'How is this possible?' Sebas thought, his vision blurring beneath the crushing grip of the scaly hand. 'How could his speed have increased so much in an instant?'
No one answered the Iron Butler's doubts.
The only response he received was a blinding surge of pain radiating from the back of his skull. The dragon-scaled palm clutching his face didn't hesitate for a microsecond, slamming him ruthlessly into the shattered asphalt.
A web of deep fissures spread out from the point of impact, crumbling the street into a crater.
Hebe Shikai released his grip. He slowly stood upright, his silver hair plastered to his face, his crimson eyes looking down at Sebas.
"I am not naturally suited for close-quarters combat," Hebe stated, his voice vibrating with a terrifying, inhuman resonance. "However, Blood Rage mutates my physical vessel, elevating it to a level equal to—or perhaps greater than—a pure martial artist like yourself."
Hebe raised a blood-soaked, scaly hand. "This is the true bloodline flowing through my veins. The blessing bestowed upon me by the King!"
Hebe waved his hand downward, invoking the ancient power of Yanling.
A massive, invisible pillar of atmospheric pressure crashed down upon Sebas. The cracks in the ground spread outward frantically as the sheer weight of the compressed air pinned the Dragonoid to the earth. Strengthened by the Fourth-Order Blood Rage, Hebe's Yanling was devastatingly amplified.
For the first time since his creation, Sebas Tian was completely immobilized.
"Director!"
Watching the battle from the safety of the hovering Quinjet, Agent Coulson saw Sebas get pinned. He quickly dialed Nick Fury's secure line. "Has our heavy backup not arrived yet? He's losing!"
Inside the Triskelion, Fury was observing the exact same telemetry via military satellites. Yet, his solitary eye remained calm.
"Coulson, don't let your emotions cloud your judgment," Fury ordered flatly. "Support is already in play."
The call ended. On Fury's tactical monitors, the S.H.I.E.L.D. armored division rolled into the avenue.
Rows of S.H.I.E.L.D. tanks locked their turrets onto Hebe Shikai's coordinates. In the sky above, heavily armed strike jets streaked through the clouds, dropping a coordinated payload of guided munitions.
BOOM. BOOM. KABOOM.
The center of the battlefield erupted in a blinding storm of fire, shrapnel, and thick, choking smoke.
During the fraction of a second when Hebe was forced to divert his Yanling to deflect the bombardment, the crushing air pressure on the ground wavered. Sebas seized the momentary gap. He leaped out of the smoke, successfully escaping the gravity well.
As the smoke cleared, Hebe Shikai stood completely unscathed, the artillery shells having detonated harmlessly against his wind barriers. His blood-red eyes locked onto Sebas.
"A deathbed struggle," Hebe sneered.
His figure vanished. Not even an afterimage remained.
Hebe reappeared directly in front of Sebas. A chaotic, blindingly fast flurry of punches rained down. There was no martial technique, no refined form—just raw, unadulterated, overwhelming kinetic violence.
Yet, it was these unrefined, hyper-fast strikes that left Sebas completely unable to defend himself. Under the barrage, the Iron Butler staggered, his guard breaking.
Hebe threw a final, devastating uppercut.
Sebas was sent flying backward like an artillery shell. He crashed through wall after wall, pulverizing concrete and steel, until the kinetic energy finally dissipated. He landed miserably in the rubble of a collapsed bank lobby.
Sebas slumped in the corner of the ruined wall. Dark blood leaked uncontrollably from the corner of his mouth. Trembling, he lifted his head, his eagle-like gaze locking onto Hebe, who was slowly walking toward him.
Even battered and broken, Sebas's eyes remained incredibly firm.
'A warrior's fate is to die on the battlefield serving his Master,' Sebas thought, his resolve unbroken.
"It seems only death will make you close your eyes," Hebe noted. He completely lost any intention of asking the opponent to submit. He raised his arm, pointing a scaly index finger directly at Sebas's heart.
The air swirled and compressed at his fingertip, forming a hyper-dense, razor-sharp arrow of wind.
"Die. You were a respectable opponent."
The wind arrow shot forward.
FWOOSH—BANG!
Several high-explosive air-to-surface missiles detonated directly in Hebe's path. The blast disrupted the atmospheric currents, and the wind arrow instantly dissipated. The sheer concussive force of the explosion forced Hebe to take two steps back.
"It worked! Let's go!" Hawkeye yelled from the co-pilot seat of the Quinjet, having just emptied their missile pods. "Nat, get us out of here!"
Down on the ground, the smoke parted. Hebe slowly tilted his head upward, locking eyes with the Quinjet. His silver eyes held absolutely no emotion.
Hawkeye instantly broke into a cold sweat. 'He's looking right at us.'
"Nat, punch it!" Clint yelled.
He turned, expecting to feel the G-force of their escape. Instead, he saw Natasha Romanoff frantically wrestling with the flight yoke.
"It won't move!" Natasha shouted over the blaring alarms. "The jet has lost all aerodynamic lift!"
It was a thunderclap to Clint and Coulson. Before they could even check the instruments, the Quinjet tilted violently to the side and entered a dead plunge toward the earth. The three agents were thrown around the cabin, completely unable to save themselves.
In a matter of seconds, the Quinjet smashed into the avenue, erupting into a massive, rolling fireball.
Hebe slowly lowered his arm. The sky was his domain. Anyone foolish enough to attack the King of Sky and Wind from the air had to be prepared to be smashed into the pavement.
Hebe turned his attention back to the rubble.
During that brief, violent distraction, Sebas had forced himself to his feet. Facing Hebe's terrifying gaze once more, the butler planted his feet, raised his bruised palms, and settled back into a flawless martial arts stance.
[The Great Tomb of Nazarick - Throne Room]
"The opponent's strength has surpassed what Sebas can contend with."
Inside the Throne Room, the floating Mirror of Remote Viewing projected the brutal battle in high definition. Ainz Ooal Gown sat upon the Throne of Kings, his skeletal hands glowing with a faint, anxious aura.
"If this fight continues, Sebas will perish," Ainz stated grimly.
The Floor Guardians and the Pleiades watched in tense silence. Seeing one of their own so thoroughly outmatched filled them with a cold, simmering rage.
"Lord Ainz, please allow me to deploy."
Demiurge stepped forward, dropping to one knee. Behind his glasses, his eyes burned with demonic fury. "The humiliation Sebas has received, I will repay a thousandfold. The majesty of the Great Tomb of Nazarick must never be desecrated!"
Ainz looked at the Guardian of the Seventh Floor. He pondered the tactical matchup for only a moment.
"No," Ainz refused without hesitation.
Demiurge was a brilliant strategist, but he was not a front-line brawler. While his unique Command Magic could theoretically force obedience, placing a commander-type mage into a close-quarters blender against a hyper-fast, magic-resistant berserker was tactical suicide.
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