Whitebeard swung his blade once and felled two green-fla skeletons in a single strike. The sight made Charlotte Linlin and the other powerful figures present surge with renewed spirit, eager to rush in together and wipe out the ten remaining skeletons in one fell swoop.
Without the oppressive suppression of genetic hierarchy, these skeletal soldiers—aside from their frightening appearance—didn't seem particularly remarkable at all!
But Roya did not share in their relaxed confidence. He could already sense it—an icy, sinister awareness brimming with malice was probing into his spiritual perception.
It was the hive-like collective consciousness of the low-level intelligences inhabiting the remaining ten skeletons. Like a venomous serpent ready to strike, it was flicking out a slick, wet tongue, tasting every detail of its prey.
Roya knew all too well: even though these were rely the standard cannon-fodder units of the Pyramid Warship, their combat power could not be underestimated.
The mont Whitebeard charged ahead, the others imdiately suffered heavy losses!
The two skeletons Whitebeard had smashed apart earlier? They weren't true combat units at all—they were nothing more than crude shells pieced together from scraps left on the battlefield, infused with fragntary copies of the squad's consciousness.
They looked intimidating, yes, but were really just shambling fras—perfectly expendable bait, designed to gather information on enemy movents.
Thus, Whitebeard's mighty strike, and the fighting styles of the others as they moved, had all been thoroughly exposed to the ten true combat skeletons!
In the blink of an eye, those ten skeletons neutralized the gravitational force that pressed down from the moon, arranging themselves in the air in eerie, staggered arcs.
The very next instant, dense volleys of green energy bolts poured down like a torrential storm!
Roya's heart tightened. He understood imdiately: the skeletons, with their imnse joint computational ability, had already pinpointed Whitebeard and the others' greatest weakness.
That was—though they had just stepped into an entirely new energy-circulation system, they still lacked diverse, effective combat techniques.
Put plainly: Whitebeard and the others could only fight in close quarters.
Which ant—they were about to be rcilessly kited.
A single barrage, and Whitebeard was riddled with holes, tumbling unwillingly into the sea.
And after that—there was no "after."
The rest were driven into utter disarray, scattering in panic to find cover.
In the space of only a few breaths, the Moby Dick—the ship that had dominated the seas for twenty years—was obliterated by the green energy storm. Not a single splinter larger than a hand remained.
Tiny fragnts of wreckage drifted on the waves, washing over Whitebeard's blood-soaked body.
Although his wounds were rapidly healing, everyone could see the truth: the road to truly rising up and becoming masters of their own fate was still long—agonizingly long.
With Whitebeard and the others pinned down, Roya imdiately felt the serpent's cold, slimy awareness turn fully upon him.
He had beco the squad's designated pri target.
Roya sighed inwardly.
He had not wished to intervene against this skeleton squad.
For if Whitebeard and the native fighters here could not even overco this level of cannon fodder, then no matter how powerful he himself might be, it would be aningless.
When the Pyramid Warship descended in full, if they could not withstand even the energy shockwaves from his battle with the Seventh Overlord, they would all be shaken to death on the spot!
In truth, this skeleton squad was the perfect training ground for Whitebeard and the others.
To beco accustod to their new energy systems. To learn the enemy's ways of fighting. To complete their ascension in real combat—only then would they be prepared to face stronger foes to co.
And only through endless battles, ascending step by step, could they hope to survive within the cosmic nebulae—the dark jungles of the universe.
With a wave of Roya's hand, Kuma and Imu descended to either side of him.
The Green Bull—who had been tortured until he was half-dead—finally had a mont to breathe.
Wearing an expression of twisted pride, he looked up at the skeleton squad hovering in the sky, eyes locked on Roya's weaknesses.
With a sneer, he said:
"Lord Roya… who would've thought you'd lose your nerve? Do you really think those two unnatural constructs of yours could stand against the elite squads of the great Master's Legion of Death and Terror?"
Roya didn't bother to acknowledge him. He didn't need Kuma or Imu to protect him, nor to fight alongside him. Simply by standing at his side, they served his purpose: intimidation.
As expected, the skeleton squad had already finished scanning every attribute of Kuma and Im, the two "blue-fla skeletons." Their analysis concluded decisively: this was not a battle they could win.
So—they retreated without hesitation.
So much for their so-called "elite squad." They were nothing more than low-level fodder units, granted scraps of autonomy to guard resource planets.
One scare from Roya, and they obediently turned away, refocusing their fire upon the battered but recovering Whitebeard and his allies.
The Green Bull's face, which had just regained a trace of color, instantly darkened again.
But the cruel truth was this: though he called himself governor of this resource planet, he had absolutely no authority over the skeleton squads.
A slave knight was still a slave—less than even cannon fodder.
Roya snorted coldly, and with his spiritual sense sent a ssage to Vegapunk:
"If you've got the ti, use the leftover life-substance to forge so bio-tal armor."
Given the civilization of this world, people's instinct in battle was always toward close combat. In that case, armor capable of withstanding ranged energy strikes was essential.
Vegapunk replied at once:
"No problem at all. I've got more than enough clone researchers—every set of armor can be handcrafted if you like!
Also, I'd suggest incorporating an adaptive gravity system within the armor. That way, no matter what environnt the wearer finds themselves in, the gravitational pull will always feel exactly the way they prefer."
Roya let out a faint, derisive hum.
Vegapunk quickly backpedaled:
"Alright, fine—I admit I exaggerated. The so-called gravity system is really just leveraging the bio-tal's properties to maintain a constant weight-to-mass ratio.
Ahem. But beyond that, I was also planning to add a breathing-assist system. I assu you want this armor ready for every kind of battlefield, don't you?
Like… boarding actions against warships in space, for instance?"
Roya imdiately cut the link.
Ever since fusing with his bio-tal body, Vegapunk's consciousness energy had grown even stronger. The number of clone researchers he could control simultaneously had long since surpassed five hundred.
And his ability to chatter, it seed, had reached the terrifying level of five hundred people speaking at once…
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