Episode-937
Chapter : 1873
The "Rust Blood" curse, which had been systematically oxidizing the iron in his blood and shutting down his organs, suddenly found itself facing a tsunami of raw, purified power. The Abyssal mana from the fruit acted like a universal solvent for the corruption. It didn't just heal the damaged cells; it halted the entropy.
The dark, creeping veins of rust on Ben’s neck halted, then receded as his own mana density spiked. The oxidation in his blood was reversed in a fraction of a second. His heart, which had been fluttering with the weak, irregular rhythm of a dying bird, stopped for a terrifying microsecond—and then restarted.
Thump-THUMP.
The beat was heavy, slow, and powerful. It echoed against the inside of his breastplate like a sledgehammer hitting an anvil.
But the physical healing was only the side effect. The true transformation was happening to his spirit.
Ben’s "Sloth" spirit had always been a conceptual tool—a way to freeze time or increase weight. It was a spirit of stillness. Now, however, that spirit was being force-fed the distilled essence of a Ferrum Sovereign and the raw, chaotic power of a Gluttony Prince.
The grey void in the center of Ben’s soul turned white. Then, under the crushing pressure of the extra mana, it collapsed into a dense, blinding gold.
"Arghhhhh!" Ben roared, the sound vibrating with a new, metallic timbre.
He scrambled to his knees, his movements jerky and filled with manic energy. He looked down at his hands—his prosthetic, dead hands.
The "dead" metal was vibrating.
The rust that covered his mechanical limbs didn't flake off; it changed. The alchemy of the fruit was rewriting the atomic structure of the steel. The dull, pitted grey of the rusted iron began to shimmer. A golden sheen spread across the surface, moving like liquid mercury, consuming the decay and replacing it with divine alloy.
Lloyd watched with his [All-Seeing Eye], his internal sensors recording data that defied standard magical theory.
"Fascinating," Lloyd whispered, his voice barely audible over the roaring energy. "He isn't just repairing the steel. He is increasing its molecular density. He is using the Steel Blood art instinctively to fuse the prosthetic limbs with the Sovereign mana."
The gears inside Ben’s elbows and knees, which had been fused shut by the rust, were forced open by the sheer hydraulic pressure of his new mana. They spun wildly, shedding sparks and smoke, grinding against each other until the heat reshaped them into smoother, more efficient forms.
Whirrrr-CLICK. Hiss...
Steam erupted from the joints as the "Ironwood Awakening" reached its critical mass. Ben’s armor, the battered plate he had worn since the start of the war, began to glow. The dents popped out with loud clangs. The metal seemed to soften, flowing over his shoulders and chest like living skin before hardening again into a sleeker, more aggressive shape.
Ben stood up.
He didn't struggle. He didn't stumble. He rose with the smooth, terrifying grace of a hydraulic press extending to its full height.
The transformation was complete. The man who stood before Lloyd was no longer the crippled knight who fought with scrap metal. He was something new. Something evolved.
He stood nearly seven feet tall in his reformed armor. His prosthetic limbs were fused seamlessly with his flesh, glowing with a constant, low-level golden fire that pulsed in time with his heartbeat. His single eye burned with a fierce, lion-like intensity, leaving a trail of golden light in the air whenever he turned his head.
The aura radiating from him was heavy. It felt like standing next to a black hole. The air around him shimmered and distorted, bending under the immense gravitational field he was generating.
Lloyd checked his suit’s sensors. The local gravity around Ben had increased by 1.5 Gs.
"Well," Lloyd said, a satisfied smirk hidden behind his visor. "That worked better than expected. I was 60% sure you might implode. How do you feel, Rook?"
Ben looked at his hands. He flexed his new, golden fingers. He clenched his fist, and the air inside his palm cracked with a sonic boom, displacing the dust around him. He took a deep breath, and his chest expanded without pain, the air rushing into lungs that felt strong enough to inhale a storm.
"I feel..." Ben’s voice was different. It was deeper, resonant, vibrating with the hum of a high-voltage transformer. It sounded like a lion roaring inside a steel drum. "I feel heavy. I feel... absolute."
He turned his gaze slowly toward Rubel.
Chapter : 1874
The traitor was still hanging in the grey vines, but he was no longer struggling. Rubel was staring at Ben with wide, terrified eyes. He had watched the entire transformation from his cage. He had seen the dying cripple eat his stolen power and turn into a monster.
"Impossible," Rubel breathed, his voice trembling so hard his teeth chattered. "That power... it was mine. Beelzebub gave it to me! It is Abyssal divinity! How can a human hold it? You should have been crushed!"
Ben took a step forward.
CRUNCH.
The stone floor beneath his boot pulverized into fine powder, unable to withstand his density.
"It was never yours, Uncle," Ben said.
He began to walk toward the cage. His movements were slow, inevitable, and terrifying. He moved like a landslide in slow motion.
"You stole it," Ben continued, his voice echoing off the walls. "You borrowed it from a demon because you were too weak to forge your own. You thought power was something you could put on like a coat. But power isn't a gift, Rubel. Power is weight. And you were never strong enough to carry it."
Ben stopped right in front of the hanging traitor. The gravitational pressure radiating from Ben was so intense that Rubel’s pale skin began to pull tight against his bones. The traitor shrank back against the vines, trying to put distance between himself and the living singularity.
"Stay back!" Rubel shrieked, his composure shattering completely. "I am a Ferrum! I am your blood! You cannot kill family!"
"No," Ben said. The single word carried the weight of a judge’s gavel. "You are just slag. Impurities in the metal. And slag gets removed from the forge."
Ben raised his right hand. The golden metal of his arm hummed, the mana concentrating in his fist. He didn't summon a weapon. He didn't need a lance or a sword anymore. He was the weapon. The air around his knuckles warped, forming a swirling vortex of distorted light.
"Lloyd," Ben said, his eyes never leaving Rubel’s terrified face. "Nice assist. But stay out of the splash zone. I'm about to make a mess."
"Noted," Lloyd replied, stepping back to the edge of the room to give his friend space. He crossed his arms, watching the finale with the pride of a rival who knew exactly what was coming. "Just make sure you clean your plate, Ben. We have company coming soon, and I don't want any leftovers."
Ben nodded. He pulled his fist back. The sound of his spirit charging up was deafening, a high-pitched whine of infinite potential energy waiting to be released.
"It’s time to end this, Rubel," Ben declared, the golden light of his fist illuminating every corner of the dark sanctum. "No more tricks. No more shadows. No more hiding behind demons."
Rubel opened his mouth to beg, to scream, to offer a deal, but the look in Ben’s eye stopped him. There was no mercy there. There was only the cold, hard certainty of iron.
The Golden Demon of Steel prepared to strike.
The air inside the Inner Sanctum was no longer cold and damp. It had become a gravity well, heavy and suffocating, distorted by the golden aura radiating from a single man.
Ben, the Ironwood Knight, stood in the center of the room. He did not look like the battered, exhausted soldier who had dragged himself into the dungeon only an hour ago. He didn't even look like a human anymore. The "Gold-and-Black Spirit Fruit"—a concentrated battery of stolen Sovereign power—had rewritten his biology. His prosthetic limbs, once made of cold steel, were now fused seamlessly with his flesh. They glowed with a blinding, molten light, pulsing in time with his heartbeat. He was a living engine of war, and his engine was revving high.
Opposite him, Viscount Rubel scrambled backward. The traitor’s back hit the cold stone wall, but there was nowhere left to run. Rubel looked at his nephew with eyes wide with primal terror. He had seen power before. He had bargained with devils and seen the might of the Abyss. But this was different. This was personal. This was the terrifying competence of a Ferrum warrior who had stopped holding back.
Rubel tried to summon his magic. He raised a trembling, clawed hand, attempting to call upon the "Rust Blood" art that had nearly killed Ben earlier.
"Rot!" Rubel screamed, his voice cracking. "Turn to dust! Why won't you rust?!"
A weak cloud of orange gas sputtered from his fingertips. It drifted toward Ben, pathetic and slow.