Chapter 73
It Ends (4)
The air rang with the deafening crash of clashing metal. Sparks flew. Roars echoed. Blades sang. Blood hit the ground in thick droplets as chaos rippled through the burning remains of the Hold.
The scent of scorched concrete, ash, and something more metallic—blood, viscera, copper—was thick and suffocating. The battlefield was barely a battlefield at all—just debris, firelight, smoke, and death.
It was chaos—flickering lights, falling rubble, acrid smoke hanging thick in the air like a death veil. Firelight glinted off broken tiles soaked in red. Shouts rose from nearby corridors. The smell of scorched blood and burnt flesh was everywhere.
Raj ducked under a heavy swing—a wide arc from a brutal kopis that screamed through the air just inches from his skull. The hooded attacker surged forward, unrelenting. Raj rolled back, boots scraping across cracked stone, just barely keeping distance.
His chest tightened with every breath. Blood leaked from a long gash across his ribs, and his left shoulder ached where a blow had nearly dislocated it. His arms burned. His grip trembled slightly, the weight of his saber heavier than usual.
He barely blocked the next attack, his saber screeching as it met the hooded enemy's blade.
He was not a combative ascender.
That was never his strength.
His path and experience lay in craftsmanship, enhancement, weapon forging. But like all those who survived this long, he had some training—enough to be considered a decent fighter, especially with his saber in hand and a few critical methods at the ready.
But he was no specialist.
Each movement cost more than it should. Every parry jolted through his bones.
A blur of motion passed him—Regina.
She moved like a phantom. Cold. Precise. Deadly.
Regina, by contrast, moved like death refined.
Her black gauntlets—crafted by Raj himself—cracked against the curved blade of a hooded figure. Sparks lit the air. Her opponent staggered back as she flowed forward like water, chaining three strikes into a brutal path method. Her gauntlets pulsed faintly along her forearms as she layered on an effect: restriction. His speed dropped. His balance shifted.
She redirected force, killed momentum, punished overextension. She was an experienced ascended—and it showed in every flick of her wrist, every pivot of her foot.
But just her ability wasn't enough to tilt the scale.
All five of the hooded attackers were at least at the level of experienced. And under the effects of the suppressive path formations threaded into the Hold, both she and Raj were operating at only 80% of their usual capability.
The odds were brutal.
Only the sheer disparity in skill between Regina and the three she fought—combined with Raj drawing the attention of the other two—kept them alive.
Had Regina not stepped forward,dominating them with flawless technique and sheer determination—Raj would have already been dead. He was holding off the other two, but even that was pushing him past his limits.
Blood ran down his leg from a torn thigh muscle. His lungs burned with smoke. His vision swam.
He parried another strike and stumbled back.
The rhythm of the fight was collapsing.
Raj's ribs screamed with each breath. His mana was depleting fast. His reactions were dulling, and even Regina—her breath hitched once. Her movements weren't as crisp.
This couldn't last.
Then—without warning—one of the hooded figures facing Raj raised their hand.
A pulse of power rippled out, subtle and cold. Raj felt it instantly.
It wasn't a strike.
It was something worse.
A suppression of will.
Like a hand wrapped around his throat—internally. His limbs felt suddenly heavy. His heart slowed. A yawning hopelessness crept up through his thoughts.
A wave of dread.
A pull—on his soul.
His limbs weakened.
His grip loosened.
His will to fight was being stolen.
In his injured state, under suppression, it would be enough to end him.
No.
Raj's eyes widened. Then narrowed.
He dug deep into his core, Mana drained violently from his core, over half of it pulled at once, and slashed the edge of his saber across his palm.
Blood spilled out in sharp drops—thick, deliberate—and with it, came activation.
One of his trump card path methods.
His Avien flared wildly, screeching in protest. The backlash tore through his body. He nearly collapsed from dizziness.
But it worked.
Raj's trump card didn't affect minds. It affected weapons.
The five enemies jerked—twitched—eyes widening as their own blades trembled unnaturally in their grips.
One figure gasped, their blade suddenly slicing up—skimming just past their own ribs, grazing the lung.
Another's weapon turned inward and scraped against their thigh.
Each one froze, even if just for seconds.
Long enough.
a moment was all they needed.
"THIS ONE!" Raj roared, voice raw, arm outstretched—pointing to the figure who had tried to tear away his will.
The most dangerous of the five.
Regina didn't hesitate.
Her head snapped toward them, eyes narrowing. She pivoted sharply, abandoned her current opponent mid-fight, and charged.
The ground cracked under her boots.
Her gauntlets glowed.
Her lips parted.
She invoked a combo method.
"New rules…" her voice rang out, low and grim.
Her fist drew back, power surging through her entire arm, compressed into one devastating motion.
"All those who steal…"
She punched forward.
The gauntlet slammed into the enemy's head with a detonation of force—a sound like thunder wrapped in steel. The hood collapsed. Flesh and bone gave way like paper. Blood sprayed across the rubble in a thick, red mist.
The head exploded. Crushed into wet pulp. Body slumping with no resistance.
"…are punishable by death!"
One down.
Four remained.
And they were angry.
Snarling, blades raised, but their eyes burned with hatred and shock.
They recovered quickly—but not completely.
Their wounds still lingered, bleeding sluggishly. Their breath came harder now. But their hatred had only sharpened.
Raj's knees buckled slightly. He caught himself with the tip of his saber, breathing hard.
"...One down. Four to go," he rasped.
Regina turned, her jaw clenched, face cold and focused.
Regina stepped beside him, her chest rising and falling. "I'll take two," she said coldly. "You take two."
Then, quieter: "I'm going to use my trump method too. Don't miss your opening. After this, I'll have close to no mana left."
Raj nodded once, grim.
It was a wager.
With mana drained, their Avien recovery rate—even as experienced ascenders—meant twenty minutes before they'd be fully functional again. Maybe longer.
And that was if they survived the next five.
But it was a wager they were ready to take.
Regina closed her eyes.
A sharp pulse echoed from her chest.
Raj tightened his grip on his saber.
The final exchange had begun.
And either they would stand…
Or they would die.