CHAPTER FIFTY: BATTLE
Because the Deva that is attacking Armad is an Earth Bender, he eschewed the need for conventional weaponry, for his unique abilities rendered them superfluous. His hands, ensorcelled by his bending arts, had taken on a hue as dark as charred soil, a stark blackness that betrayed their unnatural transformation. With an eerie grace, his fingertips sharpened into talons reminiscent of a demonic lion. He moved with lethal intent, aiming a vicious strike at Armad’s back, hoping to shatter his opponent’s defenses and feast upon his vital essence.
Yet Armad was not to be underestimated. He spun to face his assailant in a moment’s notice, his counterblow meeting The Deva’s monstrous appendages with unerring precision. Instinct had guided him, and he had neglected to invoke the power of his Miyura. The Deva, after all, was a formidable foe, steeped in the level first stage -of- Deva, cultivation that compares 13,000 years. In comparison, Armad stood on the threshold of Pre-Deva, and he could not help but rue the unseen barriers that kept him from ascending the level of Deva.
Yet Armad’s world, bolstered his power by a full fifteen percent. It was a significant advantage, given his current stage of cultivation. This augmentation elevated the effective years of his cultivation to 12,500 years, narrowing the gap between his prowess and that of The Deva to a mere 500 years.
Upon closer scrutiny, the qualitative disparity between their respective powers became evident. Armad’s lineage coursed with the noble blood of Wilberforce, imbuing him with a superior quality of cultivation when compared to The Deva’s more pedestrian ancestry. Furthermore, the might of Armad’s Nagirinki—a power uniquely his own—dwarfed that which The Deva could muster.
When their devastating powers finally collided, the resultant explosion was thunderous, a testament to their immense forces. Armad, grounded in his strength, was pushed back but a single step, whereas The Deva was driven back three, his balance disrupted by the sheer ferocity of Armad’s retaliation. Bewilderment played across The Deva’s visage as he beheld the sudden lifelessness of his once formidable hands, now hanging listlessly as though scalded by the most intense of heats. They felt detached, numb, and alien against the chill air. Time crawled as sensation tentatively returned to his hands, their quivering a silent testament to the shock they had endured.
Locked in a gaze of incredulity, The Deva’s eyes met those of Armad. There was no concealing the bewilderment, the shock of having his full might so deftly countered. His all-consuming power, which he had unleashed without reserve, had been met and matched by Armad’s enigmatic and profound strength—a revelation that shook the very core of The Deva’s being.
The distinction between the attacks of Devas and those of ordinary individuals lies in the unique augmentation they receive from the world. This enhancement empowers them to effortlessly vanquish their adversaries, as well as swiftly replenish their cultivation level when they unleash their full power. In stark contrast, other benders at the Core formation level or below must rest to allow their cultivation to recharge after expending their full power. A Deva, however, possesses a remarkable advantage – they can unleash their full power repeatedly without succumbing to fatigue. This exceptional ability has earned them the reputation of being unstoppable, as echoed in the saying, “A Deva is a Deva.”
On the other hand, Armad may not have reached the esteemed status of a Deva, nor does he receive assistance from the world. Nevertheless, he possesses a world that helps him. Descended from the bloodline of Wilberforce, Armad can rejuvenate his cultivation in mere minutes, a feat that would take an ordinary individual an hour to achieve. This is precisely what is unfolding in the current conflict: before his opponent’s hand can even return to normal, over half of Armad’s cultivation has already been restored, positioning him as a formidable force to be reckoned with.
In a fit of fury, the Deva summoned a spear forged from the very earth itself. Armad was at a loss to identify the specific type of earth used in its creation; perhaps it was a unique composition crafted by the Deva. Channeling all his strength into his hands, the Deva thrust the earthen spear toward Armad with unbridled ferocity, intent on delivering a decisive blow.
Recognizing the potential consequences of a prolonged battle, Armad realized that while his world-supported abilities could secure victory for him, the continued engagement could result in significant casualties among his soldiers. The untouched steps that he had left standing served as a gateway for the enemy to breach the walls of the town, posing a grave threat to his forces. Time was of the essence, and Armad could ill afford to waste a moment.
Acting swiftly, Armad deftly sliced his finger and applied the blood to his Miyura. This act triggered the ancient artifact, initiating a surge in his cultivation level. Breaking through the barriers that had previously constrained his power, Armad ascended to the level of Pre-Deva and beyond, his cultivation age rapidly escalating from 15,000 to 16,000 years and beyond, showing no signs of halting at 20,000 years. With a decisive move, he wiped away the blood from the Miyura. By infusing the artifact with his blood, Armad accelerated his ascent to a higher level, a process that would have otherwise taken significantly longer. Mindful of the risks associated with overexerting himself and causing harm to his body, Armad wisely chose to halt the amplification of his cultivation level just shy of reaching its peak.
At this pivotal moment, trepidation had taken root in Deva’s heart, for he had come to realize the magnitude of Armad’s might. Nonetheless, he was already committed, soaring through the air, his attack irreversibly underway. There could be no turning back, for Armad, too, had taken flight, his blade drawn and ready to engage in this dance of death. The air around them crackled with the tension of impending doom, as both warriors readied themselves for a clash.
Armad’s counteroffensive was not merely a simple martial maneuver; it was an embodiment of 20,000 years of cultivation, augmented further by his world’s boon—an additional 15% to his combat prowess. Thus, his offensive might was an overwhelming force equivalent to more than 23,000 years of cultivation.
The sword skill that Armad possessed—the Dorawa—was a legendary art, one that had no equal on the battlefield. The skill’s intricate forms and devastating power were far beyond the capabilities of Deva’s spearwork. Despite Deva’s considerable skill, he could sense the disparity between them, and it gnawed at his resolve.
As the distance closed between them, the moment of impact loomed. Deva’s spirit faltered, crushed under the weight of Armad’s overwhelming advantage. The confrontation was swift and brutal. With an elegant yet ferocious sweep of his blade, Armad’s sword met Deva’s spear. The collision was not a meeting of equals but a display of domination. Armad’s sword shattered the spear as if it were no sturdier than a twig, then continued its merciless path, severing Deva’s hands, and finally, with a grace that belied its brutality, cleaving Deva in twain. The defeat was so sudden, so complete, that Deva was slain before his scream could escape his lips, his body sundered and plummeting from the sky.
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A heavy silence blanketed the battlefield, as warriors and onlookers alike processed the sheer scale of Armad’s victory. But the victor himself wasted no time dwelling on his triumph. Fueled by the surge of power from his recent gains, Armad felt as though he could transcend the very limits of the martial path. With a newfound confidence, he turned his attention to the monumental staircase that lay before him.
Armad, now a force of nature, unleashed his Dorawa sword with a precise and powerful stroke. The celestial burden of three stars, each a symbol of his sword’s might, was unleashed upon the staircase. Each strike was like the wrath of the heavens, obliterating three steps at a time and sending shockwaves through the structure. The warriors who had climbed the steps, seeking advantage or perhaps escape, were met with an unyielding force. The steps crumbled beneath them, and they were swept away in the cataclysm, their lives extinguished in an instant.
The devastation was immense, surpassing the already-high toll of Armad’s previous battles. The staircase, which had been teeming with life, was now a monument to the dead. With Deva’s defeat, many had sought to seize the moment, clambering up the steps, even reaching the town’s walls. But Armad’s onslaught left no room for hope or survival. By his estimate, each step had harbored 500 warriors, each one now a silent testament to the power and resolve of a man who could shatter armies with a single blow.
Armad wasted no time, his sense of urgency propelling him forward. With a swift motion, he ascended the last two steps—one moment they were there, and the next, they were reduced to rubble beneath his feet. There was no pause in his onslaught as he immediately executed a series of devastating Moving-Sword strikes at the benders who had conjured the steps. A select few observers, understanding the deadly intention behind Armad’s actions, managed to evade the attack, but those who remained were not so fortunate. They fell victim to Armad’s wrath, perishing in an attack that carved a crater into the earth, their bodies so thoroughly destroyed that they appeared to have been tossed into a giant blender. Armad’s relentless offensive persisted, his every attack carving massive holes into the battlefield, leaving it pockmarked as though the very earth had been stricken by a series of violent quakes.
Across the chaotic battlefield, the enemy commander locked in combat with Commander Silaini was taken aback, his mouth agape as he witnessed Armad’s unexpected display of power. The reports had indicated that Armad’s Miyura would, at best, extend his cultivation by a few hundred years, yet the might he was demonstrating suggested an enhancement of thousands. But what puzzled the commander more was Armad’s ability to exert power that far surpassed his known cultivation level—a secret that even the depths of the King’s Legion’s intelligence had not fathomed. In an instant, the enemy commander’s priorities shifted. Winning the battle was no longer the goal; survival and the relay of this crucial information to his battalion became paramount. The strategy of the King’s Legion needed reconsideration in light of Armad’s newfound capabilities. However, retreating posed a dire moral dilemma—could he abandon his comrades, those with whom he had forged bonds over countless battles and years of camaraderie?
While the enemy commander grappled with his conscience, Commander Silaini sensed an opportunity and sent forth a strike. To the onlooker, it was a mere flick of the wrist, an effortless gesture, yet the recipient of the attack would understand its deadly nature. The true menace of the attack lay not in its visible force but in the profound level of cultivation that it harnessed. It was an assault that could bind any bender who had not reached the Peak-of-Deva with invisible pol string rendering them completely immobile.
But the enemy commander had come prepared for such eventualities. With a sense of premonition, he activated a seal concealed beneath his armor, and immediately, his body became enveloped in a radiant light. As the luminescence met the pol string from Commander Silaini’s blade, it nullified them, allowing the commander to regain his mobility. He began a tactical retreat, launching knives infused with a cultivation level of 40,000 years, a force of destruction so immense it had the potential to obliterate half the town. Yet the intent behind his attack was not to cause indiscriminate destruction but to facilitate his escape. Each knife was thrown not to devastate but to distract, as the commander edged backward, creating space between himself and his adversary.
Commander Silaini, adept in the art of warfare, understood the underlying tactics at play. As he deftly intercepted the knives with his sword, he observed the enemy commander’s gradual retreat, each step backward a calculated move towards escape. Silaini knew that with each moment that passed, the enemy commander was not only physically distancing himself from the fray but also strategically disentangling himself from the engagement to ensure his survival—and perhaps to bring forth a new tide in the war that was unfolding.
Commander Silaini’s eyes narrowed as he discerned the telltale signs of a retreat by the enemy commander. Intent on preventing any escape, Commander Silaini’s resolve hardened; he would not allow this foe the chance to regroup and return. With a deliberate focus, he channeled the full extent of his cultivated energy into his being, feeling the power thrumming through his veins. With a battle cry that pierced the cacophony of war, he thrust his sword forward, releasing a torrent of energy that manifested as a spectral blade, seeking his adversary across the field.
As this new confrontation exploded into being, the clash between commanders was but one epicenter of violence in a tapestry of strife. Throughout the battlefield, similar scenes unfolded as the Devas of the town, stalwart and resolute, engaged the enemy Devas in a dance of death. Each pair of combatants was locked in their private battle, their elemental prowess lighting up the sky, shaking the earth, and churning the air with their might.
In stark contrast to the spectacle of these titanic benders, Nusi played her vital part. As steel clashed and shouts echoed, she ground herbs with rhythmic precision, her mortar, and pestle a drumbeat to the heart of the battle. As she worked, a mystic smoke began to curl upwards, and from it sprang an army of verdant sentinels. These saplings, birthed from Nusi’s alchemy, were deceptively small but possessed a vigor that belied their size.
The green tendrils spiraled out of the smoke, reaching for the enemy soldiers with a relentless grip. The trees’ roots, animated by some unseen force, ensnared the invaders’ feet, rooting them in place as effectively as iron shackles. But their purpose was far more sinister than mere restraint. With a vampiric thirst, the trees drained the very life essence from their prisoners, their leaves growing more lush as the enemy combatants withered, their skin taking on the pallor of death.
Though small, these botanical captors were fearsomely strong, capable of binding the limbs of even the most formidable Core Formation cultivators. The enemy, who had once surged towards the town’s walls with the intent to slaughter, now found themselves desperately hacking at the roots that bound them. This unexpected defense provided Ai’s troops with a precious advantage. Energized by elixirs that heightened their vigor, the town’s defenders descended upon the immobilized enemy. Their blades sang through the air, and blood ran in rivers from the walls, painting the dawn with the stark hues of victory and loss.
The siege of the town was mirrored by the chaos outside its fortifications, where Nusi’s arboreal warriors had taken root in enemy flesh and soil alike. While Armad’s skills were undeniably potent, it was the breadth and scope of Nusi’s influence that dominated the field. Her botanical soldiers, sapping the life from hundreds within moments, grew in size and strength with each fallen enemy. Some grew to massive proportions, becoming grim monuments to the fallen, their branches heavy with the weight of conquest.