To add insult to lineage-crippling burn, the towering bird of fire was added to top Wayward’s flaming torrent. Shandler barely had time to scream in agony before the Wayward’s flaming avian pecked him and erupted in the heat of the sun.
The effect was akin to a geyser of flames. Such transfer of thermal apocalypse would have reduced everything within a three kilometers radius into a fire hazard if not for Orwell creating an ice glacier over Chronicler's earth arena to hold off the torch.
…
Speaking of Orwell Mehest; the man was less than pleased.
Oh, he was glad Wayward came as a helping hand. Fighting back-to-back during national-tragedy worked wonders as a bonding experience. But as always, Wayward lacked tack. Sure, the man could boast that he could face every member of Dream’s fellowship in combat and walked out in one piece. Hell, he even held the honor of beating both Empress and Ace. Sure, those two were much stronger now, but a baby Kraken and Leviathan were still a top-grade threat.
But that didn’t change the fact Wayward couldn’t give a piece of mind about the surrounding. The man simply gave no consideration for bystanders, puppies, the environment, moral alignment or himself. If he got into a fight, you better prayed for the other guys. If he joined a meme air-force, the color of the fleet will be black.
In a crude slang word; Samuel Wayward gave no shit about anything in his path. The number of things he respected can be counted on one hand. Even the Dawn didn’t have the mental capacity to pick an unnecessary fight with him. God, mortal, cyborg, it didn’t matter what you are, Wayward could kill you.
Orwell was grateful. He was grateful for Lady Fortune and the raw suicidal stupidity of the Fairy for dragging this one man disrespecting campaign into the war. He was tempted to give a medal to that idiot for his self-sacrificing contribution to humanity’s survival.
Sadly, it was a pain for him and Chronicler to plug the capital furnace of collateral damage that was Wayward. This meant he needed to finish this battle quickly or risked getting smothered by the repair built.
The enemy at the opposite end of the ring sure didn’t make that goal any closer to reality.
Orwell knew what Kane was capable of. Who wouldn’t? The Praetor overcompensated for his lack of genuine friendship by spreading that almighty girth around. He punted the entire SCA Conference and nearly turned Xerxes Enma into a widow. His current scorecard was impressive.
Orwell wasn’t afraid of him. Yes, the brute could undoubtedly take the entire Conference for a run, but that was a charade. He steam-rolled the fight with several S-Rankers. But rolling over half a dozen C-tier only to fold to Chronicler was the signal the bark was louder than the bite.
To his credit, Kane’s punch cracked Orwell's armor. The eldritch energy packed into those fists was a real deal. The speed of his punches was excellent too. Complex emotion stirred inside him as he fought. The most troublesome was the tiny pang of guilt about not doing more to help the representatives.
Sure, the SCA planned to make him their serf and were as trustworthy as a kleptomaniac beside a hundred carat diamond. However, seeing his fellow (unworthy) man getting rolled over without doing a bare minimum to help triggered the slightest bit of pity from his heart. He wasn’t heartless enough to see Aquila being torn apart in front of her husband without feeling the mildest sympathy.
They lived in a cruel world, and not everyone had a heart big enough to cover the universe. That was Chronicler, not him. But maybe — just maybe — that ‘led-by-example’ rubbed a little off on his method.
In an out-of-character moment, Orwell decided to tribute this battle as a payback for those idiots.
[Shock Spector] and Kane traded barrages of punches. Orwell’s spectral armor let in hand flew like a machine-gun. Kane’s punches at a matching speed. Fists blurred and collisions roared in rapid fire machine gun. The titan fought in the contest. The very atmosphere shook from the epic fist rush between the two.
Kane’s hand slipped and landed a fist on Orwell’s [Shock Spector]. In exchange, the spectral skeleton punched Kane in the face. The fabric of reality seemed to warp with collision. Kane’s punch cracked [Spectral Armor], but it mended instantly. The Praetor’s face warped from the vibrational force, and his healing-factor canceled the damage. The force of those attacks overcame the friction grounding the contestant, blasting both of them into the ruins of the building behind them.
The once scenic zone in the Business District had been reduced to a war-zone comprising fallen buildings, burning rubble, and a gigantic arena. The recent disasters — from the opening blast by Jester to the fiery might of Wayward — hadn’t been kind to this space inside the Danghai. With the place being reduced to a nightmare resembling a walled off hell suffering from years of active demolition, the forgone rebuilding cost would likely hurt a great deal.
Orwell rose from the ruin beneath his landing. He glanced around and sighed. Great, his alliance was barely formed, and it was clear he might have to foot the bill for this disaster. Letting Ruho faced the repercussion alone would land the killing-blow to his recovering international reputation, which meant waiving the responsibility wasn’t an option.
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Orwell couldn’t help but complain, “Can pests like you do me a favor and die quietly? My wallet already bled enough for this.”
The ruin opposite him burst open, revealing the enraged Kane.
“Die quietly?” Kane hardly believed the words. “Are you insulting us? Do you realize the precarious fate awaiting your pathetic kind? You are facing the Praetor of the Fea — soon to be a subjugator of this land.”
Orwell wasn’t amused by the red-meat contest, “I guess that is a no then,” he rolled his eyes, “Subjugator of this land? More like a destroyer of time and resources. Repeat to yourself whatever lies Malice told you, but let’s be real. You are a failed experiment, and nothing else.”
In response to the scathing truth, Kane smashed the ground with his fist coated in eldritch might. Rock and stones erupted from the ground and the malicious energy crackled, whipping the very ground, and tore a chunk out of the environment.
[Shock Spector] materialized and shielded Orwell from the outburst. He debated whether to escalate. After a moment of calculating the repair cost, Orwell came to a decision. The entire Danghai would become more wrecked than Venistalis at this pace. If that was the case, it would be better to replace the District rather than fix it.
Taking off the kid-gloves a little might not be a bad idea.
That was the conclusion Orwell arrived at when he met the charging Kane. He removed his signature wireframe glasses to rid himself of a distraction.
The [Shock Spector] hanging around Orwell surged with power, and threw a punch. Turquoise mirage cloaked around the skeleton as that one fist flew. A unique faded turquoise wave rippled outward, and went through its target. It crushed everything in front of and behind the Fairy. The very earth itself quaked from that blow.
Kane coughed up blood as his internal organ caved in. The Praetor’s abdomen shuddered from the force of the blow. The body, rippling with muscle like the Himalayas mountain range, erupted in blood.
The Fairy fell to his knee, drenched in blood and pain. He glared at Orwell.
“Wow,” Orwell was impressed. “You are still alive? Consider me impressed.”
Kane spat the mouthful of blood, “What the hell is that power? The information recorded from the White Tower never mentioned it!”
Orwell whistled, “You think any information you get from White Tower is still reliable? Unbelievable. Every battle is a learning experience. The battle fought shows us the limitation to adjust our tactics and methods. I don’t know about the rest of the world, but everyone who peered into the heritage of Primal Arcane is a qualified master. Making improvement upon our Skill by studying the Astral Realm is a matter of time and inspiration. Even creating a new Skill to plug our weaknesses is an option.”
Kane’s eyes widened, “Creating a new skill from scratch. Impossible. Not even Queen Titania could accomplish that feat.”
“I know little about your creator, but what I heard hardly convince me she possessed the patience and wisdom to do it,” Orwell commented, and the purple skeleton wrapped in a turquoise glow lifted its fist. “Let’s not waste any more time.”
Kane leaped back. He didn’t know the nature of Orwell’s Skill, but the hit he received convinced him that taking that again was a bad idea.
Kane was right.
After his brief run in with Dream in White Tower, Orwell reevaluated his arsenal and concluded his vibration wasn’t hitting hard enough. His toolkit was too heavily biased toward his cold-power and the [Shock Spector]’s defense. Sure, the vibration abilities did work against weak opponents like Shyme Enma, but he wasn’t impressed with how Dream ignored its existence.
Orwell believed learning another Primal Arcane would do the trick. May [Geo Supreme] or [Aero Supreme] could enhance its raw output.
That was when he discovered a problem — a karmic one.
His sin came back to haunt him. Yes, the RB’s augmentation that mixed his DNA with Tundra did an excellent job in leading him to the tyrannical height of [Cryo Supreme]. But this unnatural affinity made learning the other branch of element much more difficult; it was a price for abandoning his humanity.
This hurdle forced Orwell to innovate. Yes, learning new Primal Arcane was akin to climbing the alp in sneakers and Hawaiian shirts, but he still could study it. In the last few months, Orwell hit the Astral Realm hard. He studied every Primal Arcane that had anything to do with the law of vibration through all possible matters — [Geo Law], [Hydro Law], [Aero Law] and much more. He even brushed up on [Umbro Law] ruling the art of darkness, absorption and subspace to learn the secret of the space-quake.
Orwell might not be able to learn those Arcane, but intense studying and experimentation into the area of resonance allowed him to improve upon his [Shock Spector]. After several sleepless days of comprehension and adjustment with Aura and pure practice, the result he created reached the level the Governor acknowledged it — forming a new Skill for all to witness.
[World Shaker]
The skeleton Adamakles threw another punch. What came out was more than a simple quake. It was an evolved form of Orwell’s vibration waves of power — a colossal energy transference that shook land, sea, and skies. Orwell aimed to add the fabric of reality to that description, but that was too high of an order for now.
Kane’s face scrunched in pain as the unstoppable pulsed ripped his body. Blood flew from his mouth. The air warped around the Praetor like the very reality itself threatened to collapse. The force of the blow sent the Fairy shooting away like a cannonball, kicking dust in his wake.
Orwell wasn’t letting it up.
[Summoning (Amalgam)]
“Ice Behemoth,” Orwell called upon his minion, and added another spice to the pile. “Ice Parade.”
Kane didn’t even get a chance to properly land when a creature built like an elephant with a skull for a face dropped from the green circle in the sky slammed upon his body, pinning the Fairy to the ground. This was swallowed by a series of ice swords flying in like a swarm of hornets.
Amalgam — constructs created with an artificial soul — launched their attack. Ice Parade, the swarm of icy swords, struck Kane’s exposed limbs. The ice from the summons splash like liquid gallium, flowing across the skin like a mold over a dying carcass. As an Amalgam, the Ice Parade was built for a purpose. They were sealing implements created out of the knowledge gleaned from Orwell’s study of the ultimate sealing Arcane — [Paradiso]. Laced with Orwell’s [Cryo Supreme], the Ice Parade slowed down Mana activity as the seal kicked in.
It was this feeling of lethargy Kane experienced as Orwell marched over to the dawn Praetor.
“Can’t say I am surprised none of your subordinates leap in to help you?” Orwell said, looking down at Kane. “Your leadership ability left so much to be desired.”
Kane remained smug even in his precarious position.
“You fool. The most basic of all tactics is target selection.”
Orwell wasn’t amused, “Don’t tell me all your subordinates are dog-pilling Chronicler,” he smiled, “oh boy. You are all in for a rude awakening.”