Stalwart guards, clad in the hallowed armor bearing the sigil of the Reldret crown, stood sentinel before the resplendent portal. Their presence, a testament to the royal chamber’s sanctity, betokened the king’s repose within this bedroom.
From the far end of the opulent hall, a cacophony of voices reverberated. Moments later, two stalwart guards emerged, escorting a venerable figure. His flowing blue robes and distinguished gray beard marked him as Zathar, the famous grand priest of Reldret’s holy church.
“Inform His Majesty of Grandmaster Zathar’s arrival,” commanded one of the guards escorting the venerable priest.
A guard stationed before the royal chamber rapped upon the ornate portal. Moments later, a resplendent maid, her attire a testament to her royal service, partially unfurled the door.
“His Majesty is indisposed for general visits,” she declared politely.
“We humbly beseech your indulgence,” replied the guard, “for Grandmaster Zathar of the Reldret Holy Church has arrived to pay his respects to His Highness. We believe this matter warrants the king’s attention.”
The maid considered this request, her brow furrowed in contemplation. Finally, she nodded, a subtle acknowledgment of the urgency. "I shall inform His Majesty and convey his response," she declared, commencing the closure of the portal.
However, a raspy voice interrupted her from closing the door, “No, Arya. Such a revered guest, especially one as dear as Zathar, deserves a more gracious welcome. We must honor our friends, regardless of our own ailments.”
The king's weakened voice, punctuated by a series of harsh coughs, echoed from within the chamber, a stark reminder of his fragile state.
“As you command, Your Highness. I was merely concerned for your health,” the maid replied, her voice soft and respectful. She then fully unfurled the door, revealing Grandmaster Zathar standing on the threshold.
“Grandmaster, it is an honor to have you grace us with your presence. I apologize for the delay. I simply wished to ensure His Majesty’s comfort,” the maid explained, bowing down, her head low before raising her gaze to meet Zathar’s.
Zathar acknowledged her with a respectful nod before entering the chamber.
“Forgive her, Zathar,” the king’s weakened voice croaked, “Arya is my most loyal maid. Her concern for this old man’s well-being is unwavering.”
“Ah, Norman, she seems quite concerned for you. It’s heartening to witness such loyalty in your court. A testament to your just reign, I suppose,” Zathar remarked, his gaze fixed upon the bed from which the voice emanated. Arya, the maid, remained steadfast in her deferential posture.
“Arya, you may retire. I suspect Zathar bears tidings of a less pleasant nature, would you not agree, old friend?” King Norman inquired, his tone laced with a subtle undercurrent of authority. A flicker of worry passed across Arya’s countenance before she bowed gracefully and silently withdrew, closing the door behind her.
“Pray tell, Norman, why do you assume I anticipate dire tidings?” Zathar inquired. He approached, settling beside the royal bed, close to the king.
“Perhaps my age and infirmity have diminished my divine energy, rendering me less potent than my ancestral lineage. Yet, I retain a keen sense for the moral compass of those around me. Though my perception may be clouded, it remains serviceable,” the king confessed, his voice barely a whisper.
“You will never be entirely useless, Norman,” Zathar reassured him. “The outcome of this news rests squarely on your shoulders. Your judgment will ultimately determine its significance.”
“A curious notion, Zathar,” the king mused. “It is you who harbors these negative sentiments, not I. My ability to discern thoughts, once so acute, has waned. Now, I can only perceive the emotions you project.”
Zathar hesitated, a flicker of doubt crossing his weathered face. He questioned the wisdom of burdening the ailing king with such grave news. Yet, Norman’s words, spoken with a wisdom that belied his physical frailty, fortified his resolve. After all, king Norman Blackstone is one of the wisest persons he had ever met in his life.
“There is a matter of great import that I must share with you, my lord,” Zathar began, his voice grave. “Even in your weakened state, I believe it is your right to know of the impending changes that will soon sweep across the realm of Plistura.”
“You speak with a sense of urgency, Zathar,” Norman observed, his tone calm and collected. “Pray, enlighten me. What’s weighing you down like that?”
Jaxith, meanwhile, had ventured into the treacherous Orstone woods, the very domain of the elusive manticore. Dismounting his steed, he secured it to a gnarled oak before embarking on his silent pursuit.
He moved with the stealth of a shadow, each footstep muffled, he didn’t want to alert the manticore, and also walked calmly to notice anything left behind the beast, his senses acutely attuned to the slightest rustle or scent. After a tense few minutes, a peculiar sight caught his eye: a faint, ethereal trail of light purple liquid marked the forest floor.
Kneeling, Jaxith donned a black leather glove out of his coat’s pocket and gingerly touched the mysterious substance. He raised his gloved hand to his nose, inhaling deeply, his breath held as he sought to decipher the creature’s cryptic liquid.
“That acrid scent, identical to the vial the mayor bestowed upon me, is utterly perplexing. I’ve encountered every conceivable manticore, yet none exude such an anomalous liquid. If this is a novel species, it's Improbable that such a fundamental deviation would exist. The truly unsettling aspect is my inability to pinpoint the creature this substance originates from. Such ignorance is unprecedented. This is no ordinary occurrence. The liquid is still fresh, it testifies to the manticore's recent visit.” Jaxith mused, his senses consumed by the pungent aroma as he lowered his hand, a sense of concern settling within him.
“This way, the acrid scent intensifies eastward,” Jaxith declared, his senses guiding him towards the source of the enigmatic liquid. As he ventured deeper, an extraordinary sight arrested his progress: an immense paw print, indelibly etched into the soil. Intrigued, he knelt, his gaze fixed upon the monstrous imprint.
The gargantuan paw print, stretching ten inches across, dwarfed even the largest manticore. The mere presence of a manticore in this region was an anomaly, a harbinger of the extraordinary. This was no ordinary beast; its colossal appendage, while unmistakably manticore, defied all known proportions. A normal manticore’s paw range from 6 to 8 inches, but ten inches? That’s definitely larger than the standard.
Driven by curiosity and a growing sense of unease, Jaxith pressed forward, his senses attuned to the pungent scent. The trail led him to a macabre scene: trees, their branches shattered and their bark stained with the enigmatic purple liquid. It seemed the creature had rubbed itself against them, leaving a grotesque testament to its passage. Yet, more disturbing were the trees, utterly splintered, as if struck by a force of immense power. It looks like the manticore is angry, such anger. The scene was reminiscent of a battlefield, a stark contrast to the serene forest.
Jaxith, a master of the monstrous, had confronted countless beasts across the continent. Yet, this creature, this aberrant manticore, was a riddle wrapped in mystery. Unlike the fearsome scarlet demons, he knew them even if he didn’t meet some of them, like with the scarlet giant, he immediately identified it even if he didn’t see it before, that’s because he reads a lot about those creatures, but this beast was a wholly unknown entity even for Jaxith, a terrifying enigma that defied categorization.
The map indicated that the trail Jaxith is walking into leads to a large cave, a likely refuge for a creature of the manticore's stature. Its immense bat wings and colossal frame would demand a cavernous space with high ceiling. As Jaxith drew nearer, his senses heightened, anticipating the beast’s imminent appearance. With each cautious step, he edged closer to the precipice of the unknown.
The large cave loomed before him in a wide open area without trees, a yawning maw in the earth. The acrid scent, a potent beacon, hung heavy in the air, an evidence that the manticore is very close. His grip tightened on his sword hilt, a silent prayer for swift reflexes. With stealthy precision, he navigated the treacherous terrain, his footsteps swiftly crushing the few small branches on the forest floor. The wind, a gentle caress, tousled his long silver hair and coat, a stark contrast to the storm brewing within him. But everything was very quiet.
A colossal shadow, like an eclipse, descended upon Jaxith, plunging him into an instant state of alert. His hand, with practiced swiftness, found the hilt of his sword, drawing it forth as he pivoted towards the source of the disturbance. A deafening crash echoed through the cave, reverberating off its ancient walls. A monstrous creature, its form a grotesque amalgamation of lion and bat, landed on the cave outer walls with a force that shook the very ground beneath it. Its leathery bat wings, vast and intimidating, flapped rhythmically, stirring the stagnant air. The beast’s leonine head, adorned with a mane of jagged, spiny fur, was fixed upon Jaxith, its predatory gaze burning with a primal intensity. Its scorpion tail, aligned with barbed spines and tipped with a deadly scorpion’s stinger, swayed menacingly, a silent threat. The creature’s posture, a testament to its otherworldly origins, was both imposing and grotesque. Its pure white eyes, devoid of any warmth or compassion, held Jaxith captive in their icy gaze. In fact, those strange eyes caught Jaxith’s attention. A guttural roar, a sound that defied description, erupted from its maw, a cacophony of rage and hunger. Jaxith, unyielding, responded with a surge of adrenaline. His sword, a glimmering blade of black tempered steel, was raised, its point aimed squarely at the creature. His stance was resolute, his determination unwavering. The hunt was about to commence, a clash between man and beast, a struggle for survival.
“Such a portentous revelation, Zathar. Now I comprehend the source of your trepidation,” King Norman declared, his voice grave as he absorbed the disturbing vision. Zathar has already told him about the vision and that he’s going to be the last Blackstone king.
“I fail to discern your apprehension, Norman,” Zathar replied, his tone unwavering.
“You hesitate to articulate your true concerns, Zathar. You fear that this maiden is an ill omen, a harbinger of darkness, do you not? Despite your position as Grandmaster Priest, you should recognize the impossibility of such a notion. Every verse, every prophecy, every sacred text extols the divine providence of the gods. Why then, do you succumb to such fear?” Norman inquired, his voice laced with a hint of skepticism.
“Fear does not consume me, Norman. My faith remains steadfast,” Zathar asserted, his confidence undiminished.
“Perhaps it is the peculiar coincidence of the newly chosen queen being a hybrid of demonic lineage that unsettles you. Such an unexpected turn of events may indeed be cause for concern,” Norman mused, his voice tinged with a sense of foreboding.
“Perhaps,” Zathar conceded, a moment of hesitation evident in his voice.
“Tell me, Norman,” Zathar began, his tone shifting, “does it not sadden you that Ernest will not ascend the throne of Reldret, the revered king of the united kingdoms of Plistura? Was this not a dream you once cherished?”
“It was indeed, Zathar. But let us consign the past to history. I believe this outcome is ultimately for his best,” Norman replied, his tone resolute.
“Why, pray tell? Did your trust in him falter?” Zathar inquired, his curiosity piqued.
“It is not a matter of trust, Zathar. Ernest is impulsive, a trait that could prove perilous. But with time, he may learn to temper his passions. So no, it’s not about trusting Ernest, I believe this outcome is the safer choice,” Norman explained.
“Safer from what, Norman?” Zathar pressed, his confusion growing.
“Safer from the world, of course,” Norman replied, his voice tinged with a cryptic undertone. “What if our reality is a mere illusion, a grand deception? And what if this world is just another lie?”
“Norman, what do you mean by such a preposterous assertion?” Zathar demanded, his mind reeling from the king’s enigmatic words.
“Recent events have instilled a sense of unease within me, Zathar. I fear a cataclysmic event is looming, one that I cannot allow my son to bear responsibility for. Considering the mysterious disappearance of our dear friend, the former Grandmaster, he was a very close friend to you. He vanished without a trace, leaving behind only enigma. Now, we have this enigmatic hybrid girl, a harbinger of unknown forces. Moreover, the number of divine energy wielders and spiritual knights dwindles with each passing day. The future appears bleak. A few nights ago, I was tormented by a nightmarish vision. The continent was engulfed in a six-way war, a conflict of epic proportions that the Prophet had once quelled. The chaos was palpable, the horror, unimaginable. That dream felt more like real, and you know what the Blackstones see In their sickbed, waiting for their life to end from aging, it felt really real that it’s still haunting me every night, forcing me to keep my eyes open from fear. This dream, so vivid and terrifying, has haunted my nights, leaving me sleepless and fearful. The specter of war, the clash of steel, the roar of flames—these images torment me, a constant reminder of the impending doom, that’s why I can’t close my eyes and sleep peacefully. I fear that a force, unknown even to the gods, Is stirring, a force that threatens to unravel the very fabric of our existence,” Norman confessed, his voice trembling with fear. Zathar, stunned by his friend’s dire prediction, could not shake the unsettling feeling that perhaps Norman was not merely delusional, but a seer, a harbinger of a dark future.
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“Do not despair, Norman. All will be well, including yourself,” Zathar reassured, his voice gentle.
“Alas, Zathar, my time draws near. Please, do not share these troubling tidings with Ernest. I am not prepared to engage in a lengthy and distressing conversation to make him feel well. I hope that upon my passing, the shock will not be too overwhelming for him,” Norman pleaded, his voice heavy with sorrow.
“I shall, Norman, I shall,” Zathar vowed, his eyes welling with tears. The loss of another dear friend was a painful reminder of the fleeting nature of life. The passage of time was an inexorable force, and nothing, not even the strongest bonds of friendship, could defy its relentless march.
Zathar conversed with Norman for some time longer before the king succumbed to slumber. Gently, Zathar exited the chamber, finding Arya patiently awaiting his departure.
“Our discourse is concluded, Arya. You may return to your duties,” Zathar instructed, his tone polite. Arya bowed respectfully before entering the room and closing the door.
“It has been an honor to have you grace us with your presence, Grandmaster. May I escort you?” a guard offered.
“No, thank you. I shall utilize the teleportation circle,” Zathar declined, his voice calm. He cast a final glance at the king’s chamber door, uncertain if this would be their last encounter. Yet, he harbored hope that future conversations with Norman were not beyond the realm of possibility.
Meanwhile, Jaxith executed a swift backward leap, narrowly evading the manticore’s aerial assault. The monstrous creature, its wings outstretched and claws bared, descended upon the intrepid intruder, intent on a decisive strike. However, Jaxith proved to be a formidable opponent, far from an easy prey.
Jaxith scrutinized the manticore, noting its myriad of anomalous features. Its eyes, devoid of any lens or cornea, were an unsettling shade of pure white, a stark contrast to the typically feline optics of its kind. Secondly, the creature’s drool, a viscous purple liquid, revealed the source of the strange substance Jaxith had encountered. Manticores were known to produce colorless saliva, making this a significant deviation from the norm. The manticore’s facial hue, a dark blue, suggested respiratory distress or suffocation, while its body maintained a standard yellowish tone. The lion-like head, a stark contrast in color, further emphasized its aberrant appearance. Its horns, unusually thick and elongated, added to the creature’s grotesque visage. The manticore’s sheer size dwarfed any he had previously encountered, reinforcing the notion that this was no ordinary beast. Jaxith was certain that this creature was not merely a different species of manticore, but rather something suspicious happened to this manticore.
The manticore regarded Jaxith with a malevolent glare, its guttural snarl revealing a menacing array of teeth. As the creature’s head swiveled, its gaze fixated upon the intruder, Jaxith met its gaze directly, his mind racing. What could be causing such grotesque alterations? Was it a disease, a parasitic infestation, or something far more sinister?
Suddenly, the manticore launched a barrage of barbed spines from its tail. Jaxith, with practiced agility, deflected the projectiles with his sword. One of the spines struck a nearby tree, triggering a peculiar reaction. A strange, black liquid seeped from the spine, corroding the wood and emitting wisps of smoke. The realization dawned upon Jaxith: the spines were imbued with a potent acid!
Jaxith turned his gaze back to the manticore, a newfound understanding dawning upon him. The creature had clearly undergone some form of artificial modification. It was not a mere victim of disease or parasitic infestation, as those will make him weaker, but rather a subject of sinister experimentation. Such a transformation would have enhanced its strength, not weakened it.
The beast lunged at Jaxith, its claws outstretched. Jaxith, with a swift maneuver, dodged the attack. The manticore retaliated, lashing out with its barbed tail. Anticipating this move, Jaxith intercepted the strike with his sword, but a strange sensation pulsed through the blade. He rolled forward, narrowly avoiding a high-pressure jet of corrosive liquid expelled from the tip of the tail.
The manticore, enraged, continued its assault, swinging its powerful paws. Jaxith, agile and alert, evaded the blows and retreated to a safe distance. As he observed the area drenched in the acidic liquid, it became clear that the manticore’s tail had been modified to emit acid too! A terrifying testament to the extent of its unnatural enhancement.
Such a modification is indeed anomalous. A manticore’s tail is typically designed to inject a paralyzing venom, aiding in its hunting prowess. This adaptation, however, transforms the tail into a long-range weapon, capable of launching corrosive projectiles, it’s now a package of a hunting arsenal. What could possibly motivate such a transformation? The circumstances surrounding this creature’s existence are shrouded in mystery.
“LOOKS LIKE OUR HANDSOME HUNTER IS QUITE THE FORMIDABLE OPPONENT, ISN’T HE? HE'S ANTICIPATING YOUR EVERY MOVE, MY LITTLE PET,” a malevolent female voice echoed within the manticore’s mind. The creature, responding to the unseen command, began to thrash its head, striking the surrounding trees with brute force.
Jaxith, observing the manticore’s erratic behavior, realized the source of the broken trees. But the question remained: what force had compelled the creature to inflict such self-harm?
“FRUSTRATED BY MY VOICE, ARE WE?” the anonymous voice taunted, its tone dripping with malice. The manticore, enraged, began to pound its head against the ground, each impact sending tremors through the earth. Its roars echoed through the forest, a cacophony of fury and despair.
“NO NEED FOR SUCH THEATRICS. I MERELY WISH TO CONDUCT A SIMPLE EXPERIMENT ON THIS PECULIAR HUMAN. IF YOU MANAGED TO ELIMINATE HIM, I SHOULD DEPART AND LET YOU FREE. YOU HAVE BEEN GRANTED A BOON, A DROP OF BLOOD FROM THE PUREST DEMONIC LINEAGE. YOU SHOULD BE GRATEFUL, NOT RESENTFUL.” The voice declared, its laughter echoing through the manticore’s head.
The manticore, Its rage temporarily quelled, turned its attention back to Jaxith. With a thunderous roar, it unleashed another torrent of corrosive acid. Jaxith, ever vigilant, dodged the deadly spray, maintaining a safe distance from the destructive liquid that kept eating everything in its way. As the acid subsided, Jaxith seized the opportunity to counterattack, charging towards the bewildered creature. The time for defense was over; the time for offense had arrived.
Jaxith closed the gap between himself and his monstrous adversary, but the manticore’s tail remained a persistent threat. The creature lashed out, its venomous stinger aimed at the intrepid warrior. Jaxith, with a deft movement, sidestepped the attack, parrying the strikes with his sword. Yet, as he drew closer, the manticore unleashed a barrage of clawed strikes, each aimed to incapacitate the daring intruder. Jaxith, undeterred, continued to deflect the blows, but the relentless assault began to take its toll. He knew that such a defensive strategy would not suffice.
The manticore launched a flurry of attacks, its tail lashing out with venomous intent. Jaxith, a paragon of agility and strength, deftly parried the strikes and evaded the clawed assaults. Each move was executed with precision, each counterstroke perfectly timed.
A fleeting opportunity arose as the manticore reared up on its hind legs, its vulnerable underbelly exposed. Jaxith capitalized on the moment, lunging forward with a swift and powerful strike. However, the creature, anticipating the attack, shielded its vulnerable region with its leathery wings, effectively neutralizing the threat. The sword, though sharp and forceful, could not penetrate the creature’s reinforced exoskeleton, the blow merely grazing the outer layer of the wing. This missed opportunity proved costly, as the manticore quickly regained the initiative.
The manticore then unfurled its wings and once more employed its tail to hinder Jaxith’s advance, trying to gain a short distance to gain some respite to fly. Jaxith, however, nimbly rolled aside, evading the deadly sting that pierced the earth. This time, though, he seized the opportunity to neutralize the perilous appendage. Aiming for the vulnerable juncture beneath the upper tip, he launched a forceful, precise slash, just enough to cut the tip of the tail. Yet, to his astonishment, his sword was deflected, the hardened outer scale of the tail proving unexpectedly resilient. This aberrant adaptation, a testament to the manticore’s uncanny ability to evolve, posed a new and formidable challenge.
The beast ascended, its colossal wings churning the air into a tempest around Jaxith. A torrent of acid rained down once more, forcing Jaxith to dart aside in a circular maneuver to maintain a safe distance and also keep close to the manticore. The creature, a veritable arsenal of destruction, was equally adept at close-quarters combat and long-range attacks. As the acidic barrage ceased, the manticore unleashed another volley, this time a hail of deadly spines. Jaxith deftly deflected the projectiles, eliciting a roar of agony from the beast. The battle, thus far, was a delicate equilibrium, but it was not enough. Jaxith, hindered by the manticore’s extraordinary speed and versatility, struggled to land a decisive blow. The creature’s mastery of its tail, coupled with its formidable claws and imposing stature—an unprecedented eight feet—set it apart from its kind, typically no larger than six feet. Jaxith began to suspect that all what was happening was no mere coincidence.
“Damn it,” Jaxith muttered, “it seems I’ll have to rely on that ability once more.”
A cryptic voice echoed within the beast’s mind, “STRUGGLING, ARE WE?” The manticore’s head jerked involuntarily, a clear sign of external influence, and obviously Jaxith noticed it. This was no mere illusion or manifestation; something, or rather someone, was inhabiting the beast’s consciousness. A demonic possession, perhaps, but one of unprecedented power. No known demon could bestow such extraordinary abilities.
“COME ON, YOU CAN DO BETTER THAN THAT,” the voice urged. “THERE’S SOMETHING PECULIAR ABOUT THAT HUMAN, SOMETHING I MUST UNCOVER.” With a renewed ferocity, the manticore turned its gaze back to Jaxith, unleashing another deafening roar.
The precipice of Jaxith's endeavor has arrived, as the monstrous creature soars overhead, poised for its next assault. Yesterday, he unearthed a power from his past, a tool dormant for seven arduous years. Now, he must wield it again, despite the perilous implications it sets upon him. The prolonged abstinence from the negative abyss is a risk in itself, but necessity compels him to embrace its power. To cleave through the creature’s formidable defenses, akin to the scarlet giant, he requires augmented strength. His blade, though sharp and potent, demands greater force to penetrate such resilient flesh. Moreover, he must possess the agility to evade the beast’s relentless attacks with surgical precision.
Jaxith initiated a deliberate, rhythmic breathing pattern, his breaths growing labored and profound. Moments later, a sinister, dark vapor began to emanate from his form. His body seemed to combust, yet paradoxically, remained intact. His sword, a stark contrast to his ethereal transformation, remained pristine. Every inch of his being exuded the shadowy vapor, a chilling spectacle that provoked a renewed roar from the beast. It sensed the malevolent aura emanating from Jaxith, a concealed force—the forbidden dark art of the negative abyss, a rare and outlawed practice in Plistura. This technique channels the dark energy within the practitioner, amplifying their physical prowess and accelerating their movements to extraordinary levels.
Without a moment’s hesitation, Jaxith launched himself into the air by a quick shadow like dash, converging with the manticore in a breathtaking aerial duel in a part of the second! The creature, taken aback by his astonishing speed, retaliated with a clawed assault. However, Jaxith anticipated the attack, executing another swift upward maneuvering dash to position himself above the beast. His body, still enveloped in the ominous energy, and for the third time, he dashed forward, a spectral dark blur, his sword piercing the base of the manticore’s right wing. Simultaneously, he seized the wing bone with his free hand and, with a twisting motion, he started detaching the limb from the creature’s body!
His body began exuding more of this dark energy, and in a mere instant, Jaxith’s strength surged, effortlessly severing the wing and hurling it away, blood spraying everywhere! He let out an angry roar, his face twisted in fury. The beast howled in agony as it plummeted to the ground, its wing lost and its air balance was completely lost. Jaxith dashed back to the ground to regain his breath, he took about 4 seconds only to reach the back of the beast and completely detach its wing! Only 4 seconds, that’s the power of the negative abyss. Though he panted heavily, his body still reeling from the exertion of the dark energy, that’s because he hasn’t used it since a very long time.
The manticore regained its footing, roaring with a hint of fear. Jaxith’s speed and the chilling aura surrounding him were terrifying. The beast retaliated with a barrage of acid, but Jaxith’s dashes, fueled by the negative abyss, were even faster. He closed the distance once more, this time bringing the battle to the ground. The tail stilled, but Jaxith remained undeterred. He was calculating the beast’s acid attacks, noting the intervals between each shot and the amount of acid expelled. He realized that after this attack, the beast’s gland would be depleted, requiring approximately 83 seconds to recharge before attempting to shoot acid again. Precision was the key to victory. While he couldn’t sustain the negative abyss for long periods, strategic, short bursts in separate time intervals, combined with his newfound knowledge of the manticore’s limitations, would be enough to end this.
Jaxith dashed forward, a blur of black speed, a dark mirage. The chilling echoes of the negative abyss dashes filled the forest as he closed the gap between himself and the manticore. The beast lunged, its stinger aimed at Jaxith, but it was too slow. With a swift, horizontal dodge, Jaxith evaded the attack and countered with another lightning-fast dashing slash. The tail, once a formidable weapon, was severed in two, as easily as slicing through butter. Jaxith’s enhanced strength, combined with the sword’s exceptional sharpness and rigidity, allowed him to overcome the tail’s tough exterior, reminiscent of the scarlet giant’s thick hide.
With the tail neutralized, the beast resorted to its claws, backing away to launch an attack. Jaxith, however, was too quick. He dodged to the right and lunged forward, aiming a fatal blow at the creature's head. But then, his sword clattered to the ground, and he froze while staring at the manticore! His breath ragged. Overextending himself with the negative abyss, two days in a row after seven years of dormancy, was a perilous gamble. Yet, the battle must be finished. The manticore seized the opportunity, leaping towards Jaxith, his legs couldn’t dodge by the negative abyss anymore, he looked at the manticore boldly while breathing heavily. As the beast’s jaws opened wide, ready to deliver the killing blow, Jaxith, with a surge of adrenaline, raised both hands, gripping the creature’s maw with superhuman strength!
“’GRRRRRRRRHHHHH!” Jaxith roared, his voice a chilling bellow. It was now or never. Dark energy surged within him once more. Despite his trembling arms, he held the beast’s maw from closing over him! Fear flickered in the manticore’s eyes as it struggled against his iron grip. With a sickening CRACK, the beast’s jaws shattered! Jaxith pried them open, a testament to the raw power he wielded. To stand between the jaws of a manticore and break them like a child’s toy was a feat of unimaginable strength.
The creature recoiled, its agony excruciating. No longer able to unleash its fearsome roar, it lay prostrate, its wing and tail severed. Its jaws, once instruments of death, now numb and useless. The hunter, the silver-haired human, had turned the tables, transforming the predator into the prey.
The manticore emitted a mournful wail, a stark contrast to its previous ferocity. A swift, decisive strike from the hunter’s blade severed its throat. As life ebbed away, the creature’s gaze met the victor’s, a chilling juxtaposition of power and submission. The human, panting heavily, sat upon the earth, reclaiming his breath.
As darkness enveloped its consciousness, the manticore found solace in the embrace of oblivion. The ceaseless torment, the relentless pain, had finally ceased. The peace It had yearned for, the respite from its internal affliction, was granted by the hand of a terrifying human. The manticore finally understood that death is much more peaceful than living with that thing in its mind. A fitting end, perhaps, for a creature consumed by its own monstrous nature.