The process lasted roughly three seconds.
Oberyn stared blankly as Rocky's head exploded within the iron gauntlet of The Mountain, brains and blood blooming like a grotesque flower.
Seventeen years of waiting, seventeen years of hatred, seventeen years of reliving it every night in his dreams...
All reason and calculation... finally broke through all restraints at this moment, transforming into pure, unadulterated rage!
"Aaaaaah!!!"
Oberyn could bear it no longer; he roared crazily, his body lunging forward like an arrow released from a bowstring.
The dagger at his waist was already drawn, its blade shimmering with an eerie, dark purple luster. It was quenched with the deadliest poison from the tail stingers of scorpions in the deserts of Dorne, capable of killing instantly upon drawing blood. It was also mixed with rare toxins from the Shadow Lands; it was said that those struck by this poison would see their greatest fears before dying in madness.
As the strongest warrior of Dorne, Oberyn had been renowned for his agility since his youth. The nickname "The Red Viper" came not only from his mastery of poisons but also from his strikes, as swift and lethal as a viper.
Even now, past forty, the speed of his lunge still left most people present seeing only a blurred shadow.
His movements were fast.
But someone was faster.
Just as the tip of Oberyn's dagger was three feet from The Mountain's neck, a figure cut in from the side.
There were no flashy moves, no signs of winding up, not even the sound of a sword being drawn.
It was simply a step forward, the right hand gripping the hilt at the waist, a draw, and a horizontal slash.
Clang—!!!
The massive sound of metal colliding made everyone's eardrums ache.
Oberyn's poisoned dagger was intercepted at the last moment by a longsword.
The force generated by the collision caused Oberyn's body to stagger, his offensive instantly crumbling.
He stepped back twice to steady himself, his black eyes, burning with rage, locked onto the person standing in his way.
—Vito Corleone.
The Farmer Knight's hair, dampened by the rain, clung to his forehead. His hand gripping the sword was steady as a rock. He stood between Oberyn and The Mountain, his back to The Mountain, facing Oberyn, with no expression on his face.
"Move," Oberyn's voice was cold and biting.
"Now is not the time," Corleone replied, his voice calm.
"He killed the witness!" Oberyn's voice rose sharply: "In front of the Small Council! In front of the King!"
"I know," Corleone said: "Which is why you should not act now; it violates the laws of the kingdom."
"Then when?!" Oberyn was practically roaring: "Wait until he kills all the witnesses, and then let the atrocities be buried for another seventeen years?"
"I have no patience left, Vito Corleone. I am going to kill that damned bastard right now!!!"
Facing Oberyn's hysterical roar, Corleone did not answer.
He just looked at him, his pitch-black eyes devoid of any emotional fluctuation, as if looking at a noisy child, while the corner of his eye had long since locked onto The Mountain behind him.
After receiving ten thousand golden dragons from Tyrion, his upgraded [Insight Lv4] was operating at full capacity.
He could see the muscles under Clegane's armor bulging frantically, those muscle fibers contracting and relaxing at speeds that defied common sense.
The heartbeat sounded like a war drum, as if some giant machine were running wildly. A normal person's heartbeat was sixty to one hundred beats per minute, but The Mountain's heartbeat... was at least two hundred beats per minute!
"Something is wrong with him."
Looking back at Oberyn, Corleone whispered a warning, but the man clearly didn't care anymore.
"I will say this one more time..." the Prince of Dorne's voice was cold as iron: "Move."
Hearing this, Corleone looked up, his gaze calm, bordering on cold.
"Do you want to die?"
Once those words were spoken, Oberyn paused.
Then he smiled.
That smile was crazy, ferocious, and filled with seventeen years of pent-up hatred.
"I want to kill him."
"You cannot kill him right now."
"He has changed; he is... completely different from when we were outside the The Hall of Order."
Just as Corleone was trying to persuade Oberyn, The Mountain's eyes behind him grew redder.
He remembered this person.
Although it was very blurry, The Mountain still remembered the cold sensation of that sword slicing across his throat, and the excruciating pain when his tongue was severed.
He remembered all the pain.
And the person who brought this pain was currently standing with his back to him.
A low growl emanated from The Mountain's throat.
The sound did not resemble a human voice; it was more like the excited panting of some large beast upon discovering its prey.
His massive right hand slowly gripped the greatsword at his waist. The blade was as wide as a palm, over five feet in length, and the hilt was wrapped in rough leather, allowing for a firm grip even while wearing gauntlets.
Shing!!!
The greatsword was drawn. The Mountain gripped it with both hands, his massive body sinking slightly—this was the build-up of force before an attack.
Then...
He moved.
Vroom! His massive body surged forward at a speed completely inconsistent with his size, and then, the greatsword came.
No technique, no flair; it was just the simplest, most direct, and most violent horizontal slash.
The speed and power of this sword strike had completely transcended human limits.
The attack came far too suddenly. Everyone present could foresee that in the next second, Corleone's body would be split in two, with blood and viscera spraying out.
Just like Rocky's head being crushed earlier, becoming another stain of filth on the floor of Maegors Holdfast.
Of course, none of this could escape Corleone's [Insight Lv4], but he couldn't help but knit his brows immediately.
Too fast.
At least twice as fast as last time outside the The Hall of Order!
Just as the greatsword was about to touch him, [Basic Swordsmanship Lv4] automatically operated to its limit at this moment.
His body leaned backward by a hair's breadth, the tip of the sword grazing past his nose. Corleone could even feel the stinging sensation of the sword wind scraping against his face.
"Interesting."
Retreating several steps in succession, Corleone chuckled, though his eyes looked toward Qyburn not far away.
This guy certainly had some ability, actually being able to transform The Mountain, a terrifying killing machine to begin with, into something even more fearsome.
This level of surgery could no longer be explained by simple medicine.
However.
Shing! The sound of the longsword being drawn was very light, forming a stark contrast to the roar of The Mountain's greatsword being drawn.
The blade was slender, the steel excellent, shimmering with a flowing luster under the candlelight.
This was the work of Master Tobho Mott. Although it could not compare to Valyria steel, it was already top-tier among the existing craftsmanship in The Seven Kingdoms.
Corleone gripped the sword with both hands, the tip pointing obliquely at the ground.
His stance was very standard, as standard as an illustration in a textbook: feet spread apart, knees slightly bent, center of gravity resting between the two feet.
This was the instinct bestowed upon him by [Basic Swordsmanship Lv4].
It was also the result of his training day after day in the training grounds of Flea Bottom.
Only then did many people present realize what had happened.
Lord Mace Tyrell screamed and scurried toward the corner, at least twenty paces away from the center of the battle.
Grand Maester Pycelle knelt on the ground, hands covering his head, rear end stuck high in the air, muttering repeatedly, "May the gods protect us, may the gods protect us."
Only Tywin Lannister remained seated in his chair, his emerald eyes devoid of any emotion.
He was waiting.
He wanted to see if Corleone was truly, like that night, impervious to swords and spears!
As expected, The Mountain's attack did not stop.
Having missed with one strike, his massive body rotated with the momentum, the greatsword carving an arc, slashing upward from below, aiming for Corleone's waist and abdomen.
This change of moves was shockingly fast, completely devoid of the clumsiness a greatsword should have.
However, just at the moment before the greatsword closed in, Corleone did not retreat; instead, he lunged forward.
It was not a straight dash forward, but at an eerie angle; his left foot stepped half a step forward, his right foot rotated on its heel, and his body completed an almost impossible displacement within an extremely small space.
Vroom~~~
His feet slid forward almost skimming the ground, the edge of the greatsword sweeping past his head, slicing off a few strands of hair.
Then, at the moment The Mountain's greatsword reached the end of its arc, Corleone rose and struck.
His sword was fast.
The blade thrust precisely toward the inside of The Mountain's left knee joint, the weak point where the plate armor connected and the key to supporting the human center of gravity.
Pfft.
The tip of the sword pierced in.
But Corleone's brows knit almost imperceptibly.
The feel was wrong.
It did not feel like piercing flesh.
It was more like...
...piercing into something tough and elastic, like thick leather or perhaps rubber.
And The Mountain also seemed completely unfazed by this strike.
His left leg did not even waver from the attack, his massive body as stable as a rock, those scarlet eyes staring at Corleone through the visor, a low growl emanating from his throat, and the greatsword was raised once again.
This time, it was a continuous attack.
Cleaving, slashing, sweeping, upward striking.
The greatsword seemed weightless in The Mountain's hands, turning into black arcs of death, completely enveloping the three feet of space around Corleone.
Each strike carried enough force to sever the body of a horse, and the speed of each strike was dazzlingly fast.
Corleone wove through the web of swords.
His movements remained simple, precise, and efficient.
Dodging, occasionally parrying with his longsword, but each parry was just a light tap, borrowing force to change the trajectory of the blade, never taking it head-on.
Because he could not take it head-on.
Corleone could feel that The Mountain's strength was at least twice as great as when they fought outside the The Hall of Order.
No, perhaps more than twice.
That kind of power had already surpassed the limits of humanity, and even surpassed the power that an ordinary knight wearing full plate armor could unleash.
The wind stirred by every swing of the sword made Corleone's robes snap in the air.
This was not right.
Corleone dodged while observing.
His [Insight Lv4] had already been pushed to its limit the moment the battle began.
Everything in his field of vision became slow and clear: the trajectory of The Mountain's muscle engagement, the range of motion at the joints of his armor, the rhythm of his breathing, and so on...
And, those anomalies.
Corleone soon discovered that although The Mountain's movements were swift and violent, they lacked variation.
His attack pattern was simple—a combination of variations of four basic moves: splitting, slashing, sweeping, and lifting—with no complex sword techniques whatsoever.
This was irrational.
Although Gregor Clegane was known for his brute strength, he was, after all, a knight who had fought on the battlefield for many years; his swordsmanship might not be exquisite, but it should never be this rigid.
It was like a programmed killing machine.
Just then, one of The Mountain's heavy downward strikes missed and landed on the floor of Maegors Holdfast.
Boom!!!
The stone floor shattered upon impact, debris flew, and a crack several feet long spread out like a spider web. The force of this single strike made the entire council chamber seem to shake.
Such violent commotion clearly attracted the attention of the Red Keep guards, and footsteps could be heard approaching from outside.
Soon, at least three Kingsguard, plus an entire squad of Gold Cloaks, entered Maegors Holdfast.
But just as they were preparing to stop the two combatants, Tywin slightly raised his hand and made a "halt" gesture.
However, the Hand did not issue any orders, merely looking back at the center of the room.
At this moment, Corleone had seized the instant The Mountain retracted his sword to lunge forward again. This time, his target was not the joints, but the eye slit of the visor.
The tip of his sword struck out like a viper, precisely aiming at that crimson eye.
The Mountain reacted extremely quickly, his massive head tilting to the right.
But Corleone's sword was faster.
The tip grazed the edge of the visor and pierced into the gap between the helmet and the neck.
The tactile sensation was still wrong.
It was not flesh or bone; it felt like stabbing into leather soaked in grease.
Corleone immediately withdrew his sword and retreated.
The tip of the sword brought out a wisp of black liquid.
That was not blood.
The liquid was black and as thick as crude oil, dragging sticky threads from the sword tip. When it dripped onto the floor, it made a soft "patter" sound, emitting a smell that was a mixture of rotting flesh and herbs.
The Mountain's movements paused for an instant.
He raised his massive left hand and touched the spot on his neck that had been stabbed. His fingers became coated in the black liquid. He looked down at his fingers, then raised his head and looked at Corleone.
That crimson eye beneath the helmet suddenly brightened at this moment.
As if some kind of switch had been triggered.
"Roar!!!"
A deafening roar erupted from The Mountain's throat.
The sound was no longer just brutality; it was mixed with a kind of nearly insane pain, or perhaps, rage.
His body began to tremble violently, and the joints of his armor made "creaking" friction sounds, as if the muscles inside were spasming and expanding uncontrollably.
Then, The Mountain moved.
His movements were faster and more violent than before.
The greatsword turned into a black storm, slashing wildly in Corleone's direction without any order. Every swing was made with full force, as if carrying the momentum to demolish the entire Maegors Holdfast.
Boom! Boom! Boom!
The floor continued to shatter, deep sword marks appeared on the walls, the long table was cut in half, and parchment and ink splattered everywhere.
Flying debris scattered like bullets. Lord Mace Tyrell and Grand Maester Pycelle hurriedly hid behind a pillar, while several Kingsguard rushed forward, using their bodies to shield Tommen, who was curled up in a corner.
Corleone wove through the storm.
His [Basic Swordsmanship Lv4] was pushed to the extreme at this moment.
His body seemed to predict the trajectory of every blade, always dodging fatal attacks at the last moment with minimal movement. Occasionally, he would counterattack, the sword tip always precisely piercing the weak points where the armor connected.
But the effect was limited.
The Mountain's strength was too great, his speed too fast, and he seemed to feel absolutely no pain.
Those attacks that struck the joints, neck, and underarms, although they brought out some black liquid each time, were completely unable to stop his movements; instead, they only made the guy more and more violent.
"This won't do." Corleone calculated quickly in his mind.
His stamina was depleting, while The Mountain seemed like a perpetual motion machine, tireless.
What was worse, he could feel The Mountain's attack pattern changing—from the rigid chopping and slashing at the beginning, it was gradually becoming methodical.
Just like a machine learning.
He couldn't let this drag on any longer.
Corleone's eyes turned cold.
The moment another of The Mountain's heavy downward strikes missed, he did not retreat or dodge to the side as before, but lunged forward.
Taking a step forward, his body almost collided into The Mountain's embrace.
This distance was too close; the greatsword could not exert its power, and The Mountain's massive body instead became a burden.
The Mountain reacted extremely quickly, his left hand releasing the hilt of the sword, and his massive iron fist smashed toward Corleone's head with a whistling sound.
But Corleone was faster.
He lowered his body, dodging the iron fist, and the longsword in his hand thrust upward from below.
The target was not the armor, but the eye slit of the visor.
This time, he used all his strength.
The sword tip pierced into the slit, deeper, and deeper.
Until half of the blade was submerged.
The Mountain's body suddenly stiffened.
That massive iron fist stopped in mid-air, just an inch away from Corleone's temple.
Time seemed to stand still again.
Everyone held their breath, watching this thrilling scene.
Corleone's sword had pierced The Mountain's eye, or at least pierced the helmet and entered the space behind the visor. The blade had entered through the eye slit and emerged from the back of the head, with black, thick liquid dripping from the sword tip.
The Mountain did not move.
His massive body stood stiff like a statue, that one intact crimson eye still staring forward through the visor slit, but the light within it was rapidly dimming.
"Is—is it over?" Lord Mace Tyrell poked his head out from behind the pillar, his voice trembling.
"Go and see!"
Cersei commanded loudly. Qyburn wiped the cold sweat from his head and hurried forward, wanting to check on The Mountain's condition.
But just at this moment...
The Mountain moved again.
His left hand, which had been paused in mid-air, slowly, extremely slowly, gripped the blade of the sword that had pierced his visor.
Then, with force, he snapped it.
Clang!!!
The longsword snapped upon the impact.
Corleone was stunned for a moment, holding the remaining half of the broken sword in his hand, and immediately retreated frantically.
The Mountain used two fingers to pinch the half of the blade that had pierced into his visor, slowly pulling it out. Black liquid dripped along the blade, accumulating into a pool on the floor. When the sword tip left the eye slit, it made a sticky, teeth-grinding friction sound.
Clang!
The broken sword was thrown to the ground.
Then, he raised his head.
On the visor, there was an extra hole at the eye slit, with black slime hanging from the edges of the hole.
The Mountain extended his right hand, grabbed the lower edge of the visor, and pulled hard.
A harsh metallic tearing sound rang out.
The entire visor was ripped off by him, revealing the face beneath the helmet...
...If that could still be called a face.
It was a face that was completely twisted, deformed, and almost unrecognizable as human. The skin was dark gray, like the color of a corpse, and the surface was covered with protruding black veins like earthworms.
Where the left eye should have been was a deep hole, from which black liquid was continuously oozing.
His mouth muscles were completely twisted, the corners of his mouth torn to the earlobes, revealing ragged, shark-like Fangs inside.
"By the gods..." Lord Mace Tyrell let out a moan, his whole body collapsing to the ground.
Grand Maester Pycelle simply chose to faint.
Even Cersei had her mouth wide open at this moment, and for the first time, genuine fear appeared in her eyes.
But Qyburn was trembling with excitement, approaching The Mountain step by step, exclaiming: "Perfect... too perfect..."
"This is the true transformation, shedding the fragile shell of humanity to become something higher..."
His words came to an abrupt end.
Because The Mountain turned his head, that single crimson eye looking at him.
The excitement on Qyburn's face instantly froze, replaced by an instinctive fear. He too
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