My Maids are All Final Villainesses

The Warchief laughed, and the sound rolled across the battlefield like thunder breaking against stone. It was loud, rough, and filled with a wild confidence that refused to bend, even in the face of something that did not make sense to him.

"You were bleeding profusely," he said, his voice carrying a harsh edge as he stared at Clay with burning eyes. "Do you really think you’re still invincible? How is it? Not bored anymore?"

Clay lifted his hand and wiped the blood from his nose with the back of his fingers. The red stain smeared across his skin, yet his expression remained calm, almost uninterested, as though the pain had already been pushed aside and forgotten.

"A little," Clay replied, his tone light and unbothered. "But I hope you have more."

For a brief moment, silence hung in the air.

Then the Warchief grinned, his teeth showing as his lips stretched wide.

"Then," he said, his voice lowering into something more dangerous, "let’s do it again!"

Without another word, he raised his arm and punched forward.

The air itself twisted from the force.

A massive wave burst out from his fist, tearing through the space between them. The ground cracked beneath the pressure, and the dust that had barely settled rose again into the sky as if the world itself had been struck.

Kaboom!

The shockwave slammed into Clay’s face, strong enough to crush stone and rip apart armored men, yet Clay did not even blink. His body remained standing in place, unmoving—feet rooted to the ground as though he had become part of it.

The Warchief’s grin faltered for a moment.

Then his eyes narrowed.

"Hoh..."

He did not stop.

He stepped forward, faster than before, his body tearing through the air like a red comet. His fist came crashing down toward Clay’s face again, filled with a force that had crushed countless enemies before.

Boom!

The impact echoed loudly.

Yet this time, Clay did not move.

Not even a step.

Not even a breath seemed to change.

The Warchief’s eyes widened.

"Huh?"

His fist was pressed against Clay’s face, yet it felt as though he had struck a wall that would never break. There was no reaction. No recoil. No sign that his attack had done anything at all.

For the first time since he had arrived, doubt crept into the Warchief’s expression.

He pulled back instantly, his feet sliding across the ground as he created distance between them. His heart pounded harder, and his eyes locked onto Clay as if trying to understand something that refused to be understood.

What... is this?

But then he clenched his teeth.

"As long as you bleed," he muttered, forcing confidence back into his voice, "you can be killed."

He repeated it again, louder this time, as if convincing himself.

"You can be killed!"

With a roar, he leaped into the air.

His body burned with violent mana, the red glow surrounding him becoming thicker and more intense. The ground beneath him cracked as he pushed off, and the air screamed as his speed tore through it.

"Bersuka IIIIIIMMPAAAACTT!!!"

The roar shook the battlefield.

The power behind it was greater than before—heavier, more violent—carrying a destructive force that made even the soldiers behind Clay tremble in fear.

The Captain swallowed hard, his hands gripping tightly onto his weapon.

"Young master—!"

But before he could even finish, Clay moved.

He did not step forward.

He did not rush.

He simply stood there and spoke.

"Bersuka IMPAAACTT!"

His voice was calm.

Yet what followed was not.

The air in front of Clay exploded.

Not from a punch.

Not from movement.

But from the force that came from him alone.

The invisible pressure surged outward, crashing directly into the Warchief mid-air. It struck his side with overwhelming force, distorting his body as though he had been hit by something massive and unseen.

Bang!

The Warchief’s eyes widened in shock as his body twisted.

His attack broke apart instantly.

Instead of crashing down on Clay, he was sent flying sideways—spinning uncontrollably in the air like a torn banner caught in a storm.

"What—?!" he shouted, voice shredding as he rolled mid-air, arms flailing as he struggled to regain control.

From the ground, everyone watched.

The Captain blinked.

Then blinked again.

He turned his head slowly, looking from the Warchief who was tumbling through the air like a kicked object—and then back to Clay, who stood calmly in place as if nothing had happened.

Then back to the Warchief.

Then back to Clay.

Warchief.

Clay.

Warchief.

Clay.

Again.

And again.

The contrast was so absurd that it broke something in their minds.

One of the archers let out a small laugh.

Then another.

Then suddenly, several of them burst into uncontrollable laughter, unable to stop themselves as they watched the once terrifying Warchief spin helplessly in the air like a toy thrown too hard.

"He’s rolling!"

"He’s actually rolling!"

The Captain covered his mouth, trying to hold it in, but even his shoulders began to shake.

Cerys remained silent, yet even she could not hide the faint upward curve of her lips as she watched the scene unfold.

Meanwhile, Borzoi stood frozen.

His single remaining hand trembled as his eyes moved between the two figures.

The Warchief.

Clay.

The Warchief.

Clay.

His mind refused to accept what he was seeing.

That... is the Warchief...

The man who stood at the top of their tribe.

The one who solved everything with his fists.

The one who crushed enemies without effort.

The one whose name alone was enough to make entire lands tremble in fear.

And yet...

Right now...

He was spinning in the air.

Rolling.

Like something that had been swatted away.

Borzoi’s lips parted slowly.

His voice came out weak.

"This... this..."

He remembered the countless battles.

The times when the Warchief had stood alone against enemies and ended everything in a single blow.

The times when even the strongest warriors bowed their heads without resistance.

The times when no one dared to even look at him directly.

And now...

All of that shattered.

Right in front of his eyes.

"Impossible..."

Finally, the Warchief crashed back down.

Boom!

His body slammed into the ground, cracking the earth beneath him as dust rose around his figure.

For a moment, everything went quiet.

Then—

The ground trembled.

A deep rumble echoed from below, spreading outward as cracks began to form around the point of impact.

The air grew heavy again.

Then—

Kaboom!

The ground burst open as the Warchief rose from within, his body covered in dust, his face twisted with rage beyond anything he had shown before.

"You son of a bitch!"

His voice roared across the battlefield, filled with fury that burned hotter than fire.

"How dare you mock my tribe!"

With a violent motion, he slammed his foot into the ground.

The earth split open.

A massive crack tore forward, rushing toward Clay like a raging serpent—tearing apart everything in its path.

The Warchief moved with it.

His body shot forward through the opening, his speed even faster than before as he used the broken ground as his path.

His fist pulled back.

His eyes locked onto Clay.

This time, there was no hesitation.

Only pure killing intent.

"I will crush you!"

He closed the distance instantly.

His fist came forward.

Boom!

It slammed directly into Clay’s face.

The impact rang out loudly.

Yet—

Clay did not move.

He stood there.

Unbothered.

Unmoved.

As if the attack meant nothing.

Then—

Clay raised his hand.

And punched back.

Bang!

The sound echoed like a cannon.

The Warchief’s eyes went wide as his body was driven downward with terrifying force.

The ground shattered.

The earth broke apart.

And in the next instant—

He was buried deep beneath the surface.