Straight out attack against the forces of the revenants was impossible, even for adepts of their strength and skills, to draw attention to themselves would call down even greater forces. Walls broken and homes in smoldering ruins of black ash, Elyria crept along silently with Rhyn, aware of her surroundings, a silver metal-shaped blade in hand. Words weren’t spoken, perpetual silence reigning as they got ever closer to their destination, taking out whatever forces of undeath they couldn’t bypass and leaving those they could, aware that whatever enemy they left behind could later be a Thorne in their flesh.
The barrier to the dungeon itself lay within their sights, the dead and hanging guards that stood sentinel in ever silent vigil welcoming them. Eyes plucked out and bodies bent in unnatural angles, it was a shocking sight. She glanced at Rhyn, trying to see how he took it, but the Scion of Verdan showed no emotion even as his inheritance and vassals burnt and died around him. She wanted to bring up the fact that if the guards were dead and the doors to the underground cells all but torn off their hinges, then Thalas could most definitely be dead as well.
Elyria restrained herself, they couldn’t afford another fight between themselves, not while they were trying to remain in stealth, it was better Rhyn saw it for himself. Preparing herself, her instincts had her glancing upwards as a flash of bright green technique tore through the skies above them, wraith forms evaporating from the attack.
“Lady Lirien” Shiro whispered.
For one brief moment, she appeared, wrapped in green burning aura, a lighter shade to the aura of the black and dark green of a woman that appeared out of nowhere, two short blades in hand. The spear lady twirled her weapon, Lirien gathering her Ethra in another attack as projected spears that looked more like actual weapons themselves took shape behind her. Elyria tapped the shoulder of Rhyn urgently, drawing his attention to her.
“If we want to move, we have to move, now” she hissed.
He narrowed his eyes, nodding to her as they began creeping their way toward the destroyed gates of the dungeon itself. Her aura saved her, drawing her attention to the moving bodies whose necks turned backward with a snap, empty eyes filled with intelligence staring at them as she sprang into action immediately. Her silver blade wreathed in aura sliced down in a heavy stroke, silver imbuement armor covering her body, aware of just what type of foe they were about to face.
The dead guards sprang with the speed of disciples, legs whipping through the air as protruding bones clashed with staff and short blades from Shiro and Sorin respectively, the two adepts pushing away the attacks with ease, cautious as they stared into the eyes of the dead cultivators.
“Necromancy, puppet type.” Elyria said.
“The puppeteer would be nearby then.” Rhyn said, expanding his aura in an Arc.
Elyria shouted too late, realizing that the very action he had just done was what would reveal their presence. As the words left her throat, a figure landed right within their midst and the pressure of a lord settled down on them.
*********************************
Rowan Verdan, Highlord and patriarch of clan Verdan wrestled down the irritation and rag that had wormed its way into his chest from the onset of the battle, clashing with blistering Ethra techniques with the revenant Highlady who weathered them, his concept of the jade blade biting harshly with all of his might into her bone wraith blade. It was a battle of strength, skill, and wills, Rowan pitting everything he had against her, his dominion wrapped tightly around him to ward off the effects of undeath.
Artificer Iphan had vanished before Rowan could relieve him of his head, he had always heard that artificers were of master rank, but he had been willing to test it out the moment he had spied the fabled flesh spires of the Necropolis. Someone had betrayed him, and all he could think of right there and then was what could have been, the birth of a new empire to rule the wastelands now lay shattered, trampled over by unclean creatures that shouldn’t even have existed in the first place.
With a snap of his wrists, a fluid sequence of blade movements he had been honing for countless decades came into play, Ethra flowing around him as he drew from his core, the blistering yet terribly sharp movement of his weapon duplicating around him as he brought the full might of his weapon once again crashing down on the Highlady, her aura taking the shape of a glowing yet lithe female, a perfect rendition of how she saw herself.
Rowan felt ire at the realization that they were evenly matched, his projected blades keeping her aura at bay as she chuckled.
“Rowan Verdan, warden of the wastelands, isn’t that what you call yourself?” she asked.
In his second hand manifested his projected blade, Rowan pouring a fusion of Ethra and aura into it in an attempt to reach a state he had merely seen from a recording. He felt it rapidly draining his core, his willpower a finely honed edge as he brought it crashing down on her. For once the Highlady looked serious, a bone shield coming out of nowhere to take the brunt of the attack even as it shattered, its pieces burning up. She moved into a flurry of attacks, both she and her aura projection, clashing repeatedly with Rowan who gathered another projection attack, this one a blade forged out of pure jade crystals, the heavy weapon coming down to crash on her.
“Do you really think the empire and Heralds will sit back and watch you run amok across their lands?’ Rowan snarled.
Beneath the heavy force of the blow, Rowan felt a figure slip away from his surroundings, already aware of his daughter battling the two lords, he wondered for a brief few seconds where Alaric was, unable to sense him due to the dampening effect of whatever that revenant lord had unleashed the moment they came through.
Cutting through three death knights with a casual swing of his blade, he deflected a bone spear that shot through the crystal blade, puncturing it with deadly accuracy as it attempted to pierce him through the heart. Grasping it with an aura-coated hand, he snapped it, floating backwards, flicking his blade and watching the projected crystal blade shatter into a fine mist, the Highlady floating upwards, looking a bit disheveled but eyes alight with excitement.
“Something tells me you don’t want the presence of the empire and Heralds here as much as I do” she replied.
It had to be Iphan, no one else would risk his ire, but as his mind ran through the different scenarios, it paused at one, realizing how stupid he had been.
“Borus” he growled.
Burning aura and Ethra more rapidly, his aura taking the shape of a crystal blade that glowed with raw Ethra from within, sparks of flames licking at its edges, the Highlady stretched out her hands, her body becoming armored with glowing skeletal frame, her head covered by a shimmering translucent skull helm. She raised her wraith blade, getting on guard as she realized what was about to happen.
They both swung as one, pure power with the potency to level out an entire city district unleashed, painting the skies above them a different hue of green color.
**************************
Lirien tasted blood in her mouth as the curse technique hit her, wracking her insides with pain, twisting them, and quite possibly shredding them. She would have to do a full analysis later, assuming she survived the battle, seeing as she was going up against two lords by herself. The burning power of her father fighting above her tingled her skin despite the imbuement armor she had on, the blades of the assassin unable to pierce through it despite her regular attacks.
She stilled her heart, twirling her spear, allowing her Ethra to run through it as her dominion burned at the edges of her gaze, a tight radius around her body to inform her of the slightest breach by the assassin. The curse user though, a soul technique cultivator, one of the rarest and deadliest to ever fight with stood at a distance, shaping another curse again.
Her bones had been broken, blood vessels ruptured, and at one point, he had attempted to blow her heart out. That had cost him a limb though, Lirien stabbing through his shoulder, her jade Ethra rending it from that spot down to his right hand to shred, the curse user retreating in pure agony and rage. From that point onwards, he had avoided close combat with her, something she found stupid he had attempted to do in the first place. Whatever the barrier around the city was that restricted the power of the Ark system, it originated from the lord, a very disturbing thought seeing as no lord should be that powerful to do such.
The assassin had cloaked the area around her in inky darkness, attempting to confuse her, but her spear always hit true, the countless lessons she had taken with the forces of the Talahan army coming to fruition. She hoped that wherever Alaric was, he was doing his best to bring down the barrier, but then again, he had always been a tricky one. She hoped her father was seeing this, and took notice of just which of his bloodline had stood by his side in their darkest hour of need.
Lirien’s spear went out in an arc, catching the blade of the shadow assassin, the female revealing herself, both of them moving at pure mind-boggling speeds, Lirien sinking deeper into the battle, her mind calm as always, mapping out the movements of the assassin, her aura and crystal armor fending off the stealth-like attacks she attempted even as grey and black wraiths flew around her, looking for a way to pierce her, stab her, to do anything to distract her from the battle itself.
She flicked her eyes to the curse user who was close to finishing his technique, a red glowing orb of power and inscriptions, she nodded mentally to herself, it was time. She allowed one of the attacks of the assassin to pass through her crystal armor, screaming as if it hurt more than it should. At that moment, the assassin overextended, leaning more into the attack as she attempted to end Lirien in one clean beheading, a fatal mistake.
Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.
Her spear moved like lightning, puncturing through the wispy form of the assassin, her aura destabilizing whatever imbuement technique she used to keep her form akin to that of a wraith, grabbing her by the neck as she turned her gaze to the curse user whose eyes widened. She lobbed the body of the assassin at her companion, cocking her hand back, closing her eyes as she felt the wind in her face.
And then she released the spear.
It flew with the surety of a spear user who had practiced this particular technique more than a hundred times, it tore through the air, like a bolt of lightning, and it struck its prey with complete accuracy, puncturing through the body of both the assassin and curse cultivator, exploding out of their backs. The technique of the curse user exploded, shredding through the space around them, Lirien used her armor to take the brunt of it as it felt like her insides were on fire, she held back the scream that threatened to tear through her, feeling the inferno inside her that was made to knock her out of the fight.
But she was the merciless spear.
Hand outstretched, the weapon flew back into it, grounding her as she flared her aura, cooling her form, smoke coming from her, her hair burnt away and a part of her face scarred. Panting, sight dizzy, only her willpower kept her aloft, glancing down and realizing she was above the dungeon, where four adepts of the clan fought a hidden necromancer, she could see him clearly though, he and the curse technique lord that had somehow survived, albeit close to the gate of death itself.
She contemplated ending him there and then, but then she saw Rhyn and that wasteland girl, and bitterness suffused her. Why should her bloodline continue to suffer while Alaric’s continued to face lesser tribulations?. No, she would let this play out, let Rhyn prove himself as the fabled ‘Scion’ of the clan, if the four of them couldn’t bring down an almost dead lord then they were useless to the future of the clan, whatever form it might take anyways.
Turning her gaze to the rift duplicator that flared again, watching as more adepts and minions of undeath poured out of it, she wiped her bloody mouth, spitting a wad of mucus and blood that killed an adept with pinpoint accuracy, the rest scrambling out of the way. Besides, someone had to stem the tide of enemies that were coming through and find a way to close the duplicator, destroy it if possible, a second glance down to where the lord had revealed his injured body, she smiled at the realization that Rhyn might die right where Thalas had been incarcerated, their bodies a welcoming sight when she went to release him after the battle to prove that he and her dead son had been right in accusing Joran and the wastelanders.
The heavens did have a cruel sense of humor.
********************************
Tunde could hear his heart pounding in his chest, his breath coming out in a ragged form as he scrambled about, his relic taking glancing blows, deflecting attacks that burnt him like paper passed over a flame. Ethra sight stung at the sight of the elder, shutting it off as agony ripped through his head, whoever was in possession of the elder’s body gave off the presence of an otherworldly being. He drew from his heart and the abundant Ethra in the air, weaving Ethra spheres and discs in their dozens, firing continuously at the being who weathered them passively, its white glowing eyes revealing nothing as it stretched forth its hand.
The very air screamed with power around him as Tunde released resonance, runic circles appearing all around him, firing at point-blank accuracy at him. His aura weaved with his Ethra, left without aura sight and only his senses, Tunde found himself dancing in between attacks that could obliterate him at a go, the relic deflecting what portion of the attacks it could as the power blistered his skin, the weapon drinking in little quantities of the power.
What little it managed to absorb had the relic yearning for more even as it reinvigorated his body, Tunde clashing repeatedly with the floating winged being. The sheer fact that he did battle with a being that was the equivalent of a peak lord wasn’t lost on him, one little mistake could see him being reduced to ashes, relic absorbing power or not. The being pointed one finger at him, power gathering on it as Tunde gathered resonance through Shadowfang and relic together, the raw power threatening his body as he kept feeding it, both weapons humming and shaking in his hands.
“Be gone” it spoke, its voice echoing around the room that was miraculously still standing.
Tunde released his resonance, the attacks clashing as they warped the space around the both of them, Tunde tore backwards, the power blasting him straight into the sapphire stone that stabbed right through his chest, eyes wide. Raw power flooded him, his skin shining from within as cracks began to form on him, his mouth opened in a wordless scream. He felt himself unraveling even as he fought a mental battle, trying to keep himself together in one piece, hands that seemed to begin to lose cohesion attempting to dig the item out of his body.
[notice: sufficient power source has been found to complete assimilation]
[assimilation has commenced]
The relic sprang into action on his wrists, Tunde could sense it, feel it, like it was an extra limb of his. Siphoning the power of the stone rapidly as it broke it down within his body, drawing on it just as fast as the stone released it, Tunde felt the innate power of the stone fuse with the power of the relic, two foreign presences that barely felt like Ethra but something Ethereal, something he shouldn’t be privy to or even be in the presence of. And just like that, he felt his body rapidly begin to reknit itself, his aura and Ethra coming together, fusing like strands of hair being interwoven together.
All through the process, his mind, a distant thought found itself going through a crucible, raw agony burned like flames through his entire body.
[notice: affinity has been purified to its original state]
[all attributes have reached 100]
[imbuement technique: Ethra strike (tier 3) has evolved to void strike (tier 4)]
[projection technique: Ethra sphere (tier 3) has evolved to void spheres (tier 4)]
[ projection technique: Ethra razor disc (tier 3) has evolved to void discs (tier 4)]
[Ethra sight (tier 3) has evolved to Ethra sight (tier 4)]
[ resonance (tier 3) has evolved to void touch (tier 4)]
Tunde spasmed even as he felt his body fight on, clashing with the burning form of the elder, his relic glowing as its midnight starry Ethra billowed out of him, in waves of aura and Ethra. Clashing and burning, the blistering power of the being burning him even as he rapidly healed.
“Abomination, filth!” the being said.
Tunde paid it no heed, feeling his mind burn with power, his sight burning even stronger as his body felt heavy, laden under the power so strong that even as it rewrote his body from within, he couldn’t control it, and neither could Shadowfang apparently. The weapon shattered, fracturing like fragile glass as some part of his mind felt the loss, and yet, he fought on for his life, the weight on his body expanding to cover his every limb.
[notice!: Heaven’s crucible is being triggered prematurely!]
[relic is absorbing the excess power; heaven’s crucible has been canceled]
When it almost felt like his bones were about to shatter, Tunde felt the relic siphon what little remained of the sapphire stone that remained within him or hadn’t been absorbed by his body warping into a spear that punctured through the blazing body of the being that possessed Joran. Tunde had one moment of clarity before he was engulfed again in raw power, this time, something definitely foreign. Not Ethra, not aura, something stronger, more profound, more terrible in power.
It shattered his mind like glass.
**************************
He was in an inferno, he burnt with the power and agony of a dozen suns, his skin peeling off and reknitting over and over again, the pain absolute, his mind scattered within the inferno.
Who was he?.
What was he?.
Why did he suffer so?.
The pain kept going on, the concept of time was lost to him, the shattered remnants of a once proud mind. Something was left though, a spark, a spark the same as the flames but was not of the flames. It was what had been the flame before it was the flame, a ruse, a being who once existed but wasn’t at the same time, a presence altogether whole and shattered at the same time.
It reached out, limb forged of flames that burned and grabbed pieces of his consciousness, mashing them together as the first inkling of memory came up.
He was Tunde.
The second memory came up.
He should be dead, stale meat for the carrions of the wastelands.
More shattered consciousness began to reknit once the process started, the very flames that threatened to burn them to ash now serving as the very forge on which his very existence would be tempered. More and more memories poured in through the agony, people, places, events, a face that stood out among the rest, one whose very form had come together, through whatever means to bring him together.
Elder Joran.
The smiling face wreathed in flames burned ever brightly, a reassurance even within this trial that he wasn’t alone. Tunde, that was who he was, Tunde dark fist, child of Crystalreach, child of a long dead empire, a seeker. He gathered the flames as they burned him, watching as they went from bright gold and white to starry midnight, the new state cooling his existence like water to a tempered piece of blade.
He drew it in, this flame, not sure of its use, but he had gone to the very edges of oblivion to obtain them and if he was sure of one thing, it was that they were his. Countless hours, days, months, and even years passed as he wrestled control over the still burning golden flames he reshaped with his very presence, feeling an existence, a presence behind it fighting back, aware of what he was doing.
He could feel the presence of the elder vanishing with every piece of the flame he stole, but yet, it was something he had to do. When all that remained was but a spark of golden flame, left alone and surrounded by midnight flames, he turned to stare at the elder, no words were spoken, only a deep sorrow for the words they would not get to say to each other again. The elder smiled, as if already accepting of his fate as he nodded at Tunde, his eyes glowing for once.
Tunde understood in that fleeting moment, the words left unspoken by the elder.
Survive, thrive, advance.
And when the flames died out, when there was nothing left but Tunde amidst the flames of his doing, his mind returning back more than completely healed to his body, Tunde shed a tear for the blind tiger of Verdan clan, whose path on the road of cultivation had ended there.
*****************************
Tunde woke up to pain, and a flurry of messages from his Ark screen that had somehow been working.
[note: advancement to lord stage has been cut off due to heaven’s crucible being canceled]
[congratulations, you have manifested essence flame, type: cosmic flame]
[notice you have advanced to adept (peak tier)]
[your Ethra heart has advanced to lord (early-tier)]
[tempering stage has advanced to lord (early-tier)]
[aura stage has advanced to lord (early-tier)]
[tempering art has been acquired: void forged]
[notice: body cannot handle the strain of lord stage Ethra, advance as soon as possible!]
Tunde gave a shuddering breath as every single movement brought unspoken pain down on his fragile form, tears leaking down the side of his face as he couldn’t move. Grasping for Shadowfang, he realized with a jolt that the weapon was gone, destroyed in the ensuing battle. It was a soulbound weapon, it shouldn’t have been destroyed so easily, what had gone wrong.
“By the hegemons.” a voice said, drawing his attention even as he couldn’t move.
“I was hoping you’d be dead, make this a whole lot easier you know” it continued.
It was a voice he was familiar with, one he realized with growing horror and rage should be dead.
“Hello, Tunde” artificer Borus said, appearing above and staring down at him.