S-Ranked moon Lycans and wolves were hard, But against the SS-Ranked beasts, the reality was even harsher.

Ash's attacks could make them scream. Could make them feel pain.

But killing them?

That was practically impossible. With the Blood Moon Authority constantly restoring their bodies and souls, even infinite mana wouldn't guarantee Ash a kill. The gap wasn't one of power, it was one of mechanics. It was not something someone can simply overcome just because of infinite mana.

Which was why, Now that Bruce had given the signal,

Ash's eyes gleamed.

Its mana pool had recovered to a reasonable level. Not full, but enough.

Enough to fight properly again.

Enough to rejoin the slaughter.

The dragon let out a low, eager growl.

Its wings spread wide, casting an enormous shadow over the ruined battlefield as it descended once more, flames flickering between its fangs. Ash was ready. Its instincts aligned perfectly with Bruce's intent, moving not as a summoned beast, but as a partner who understood the rhythm of slaughter.

At Bruce's signal, Ash flapped its wings hard, dropping to a lower altitude in a controlled dive.

Then it breathed.

A fusion of flames poured from its maw. Normal dragon fire twisted together with Soul Flame, the two forces spiraling as one, sweeping across the battlefield in roaring arcs. Snow, blood, and stone vaporized instantly. The air screamed as the mixed flames tore through packs of beasts, burning flesh while simultaneously scorching souls.

The Lycans reacted.

They leapt.

Massive werewolf bodies launched themselves upward through the firestorm, claws extended, jaws open, eyes burning with feral resolve. They aimed straight for Ash, intent on tearing the dragon from the sky with sheer numbers.

They never made it.

Bruce blitzed.

The ground shattered beneath his feet as he launched himself forward with insane speed. In a blink, he vanished from where he stood and reappeared beside the first leaping Lycan mid-air.

His palm struck.

A red glove wrapped tightly around his hand slammed into the beast's chest.

Holy Rupture activated.

The Lycan didn't even understand what had happened. There was no scream. No struggle. Its heart and brain detonated simultaneously, life extinguished in an instant. The body went limp and fell, crashing into the ground below like discarded meat.

Bruce was already gone.

He appeared beside another Lycan before its claws could close around Ash's wing.

PALM STRIKE!

HOLY RUPTURE!

DEATH!

Another leapt.

It died the next second.

Bruce moved like a phantom, flashing from target to target, each movement precise, each strike final. His palms drove into chests, throats, skulls. Every impact was clean. Surgical. Absolute. Lycans died mid-motion, their attacks cut short before intent could become action.

Ash roared overhead, flames raining down in relentless waves, but Bruce was the blade carving space beneath it, ensuring nothing reached the dragon.

The battlefield turned into a slaughterhouse.

At some point, Red grew restless.

Hungry.

Bruce felt it. A subtle shift.

From the center of the red glove, a tiny needle emerged, thin as a whisper, sharp as sin. The moment Bruce's palm struck another beast, the needle pierced flesh effortlessly.

And drank.

Blood vanished instantly, siphoned in a single heartbeat. Veins collapsed. Bodies withered as Red devoured everything inside them, draining Lycans dry before they even hit the ground.

One second.

That was all it took.

Palm strike.

Prick.

Drain.

A Lycan collapsed into a shriveled husk, skin sagging over empty muscle, eyes dull and lifeless.

Bruce didn't slow.

If anything, he moved faster.

With every kill, Red's hunger intensified, the glove vibrating faintly with satisfaction. It was obscene how efficient it was at draining blood, almost eager, almost proud. Just as Bruce was OP and proficient in killing, and Ash was OP and proficient in destruction, Red was OP and terrifyingly proficient in feeding.

The three of them moved in perfect synchronization.

Ash burned and disrupted from above.

Bruce erased anything that tried to close the distance.

And Red drank the battlefield dry.

The Lycans never stood a chance.

The remaining SS-Ranked Lycans finally understood.

This wasn't a battle.

This wasn't even a hunt.

This was extermination.

Their instincts screamed.

Beasts that had stood fearless beneath the Blood Moon hesitated mid-charge. Some skidded to a halt, claws tearing furrows into the shattered ground. Others twisted instinctively, bodies tensing to retreat, eyes wide with something they had never felt before.

Fear!

Bruce didn't allow it to mature.

He blurred with insane speed.

The distance between him and the nearest cluster vanished in an instant. One heartbeat he was beneath Ash's shadow, the next he was inside their formation.

Palm strike!

Holy Rupture!

A Lycan's chest caved inward as its organs collapsed simultaneously. Before the corpse even hit the ground, Bruce had already pivoted.

Palm strike!

Holy Rupture!

Blood Drain!

Red's needle pierced flesh, and the beast shriveled instantly, blood ripped from its body in a single violent gulp. The glove pulsed, veins glowing brighter, deeper crimson than before.

The panic spread.

A group of SS-Ranked wolves turned and ran.

Bruce appeared in front of them.

They slammed into him like insects hitting a wall.

His hands moved.

Left. Right. Down.

Each motion was death.

Palm strikes detonated through skulls and torsos. Red drank greedily, draining beast after beast, the battlefield littered with withered husks and mangled corpses. Blood mist thickened the air, pulled unnaturally toward Bruce's hands as though the massacre itself bowed to him.

Ash roared overhead, wings beating thunder into the sky as mixed flames rained down, cutting off escape routes, herding the beasts back toward Bruce.

They were trapped.

The Blood Moon responded.

The crimson glow overhead deepened violently, light twisting, pulsing erratically as if enraged. The red symbols on the beasts' foreheads burned brighter, veins bulging beneath their skin as the Authority tried desperately to compensate.

Too late.

Red drank faster.

With every kill, the glove grew hotter.

Heavier.

Hungrier.

Cracks of crimson light crawled across its surface, mana condensing so densely the air around Bruce warped visibly. The needle at the center thickened, splitting into branching filaments that burrowed deeper with every strike.

Then,

CRRRSHHHK!

A sharp metallic groan echoed across the battlefield.

Bruce felt it instantly.

Red changed.

It has evolved!

[Congratulations Bruce! Your weapon Red is now S-Ranked]

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