The searing heat lanced at him, a searing crimson viper striking from the obsidian maw of Mot in dragon-form. Kyn instinctively dove, the chaotic air itself thrumming as the inferno seared the ground mere inches from where he'd been standing. He scrambled to his feet, heart hammering against the ribs that already felt bruised and battleworn. Seven months. It had been seven unforgiving, soul-grinding months since he'd stumbled through that spectral breach into the Khaos realm. The worst thing was Khaos could regulate the time flow to suite his preferences.
This hadn't been a sanctuary; it was a crucible forged in spite. A twisted menagerie of nightmarish landscapes met skyward where nebulae dripped like dark ink. It reeked of forgotten gods and unfathomed cosmic horrors, its very air thick with the latent energy of oblivion. And at the heart of this inferno-lit cage was his tormentor - Mot, a magnificent, malevolent dragon whose every scaled hideout whispered of an untamed power that dwarfed even Kyn's bladework.
Kyn had come armed with nothing but the whispers of forgotten oaths and a lineage imbued with the blood of revenge, yet against this cosmic apex predator, he was outmatched in every way. His once-potent Ayyin Bane was banned from use as it was too OP and now the whispering edge that cleaved through shadow and steel - felt like a flimsy whisper against Mot's draconic hide. Khaos, the entity himself, had woven a cruel enchantment on his armory: Kyn could only wield weapons of Earthly renown – third-tier at best - the kind meant for mortal skirmishes, not grandeur duels.
Spears shattered harmlessly, leaving nicks on the dragon's obsidian scales that would have cleaved lesser beasts in twain. His swords met with resounding thuds, their edges shimmering and searing as he learned to wince chaos itself onto their very points - a chaotic lather that could bite through Mot's hide, but rarely connected for long. The defeats stacked against him: 234 Mot to Kyn's 00. He hadn't felt this utterly outclassed since his first step outside of UNITY back then. At least, then he could run away from the perusing pantheons but know was different, he was literally stuck in a moment of Khaos.
He was learning, though, driven by the gnawing fear of annihilation and a sliver of infernal hope that flickered like a trapped firefly in the encroaching darkness. Kyn was trying, so far he could at least keep the blade of his sword coated in chaos for 6 minutes straight as compared to the 10seconds he started off with. Mot's eyes, molten gold pools in the cavernous skull, held both amusement and begrudging respect as Kyn dodged another earth-shattering blast.
"Yielding to the inevitable is not in your blood, whelp. A flickering ember of defiance, that's all you truly are at this point. Embrace it, though. It's a far sight more potent than blind obedience." He roared, his voice an echo of celestial thunder, as he returned to his perch upon a spire of obsidian spires, the very air around him shimmering with displaced heat and chaotic energy. "Strive for that edge, Kyn. Strive and survive."
The cavern fell silent save for the crackling whispers of the nascent chaos. Mot was right: he wouldn't yield. Not while there was a sliver of hope, a whisper of defiance in his soul. Seven months might feel like an eternity, but to Kyn, it was a mere prelude - a trial before the true storm. The coming confrontation with that wretched replica of the Leviathan was only the first taste. And he wouldn't face it a helpless human being. He would rise, forged anew in the crucible of pain and spite, armed not just with steel but with the chaos-forged heart of a cornered mercenary himself.
He charged forward once more, the whisper of chaos now a defiant howl as he lunged towards his scaled tormentor - time for a different kind of lesson. This wasn't just about survival; it was about becoming something fiercer, stronger, something worthy of both this prison and the battles to come.
The obsidian blade sang against his calloused palm, its weight an extension, not an instrument. Kyn was no longer merely wielding his weapons, he was merging with them, feeling the cold steel as a visceral echo of himself. This was the key, Mot's brutal lessons etched into the very fabric of his being: to cloak the edge in chaos, he had to transcend the simple act of combat and become one with the weapon itself.
It felt intuitive now, a primal dance of will and energy. The smaller the surface area, the easier the flow - the whisper-thin sliver of his short swords ignited with chaotic luminescence for extended stretches, but their bite was that of a viper's strike, more venomous than earth-shattering. Claymores, broad and unforgiving, were another beast entirely. A glorious tempest of destruction when cloaked in chaos, they exacted a terrible toll on his concentration. The larger surface area demanded an almost agonizing level of focus, the chaotic aura flickering and threatening to die out before his desired kill-strike could land. He was learning the delicate balance between reach and raw power, a hawk's precision against a charging boar's force.
Spears, elegant in their lethal geometry, were a different kind of gamble. Their length whispered promises of piercing Mot's hide, but demanded pinpoint accuracy - no room for error against a dragon that moved with the fluid grace of a tempest itself. And the chaos-aura cloak on these elongated limbs was a draining current, a heavy exhalation each thrust. Against an opponent with lightning-fast reflexes, his spear-wielded fury would fizzle out before connecting, leaving him exposed and at Mot's mercy.
He'd charted a twisted cartography of warfare in this obsidian purgatory: short swords for prolonged skirmishes, claymores for the desperate, earth-shattering blows, spears for calculated strikes against vulnerable moments. He was still losing, 235 to 0, the score a gnawing talon raking at his soul. Yet, with each clash, each near miss, the whisper of chaos in his blade grew stronger, more stable. The limitations of third-tier weaponry felt less like chains and more like the very forge shaping them into something anew – a weapon forged not just of steel, but of raw defiance and a touch of the infinite's untamed power. This wasn't about brute force now; it was finesse, understanding, and a heart thrumming with the chaotic rhythm of survival. He would break this curse of defeat, he just needed to refine his symphony of violence. Mot, for all his draconic superiority, had underestimated one thing: Kyn's monstrous capacity to learn and adapt, a lesson even the celestial dragon himself might soon rue.
"No more playing small time, dragon. This dance ends now. I've learned your steps; it's time I dictated my own." He growled, steel glinting with an otherworldly luminescence as he met Mot's gaze, his own burning with the fire of a cornered soul finally readying for its last stand. 7 months were over, and Kyn was ready for the true fights to begin.
"As you command whelp" ,said Mot as he started to morph into a much slicker form resembling that of a Fucanglong, a treasure dragon that resembled the leviathans nordic lore. "Its' been a while since I took that form ... I hope your ready for the next round... hmm? ... "
Bro, literary lost track.