The time that Razmund spent walking was brief, but to him, it felt like a dozen minutes of walking into the depths of Endless Plains. The warring places, full of death and dangers. This Death Valley reawakened certain memories. The kinds he didn't hate, but didn't wish to relive. No... He would slaughter the past if he could
He wasn't afraid or unfamiliar with the surroundings. Sand and wind were less of an issue here, but unlike the 1st timer, or the 2nd, the 3rd timer had no easy time at all. The environment was part of the challenge, part of the Welcoming Party of the Lavandis Temple down below, and part of what this place offered.
On his right, there were familiar undead skeletons he fought the last time. A knight with a huge and deadly axe, a mage with orbiting orbs made of Azuripped Gems around it, and a few other mentions.
A pair of flaming skeletons in particular caught his eyes. They meant trouble before, he reckoned, but now? He felt nothing about them but slaughtering them and getting something out to of their Ends. Opportunities, worthy treasures, or simple experiences would suffice.
Perhaps he will welcome their wide-open threatening aura with his own? Nah. He knew better than that. There were way too many dangerous threats around him and he didn't want to care about them all. He didn't need to. However, one of them was something he needed to pick.
The biggest, like a craving dark sun in the middle of the Death Sea. An undead monstrosity that was feeling like the Demon Lord. A figure with menace and dread. Eyes glowed under the hood, and skeleton hands grasped the reins of a massive undead version of a highland horse from the Radagan Continent.
He had seen this pair of Soul Flames once before. At a time as a younger self. A stupid self, he supposed.
Razmund knew he couldn't choose his enemies, nor should he feel picky about it. The choice of the Welcoming Party was the desire and part of the Undead King before him. Thar of Laquira. His preceding reputation was something he knew because of his own standing in the Centralis Kingdom, and Thar was a menace in the long history since he was Cursed with the Endless Physique, making him basically immortal.
“We meet again monstrosity with the name, and it's unlike the last time, Undead King,” Razmund stated, unaware of what this being was supposed here for, but it wasn't as if he should feel guilty not knowing it. Considering his status as a Blessed, the feeling Thar had around him was like an encompassing world storm before him, but it wasn't breaking him.
He saw... tougher things out there. Humans, Divine Beasts, Elves, Prime Hunters, and so on. There were many dreadful races filled with the mind to shake the heavens. Gods were whatever under those categories since they were quite detached from the world of this surface.
He wasn't afraid, but perhaps it was a hope to feel that way. Gods were surely a degree higher than anything he should've seen, but one thing was to know the might of them with a clear picture or imagination, and other times, know about their might.
Sometimes, or most of the time, it was impossible to glance at a God in one's lifetime.
The last time Razmund came here, he was only a mere level 48 with a brief start on his proper Path. That was a fine time, considering everything that happened, and the timing of this opportunity that counted towards his fate.
However, Razmund was anything but something obscenely strong to move the rules, laws, and desires of this world.
Back then, he wasn't able to do anything to Thar. He only chopped forth with his claymore as usual, taking the mocking words that Thar had back to his mouth. That was a fine wish, which was buried into the sand, dripped with blood and sweat. He deserved the pain, smack to his face, and everything, honestly. He wasn't surprised nor did he think of that time as something he regretted. He just wanted to see the picture that THar had, and he attacked him out of the blue and for himself.
Razmund gained the bare notion of a successful Party, and out of spite or acceptance as a fine challenger, Thar accepted his degree, welcoming him to the Levandis Temple for the 2nd time.
He didn't like the world back then, yet he had fog in his memories because of it.
Now, things changed. Razmund was hoping to finally understand how unfathomable Thar was, or if his changes meant something or not. His Path was fine and in line with the age, limits, and threshold of what he should be capable of.
Clutching his hand beneath his cloak, he still felt the massive tidal force coming from the distance, pushing his body and mind. No. That was a wrong idea, or was it? Thar was not getting close. He was, yet it felt as if he a mountain of dread was right there before him, observing him with the power of a planet. Thar was also above and beyond the horizon, but it was a sense he felt.
It lied to him.
Or was the aura, mental pressure, or this place itself making fun of him? Pressuring power coming from the distance wasn't there, and the open temple wasn't up to his mind, yet. Everything was before him, coming off of Thar's blinkless eyes like his own.
A pair of Soul Flames were turning discerning in the storm, while the clapping sound of a horse's hoof, resounded in the wind. He was coming to him, eying him like prey and moving in a circle through the wind and sandy storm.
Was Thar taking initiative? An Extreme and a dog before the Lavandis Temple did? That was unlikely, but also possible because of the latter part of who he currently was.
Razmund frowned, thinking of what he should do.
Attack, retreat, or remain in place?
Do nothing?
Right. Razmund chose nothing but to wait for Thar to start the Welcoming Party or start his own examination.
Wrong. He wasn't deserving that. He was the Challenger! Not the other way around.
This place had its own set of rules, affecting everything and everyone under the rules of Levandis herself. Razmund knew from his own experience to be understanding of Hell Haven, and his knowledge about this place and its context.
He wasn't some clueless duck that had little clue of this greater world. It wasn't because of laughable Life Companion, but because Razmund was part of the Centralis Kingdom, while Murai was nothing other than himself. That was why he was sure that not even a massive threat of Thar should be something that could move past the rules.
He was a Challenger. Officially speaking, that was. He should be more interested in what was walking through the steps down the Levandis Temple.
Thar emerged from the sandstorm in the middle of the flat portion of this desert region, coming closer and a handful of reach away from standing Razmund. He was no longer unhindered by any wind, so he circled Razmund in wonder or curious eyes. Thar had no issue with the storm.
After all, he was already dead so it made sense to care less about some physical issues. No sun or heat will ever bother him. No poison will clasp his lungs, and no water will flood them either. He was a skeleton, so he had full immunity to a lot of ailments and elemental attacks.
He was towering over the standing Razmund underneath him like a kid watching over a puppy. As an Extreme, he had every right to be like that, yet the time of his freedom was long gone. Now, he was nothing but a pawn in the grand scheme of gods. A chess piece, a failure, a mistake, and a tool, and who knew what else.
A lot of things could describe him, but only he himself knew of what mattered and what was the truth. A failure meant to devour it up and accept it.
That was all to it. It was honest and eternal. A second choice will never come. No more.
“What is it that you come here for Challenger?” Thar's voice shook Razmund to his core, but he clutched his cheeks and jolted his mind to a steady calmness. Not once he was afraid to escape with his gaze. That was already an improvement from the last time.
“Silent? Upset? A third-timer wants to feel the threat and dread of the Welcoming Party, isn't that just right and fitting? I wondered, but there are also more figures hiding behind the storm back there.” Thar pointed with his finger behind Razmund, knowing what went on behind the scenes. “Are they cowards for not coming forward because they wait for their turn? They may be the limit of what the temple can manage, but that is probably not the reason for this group of questionable individuals to come here. Will you give me some idea of what to make of it? Hm?” Thar asked, turning his hand from the front towards his chin. He appeared almost like a philosopher, albeit he was a skeleton.
Razmund listened in his silent understanding, surprised by the acts of this being before him. Thar was always more silent and indifferent to everything. Like an emperor overseeing his subjects. Like a lofty figure that lost interest in the small tries of those lower than him.
Years ago, Thar seemed like heaven itself, which befell his sorry mind. It wasn't right to imagine, let alone try to strike or obliterate the heavens. He did dare, however, and failed miserably.
“Are... Are you a former Extreme?” Razmund asked.
“He can speak? Good.” Thar chuckled. “Former isn't a steady form of what Extreme is. Nor does it matter now, as I am unimportant in the grand scheme of what you want.” he calmly answered.
“Really? What... What then the senior think I want?” Razmund asked, still hiding his face but his blinkless eyes were watching Thar with every second, every tick and threat of his snapping mind. He didn't want to miss even a single thread of reality and his body was long sweating under the cloak, and overheating in exuberating dense undulations.
Every fiber of his muscles was ready to go all out, but he waited for a better chance.
“Want? A desire then? Your interest lies in many things because you can afford that. As a Blessed, it is no wonder you are like that, as it is fitting for them. Anyway, what is it then? I ask again. This isn't a playground for children nor a place to talk.” Thar turned serious and moved his hand back to the reins.
“Talk? You started it...” Razmund mumbled, but it seemed Thar either didn't catch that or ignored it instead. “I want something clear, easy to say and figure out. Certain something that went to the temple before I got here.”
“Something, or a thing??”
“Thing.”
“Is that so? Then are your colleagues part of it?” Thar turned his head upwards, glancing behind Razmund as if seeing the rest of the people waiting for the storm to pass.
“That is right. It goes within the rules, obviously. Or is it a problem for the temple to handle?”
“I don't decide that. I am just a guarding dog, but it seems the world is still the same. Some things will never change. You know the rules, yet your reasons are as bad as you, coming here. It has been 5 years since you came here upon your successful 2nd try and accomplished 6th Gate. You will die if you aren't careful, or... it isn't the 7th or 8th Gate you seek? Well, seeking them is useless in your case. 8th is too much, and even 7th is a stretch. You will never get.... Or do you plan to farm in the 6th? Not as if it is unheard of, but...” Thar indifferently said but paused when he realized something.
“I am not interested in what lays there for me in the temple. I am here for the being that entered the temple.” Razmund said through the clutched jaw, telling the truth for once.
“Isn't that the same thing? Temple this, temple that. Rules that and this... You know them all too well for a 3rd timer.” Thar waved his hand as if in a sight. “But I accept the circumstances because I have no choice. Shall we start with a course for the Welcoming Party? Oh, wait, parties, if we have so many of you coming. This is going to be fun. Not for me... Hehehe.” Thar laughed and his voice turned to a sinister grinding chuckle of death itself.
The Undead Army around this perimeter did so as well, and the aura of the surroundings turned to an absolute animosity. The air thickened, and storms seemed to be the least of a problem. The undead were like the wildest storms, cluttering their bones and some even stomped with their feet against the sand.
Though, none moved. They waited for Razmund to decide on something, it seemed, or they waited for Thar?
Razmund did wait, and not because he wanted to, but because he had to do that.
“This time... I will get your direct approval and not some excuse to let me go inside!” Razmund shouted and shoved part of the cloak away from his body, revealing the left side of his body. A shiny plated armor was hiding beneath the cloak, as well as a thicker-than-average pouch was around his left hip.
A longer hilt of a sword was visibly sticking from it, ready to be grasped and drawn. The handle was a smooth and old-looking steal of dark color, resembling a dark alloy, or void meteorite with dark-infused elements. Around it was some older-looking leather of tattered quality. Everything was of equal dark color as the metal itself.
Grabbing it as fast as he shoved his cloak open, Razmund swung it upward, revealing a lengthy sword of quite some size in one singular movement.
It was a wonder how he managed that, considering how this blade even hid in a pouch, but the reason was simple. It was a basic spatial pouch for a single item, or more, depending on the grade and quality of the spatial pouch.
A lot of adventurers or anyone in need of storage used such things to travel better and use the advantages of space equipment to travel at ease. It was an old method of storing valuables in clear and forged means. But it wasn't without its disadvantages. One had no equipment within one's direct grasp when danger arrived. One's readiness to get equipment ready was quite important because of it.
When standing between life and death, wearing or wielding the equipment mattered more than having it inside a pouch. However, it wasn't the case for Razmund, who only took a second to shove a long sword of quite some aura forward.
It was as if he indeed had the blade on his hip, but the blade was too long to be secured on the waist. Perhaps it would be difficult for it to be in the back. It was that long, but Razmund wielded it onehanded as if he were a child wielding a short dagger. In his case, the sword was even taller than his own height.
Razmund's eyes were set ablaze, and a pure killing intent and readiness to fight was seeping out of his stance. Sword's aura focused around him, ready to cut, yet he still wore the mask around his nose. A grin was obvious to notice on his face because of the contorted skin around his unblinking eyes. It was a sight of a madman, a battlejunkie, and someone who wasn't afraid to do something stupid.
Thar was never someone to judge others. He had no right to do so.
“Oh? A claymore? A rather good and rare weapon to see indeed.” Thar jokingly said, playing with the reins with his fingers to move his horse around.
As crazed as he was, Razmund didn't care for the feelings or words that Thar spoke. He knew he should be an endurable opponent against Thar unless things would get outside of the rules or his own common sense.
He also held at least a certainty, that 9 in 10 undead around Thar shouldn't pose too much trouble for him. Killing them with a few blows or some special tactics could do the job, but what about the last ones, right around the end of this promenade of the Undead Army? Auras of strength rose through the air, while Thar was the toughest, it wasn't as if there weren't other powerhouses.
They weren't like Thar, of course. Having too many Extremes in one place was insensible, even to a leader of Hell Haven.
Razmund wasn't fearful, but he would lie if his excitement and killing intent weren't there to hide some doubts. That's how strong he was! Standing before the whole Welcoming Party in the vision of a Thar? Who else would do that? He had no doubts that only crazed beings, while the last Party was anything like this.
He remembered it like yesterday. Razmund battled until he spitted blood, and even then, he was unable to lay a finger on Thar. It wasn't because he had to do that, but because he wanted that. Desire was truly a man's demise.
“Your goal is as insignificant as your attempts to try my little ploys.” Thar suddenly said with a mocking tone aimed at Razmund's stance. His claymore was one thing, but learning to use it was another.
This infuriated him, so he jumped up as if he were a tidal force to move the mountain. He wanted to confront Thar face to face, wielding his weapon right, and mind in the same pattern. Claymore in his right hand was right behind him, ready to cleave in a wide slash. Then, he used the second hand, to clutch the handle, using the momentum and twist of his hips to swing it as fast as he could.
Claymore twisted the space, while no speck of mana, or surge of otherworldy power was behind it. It was pure, physical prowess since it was something Razmund did in the previous Parties as well.
No pain no gain.
That was one aspect of his Path, but it wasn't a lone rule of it.
Razmund was a step away from striking Thar with his claymore, yet the blade stopped as quickly as he became close. He was caught. No... The claymore stopped between a pair of bony fingers, and the full force behind this slash traveled forth, dispersing through the bones, as if nothing happened.
“Undead... fuck.” Razmund cursed and watched as his unstabilized position was seen through by Thar. It was like an open invitation because jumping wasn't a good idea, which he realized in a mere moment that he coughed with his unblinking eyes.
Thar flickered the other hand upwards as if pinching Razmund toward his chest with a single finger. An exploding sound echoed through the Dead Valley, and the sheer force of this strike destroyed the sandstorms almost 2 hundred meters around him. Similarly to them Razmund was nowhere close to the Undead Army, nor Thar. He traveled hundreds of meters far, rolling on the ground without stopping.
Perhaps thanks to the cloak, that was tattered from the strike, he wasn't as hurt as he looked. Or it may be the armor hiding beneath the cloak that helped with some damage reduction. No... He felt like shit, and every inch of his body felt as if hit by a mountain.
His chest especially was too damaged, and his cloak tore through his rolling through the sand. He felt the pain and blood in his chest, and surging blood flew in an unsteady pattern in his veins. This single finger would kill a lot of weaklings, and even his past self wouldn't fare that well.
What the fuck was that? he thought to himself, but as he traveled and rolled through the ground without the ability to stop, his companions came to his help. Paulfred and Waldorf caught his body, forcing their own size to cease his momentum. They stabilized his flying speed until he stopped.
The force necessary for that was quite something, and both of them were surprised by the damage Razmund had on his chest. The whole part of the cloak that was on his chest was showing cracked armor and one small dent on his plated armor which pushed down toward his skin and flesh.
“Y-you good?” Waldorf asked, unsure if he should ask, but he asked anyway.
“Bloody hell, has the heavens befell me after all?” Razmund cursed and forced himself to stand up. He almost shoved both of them away.
“You jest, master. It's too soon for that.” Paulfred stated as he helped him back to his feet, or tried to.
Razmund staggered, yet remained firm. He clutched his chest and spit some blood from his mouth. Circulating the mana and blood in his body took a mere moment, similar to accessing his own health. He regained the healthy color in a couple of seconds, yet the damage was already done.
“He cracked my armor and even ribs with a single finger. What a monster... I have too high of a standard... or too low of estimations. What have I thought 5 years ago?” Razmund asked out loud.
“You were a hot-blooded shot back then. It was no wonder.” Paulfred stated, unaware of the deep unhappiness that Razmund had.
There was so much of it, that Razmund picked Paulfred by his chin, and smashed him to the ground. He didn't use a lot of strength, nor the sand was that tough. It did some damage, but a different kind of storm was brewing in his heart.
No.
It was more precise to call it a disaster.
“S-sir?” Waldorf mumbled, afraid that Razmund would do something to him too.
“I am so damned pissed,” Razmund grunted the words of anger, his face contorting and veins popping through the visible skin. With the storm starting, he tore the rest of the cloak apart with his bare hands and cared less about anything else.
The sandstorms ceased away, the moment Thar struck his body, revealing the whole picture of the temple, along with hundreds of undead before the temple.
Razmund saw it without blinking, thinking that the Party was just starting.
Finding his claymore, which stumbled somewhere when he flew through the sand, he was livid that he lost touch with it. It was there, half sunken into the sand as if life lost its meaning.
Razmund wasn't done with shedding the useless mess around his body. With already half-destroyed armor, the cloak was barely something inconvenient. But the chest armor that was already cracked? It was eating him from the inside out, so he pushed the claymore to the ground once again before opening his fist wide before his body. While trembling and taking a breath, he struck himself and the armor screeched. As if clenching the nuts, he pushed his fingers towards his chest, tearing through the armor like an old shirt.
What was left was still considered armor but without a chest piece. He still held some neck parts, but he tore them as well because it was useless like the chest piece. All the way to his hips was nothing. The only armor he held was around the arm, while the legs were fine as well.
Baring his tight and defined chest, a small wound was visible at the front, right between the ribs, and quite close to the heart. But it was nothing much for him. The strike wasn't that deep to affect the bones. It was a mere scratch, he believed. Wrong. He wasn't even thinking about it. He felt fine, but his pride wasn't fine.
He thought he fought a tougher opponent than ever before, yet some measly toy of Hell Havens kicked his ass this easily? With a finger, no less?
It was coming from an Extreme, so why should he be that upset? That sort of question surely spread among the rest of his helpers, but no one voiced it. Not even Gordfiend.
His ego spoke and lived dearly for his life. No wonder he was so pissed. He destroyed his favorite armor without a speck of hesitation.