Level 1 to Infinity: My Bloodline Is the Ultimate Cheat! Chapter 449: The Man Who Froze Time

Ethan’s palm slamd into the barrier with a thunderous boom. The air cracked around them as the shockwaves rippled out, shredding the wind shield in an instant. His hand recoiled from the impact—but only for a second—before he brought his staff down in a clean, brutal arc.

Thud.

The blow landed with a sickening crunch. The man’s head snapped back, and a grotesque welt swelled on his forehead, ballooning as if soone had inflated it.

Ethan followed up with a sharp slap.

Smack!

Then another staff strike, hitting the lump squarely.

Thwack!

He spun and backhanded the other side of the man’s face, balancing the swelling so comically that the once handso, arrogant youth now resembled a lopsided vegetable.

"You dare—"

Before he could finish his threat, a violent explosion rang out from the cliffside. Ethan stepped in, drove his foot into the man’s chest, and sent him soaring toward a group of seven approaching figures.

The onlookers tensed as their comrade spiraled through the air. Their expressions twisted with anger, but their eyes narrowed as they tracked Ethan’s next move.

This guy’s the City Lord of Beastfall? they sneered inwardly. Is he actually insane? Charging headfirst into mid-air combat against a Wind Elentalist?

To them, it was suicide. The Windspirit Faction’s inner disciples were elite—masters of both magic and martial combat. No sane fighter would et one in open air, let alone seven.

But Ethan wasn’t done.

He caught up to the airborne man—now barely conscious—and used his body like a makeshift board, balancing effortlessly on his back as if skateboarding mid-flight. He lifted his leg and launched a devastating kick at the nearest Wind Elentalist.

That one, oozing smugness, didn’t even bother dodging. Instead, he channeled his elent—wind spiraling around his fists, condensing into a dense sphere of air. He punched forward, aiming to et Ethan’s foot head-on.

BOOM.

The sound echoed like a collapsing mountain.

The Wind Elentalist’s eyes widened in disbelief. His wind orb—crafted with precision and power—shattered like glass under Ethan’s kick. Raw energy exploded outward, ripping the air apart.

The poor bastard beneath Ethan’s foot? Obliterated—shredded into a mist of blood and bone.

Ethan’s staff twirled once more, and then—chaos.

None of the Windspirit disciples even saw how Ethan moved. One mont, they were upright; the next, they were howling mid-air, each sporting twin goose eggs on their skulls the size of fists. The seven elite Elentalists plumted, vanishing into the depths below. Whether they lived or died, no one could say.

Ethan hovered alone in the sky.

From a nearby vantage point, Eamon watched, frozen. "What... you’re War God-rank? Already?"

He was stunned.

Astrid chose that mont to strike—lightning flaring from her palm and lashing Eamon across the chest. Sparks danced across his body, his hair standing on end... but he remained mostly unhard.

"Damn it," he muttered, gritting his teeth and readying a counterattack.

But Astrid didn’t follow through. Instead, she retreated like a bolt of lightning, vanishing in a blur. Her golden feathers flashed briefly in the distance before she was gone, swallowed by the horizon.

Ethan watched her leave, ready to chase her down—but hesitated. The battlefield wouldn’t allow it, not now. Besides... he’d caught sothing in her eyes just before she vanished. It wasn’t hatred.

It was confusion.

That wasn’t the Astrid he knew. Her gaze—cold, distant—had looked at him as if he were a stranger.

Was that... really her?

He didn’t have ti to figure it out.

Eamon suddenly shouted, "Bloodfla Art—activate! Kill them all!"

Seven fighters locked in combat with Julian suddenly froze, then—gritting their teeth—they tore off their robes in sync. Beneath, their bare torsos erupted in a grotesque transformation: crimson scales bubbled up from beneath their skin, oozing blood that instantly hardened into jagged crystals. The scales crawled across their limbs, necks, even their faces—half-human, half-beast, dripping with blood and radiating nace.

Their energy surged, violent and unhinged.

Ethan felt it imdiately. His brows drew together.

"Beastial transformation?" he muttered, briefly reminded of mutants like Leeroy. But no—this was different. The aura... was off.

No—it wasn’t wrong. It was ancient.

His eyes widened. "That’s not magic... That’s Bloodline power. They’re using... forbidden arts. Bloodline techniques."

He turned sharply, calling out to Micah, who stood frozen behind him on the cliff. "Hey, where the hell are these people from?"

Micah said nothing. He was too stunned to speak.

Julian, sensing the sudden rise in power, unleashed his own strength, no longer holding back. His aura erupted—pure, overwhelming Elysium-rank power—but even he looked strained. The seven blood-crusted maniacs fought like demons, ignoring wounds, ignoring pain. Every strike they took, they returned threefold, unrelenting.

Ethan moved to assist—but was blocked.

"Not so fast," Eamon snarled, appearing in front of him in a flash.

Ethan narrowed his eyes. Eamon knew who he was—knew he was War God-rank—and still dared to face him? What gave him the confidence?

"You’ve got talent, kid. Reaching War God-rank this early? Impressive," Eamon said. "But don’t think that makes you invincible."

As he spoke, his aura began to rise. Slowly at first, then rapidly—Limbo-rank... Nether-rank... Elysium... early, mid, late... until finally—

War God-rank.

But not just early stage. No. His aura climbed even higher, peaking at late-stage War God. But sothing about it was... wrong. It wasn’t solid. His presence flickered, as if artificially inflated, like a balloon stretched to its limits.

Behind Ethan, Micah suddenly shrieked, "That aura... That’s ancient! He’s a Sealer! He’s thousands of years old!"

Ethan’s expression twisted. "Thousands of years? But the Spirit Realm has a strict entry cap—no one older than thirty-five is supposed to make it in."

Micah didn’t answer.

Eamon just laughed. "I first entered this realm nine thousand years ago, when I was twenty," he said, grinning. "Back then, I uncovered its secrets. The so-called ’Sacred Assembly’ you people celebrate every thousand years? It’s just a gimmick—a brute-force thod to crack the barrier.

"But the true passage, the one leading to the Spirit Realm’s upper layers, only opens once every hundred thousand years."

Ethan listened, incredulous.

"I completed the trial back then," Eamon continued. "I t a master, inherited the Blood Seal Divinity Art. Since then, I’ve used every ounce of my sect’s power to seal my aging after each trial. Eight tis I’ve sealed myself. My body’s still twenty-one. I’ve been waiting all this ti... and then you show up three days late and steal my initiative."

His smile dropped.

"You deserve to die."

Eamon’s aura surged again. He was strong—maybe even the strongest Ethan had faced so far. Not as stable as Uncle Jed, but still imnsely dangerous. His strength, Ethan realized, wasn’t his only weapon.

There was also the blood scent—the sa bloodline aura he’d sensed before. The sa one carried by the Blood King.

The Sea of Death... the Bloodline... the Windspirit Faction... are they all connected?

Sothing told him this trial wasn’t just about strength anymore.

It was about unraveling the truth. And whatever lay at the heart of it—was starting to rise.