The Battlefield of Consciousness.
The clash between the two sides raged on.
Here, each participant shaped their own appearance, so after battling for what felt like an eternity, neither side had a clear idea of what the other actually looked like. The only thing that was unmistakable was the raw, unfiltered malice radiating from the opponent.
As always, Orsaga was being besieged by multiple enemies. After all, he didn't have anything resembling a teammate.
But he was used to that by now.
From the mont he stepped into this world, he'd always been the one people ganged up on—perhaps that was simply the fate of a villain.
Compared to his opponents, who were bolstered by ritualistic power and clearly prepared for this confrontation, Orsaga was at a slight disadvantage. Despite having cheated the system a little thanks to his Evolution System, and not backing down in the face of superior force, he was undeniably weaker in raw power.
However, due to his mastery of ntal power, he was right at ho in this kind of battle.
So despite the enemy's nurical and power advantage, they couldn't gain the upper hand against him.
In fact, he even managed to seize an opportunity and force one of the participants out of the battle.
Fighting on the level of consciousness was essentially equivalent to clashing souls—there was no such thing as a minor injury. One misstep, and you were looking at a devastating wound at the very least.
As a result, the demigod-level mage who was knocked out wouldn't be returning to this fight anyti soon.
Even so, Orsaga didn't relax.
He glanced at the still-peak-state consciousness projections surrounding him and couldn't help but feel a bit troubled.
Soul combat, at its core, was a brutal, no-holds-barred slugfest without much room for finesse.
And with the other side's raw power being superior to his, a single slip-up would an getting completely overpowered.
anwhile, the other side wasn't feeling too confident either as they stared at the writhing, indescribable mass not far from them.
Since consciousness battles involved direct contact with the soul, the rawest, most primal parts of a being were laid bare.
And Orsaga, never know exactly what one would call "normal," had undergone a slight corruption into sothing eldritch and aberrant—his current form on the ntal plane was truly hard to accept. Just perceiving his warped essence was enough to sting the minds of the watching demigods—assuming consciousness projections even had eyes.
"What the hell is that thing...?"
Every one of the demigod mages was thinking the sa thing.
What they sensed from him was a kind of evil they had never encountered before.
He was basically a walking contamination zone.
Just brushing against his mind left them tainted by psychic toxins. At best, it caused ntal damage. At worst, it could alter one's very consciousness, turning them into a raving lunatic.
In other words, he was a serious problem. No matter how they approached it, they'd get bloodied in the process.
Still, the arrow was nocked, and there was no turning back. They couldn't let Orsaga continue running rampant in their stronghold.
Even if it ant injuries, they had to eliminate him.
With a silent, unspoken consensus, several demigod mages made their decision.
Quietly, they each permanently ignited a portion of their own power essence, shaping it into countless sharp psychic spears and launched them all at Orsaga in a single overwhelming volley.
Facing their desperate and decisive strike, Orsaga could only mutter a highly courteous phrase:
"…Fuck."
And then, he was swallowed whole by their storm of attacks.
---
"Pleh!"
Coughing up a chunk of blood, Orsaga slowly opened his three bleeding eyes.
Without hesitation, he raised his right hand and jabbed his index finger into his temple, piercing his skull and creating a gaping, grotesque wound.
Through that sickening hole, one could actually see inside his skull. His brain, which should have been a well-protected and vital organ, had sohow already turned into a pile of pulpy, ruined sludge—utterly nauseating to look at.
"Splurt… splurt…"
Tilting his head forward, he gave it a few hard slaps from behind—like shaking out garbage—until all the ruined brain matter spilled out.
He then shook his now-empty skull cavity, adjusting to the sensation, and a cruel smirk crept across his face.
There was no doubt: in that battle of minds, he had taken a heavy blow.
His brain had been forcibly churned to mush by sheer psychic force.
If not for the passive effect of his trait, [Unholy Wraith Body], which locked his life at the brink of death, he would've been seriously injured—demonic vitality or not.
Because let's face it, having your head liquified wasn't a minor wound.
As he felt the brain tissue rapidly regenerating inside his skull, he extended his unnaturally long, serpent-like tongue and licked away the blood trickling down from his temple. Calmly, he reflected:
'I definitely underestimated the strength of this world's native powerhouses…'
Simultaneously, he began ntally replaying the earlier attack, running simulation after simulation to search for a more effective counter.
After all, even if he wasn't a Saint Seiya, he couldn't afford to lose the sa way twice.
After a long period of analysis—
Even as his brain finished regenerating—he ca up with nothing.
No clever tricks, no counter strategies.
The only answer was to tank it.
The enemy didn't play mind gas. They didn't bother with technique. They ca in swinging with suicide-style assaults, aiming to overwhelm through brute force.
All the ntal combat experience Orsaga had gained from siphoning knowledge through pain and suffering? Completely useless here.
It was like a world martial arts champion getting ganged up on by a few maniacs strapped with explosives.
That was the situation Orsaga had just faced.
Feeling the residual dizziness lingering in his mind, he knew that was the aftermath of his soul being battered by foreign consciousness.
Unlike physical wounds, spiritual and ntal damage couldn't be imdiately healed—even with [Unholy Wraith Body] speeding up recovery, so lingering symptoms would remain and needed ti to fully fade.
Looking out across the distant front lines, he could still sense his plague spreading rapidly.
After a flicker of hesitation in his eyes, he temporarily set aside his thoughts of direct retaliation.
"Forget it. Let it simr a few more days. May as well play dead for now…"
With that, his form vanished from the spot, fleeing into the distance.
Given how much the enemy had managed to learn about him during that last clash—however fragnted those insights were thanks to his counterattacks—he figured sticking around any longer would be a very bad idea.
Otherwise, he wouldn't just be fighting a few elites—he might have entire squads swarming him.
---
Inside the defensive periter.
With a sharp jolt of pain in their heads, several demigod mages seated around the magical ritual opened their eyes, pale and breathless.
To take down Orsaga, they had chosen to burn a portion of their power essence, launching a desperate, all-out strike.
But such a move ca at a cost—it was far from light. Though it hurt the enemy, it hurt them as well.
In the short term, they were reduced to only sixty or seventy percent of their peak strength. A massive sacrifice.
Before Henry or the others could even speak, the leading demigod took a deep breath and spoke first:
"The target is extrely dangerous. When we tried to probe his mind, he reacted imdiately, forcing us into combat. Though we wounded him heavily with an all-out attack, he still has so strength left. I suggest you strike now, while you still have the advantage."
Then, using a spell, he transmitted the information they'd gathered to the rest of the team.
___
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