Chapter 99 - CH: 96: Clash of Instinct and Precision

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{Chapter: 96: Clash of Instinct and Precision}

Dex had never concerned himself with the intricate constructs of the technological world.

In his mind, machines were crude toys crafted by creatures who lacked the patience to master true power. His world was forged in the fires of magic and the chaos of the abyss, where the laws of physics bent before will and instinct. What need did he have for pistons, circuits, or cold, blinking lights?

'I don't have much interest in understanding it at the moment,' Dex thought with mild contempt, his crimson eyes tracking the elusive lizardman with razor-sharp focus.

Whether it was the humming core of a futuristic engine or the mysterious rune array of an ancient spell, the end result was often the same. Power. Destruction. Dominance. Different paths, same destination. The journey mattered little to him—the results spoke louder than the means.

And right now, the results were unacceptable.

He had launched a barrage of attacks, each laced with poisonous flames and spatial distortion, every move calculated and swift. And yet, the lizardman remained untouched, unscathed.

It stood still, and yet somehow managed to avoid each of his assaults. There was no dimensional shift, no manipulation of space, no visual distortion. From what Dex could sense—both through his spatial perception and demonic instincts—the creature hadn't even moved in any meaningful way during the evasion.

His claws had sliced cleanly through the space the lizardman occupied.

And yet… nothing.

No contact. No resistance. Not even a flicker of touch.

Dex frowned. That simple truth gnawed at the back of his mind. If there was no sensation of impact, no disruption in the flow of his energy, then he hadn't actually hit anything. But how could that be? His domain had been sealed. The space was solidified to the point where even light was beginning to slow. And yet the opponent moved like vapor through a sieve.

"Trickery," Dex muttered, his tone dripping with disdain—but also curiosity. "Not sorcery. Not phase manipulation. Not even classic illusions."

He didn't want to simply obliterate the foe. That would be a waste.

This was the first time in decades—perhaps centuries—that a sneak attack had landed on him, even if it had only drawn a thin ribbon of blood. For a demon of his status, that alone was enough to provoke fury. But it wasn't just anger that simmered inside him—it was fascination.

A predator had dared bite him.

The tail that swayed lazily behind his massive frame lashed out suddenly, faster than lightning, piercing straight through the lizardman's torso with a soundless whisper of displaced air. Dex's expression didn't change. He already knew.

No feedback. No resistance.

Like stabbing fog.

And yet, all his senses told him the lizardman was there, standing in that exact location, motionless.

He wasn't a ghost. There were no energy trails, no dimensional afterimages. He was real, and he was—somehow—not.

Dex's tail slowly retracted, the barbed tip gleaming with molten venom, and the towering demon narrowed his eyes. "A puppet wouldn't have that flavor of fear," he muttered, half to himself. "No. You're alive. And intelligent."

He could feel the emotional waves rising off the lizardman. Not just adrenaline—there was calculation. A hint of pride. Excitement. Wariness. Even a sliver of arrogance.

The kind only sentient beings could exude.

The lizardman began to move again—circling him now, cautiously, silently, like a shadow testing the edges of firelight. Its movements were bolder now, more confident, as if it had determined that Dex could not catch it. It vanished again in a blur, then reappeared behind Dex—silent, efficient, surgical.

This time, its claws were aimed with precision, fully extended. Not just to scratch, but to maim.

Dex sensed it.

Before the blow could land, a long, sinewy tail erupted from Dex's back at an impossible angle, curving like a whip with a mind of its own. The tip lunged for both of the attacker's arms, aiming to skewer them before the claws could make contact.

The lizardman's eyes widened.

It tried to abort the strike and retreat. But its body hesitated for a fraction of a second.

Not because of a delay in instinct—but because the system in its arm armor overrode its decision. Dex caught the subtle shift in the air—some sort of automated countermeasure in the lizardman's gauntlets had kicked in, forcing the attack to continue. It was likely designed to prevent hesitation in combat.

That momentary conflict between flesh and machine was enough.

CLANG!

Sparks flew as the lizardman's vibrating claws made contact with Dex's tail. The sound that rang out was shrill and jarring, like a chainsaw grinding against diamond. For a split second, the entire battlefield seemed to resonate with the dissonant screech.

Dex didn't move.

He simply stood there, his glowing red eyes watching the impact with cold fascination. His tail retracted slowly, completely unmarred.

Then he smiled—a wide, toothy grin full of menace and amusement.

"So, that's what it was..."

He now understood what had scratched him earlier. Not magic. Not aura. Not even brute force.

It was frequency.

He had felt it during the split-second collision—millions of microscopic vibrations, a buzzing energy humming at frequencies beyond human or demonic perception. Like a swarm of invisible blades, each fragment sawing against his flesh at the molecular level.

High-frequency resonance.

"Just like the weapons humans in those futuristic sci-fi stories wield," Dex mused aloud. "A high-frequency blade… or claw."

He wasn't surprised anymore that the wound hadn't healed. Such weapons were designed to shred cells so fast and so thoroughly that even regenerative tissue was confused. The energy woven into those claws disrupted natural healing cycles by destabilizing the matter itself.

Now this is interesting.

Dex's memories stirred as he observed the strange resonance from the enemy's claws, the high-frequency vibration that had clashed with his tail. The stable thing in science fiction.

High-frequency blades—tools of precision and destruction. They were weapons amplified by alternating currents, humming at incredible speeds, vibrating so rapidly they could shatter molecular cohesion. These were not just weapons in the conventional sense—they were molecular disassemblers, elegant and brutal in equal measure. Their edge, when vibrating at such frequency, could slice through reinforced alloys like paper, while the blunt edge could double as a pulverizing instrument. A sword, a scalpel, a chain sword, a hammer—all in one instrument of war.

"The vibration weakens molecular bonds..." Dex murmured internally, mentally recreating the science behind it. "...then the blade, already sharpened to a monomolecular edge, severs whatever remains."

A terrifying concept. In the hands of a skilled user, such a tool could carve through tanks, split power armor, or cleave through the limbs of behemoths. But...

Dex looked down at his own body—his carapace-like exoskeleton shimmered faintly under the torchlight of the underground chamber, its surface unmarred by the clash. There were no cracks. No dents. No burns. Only that telltale flicker of sparks and the ghost of a vibration.

No damage.

His tail, thick and muscled like a serpent of steel, had met the vibrating claws without so much as a scuff. The sensation had passed through him like an echo—he'd felt the intensity of the vibration, the chainsaw-like rhythm, but not the pain of penetration.

"My tail didn't suffer even the slightest abrasion," he realized, curling the limb experimentally. It remained as smooth and unyielding as ever. "Then... that means the other weapon, the enemy's claws, did."

He grinned.

Sparks never lie. And sparks meant something gave way.

Perhaps only slightly—maybe even imperceptibly to the naked eye—but any degradation at all revealed a weakness.

"This opponent may appear invincible while idle, but the moment he lashes out... he becomes vulnerable. The instant he initiates contact, he shifts from untouchable to destructible."

A flicker of predatory cunning flashed across Dex's eyes.

"Draw him in... make him strike... and then destroy him."

The thought bloomed like a poisonous flower in his mind. It was a strategy, clear and simple—bait, counter, eliminate. Yet he hesitated.

No. Too easy. Too quick.

He tilted his head back slightly, cracking his neck with a pop of cartilage and bone. The familiar heat of battlelust pulsed in his chest. The itch beneath his skin. He hadn't felt this sensation in years.

"I want to earn this kill," he decided. "Skinning him alive will be far more... satisfying."

Another faint exchange passed.

Dex moved slowly, deliberately—each step calculated, as though pacing the coils of a trap. Across from him, Grenvar—his strange lizard-skinned adversary—paced more restlessly now. The artificial confidence he'd worn earlier was cracking at the edges. His movements, once sleek and precise, now showed tension. Subtle tics. A shiver in the wrist. A shift in the heel.

Grenvar knew he was running out of time.

Every second wasted here inside enemy territory tilted the odds against him. Whatever mission he'd come for, whatever purpose had drawn him into this place, it was unraveling by the moment. Time was no longer an ally—it was a dagger at his back.

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