suhei.

"Hayne," called the senior with a bulky frame.

"As you can see, Eiro is not dead. Keep using your ability to slow the injury’s progression. We’re going to save him," he declared, his voice firm with anger and resolve.

"H-how?" Hayne whispered, his voice barely audible. The eerie silence of the moment made his words almost undetectable, the weight of loss pressing down on them all.

"Riena has the ability to swap lives," the senior explained, glancing toward her. "She can transfer the life of a killer to their dying victim, allowing the killer to die in their place."

Hayne’s eyes widened in tentative hope. The possibility of saving Eiro seemed within reach, but his hope was immediately shattered when he met the gaze of the elite—standing there, observing the unfolding conversation, with a wide grin.

He wasn’t just an ordinary boy—he was an elite. The one who had killed Suhei while the third-floor boys had failed to so much as leave a single scratch on him.

"But how…?" Hayne muttered, despair choking his words.

"What do you mean, how?" the bulky senior replied, his voice filled with determination. "We’ll defeat him here and now, and Riena will swap his life with Eiro’s before it’s too late."

Seiya watched the scene unfold from a distance, irritation seething beneath his composed exterior.

"How is that possible?" Riena’s cold voice interrupted, carrying an undertone of sorrow.

"You all couldn’t do anything when he was fighting Suhei," she continued, her voice trembling with grief and rage. "So how are you supposed to defeat him now?" Her words were soft but heavy with despair, as her body shook with silent sobs.

She was in pain, aching deeply for Suhei’s loss, but she still yearned for revenge. She wanted the elite gone—no matter how impenetrable the wall seemed, she craved its fall.

Among the third-floor boys, one had crouched in the back, his hand resting on his right knee as the other leg supported his weight. His tousled red hair with subtle curls fell over his face, obscuring his features, and his skin was eerily pale—almost ghostlike.

On the ground before him, a white d10 die rolled across the debris. He hummed softly, watching it settle.

"Let’s see what I get," he murmured, his gaze fixed on the die as it came to a stop.

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The number 8 faced upward, with tiny capital letters STR inscribed beside it.

"A win!" he exclaimed, plucking the die from the ground and clutching it tightly.

Still crouched, he raised his gaze, running a hand through his hair and sweeping a handful of it back to reveal his face. One of his eyes was clouded with a dull white cataract, while the other glowed a vibrant green—strikingly bright against his pale skin, making him appear spectral. He was blind in one eye.

Tilting his head slightly, his hair shifting with the motion, he flashed a wide, unsettling grin.

"Shall we start the fight then?"

"Bet!" the bulky boy responded, taking a battle stance along with the others who immediately activated their abilities.

Altogether, they were six—poised and ready to take on the elite.

The ghastly pale boy who had rolled the dice rose to his feet, his eerie grin still plastered across his pallid face.

Across from him, the elite’s eyes burned with anticipation, his own grin never wavering as he tightened his grip on his sword.

Before the elite could even blink, the pale boy vanished from sight, reappearing mid-air behind the elite, one leg extended in a powerful kick aimed straight at his skull.

The elite’s eyes widened in brief shock at the boy’s speed. Instinctively, he threw up a hand to block the strike, but the sheer force of impact loosened his grip on his sword. He tightened his hold again immediately, but the boy, undeterred, twisted fluidly in mid-air, shifting his momentum into a devastating axe kick that came crashing down.

The blow forced the elite into a crouch, though he refused to fall. As he began to straighten, the boy seized him by the hair, delivering a flurry of rapid punches with the speed of light before slamming his face down into the scattered rubble.

"With strength x8 and speed x9 from a couple of hours ago, I’m practically invincible," the pale boy sneered, his eerie grin widening as he drove his fist down again and again onto the elite’s skull

The other third-floor seniors wasted no time, lunging in to encircle their target.

The pale boy continued his relentless assault, reveling in the thrill of it. But in an instant, a surge of raw power exploded from the elite’s back, tearing through his clothing and blasting everyone circling him away.

Rising from the debris, the elite ran a hand over the back of his head, feeling the warm trickle of blood. Mist curled from his lips as he smirked. His long hair, now unbound, swayed around him as he looked up at the seniors, his crimson eyes gleaming—half-lidded, as if intoxicated.

"This won’t do," he murmured, extending his sword.

A searing heat radiated from both his blade and body, filling the air with hot suffocating intensity.

"Come," he beckoned, his grin sharp and taunting. Strands of his long hair fell over his face, casting shadows that made him look creepy like something out of a folklore.

From the wreckage he was thrown, the pale boy rose, unshaken. In perfect synchronization, the third-floor boys charged at the elite, launching into a heated battle.

Seiya watched from afar, irritation pulsing through him. Every fiber of his being wanted to obliterate them all, but he restrained himself—allowing them their moment.

Dust and debris swirled through the air as the clash between the elite and the boys intensified. Blows were exchanged, the ground trembled beneath their struggle. Those on the sidelines could do nothing but watch, their eyes fixed on the brutal exchange.

Suddenly, without warning, a suffocating presence descended upon them. A shroud of raw, unrelenting killing intent coiled through the air, its weight pressing down on every soul present. The fight came to an abrupt halt—both the elite and the boys stood frozen, their bodies seized by an instinctive dread.

The chilling aura pulsed outward, dry and merciless, creeping beneath their skin and raising goosebumps. Breaths hitched, muscles tensed, and slowly, their heads turned—drawn irresistibly toward the source of the paralyzing menace.

From the shadows, a legion of orcs emerged, their heavy, deliberate footsteps pounding against the rubble. Their hulking forms loomed menacingly, adorned with razor-sharp horns and blood-streaked bodies. Their fangs gleamed beneath the dim light, the stench of slaughter clinging to their flesh—evidence of the carnage they had wrought.

Shock rippled through the fighters, their expressions frozen in shock.

"For real? Of all times for a gate to open!" One of the boys muttered, disbelief thick in his voice.

"And this many… they’re high-tier," another whispered, his body stiff with fear.

As they stood paralyzed in shock and disbelief, Seiya casually strode forward with ease, halting before the blood-drenched orcs with unnerving calm. His voice, laced with an icy chill, cut through the heavy silence.

"Have you killed them all?"