Wukong gripped his staff tighter, preparing to strike again. Bradford, however, was undeterred. He stood firm, his gaze locked on Wukong, unwavering.

  Wukong’s laughter rang out, and the monkeys joined in, their voices full of admiration and excitement. The more they cheered, the more he reveled in his strength. The fight, he believed, was already won.

  But as he prepared to swing his staff again, a creeping sensation began to wash over him. His limbs, once nimble and quick, began to feel heavier. His movements slowed, his breath becoming labored. He shook it off at first, thinking it was merely a fleeting moment of fatigue.

  But it didn’t stop. What is this? Wukong thought. Why does my body feel so sluggish all of a sudden?

  He tried to ignore it, focusing all his energy into his next strike, but the sensation continued to grow. His legendary speed, his reflexes—everything seemed to dull. His body felt as though it was being weighed down, as if something unseen was siphoning his strength. A flicker of doubt began to creep into his mind, but he pushed it aside. It’s nothing. It’s just fatigue.

  Then, as Bradford took advantage of the opportunity, he swung Possum once more, the dark energy of the weapon cutting through the air. It struck Wukong again—this time, deeper into his side. The moment the blade made contact, the curse in Possum’s edge surged through Wukong’s body, sinking deep into his muscles and bones.

  Wukong staggered back, eyes wide as he felt the true weight of what had happened. No, this can’t be...

  The sensation of weakness intensified, and Wukong’s mind raced. He quickly called upon his internal energy, trying to purge the curse with his power. But no matter how much force he exerted, the curse remained. It clung to him, stubbornly refusing to be cleansed. His limbs became slower with every passing second, his strength slipping away.

  Bradford saw his opening and pressed forward, his movements becoming more confident as he fought against the now-weakened Wukong. Possum’s dark energy surged with each strike, and the clones that once swarmed Bradford began to fall, one by one, unable to withstand the weapon’s curse. Bradford’s strikes grew stronger, the flow of the battle shifting in his favor as Wukong’s body grew slower, weaker, and more susceptible to Possum’s effects.

  His clones, once invincible and numerous, were being destroyed as their king faltered. One by one, they dissipated in puffs of smoke, leaving Wukong increasingly exposed.

  His breath grew ragged, and a wave of exhaustion crashed over him. The once-unstoppable force that had taken on gods and demons now seemed vulnerable, diminished by the very weapon he had underestimated.

  In an attempt to push through the growing fatigue, Wukong gritted his teeth and summoned all the strength he had left. He swung his staff with all his might, trying to strike Bradford down, but his movements were slower, heavier. The blow that once would have been a crushing force now barely had the momentum to land. Bradford blocked, his face determined, unfazed by Wukong’s futile efforts.

  A sharp pain shot through Wukong’s chest, and with a cough, blood spilled from his lips. His body, weakened beyond measure, could no longer bear the strain. The blood was a clear sign that his internal energy was faltering, the curse slowly devouring him from the inside. The realization hit him harder than any strike had. He couldn’t endure this much longer.

  In a last-ditch effort to regain control, Wukong plucked more strands of his hair from his head, his fingers trembling with the effort. He summoned more clones, his only remaining hope to turn the tide of battle. The clones materialized around him, charging at Bradford in a frenzied wave, each one a mirror image of their king. Wukong, too, spun his staff through the air, whipping it around with desperate speed to create a dense, swirling smokescreen. The thick cloud of dust and shadow veiled him, but even as he twisted his staff and created confusion, he knew deep down that this was his final attempt.

  Bradford, however, was undeterred. With swift, precise strikes, he cut down each clone, one by one. The air filled with the sound of Possum’s dark energy slicing through the clones, their forms dissipating into smoke as they fell. Each clone was weaker than the last, their power nowhere near the level they had once possessed. Bradford’s movements were sharp and decisive, as if he had been anticipating this final act of desperation.

  When the last of the clones vanished, Bradford’s eyes scanned the area, his stance steady and his breath even. But Wukong was no longer there. The smokescreen cleared, and in its place, only the traces of the battle remained.

  A flicker of movement caught Bradford’s eye. His gaze snapped upward, just in time to see Wukong, now transformed into a swallow, darting through the air. The Monkey King, realizing his defeat, had chosen to flee rather than face the consequences. The swallow’s wings beat quickly, carrying Wukong further and further from the battle as Bradford stood silently, watching his opponent’s retreat.

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  “Tch. Coward.”

  The battlefield fell silent. The monkeys, seeing their king retreat, broke into a frenzied panic and scattered into the jungle. The soldiers of Almany watched in stunned silence before erupting into cheers.

  Bradford remained still, watching the sky. This isn’t over. Wukong had fled, but the curse of Possum had done its work. The Monkey King now knew fear. And the next time they met, Bradford would make sure he had nowhere left to run.

  The battle had ended, and the dust began to settle, leaving only the echoes of conflict in the air. Bradford stood tall, his breathing steady but heavy from the exertion of the fight. His eyes lingered on the spot where Wukong had disappeared, transformed into a swallow and flying away. A small, satisfied nod was the only acknowledgment of his victory, but there was no time to dwell on it. He turned to Colonel Egilhard, who stood a few paces away, watching the scene unfold with an unwavering, practiced gaze.

  Colonel Egilhard was an older man, his sixties etched in the lines of his weathered face. His white hair and beard framed a face that spoke of years of hard experience and quiet wisdom. His eyes, sharp and piercing despite his age, showed no signs of weariness. The colonel had seen countless battles, and his presence alone was enough to command respect. He wore the uniform of Almany's elite forces with the dignity that only a man who had long earned his rank could carry. His posture was straight, his shoulders squared—proud, even in the aftermath of a hard-fought victory. The faintest glint of steel remained in his eyes, even if his body carried the marks of his years.

  "I have accomplished my goal of defeating the Monkey King. I will be returning to Almany," Bradford stated, his tone steady and resolute. He had earned the right to be proud, but there was no room for celebration—not now. "Colonel Egilhard, I trust in your competence to deal with the remaining stragglers. Root out every last one of them—leave no trace behind."

  Colonel Egilhard gave a firm, respectful nod, his weathered face betraying nothing but quiet resolve. His voice, gravelly from years of command, was steady and unwavering as he responded, "Understood, General. You have my word—by the time you return, not a single monkey will remain in this land."

  There was an undeniable authority in his words, the kind earned through decades of experience in the harshest of battles. His tone was the mark of a man who had seen it all, a leader who never needed further instruction. The mission was simple: clean up the remnants of the Monkey King's forces, and do so without hesitation. No extra details were necessary. It was a task he knew how to execute—efficiently and ruthlessly.

  Egilhard turned without another word, his boots crunching sharply against the earth as he motioned for his men to assemble. Despite his advancing years, there was no slowing him down. His pace was unbroken, purposeful, as if age had never touched him. The battlefield had changed, but his resolve had not. He was the instrument of the General's will, and this mission was no different from any other he'd undertaken in his storied career. It would be carried out with the same unyielding determination.

  Their gazes met for a brief moment, an unspoken understanding passing between the two men. In that fleeting exchange, Egilhard knew—this wasn’t just a command; it was an expectation, one that would be fulfilled without fail. His loyalty to the General was absolute, and he would not falter in his duty.

  Bradford, silent and unreadable as always, boarded the ship without another glance at the Colonel. As the vessel slowly pulled away from the shore, he stood at the bow, his grip tight around the haft of Possum. The wind carried the acrid scent of blood and smoke, lingering reminders of the battle they had just fought. He cast one final glance back toward the distant Mountain of Flowers and Fruits. Wukong had underestimated the power of Possum—the Monkey King's so-called Iron Body had failed him. The realization settled coldly in Bradford’s mind: even legends could bleed.

  With that thought, he turned his gaze forward. His mission was complete. There would be no more distractions. Now, it was time to report to the Fuhrer.

  Back on the battlefield, Colonel Egilhard remained standing among the wreckage, his eyes cold and calculating as they swept over the aftermath. The remnants of the once-proud monkey army lay scattered, but he didn’t waste time on sentiment. “You heard the General,” he said, his voice low but commanding. “We root out every last one of them. No survivors.”

  The soldiers responded with a sharp, synchronized salute, their faces set with grim determination. The echoes of the battle were still fresh in the air, but they were already moving. The war in the Mountain of Flowers and Fruits was far from over, and they had their orders. They would finish what had been started—no matter the cost.

  Back in the present, within the grand office of the Führer, Bradford stood before Reltisa, his posture rigid, his expression unreadable. The room was dimly lit, the air thick with the weight of unspoken ambitions. Behind him, the heavy curtains billowed slightly from the draft, though the silence remained unbroken—until Bradford finally spoke.

  "If that is the strength of a so-called battle god—one who has bested countless other gods and demons—then Bharatavarsha will fall with ease," he said, his tone measured yet absolute.

  There was no arrogance in his words, only calculated certainty. He had seen Wukong’s power firsthand, had tested it, endured it, and ultimately overcome it. And if a legendary being of that caliber could be brought to his knees, then what hope did mortal armies have against the might of Almany?

  “I knew sending you to face the legendary battle god would yield fruitful results,” Reltisa said, a satisfied smirk playing on her lips. She leaned back in her chair, fingers steepled as she observed Bradford with sharp, calculating eyes.

  Bradford met her gaze with his usual stoicism. “The victory was not mine alone,” he admitted. “Possum was the key—your war magic, combined with the research department’s enhancements, made it a weapon capable of felling even a so-called battle god.”

  His grip on the halberd tightened slightly as he spoke. The Monkey King had been a formidable foe, but in the end, he had underestimated the true power behind Possum—not just a weapon, but a carefully crafted instrument of destruction, imbued with Reltisa’s mastery of war magic. Without it, the battle might have ended differently.

  “Kahaha! Enchanting this weapon to such an extreme took a lot out of me,” Reltisa said, her voice brimming with amusement rather than exhaustion. She leaned back in her chair, arms crossed, a satisfied smirk playing on her lips. Her sharp blue eyes gleamed with triumph. “I had to test this weapon against someone strong. To be honest, I was a little worried about losing both you and the weapon—but in the end, it all paid off.”

  “You deserve a good rest. I still have things to attend to, so we will continue our discussions later,” Reltisa said, her tone dismissive yet composed.

  Then, before Bradford’s eyes, her form began to shrink. Her limbs shortened, her features softened, and in mere moments, the imposing woman was gone—replaced by a seemingly young girl with an innocent, doll-like appearance.

  Bradford exhaled sharply, unfazed by the transformation. “Are you heading back to that classroom again?” he asked.

  “Nope.” The girl—now Tatjana—tilted her head, a mischievous glint in her sharp blue eyes. “The expedition platoon has returned from Angurn Village. I want to see what they’ve discovered.” She stretched her arms lazily before flashing Bradford a grin. “Go enjoy your time off. In the meantime, I’ll enjoy my toys.”

  With that, Tatjana turned and strolled out of the room, humming a tune to herself. Bradford lingered only a moment longer before following suit, leaving the office behind.