Vikram weaved his Great Sword as he pushed back the old man like he was looking at a kid. He was almost disinterested in the fight as he bullied the old man. When the old man reached half health, the cinematic started.
"Oh, how futile," Vikram knew that this was not the time to interrupt him because this was the moment when the power of the old man was at its peak. He now understood why people never interrupted the power-up of certain characters.
Because you had an opportunity when the power-up was over, but you would definitely die if you interrupted it. Interrupting a power-up would guarantee the other party's death, but they would self-destruct—and you would die too.
"Come on, get it over with." The four menacing crimson eyes looked at him as though they wanted to eat him alive. The bloody smell that oozed out from the creature solidified and diminished for a bit. The creature swooped in and punched Vikram.
Vikram turned his Great Sword into a shield. He was pushed three feet back by the pounce. His feet left an indentation on the ground, but he looked sharply at the creature.
The creature looked at its hand, seeing that it had been nearly cut off. Vikram looked grimly at the creature healing at an absurd pace and felt a trickle of blood on his cheek.
Vikram cursed and exchanged blows for slashes, but after fifteen minutes of pure brutality, he finally retreated from the creature. He spat blood out and looked down, seeing that his black armor was drenched in red blood—and it was all his.
Suddenly, a blast of blood erupted from Vikram's insides, and he lost consciousness.
[You have been slain.]
Vikram cursed and went straight to the Gates of Blood, the name he had given to the metal door. The sole reason why he had repeatedly died was because of that single ability. Vikram, for the first time, came to experience a status effect.
[Bleed] was the name of the status effect, and it was bloody painful to endure. [Bleed] was a slow, borderless, and stackable effect that would drive the blood absolutely berserk.
The claws of the creature carried the [Bleed] effect, and each mere scratch would raise the probability of triggering it. The most frustrating part was that there was no solid order to how the [Bleed] effect would activate.
Sometimes, five strikes were enough to bring it down. Other times, it took ten. It was maddening—this inconsistency, this tug-of-war between effort and outcome. Yet in the [Knight] Class, Vikram was something else entirely.
He stood taller, moved heavier, breathed deeper. And his soul felt like it weighed a thousand swords.
His panel, cold and sharp like a plaque carved in steel, read:
[Name: Vikram Rathore]
[Existence: Pre-Existence]
[Realm: None (Supreme Foundation)]
[Souls: 235]
[Techniques:]
• Breath of Genesis Spirit Art – Perfection
• Turtle Form Technique – Perfection
• Iron Tyrant Sword Art – Perfection
Kayala's voice echoed from memory, crisp and cruel as ever.
"You've sublimated three Laws into your Path," she had said, arms folded across her armored chest. "But without cultivation to feed them, they're parlor tricks at best—flashy enough to scare children, just like you did in that training room."
He didn't deny it. Not then. Not now.
The next moment, sharp claws missed his throat by a hair's breadth. A terrible cry tore through the sky like a siren screaming vengeance. The creature, a hulking, twisted Blood Spawn with four venomous eyes, locked onto Vikram, fury erupting from its gaze.
His armor was slick with gore. His limbs ached. But inside the suffocating confines of his helmet, he grinned.
He had severed its hands.
For the first time, he had cut them clean off. The creature howled and writhed, and in that instant, something within Vikram shifted.
It wasn't just victory. It was revelation.
A surge of essence rippled through his core, thick and ancient, as if the world itself had acknowledged his strike. Power burst from his being. He moved with brutal elegance, like a dragon plunging from the heavens. The monster responded in kind, attacking with serpentine fluidity, its body a weapon molded in blood and instinct.
Steel and flesh clashed.
And before Vikram lost consciousness, he saw his sword cleave deep—so deep the beast's torso threatened to tear apart.
He collapsed, heart still pulsing, vision swimming. The Blood Spawn was not dead. But barely clinging to life.
And Vikram knew.
The next time he stepped into this hellish arena, it would be the last he'd ever see of Ravanan.
Not because of his own power, but because the sword had moved on its own.
The weapon had wanted to kill.
When Vikram came to, he was lying still, his breathing shallow. Slowly, he reached for his black Greatsword.
The moment his fingers wrapped around its hilt, something stirred.
A dragon.
Not a vision. Not a delusion.
A coiling, spectral serpent curled around the sword's body, its presence heavy and noble.
So this was the Breath of Genesis Spirit Art, fully perfected.
Like the Breath of the Crimson Pulse, this technique allowed its wielder to breathe life into the inanimate. With perfection, aura and soul became midwives to creation. Objects stirred, awakened. Gained will.
And now, his sword, this brutal slab of black steel. was no longer lifeless.
It was aware.
Still in its infancy, its spiritual intelligence was fragile. But even that budding will made it a partner in battle. A thinking edge, not just a cutting one.
How did Vikram know all this?
He rubbed his nose, trying to suppress a laugh.
He wasn't trying to boast, as majority of it was explained in the journal that he had received from Gideon as the Knight Character, but he had also been reading. A lot.
Piles of half-burned books, archived scrolls, notes from before the Collapse. he had studied everything from spectral resonance to spiritual biomagnetism. How aura met matter. How science bent to the laws of the unnatural.
He wasn't just a warrior. He was curious.
"Dr. Vikram," he muttered under his breath, grinning. "Has a nice ring to it."
But this wasn't a classroom. And this wasn't a theory.
The sword had felt right in his hand. As if the moment his soul surged, the blade had surged with it. When he struck that last blow, his heart and aura had aligned so closely that the sword had roared for him.
He hadn't resisted it. Why would he?
At worst, he would die.
Again.
He was used to that.
But the result?
It had been glorious.
Still, one strike was not proof. He needed to test.
His eyes narrowed. Focus returned. The battlefield lay ahead—blood-red skies, snarling beasts, the scent of iron heavy in the air.
He cracked his neck. Tightened his grip.
"Wait for me, you bloodsucker," he growled, the edges of his voice serrated like his blade.