Imprisoned for a Trillion Years, I Was Worshipped by All Gods!-Chapter 656 - 212-What Kind of Bullshit Logic Is That?

Alan snapped impatiently, "Be careful? How exactly am I supposed to do that? Sleep with my eyes open every night?"

He folded his arms and sneered, "And another thing—they sent assassins to kill me. They failed and got killed instead. Isn't that perfectly natural?"

"So now, because I killed the assassins sent to kill me, these Dark Mages are holding a grudge and want to send more? What kind of bullshit logic is that? They can try to kill me, but I can't kill them? Is that it?"

He finished speaking and swept his eyes across the battlefield.

In the distance, several attackers who hadn't managed to escape were still scurrying about like rats caught in a flood.

Alan's gaze sharpened.

"Let's see how far this idiocy goes. No one's allowed to kill me, but anyone I want dead... won't live past today."

A fierce wind burst forth as Alan's body became a whirlwind, launching himself at the remaining enemies.

Francis and the rest of the Sirius Academy students quickly followed behind.

Earlier, during the battle among the elites, these attackers hadn't dared get close. But they had taken the opportunity to target the weaker members of Sirius Academy, causing them quite a bit of pain and injury.

But now—with Alan leading the charge—they no longer needed to hold back.

"No—please, spare me! My wife and kids are waiting for me at home—AARGH!"

"I don't want the bounty anymore, alright? Just let me go, please, I beg—uwaaaah!"

"Hmph! You think a brat like you can stop me? Watch me teleport right out of here—wait, what?!"

Slash!

With the high-tier disruptors out of the way, the remaining attackers—barely at tier-gold level—were nothing more than cannon fodder.

Alan tore through them like a reaper in a wheat field. Slash by slash, they fell.

Slaughter. It was the literal definition of slaughter.

Claude stood with a hand over his face, sighing deeply as he watched Alan from afar.

"This damn brat… doesn't he care what happens next? He's offending everyone. Does he have a death wish?"

But Holmes stepped up behind him and placed a hand on Claude's shoulder.

"You've got it wrong."

Claude blinked and turned his head. "What do you mean?"

"You've misunderstood the situation entirely," Holmes said calmly. "If Alan hadn't killed all these people today, that would've been the real mistake—the suicidal one."

Claude frowned, puzzled. He scratched his head and tried to work it out, but the logic refused to click.

Holmes gave him a look filled with quiet pity.

"It seems your years on the road have made you forget even the basics of political reality, Claude. Let me ask you—what is your identity?"

"Me?" Claude answered without hesitation. "I'm a knight. A Royal Arcane Knight, formally decorated by the United Kingdom of Braid. Why?"

Holmes leaned in, his voice steady and full of meaning.

"Then answer this: back when you still bore that title officially, in a situation like today's, would you have feared making enemies?"

Claude answered instinctively, "Of course not. No matter how many I killed, they'd still turn a blind eye. No one would dare challenge the prestige of the United Kingdom... oh!"

His eyes widened with sudden realization.

"You mean to say… Alan's brutal display wasn't recklessness—it was a calculated show of strength? A message to those pulling the strings in the shadows? That he's not someone to mess with lightly?"

"Something like that," Holmes replied vaguely with a small shrug.

Claude hoisted his twin blades over his shoulder and began striding toward Alan.

As he walked away, he called back over his shoulder, "You've always been like this—talking in riddles. Can't you ever say something straightforward for once?"

"Where's the fun in that?" Holmes chuckled. "Besides, the one who made the bet with Alan was you, not me…"

Claude snorted. "Don't worry, I haven't forgotten."

Under his breath, Holmes murmured, "You'd better not…"

Claude raised a hand dismissively. "Relax. I know what I'm doing. I've already been exiled by the United Kingdom. If those bastards in the shadows think they can use me to trigger a political conflict between the Kingdom and Alan… heh. Good luck with that."

He sighed and looked off toward the west.

He wasn't naive. After years of wandering, he may have forgotten some political nuances—but he had gained a deeper insight into human nature.

And this whole thing with the Jacob Ruins? It didn't smell right.

None of the factions who'd come here seemed interested in the ancient relics left behind by a great magus.

Instead, they'd all fixated on one young man with a bounty on his head, swarming to kill him like madmen.

That wasn't normal.

But Claude had made a promise. A personal one—with Alan.

He would fight alongside him.

Meanwhile, Alan had finished off nearly all of the remaining attackers.

He now approached the final one—a well-dressed man crawling on his knees, trying to flee. His expensive clothes were torn and muddied, his hands clawing at the dirt.

Alan's voice was cold.

"Did I say you could leave?"

He raised his hand. A Wind Elemental Blade formed in an instant and sliced through the air with a shriek.

Shhk!

The man's legs were cleanly severed. He screamed through gritted teeth, trembling violently from the pain—but remarkably, he didn't utter a sound.

"Oh? A bit of backbone. You're different from the rest."

Alan approached, elemental blade still in hand, ready to deliver the finishing blow.

But then—the man turned, glaring at Alan with venomous hatred.

"No! You're wrong! I'm the same as them. All of us are trusted agents of the great powers of the Kener Continent!"

"You kill us—and you make enemies of the entire continent!"

He was foaming now, spit flying as he shouted.

"You're finished, Alan! Even if you kill us now, the ones up top won't let you go. They'll keep sending assassins—stronger ones, more skilled—and one day, one of them will kill you in your sleep!"

But Alan only yawned, cleaning out his ears lazily with one finger.

Then, with a flick of his blade, the man was sliced into pieces.

Alan muttered, "Do they all say the same lines? Seriously, get some new material. I'm sick of hearing it."

With the last attacker dead, the battlefield finally fell silent.

Alan let out a long breath and turned his attention to his companions.

He swept a quick glance over them—and instantly noticed how battered they were.

Francis. Senior Blanche. Even Fort—all bore bruises and cuts.

The worst of them was Fort.

His chest had visibly collapsed in one area, and at least five or six of his ribs were clearly broken.

Worse yet—Alan hadn't seen Fort activate his Metal Element Bloodline since the battle ended.

Which could only mean one thing.

His mana was in complete disarray.

And for a mage, that kind of imbalance was deadly.

If not stabilized in time… the backlash could very well kill him.