Kingdom Building Game: Starting Out With A Million Upgrade Points! - Chapter 174

Chapter 174: • False Victory Part Two

Another group tried to gang up—four soldiers circling Ivan near a burning cart, its wheels charred and smoking.

They lunged together, swords and axes swinging, but Ivan moved with a sudden burst of speed, his crimson eyes leaving a streak of mana in his wake, too fast to track. He ducked a sword, grabbed the attacker’s arm, and snapped it backward, bone popping as he yanked the man into a burning pile of crates, flames licking up his screaming body.

Ivan’s daggers spun—a series of rapid slashes, one cutting a second soldier’s thigh, blood spurting onto the scorched grass, another slicing through his neck as he fell, head rolling into a ditch filled with smoldering planks.

The third soldier’s axe missed; Ivan sidestepped, drove a dagger through his eye, and kicked him into the cart’s flames, the body sizzling as it hit.

The fourth turned to run—Ivan threw a dagger, pinning the man’s leg to a broken beam. He closed the gap in a heartbeat, yanked the blade free, and slit the soldier’s throat, blood spraying like a fountain across Ivan’s cloak as the body slumped into the ash.

A squad of ten soldiers near a burning barricade spotted him, their rifles glowing as they shouted, “It’s a devil!” and opened fire.

Ivan became a blur, a shadow darting through them so fast the air cracked. He crossed the group in a heartbeat, emerging on the other side, cloak snapping in the wind.

For a split second, nothing happened—then all ten collapsed, blood spraying from slashed throats, gutted chests, and severed limbs, their bodies hitting the muddy ground in a heap, soaking the ash with blood.

The barricade behind them burned brighter, flames licking at their corpses, casting twisted shadows across the cracked stones.

Another group, twenty strong, tried to hold a line near a toppled cart, its wheels charred and smoking.

“He’s a demon!” one screamed, voice breaking as they swung swords and axes.

Ivan was on them before they could blink, a black streak moving like lightning.

His daggers flashed. He cut through the first soldier’s neck, blood fountaining as the head rolled into a pile of smoldering planks.

The second got a dagger through the chest, Ivan’s strength punching through armor like it was paper, pinning the man to a broken crate, blood dripping onto the muddy ruts below.

The third and fourth fell together, one gutted, the other’s spine severed, their bodies crumpling into a ditch filled with ash and debris. Ivan’s shadow stretched longer with each kill, a writhing darkness that seemed to swallow the firelight, his red eyes blazing like coals.

The survivors screamed, “Run! It’s the Death-Walker!” and bolted, slipping on blood-slick stones, scrambling toward a shattered wall for cover.

Ivan spun, his dagger twisting in his hand, and shot forward with a burst of speed so fast the wind howled.

He reached the last runner, a young soldier clawing at a pile of rubble, sobbing.

“Please, spare me, I beg—” Ivan’s hand clamped around his neck, hoisting him off the ground, the soldier’s boots kicking uselessly above the ash-strewn stones.

The man’s eyes bulged, hands clawing at Ivan’s arm, but Ivan’s face was blank, red eyes glowing brighter as his shadow loomed massive.

With a sharp twist, he snapped the soldier’s neck—crack—and dropped the body, which slumped into a puddle of blood and muck, the head lolling at a sick angle.

Then came the worst. A big Akerian, some grizzled bastard with scars like war medals, roared and charged Ivan, slamming him against a stone wall, cracks spiderwebbing behind him as ash rained down.

For a second, it looked like he had a shot, the wall trembling, embers swirling in the air.

Ivan’s hood fell, showing a face pale as bones and crimson eyes, like he wasn’t even there. He didn’t flinch.

One dagger sank into the soldier’s side, twisting slow, ripping a scream that echoed over the crackling fires.

Ivan’s other hand clamped onto the man’s head, fingers digging into flesh, blood trickling down the soldier’s face as he thrashed. With a sickening wrench, Ivan pulled—hard.

The skull tore free with a wet, grinding snap, spine trailing like a bloody rope, glistening in the firelight. Blood sprayed, splattering the cracked wall and pooling in the muddy ruts below. Ivan tossed the skull aside, and it bounced across the stones, rolling to a stop in a pile of charred wood, the jaw hanging open, eyes wide with frozen shock.

Koren retched, clutching his stomach. “Gods have mercy…”

Vaelin’s knuckles whitened on his sword. “Ballistae!” he roared. “Hit the Fallen, now!”

Torv grabbed his arm. “Captain, you can’t—”

Vaelin shook him off, eyes locked on Ivan, who stood amidst the carnage, wiping his daggers with a blood-drenched cloth, calm as a man cleaning dishes.

Above, Abaddon landed on a shattered wall, wings folding with a soft rustle. The stone cracked under his boots, and he grinned, surveying the slaughter like an artist admiring his work.

“Oh, Ivan, you’re so dull,” Abaddon said, leaping down to crush the body of a man that was barely alive and clinging to life, stepping over a corpse, his red hair catching the firelight.

“All this lovely chaos, and you’re just… standing there, wiping your knives. Don’t you ever want to savor it?” He gestured at the burning fortress, his mismatched eyes twinkling. “Come now, give me a scowl, a growl—something to make this fun!”

Ivan’s gaze flicked up, flat and gray as slate. “Be silent, Abaddon,” he said, his voice a blade of ice. “Perform your duties, or leave me to perform mine.”

Abaddon clapped, laughing like a child. “There’s my grumpy shadow! Always so serious. Tell me, do you ever dream of anything but blood?” He leaned closer, wings twitching. “One smile, Ivan. Just one. I’ll beg if I must.”

Ivan sheathed a dagger, his face unchanging. “Stop it.”

Abaddon sighed, tossing his hair with mock despair. “You’re no fun at all.” His gaze slid to Vaelin, who was charging through the smoke, sword blazing.

“Oh, look—a little captain with a shiny toy. Shall we play, Ivan? Or do you want to pull his spine out next?”