100% DROP RATE : Why is My Inventory Always so Full? - Chapter 321

Chapter 321: Chapter 321 – Edict
The five Monster Kings tore into existence as if reality had spat them out.

For half a breath, they were disoriented. Their claws scraped at air that did not match the wind they expected. Their senses reached for familiar landmarks and found only an endless field under a foreign sky.

Then Lucien’s allies moved.

The human woman struck first. Hesitation was a luxury she did not possess. A flare snapped from her palm, condensed into a fist of heat. She crossed the distance in a blink and drove it into the nearest goblin’s chest before his footing fully recovered.

The impact rang like a bell.

The goblin slid backward. His boots carved grooves into the earth, and his laugh came out as a rasping hiss.

“So eager,” he crooned. “Little embers still pretending to be suns.”

Around them, the other captives reacted the way survivors did.

They did not waste time asking questions. They moved to kill what would otherwise kill them.

The three Serpentiles spread into a crescent. Their bodies leaned into the fight as if they had been born for it.

The two humans anchored the front line with brutal, direct pressure.

And behind them all stood Lucien.

His presence did not demand attention.

It arranged it.

“Do not clump,” he said. “One each. Make space.”

The Serpentile woman snapped her gaze toward him.

“Who are you to command—”

A ripple of pressure rolled through the field and she felt it. Not the crushing weight of a domain trying to suppress her, but something deeper. A certainty woven into the air.

This was not a battlefield in the world.

This was a battlefield inside Lucien.

And the five goblin kings felt it too. Their instincts flared, searching for the edge of the trap and finding none.

Their eyes narrowed. Their weapons rose.

The fight began in earnest.

•••

At the Celestial Realm, existence itself began to listen.

Not to prayers. Not to techniques. But to declarations.

Edicts.

An Edict is a Law-bound absolute declaration that reality must obey without the need for a Domain, technique, or preparation.

That was why the captives could still wield power here.

Lucien’s Divine Energy Core was a superior domain. It denied other domains entry.

But Edicts were different.

They were permission slips signed in Law.

The goblins understood that truth better than most.

So did the others.

The moment the goblin kings fully recovered, their mouths opened and reality tensed.

The first goblin king, a blade-wielder with ritual scars carved into his cheeks, pointed his sword toward the Serpentile man who had taken his flank.

His voice came out in the goblin tongue. He issued an edict.

“Corrosion,” he intoned. “Bloom.”

The air around the Serpentile man turned gray.

A rotting principle. A concept that wanted all structure to fail.

The Serpentile man’s pupils narrowed to slits.

He did not retreat.

He lifted his hand and spoke an Edict of his own.

“I declare: Shedding.”

His scales shimmered, then peeled outward in a thin, ghostly layer. The corrosion struck that layer and devoured it instead, chewing through the discarded skin and leaving his true body untouched.

Lucien’s eyes flicked once.

‘Good.’

They were adapting fast.

•••

The Serpentiles moved like a coordinated species, even without words.

Their Laws came from the same ancestral logic but each expressed it differently.

The first Serpentile man, the one who had shed the corrosion, wielded the Law of Molting.

It’s a principle of renewal by abandonment. Physical damage and even hostile imprints could be cast off like old scales if he paid the price in essence.

The second Serpentile man, broader-shouldered and armed with a curved spear, wielded the Law of Constriction.

It’s a Law that punished motion, tightened distance, and forced opponents to spend more and more effort to move, as if invisible coils were wrapping around their intent.

The Serpentile woman wielded the Law of Venom.

It was not merely poison as a substance, but poison as a judgment. A law that could taint intent, erode structure, and rot effects at their source

•••

The goblin kings were not uniform too.

Two were swordsmen.

One wielded a thin, serrated blade etched with spiraling runes. The other carried a brutal sword whose presence alone felt oppressive as if it had been forged for slaughter rather than combat.

One carried a long polearm. The head of it was shaped like a barbed hook, built for pulling enemies off balance.

One fought barehanded, wearing finger-claws made from black crystal that hummed with corrosion.

One stood at the back.

A mage.

His robes were patched from different eras, stitched with symbols that did not belong together. His eyes were pale and wet like a creature that had stared into too many wrong skies.

He did not advance.

He smiled as if they had already won.

His mouth moved in goblin syllables that no one present understood, but meaning still spread through the air.

He raised his staff and spoke an Edict.

“Let the field remember its cage.”

A circle flared beneath his feet.

Dominion Circle.

Magic circles formed as if the world itself had been forced to provide the diagram.

Then he flicked his fingers.

He wrote runes in midair with elegant cruelty.

Phantom Ink.

Runes without chalk. Circles without stone. Systems without time.

He layered them together.

Formation into concept.

Then he finished by biting the tip of his tongue and letting a single drop of dark blood fall into the center.

The array snapped shut.

Space thickened.

The air gained a boundary.

Lucien felt it immediately.

The space was sealed like doors slammed in his face.

He clicked his tongue.

‘So that was their answer.’

Seal the space. Force the fight to become honest.

The goblin mage’s grin widened.

“Now,” he hissed, “let us see what your little troupe becomes without stolen distance.”

Lucien smiled faintly.

“This only means that you won’t be escaping either.”

He shifted his support to a different form.

If he could not move bodies…

He could move outcomes.

•••

The human woman was already deep in the front line.

She wore knuckles forged like compact gauntlets.

They were not merely weapons. They were anchors.

Every strike she landed left behind a brief, invisible brand in the air like a stamped seal of heat.

Each brand fed the next strike.

A chaining ignition.

The more she fought, the more the air around her became combustible.

The goblin swordsman she faced darted sideways, blade flicking in precise arcs meant to shave flesh without committing.

He laughed as he retreated.

“Look at you,” he mocked. “A spark wearing metal and calling it courage. You should be honored. You die inside a god’s stomach.”

She answered with violence.

She stepped in and drove a hook into his ribs.

Her knuckles ignited.

Flames burst through the rune-brands she had planted and detonated from three angles at once.

The goblin was thrown backward, cloak smoking.

He landed and rolled and his sword came up again.

Still laughing.

Then he changed.

He opened his mouth and bit down hard on his own finger.

Blood ran.

He smeared it along the length of his blade and whispered something into the rune-etched steel.

The runes lit like hungry eyes.

The sword’s edge warped.

It stopped looking like metal and started looking like a mouth.

A swallowing predator.

Lucien’s gaze sharpened.

Blood Magic Attribute.

The goblin lunged.

His blade met her fire.

And her fire was eaten. As if the flame itself had been turned into nourishment.

Her eyes widened. She felt the corrosion creep along her knuckles, chewing at the runes.

She did not retreat.

She bared her teeth.

“Fine,” she snapped. “Then choke on it.”

She spoke an Edict.

“Purge.”

Her flames sharpened into a cleaner color. Less orange, more white-hot. Corrosion hissed and recoiled. The bite-magic sword shuddered as if the flame had become too pure to digest.

The goblin’s smile faltered.

“Interesting,” he muttered.

She drove forward again.

“You wanted guinea pigs?” she spat. “Come take a bite.”

•••

To the left, the Serpentile woman fought the goblin with crystal claws.

She moved like a dancer who had learned murder as a language.

Every swing passed through where she had been.

Every retreat the goblin attempted stalled halfway. His movements grew sluggish as if resistance were blooming inside his own body.

Venom.

Her Edict came quiet but it landed heavy.

“Corruption is Due.”

The goblin’s Law of Corrosion surged…

But….

It turned traitorous.

His own claws began to rot at their edges.

His eyes widened in fury.

“Snake,” he hissed. “Your kind should have stayed as ornaments on human crowns.”

She smiled without warmth.

“And your kind,” she replied, “should have stayed as prey.”

He roared and forced chaos through his Law, trying to overwhelm the rot with raw instability.

The Law resisted.

The fight locked into a brutal rhythm.

Counter. Reassert. Break. Reapply.

No clean victory.

Only attrition.

•••

The Serpentile man with the spear met the goblin polearm user in a clash of reach and control.

The goblin struck first, hook sweeping low to tear his legs out from under him.

The Serpentile man spoke his Edict.

“Tighten.”

The moment the hook moved, the air around it thickened.

The polearm slowed, not because it was blocked, but because its intent was being squeezed.

The goblin snarled and shoved more power through the weapon.

Chaos rippled along the shaft, trying to make the motion unpredictable.

The Serpentile man stepped inside the hook anyway and slammed the butt of his spear into the goblin’s throat.

The goblin stumbled back, coughing.

Then laughed.

“You think you can bind chaos?” he croaked. “You think coils can hold smoke?”

He raised his polearm and spoke his own Edict.

“By corrosion, I declare: Fray.”

The Serpentile man’s spear shaft began to fuzz and splinter as if time itself was chewing it.

Lucien flicked two fingers from the rear.

A thin sheet of stillness slid across the spear for half a second.

Just long enough.

The splintering paused.

The Serpentile man’s eyes flashed with understanding.

He pivoted. He broke the shaft himself at the weakened point and turned the spearhead into a short blade in his grip.

“Thanks,” he murmured.

Then he went in.

•••

The human man, the second fire wielder, fought the remaining goblin king with the serrated blade.

This human was not a brawler.

He fought like someone who had survived too many sieges.

He stayed mid-range, shaping fire into lines and planes, controlling space without needing to displace it.

He spoke.

“Wall.”

A sheet of flame rose. Not to burn the goblin, but to cut off angles.

The goblin replied with corrosion, trying to dissolve the wall into weakness.

The human countered by compressing the flame into a denser layer, trading breadth for durability.

It was ugly.

Efficient.

And it worked.

Until the goblin snarled and plunged his serrated blade into the ground, using it as a conduit for chaos.

The earth beneath the flame wall cracked.

The wall faltered.

The goblin stepped through.

And nearly lost his head to a blade that appeared at the last second.

Lucien’s support again.

Timing.

A little nudge at the right second.

The goblin hissed.

“So that one hides behind others,” he spat. “Coward strategist.”

Lucien’s expression did not change.

He watched the battlefield like a conductor listening for discord.

“Keep talking,” he said quietly. “It wastes your breath.”

•••

At the back, the goblin mage lifted his staff again, pleased with himself.

The space-seal held.

Now it was a real fight.

The goblin kings grew bolder, their arrogance returning as their advantage stabilized.

“You are clever for livestock,” one mocked.

“You swing pretty flames,” another sneered. “Do you think warmth frightens those who crawled from rot?”

The human woman barked a laugh mid-strike.

“I have met better corpses than you.”

She slammed her knuckles into the goblin swordsman again and ignited three rune-brands at once.

The goblin’s blood-fed sword ate two.

The third detonated inside the “mouth” of the blade.

For the first time, the sword screamed.

The goblin’s grin turned sharp with anger.

“You insolent—”

She cut him off with another punch.

“Keep reciting your history,” she said. “I will write your ending.”

•••

Lucien stood behind them.

He slid stillness into a spear just long enough to prevent a fracture.

He bent reflection into a flame strike so it curved instead of missing.

He anchored the Serpentile woman’s venom so it did not collapse under chaos pressure.

He acted like an unseen hand adjusting the weight of every exchange.

His allies began to realize it.

Not consciously.

But in the way their confidence held.

In the way near-misses became hits.

In the way fatal angles kept failing to form.

The goblins realized it too.

Their irritation sharpened into fury.

The mage snarled and began writing a second formation above his first.

Lucien watched. Watched the timing. Watched the five kings.

And felt the distant thunder of Astraea’s Eternal duel shaking the horizon like his world was being torn in half.

There was no clear winner yet.

Only a tightening spiral.

Lucien’s voice cut through the chaos.

“Do not chase kills,” he said. “Break their rhythm. Force mistakes. We win by surviving their arrogance.”

The human woman wiped blood from her lip with the back of her hand, eyes blazing.

“Then tell me where to hit,” she said.

Lucien’s gaze flicked to the goblin swordsman’s blood-fed blade.

“To make him bleed again,” Lucien replied, “and regret it.”

The field trembled.

The goblin kings raised their weapons.

The captives tightened their stances.

The battle did not resolve.

It deepened.

And somewhere above it all, the sky cracked again from an Emperor-level clash that promised the next catastrophe was already on its way.