Chapter 942: Against the First Writer (3)

Clea had blocked the attack.

But she had not escaped completely unharmed.

Frey’s sword had torn through the starry fabric covering her arm and managed to leave a shallow cut beneath it.

A trivial wound.

Yet it was enough for her husband and children to see the color of her blood for the first time in their lives.

It was said that the blood of the First Writer, Clea, was black.

Black like her eyes.

It was a rumor that had spread widely among the Writers, born from endless speculation over something none of them had ever witnessed.

Clea had never bled in battle.

And so ridiculous theories had begun to form.

Was her blood black?

Red like theirs?

Or did it possess some entirely different color?

At that moment...

The mystery was finally answered.

"He actually wounded her..." Abraham muttered in disbelief.

As for Clea...

The corners of her lips slowly rose into a terrifying smile.

A smile that sent a cold shiver down Frey’s spine.

He had never seen his mother display so much emotion before.

"I would’ve preferred an angry face over that terrifying smile."

Frey forced a strained smile of his own as he took one step backward, still gripping the sword forged from Aether, Aura, and the power of his Rune.

Clea chuckled softly at his words.

"Angry?"

"Why would I be angry?!"

"Quite the opposite."

Her smile widened.

"I’m absolutely delighted."

Clea brought her wounded arm closer and licked the blood from her forearm.

The First Writer seemed genuinely pleased by what had happened.

"I had forgotten what my own blood tasted like."

"Even the Mist Lords failed to make me bleed."

"But you did, my son."

Her dark eyes gleamed.

"And that only makes me even more certain that I was right about you."

"You are special."

Clea clenched her fist.

The wound on her forearm vanished completely.

At the same time, her black hair began to rise and dance around her.

The dress worn by the First Writer was no ordinary garment.

It was armor in its own right, capable of shielding her from some of the strongest attacks imaginable.

Even if a warrior at the very peak of SSS-rank struck her directly, the Aether reinforcing her dress would normally be enough to stop the attack without difficulty.

Yet Frey had broken through it.

And wounded her.

So Clea decided to fight seriously.

Her Aether darkened.

It grew so dense that her body gradually disappeared within it, as though her own power had swallowed her whole.

The darkness expanded until it covered a vast area.

Then it exploded.

Hundreds of projectiles of death erupted toward Frey at once.

Clea’s negative Aether was terrifyingly powerful, enough to erase almost anything from existence the instant it made contact.

But Frey answered with a vast horizontal slash.

His attack swept across the battlefield and swallowed every projectile of dark Aether, blasting them away before they could reach him.

Yet Frey had no time to celebrate.

Because Clea was already standing directly before him.

And her body was still radiating that same dreadful, dark Aura.

She reached out, attempting to seize him.

Frey immediately struck her hand with his sword, but the mighty blade he had placed so much faith in rebounded off her, unable to pierce her defenses this time.

A moment later, Clea’s hand closed around Frey’s throat.

The instant they made contact, Clea’s negative Aether flooded into his body, tearing him apart from within as she effortlessly lifted him into the air.

"Killing you here in the Land of Survival won’t truly kill you. You’ll simply wake up in the real world... which is perfect."

Clea’s voice had become monstrous, distorted by the dark Aura surrounding her as she continued destroying Frey’s body from the inside.

"Once I’ve destroyed you, I’ll kill that insignificant creature, along with every living being in this inferior world."

"Then you will have nothing left to cling to."

Her grip tightened.

"And perhaps then, you’ll finally open your eyes to what is real!"

Clea’s words provoked an even fiercer resistance from Frey.

He unleashed everything he had, engulfing his body in an enormous torrent of both positive and negative Aether, desperately trying to break free.

Yet no matter how violently he struggled, Clea’s grip would not loosen.

Her Death Aether Form was simply overwhelming.

It rapidly tore apart every layer of power Frey summoned around himself, crushing his resistance before it could amount to anything.

"Resistance is pointless."

"I already told you."

"You cannot defeat me."

Among the Writers of History, that was practically an absolute law.

No Writer, whether from the past or the present, could defeat Clea.

And Frey was no exception to that rule.

But the First Writer had made one mistake.

She had assumed this battle against her son was a one-on-one fight.

Just as Clea was about to finish him, a sudden blast of Aether struck her from behind.

The attack carried enough force to make even her stagger several meters away.

Clea spun around sharply toward the one who had attacked her.

And found her husband standing nearby.

Abraham had his right palm extended toward her.

"Abraham!"

"What do you think you’re doing?!" she demanded furiously.

Abraham disappeared.

An instant later, he reappeared beside his son, releasing a wave of positive Aether that flowed into Frey’s battered body and accelerated his recovery.

"Sorry, my dear."

"But on this matter, I’m taking our son’s side."

Abraham cast aside his black coat and rolled up his sleeves, calmly preparing himself for battle.

"I don’t agree with him entirely."

"But I do oppose the way you look down upon the creatures of this world... and every other world born from a Writer’s ink."

"Father..."

Frey stared at him in surprise.

He had never expected Abraham to stand beside him, much less oppose the First Writer alongside him.

His decision would undoubtedly carry severe consequences later. By standing against the one who held the highest authority among the Writers, Abraham was openly defying the rules of the Council.

Yet he did not seem to care.

He had chosen his son’s side.

"Father... I..."

"Don’t speak. Just focus on recovering."

Abraham cut him off with a strained smile, his dark eyes remaining fixed entirely upon Clea.

"Because even with me helping you... we’ll probably still lose."

Clea was clearly displeased by her husband’s decision.

The dark Aether surrounding her erupted violently, making that displeasure impossible to miss.

"None of this needed to happen!"

"All he had to do was listen to me!"

Shards of dark Aether scattered through the air as Clea’s voice grew sharper.

"All he had to do was listen, and everything afterward would have been fine!"

Her gaze shifted toward Abraham.

"But instead of making him understand, you choose to stand beside him and make everything worse?!"

"He isn’t a child anymore, Clea."

Abraham’s answer remained calm.

"He’s a man now, capable of choosing his own path."

"I simply choose to trust him."

His position could not have been clearer.

For a moment, the First Writer said nothing.

Then she abandoned the argument entirely.

"So be it."

A terrifying pressure erupted from Clea.

In response, Abraham unleashed his full power and activated his Rune.

"Prepare yourself, son."

His Aura surged as he stood beside Frey.

"This will not be an easy battle."

Frey nodded.

By then, his wounds had recovered enough for him to fight again.

He rose beside his father, Aether gathering around him once more as the overwhelming presence of the First Writer descended upon them.

The battle between father and son...

And the First Writer...Was about to begin.