"What are you doing? Those are level-fifteen and level-twenty elite undead! Their strength is nearly on par with mine—there's no way you can hold that gap—"
Baxter's urgent warning died halfway out of his mouth.
Jenson lifted the greatsword sheathed in black dragon scales with one hand—so lightly it looked as if he were holding a slender rapier, not a weapon built to slay dragons.
Then, with a casual sweep—
Shhhhk!
Four ghouls shredded like paper in the blade's arc, bone fragments and rotting flesh spraying through the air.
A Blood Corpse lunged at him with a furious roar. Jenson didn't even bother raising his sword—he simply drove a boot into its chest.
BOOM!
The impact thundered. Jenson didn't budge an inch. The Blood Corpse, however, was hurled back more than ten meters, crashing into the ground with a sickening thud.
The entire party went silent.
Baxter was stunned most of all.
As a frontliner, he knew exactly what raw Strength meant in melee combat.
To kick a Blood Corpse away head-on without even shifting one's stance… there was only one explanation—Jenson's Strength was far beyond that of the undead. It might even surpass his own.
And Baxter knew, without a shred of doubt, that he could never achieve such an absurd feat against a Blood Corpse.
But that made no sense.
Jenson's level was only fourteen.
How could a level-fourteen combatant overpower a level-twenty elite undead in raw strength—let alone outmatch a level-twenty-seven high-rank swordsman?
"Their strength's high? I'd say… it's nothing special."
Jenson's tone was almost lazy, as if he were appraising an ordinary rock, not an enraged Blood Corpse.
Baxter had no reply. For a moment, he even forgot that he was supposed to be holding the front line.
But the shock was far from over—
The Blood Corpse Jenson had kicked away let out a furious roar as it clawed its way back up, the humiliation of that blow burning in its eyes. With a guttural howl, it triggered Blood Frenzy. Strength and Agility surged in an instant, and it came charging again.
Jenson's lips curved into a faint smirk, his gaze dripping with contempt.
—The Blood Corpse's base Strength was seventy-one. Even with its frenzy, it barely broke a hundred.
His own Strength? One hundred forty-five—before equipment. With the Black Dragon-Scale Greatsword granting an additional sixty-five points, the total was a crushing two hundred and ten.
Twice the Blood Corpse's power.
He didn't even need to call on Dragon's Roar to overwhelm it.
The moment the creature lunged into range, Jenson swung once—clean, decisive—and the Blood Corpse was reduced to ragged chunks of bone and flesh.
Its fall only spurred the undead horde into a fresh surge, flooding toward him.
Jenson didn't waste words. He raised his greatsword, and above his head, the phantom head of an ancient dragon took form.
"Dragonfang Strike!"
A low growl rolled like distant thunder as the sword came down. The dragon's shadow dove with it, as if to swallow the world whole.
BOOOOM—!
The ground erupted under the impact, shockwaves tearing outward. Even in the rear, Fiona and the others staggered, struggling to keep their footing.
Dust and shattered corpses swirled together in the air, a battlefield baptism fit for a war god.
The Dragonfang Strike's effective range was only ten meters by ten meters—not vast, but more than enough to catch the undead mass charging the breach.
In an instant, eighty percent of them were obliterated—reduced to splintered bone and drifting black mist.
The few survivors of the slaughter hadn't even processed what had happened before Jenson was already on them—
With over two hundred points in Strength and blistering Agility, the Black Dragon-Scale Greatsword felt in his hands like a light shortsword. Every swing came with a crisp crack of bone, every strike a clean kill.
Blood Corpses, ghouls—it didn't matter.
Under absolute power, the outcome was the same—instant death.
In less than a minute, the entire wave of undead was gone.
Almost all the damage had been dealt by Jenson alone. His contribution shot from dead last to first place, leaving Baxter—the former leader—so far behind that the gap was three or even four times greater.
And no wonder—
From the moment Jenson had stepped in, everyone else had frozen as if they'd seen a ghost, forgetting entirely to attack.
The second wave had been wiped out by his hand alone.
Without a flicker of strain on his face, Jenson casually drove the greatsword into the ground, turned back to his comrades—still standing like statues—and asked, voice light as a breeze:
"Shall we keep moving?"