The explosion of holy energy from Thrix's pocket watch artifact was a blinding spectacle amidst the dark chaos of the Beaststorm. The artifact's last defense, a radiant bubble of divine energy, erupted around him, casting a warm, golden glow that seemed almost out of place in the swirling, malevolent storm. The light was pure, untouched by the corrupted energies of the storm. For a moment, the world around Thrix paused, the storm's roar muffled by the sheer power of the artifact's protection.
The holy bubble encompassed him, a barrier of grace that stood strong against the onslaught of the sand beasts and the chaotic elements. The energy surged through his body, amplifying his speed to three times its normal rate. Thrix felt a rush of adrenaline and clarity, every fiber of his being humming with the artifact's power. It was a strange, almost exhilarating sensation, like being touched by a god. The pain from his wounds dulled, and the weight of exhaustion lifted, replaced by an almost unnatural lightness.
He knew this was his only chance. The artifact's protection was a rare and precious gift, one that came with a steep cost—a two-hundred-day cooldown period, during which the artifact would be useless. He had never expected to need it now, not in a situation like this. But here he was, enveloped in its golden light, the last vestige of his survival instincts pushing him forward.
Thrix didn't waste a second. He sprang into motion, his six arms pumping as he tore through the sand. The storm around him seemed to part before the golden shield, the holy energy repelling the sand and magical interference. He became a streak of light, a comet blazing through the dark, stormy dunes. The shield was so potent that it deflected even the smallest grains of sand, creating a smooth, unobstructed path through the chaos. It was as if the storm itself could not touch him, repelled by the sanctity of the energy that now surrounded him.
The sand beasts were momentarily stunned by the sudden burst of holy light. Sand Wraiths recoiled, their ethereal forms shrinking away from the purity of the barrier. Dune Serpents paused in their pursuit, their predatory instincts momentarily confused by the divine glow. Even the mighty Sand Golems seemed hesitant, their hulking forms struggling against an unseen force. Thrix's shield was not just a barrier; it was a repellent to the storm's corrupted inhabitants.
With his speed tripled, Thrix moved like a golden sun, cutting through the storm with unmatched agility. His legs, not built for such rapid movement, moved almost without his control, powered by the artifact's enchantment. The golden light traced his path, leaving a fleeting afterimage in the storm. He darted through dunes and around beasts, his eyes fixed on the horizon, searching desperately for an end to the storm's grip.
The storm raged on, but Thrix's bubble of holy energy pushed back against it, creating a temporary sanctuary in the midst of chaos. The air within the shield was still and warm, a stark contrast to the howling winds and biting cold outside. Thrix could feel the energy pulsing around him, each beat of the artifact's power syncing with his own heartbeat. It was a symphony of survival, a divine orchestration that propelled him forward.
Despite the magical protection, Thrix couldn't shake the creeping fear that gripped his heart. He knew this shield wouldn't last forever. The artifact's energy was finite, and once it depleted, he would be left defenseless. The beasts would no longer be repelled; the storm would no longer be held at bay. He would be just another figure lost in the sands, consumed by the chaos he was trying to escape.
Thrix's mind raced as he sprinted. He couldn't afford to think of anyone else—not because he didn't care, but because his own survival instincts had taken over. He was a merchant, a spider by nature, accustomed to hiding and manipulating from the shadows. He was not a warrior like the others. His strength lay in evasion and negotiation, not combat. The holy shield was an anomaly, a last-resort defense that gave him a fleeting chance at survival.
The storm began to thin slightly, the swirling sands less dense, the winds less ferocious. Thrix pushed harder, his legs burning from the unaccustomed speed. The shield's golden light remained strong, but he knew it was only a matter of time before it began to flicker. His breath came in ragged gasps, the exertion finally catching up to him. Every step was a race against time, every second a desperate bid for survival.
The landscape around him blurred into a mix of golden light and stormy darkness. He couldn't tell if he was making progress or simply running in circles, trapped in the storm's unending wrath. The thought of never escaping, of being trapped until the artifact's power ran out, gnawed at the edges of his mind. He tried to banish it, focusing instead on the rhythm of his steps, the steady beat of his heart, and the pulse of the shield around him.
As if sensing his rising desperation, the holy shield began to flicker. It was subtle at first, a slight dimming of the golden light. But Thrix noticed immediately, a cold dread settling in his stomach. The artifact's energy was running out, and with it, his last line of defense. He pushed himself harder, willing his legs to move faster, but the strain was becoming unbearable. His lungs burned, his muscles ached, and the flickering of the shield grew more pronounced.
The beasts sensed it too. The Sand Wraiths that had once recoiled now circled closer, their ghostly forms testing the weakening barrier. A Dune Serpent slithered through the sand, its eyes locked on Thrix, waiting for the moment the shield would fail. Even the Sand Golems seemed to sense the impending vulnerability, their hulking forms moving with renewed purpose.
Thrix's vision began to blur, not just from the storm but from the sheer exhaustion of maintaining his sprint. The holy light flickered more violently, each pulse of golden energy dimmer than the last. The warmth that had surrounded him was dissipating, replaced by the cold, harsh reality of the storm. The end was near, he could feel it. The artifact had given him a precious few minutes, but those minutes were slipping away.
In a final, desperate burst of speed, Thrix surged forward. He had to break free of the storm, had to find some semblance of safety before the shield failed. But the storm showed no signs of ending. The dunes stretched on endlessly, and the swirling sands continued to obscure his path. His breath came in short, painful bursts, his legs felt like lead, and the golden aura was now a pale, flickering light.
Then, with a final, shuddering pulse, the holy shield collapsed. The golden light vanished, leaving Thrix exposed to the full fury of the Beaststorm. The cold winds and biting sands rushed in, stinging his skin and blinding his eyes. The beasts, sensing their moment, closed in. Thrix stumbled, his legs finally giving out, and fell to the sand.
For a moment, all was silent. Thrix lay there, panting, his body shaking from exhaustion and fear. He looked up, seeing the shadowy forms of the Sand Wraiths and the looming figure of a Sand Golem. The storm's roar returned, louder and more menacing than ever. Thrix knew he was out of time, out of options. The artifact had given him a chance, but that chance had passed.
As the first of the beasts lunged, Thrix braced himself for the inevitable. The storm had won, and his last defense had failed. The golden sun had set, and all that remained was the darkness of the Beaststorm.
***
Ayla stumbled through the blinding storm, the harsh winds lashing at her exposed skin. The fight with Leonardo and Raphael had left her battered, her muscles aching with every step. The cold from her Frozen Blade ability still clung to her limbs, numbing the pain but slowing her down. Her thoughts were scattered, struggling to process the intensity of the battle and the desperate need to find Paola. She had barely regained her bearings when a brilliant flash of golden light tore through the storm a short distance ahead.
She squinted, her eyes narrowing against the biting sands. The light was pure, a beacon of hope amidst the chaos. It cut through the storm like a blade, creating a temporary sanctuary in the maelstrom. Ayla's heart leapt. Whatever it was, it was powerful and divine. She couldn't afford to ignore it; perhaps it could lead her to safety or, at the very least, away from the dangers of the storm.
Without hesitation, she moved towards the light, her legs protesting with every step. The holy energy drew her in, a warm glow amidst the freezing chaos. But as she pushed forward, she found herself under attack. The beasts that had been both attracted and repelled by the light now focused their attention on her. Sand Wraiths circled, their ghostly forms flickering in and out of visibility. Dune Serpents slithered through the sand, their eyes gleaming with predatory intent. Even the ground beneath her feet seemed unstable, as if the sand itself sought to drag her down.
Ayla gritted her teeth and drew her broadsword, switching to Flame Edge. The blade ignited with intense flames, casting a flickering light in the dim storm. She swung at the first Sand Wraith that lunged at her, the fire searing through its ethereal form. The creature let out a high-pitched wail, dissipating into the storm. But more came, their forms swirling around her, their cold, clammy touch seeking to drain her strength.
She fought back with all her might, her sword a blur of fire and fury. Dune Serpents lunged from the sand, their jaws snapping at her legs. Ayla danced between them, using her Flame Dash to evade their strikes and leaving trails of fire in her wake. The flames gave her a brief respite, a barrier against the creatures that seemed endless in number. But the serpents were cunning, circling her, waiting for the flames to die down.
The struggle was intense, every swing of her sword draining her stamina further. Her breaths came in short, ragged gasps, each inhale filled with the taste of grit and ash. But she couldn't stop. The golden light ahead was fading, and she had to reach it. She had to find out what it was, who it was. Desperation fueled her movements, pushing her beyond her limits.
A Sand Golem loomed in the distance, its massive form barely visible through the swirling sands. Ayla's eyes widened. The creature's presence was a dire threat, its strength far surpassing that of the other beasts. The golden light flickered once more, then vanished, swallowed by the storm. Panic surged through Ayla as she realized she had lost her guiding star. But she couldn't let that stop her; she had to press on.
The Golem charged, its heavy footsteps shaking the ground. Ayla braced herself, switching to Frozen Blade. She needed to slow it down, to create an opening. As the Golem swung its massive arm, she ducked under the blow, slashing at its leg. Ice spread from the wound, slowing the creature's movements. But the Golem was relentless, swinging again with a bellow of fury.
Ayla narrowly avoided the strike, rolling to the side and coming up with her sword ready. She struck again, aiming for the joints, trying to weaken its structural integrity. The ice did its work, cracking the Golem's stony exterior. But the creature was tenacious, refusing to fall. It swung again, this time catching Ayla in the side. She grunted in pain, the force of the blow sending her sprawling.
She struggled to her feet, her vision blurring from the impact. The Golem advanced, but Ayla refused to back down. She summoned her strength, channeling it into one final, desperate attack. With a cry, she unleashed Glacial Eruption, striking the ground with her sword. Ice spikes erupted around the Golem, impaling its limbs and torso. The creature shuddered, then crumbled under the assault, collapsing into a heap of frozen rubble.
Panting, Ayla forced herself to continue. She moved towards the place where the golden light had vanished, her heart heavy with fear and exhaustion. The terrain was rough, the sand shifting underfoot, but she pressed on. The storm's intensity seemed to lessen slightly, the winds not as fierce, the sands not as blinding.
Then she saw him. Thrix lay on the ground, barely recognizable. His once-proud form was ravaged, missing limbs and eyes, his exoskeleton crushed in places. He was a mere husk of himself, his body broken and battered. Around him, zombies lurked, their rotting forms eager to finish what the storm had started.
Ayla's breath caught in her throat. She couldn't let him die, not like this. She charged at the zombies, her sword blazing with flame. She cut through them with ferocity, her mind focused solely on saving Thrix. The zombies were relentless, but so was she. She hacked and slashed, the flames from her sword consuming the undead.
As she fought, Ayla couldn't help but glance at Thrix, his survival hanging by a thread. He was still alive, but barely. She didn't know how long he would last, but she had to try. She cleared the last of the zombies, their bodies burning to ash under her relentless assault.
But the storm wasn't done with them yet. As she knelt by Thrix, two massive shadows loomed over her. Ayla looked up, her heart sinking as she saw two Sand Golems towering above them, ready to crush them both. She stood, positioning herself between the golems and the broken form of Thrix. She gripped her sword tightly, prepared to fight to the bitter end.
But then, a sudden calm. The storm seemed to shift, its intensity dropping significantly. Ayla felt the change in the air, the biting wind easing, the sand settling. They had reached the border of the storm. The Golems hesitated, their forms wavering as if unsure whether to proceed. Ayla took the chance, dragging Thrix further away, putting as much distance between them and the danger as possible.
Ayla dragged him through the final, tumultuous gusts of the storm, each step a monumental effort against the biting wind and shifting sands. The chaotic roar of the Beaststorm faded as she stumbled out of its grip, the world suddenly transforming around her. The air cleared, revealing a serene blue sky overhead, the sun shining brightly as if to mock the turmoil they had just escaped. The abrupt calm was disorienting, a stark contrast to the deadly chaos they had endured.
She collapsed beside Thrix, her breaths coming in heavy gasps. The ground beneath her was solid and warm, a welcome relief from the treacherous sands of the storm. She could feel the sun's rays on her skin, a gentle heat that seemed almost surreal given the circumstances. Ayla glanced at her own status, her eyes widening at the sight. Her HP read 129/640, a dangerously low number, and it was still dropping slowly due to the wound in her side. She pressed a hand against it, feeling the sticky warmth of her own blood. Even in her most harrowing battles, she had never been this close to the edge. The memory of the cave hounds flashed through her mind, a reminder of her resilience, but this was different. The storm, the fight, everything had pushed her to her limits.
She turned her attention to Thrix, lying motionless beside her. His body was mangled, limbs twisted and broken, his exoskeleton cracked in multiple places. He was bleeding profusely, and she could see the signs of severe trauma. He hadn't spoken since she found him, hadn't moved. Ayla's heart clenched with the realization that he was likely on the cusp of death. His eyes, those that remained, stared blankly at the sky, lifeless and distant.
She hesitated, a bitter taste in her mouth as she considered her options. Thrix had saved them, in his own way. Despite the high price he'd asked—risking everything to raid Ovochos' farm—he had given them tools and knowledge, including the sapphire tier cloak he had gifted Paola. He had been a cunning and resourceful ally, if not entirely trustworthy. But now, all of that seemed inconsequential. Here he was, dying at her side, and she had the power to save him or let him go.
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Ayla's hand shook as she reached into her pouch, pulling out her remaining potions. She had two: a lesser healing potion and a greater healing potion. The lesser would only be enough to close her own wound, stopping the slow drain of her HP. She could save herself, ensure she was in better shape to face whatever came next. But as she looked at Thrix's broken form, the choice became clear.
Without further hesitation, she uncorked the greater healing potion and gently lifted Thrix's head. His body was limp, and for a moment, she feared she was too late. But as she poured the potion into his mouth, tilting his head back, she saw a faint reaction. His throat moved as he swallowed, the liquid sliding down. She closed his mouth and laid him back down, watching anxiously as the magic took effect.
Almost immediately, the bleeding stopped. The gashes in his exoskeleton began to knit together, the deep wounds closing. The color returned to his face, a hint of life sparking in his eyes. Ayla breathed a sigh of relief, but it was tinged with uncertainty. The greater potion had halted the immediate danger, but she wasn't sure if it would be enough to fully heal him. His injuries were severe, and potions could only do so much.
She pulled out the lesser healing potion, knowing she needed to address her own wounds. Popping the cork, she drank deeply, feeling the soothing warmth spread through her body. Her HP rose to 320/640, the wound in her side closing and the pain subsiding. It was far from full health, but it was enough to keep her going.
Ayla took a deep breath, feeling the weight of exhaustion settle over her. The sun was warm, the sky clear, and for the first time in hours, there was no immediate threat. The storm's roar was a distant memory, and the beasts that had pursued them were nowhere to be seen. They had reached the border of the storm, a fragile line between chaos and calm.
She glanced back at Thrix, his breathing now steady, but he remained unconscious. His body had stopped deteriorating, but the damage was extensive. She could only hope that the healing potion would be enough to stabilize him until they could find proper help.
As the adrenaline wore off, Ayla felt the full weight of the day's events crash down on her. She leaned back, letting herself collapse beside Thrix. Her body ached, her mind was weary, and the emotional toll was heavy. She closed her eyes, the blue sky above a strange comfort in this moment of reprieve.
Bittersweet tears welled in her eyes. They were safe, for now, but the others were still in the storm. Paola, Ta'huka—they were all still out there, facing the dangers she had barely escaped. The guilt gnawed at her, knowing she was here in the sun, alive, while others were still struggling. But she had to take this moment to recover, to gather her strength. Ayla took one last deep breath, her chest tight with the weight of survival. She hated that she was safe while the others were not. It was a bitter victory, one that tasted of ash and fear. But for now, she had to rest, to recover. There would be more battles to fight, more dangers to face. But in this moment, beneath the clear blue sky, Ayla allowed herself a brief respite, hoping that the storm had not claimed them yet.
***
Nathor pushed through the storm, each step a battle against the roaring winds and shifting sands. His shadow tentacles lashed out in all directions, striking at the sand beasts that dared approach. The relentless fury of the storm and the creatures within it was overwhelming, but Nathor pressed on, determination burning in his eyes.
Suddenly, the ground beneath him gave way. Nathor felt himself falling, the wind rushing past him as he plunged into darkness. He hit the bottom of a ravine with a thud, pain shooting through his body. Groaning, he pushed himself up, shaking sand from his wings and clothes. The air was calmer here, the storm's intensity muted by the high walls of the ravine. But the respite was short-lived. Above him, shapes began to fall, grotesque beings made of rotting flesh and sand, their eyes glowing with a malevolent light.
Sand zombies, Nathor thought grimly, recognizing the creatures. They landed around him with sickening thuds, their bodies as strong and durable as sandstone. The first zombie lunged at him, its movements jerky but powerful. Nathor ducked under its outstretched arms, delivering a swift uppercut with his shadow-empowered fist. The impact cracked the creature's skull, sending shards of hardened sand and decaying flesh flying.
Before he could catch his breath, another zombie attacked, its fists swinging like clubs. Nathor sidestepped the blow, then drove his knee into the creature's abdomen. His shadow tentacles erupted from the ground, wrapping around the zombie's legs and pulling it to the ground. He didn't hesitate, stomping down hard on its head, crushing it into the sand.
The ravine quickly filled with more of these abominations, their growls and moans echoing off the rocky walls. Nathor moved with fluid precision, his shadow tentacles acting as both shield and weapon. One tentacle whipped around, grabbing a zombie by the neck and slamming it into the ground. Another tentacle lashed out, impaling a zombie through the chest and pinning it to the wall.
A group of three zombies lunged at him simultaneously. Nathor spun, his wings flaring out to knock one aside, while his fist connected with the second's jaw, shattering it. The third zombie managed to grab him from behind, its grip like a vice. Nathor gritted his teeth, feeling the creature's claws digging into his skin. With a grunt, he flexed his wings, the shadow tentacles responding to his will. They coiled around the zombie, tearing it away from him and flinging it against the ravine wall with bone-crushing force.
Panting, Nathor assessed his surroundings. The ravine was a chaotic mess of sand, stone, and undead. The zombies kept coming, crawling over each other in a grotesque display of relentless hunger. Nathor fought through them, each encounter a brutal struggle for survival. His fists, reinforced by shadow energy, smashed through the zombies' defenses, while his tentacles swept the area, breaking limbs and snapping necks.
He moved through the ravine, the sounds of battle all around him. The sand zombies were unyielding, their numbers seemingly endless. Nathor's breath came in ragged gasps, sweat mixing with the sand caked on his skin. His arms ached from the constant combat, but he couldn't afford to slow down. Every moment of hesitation could mean his end.
As he fought, Nathor noticed a change in the terrain. The walls of the ravine began to narrow, and the ground sloped downward. He followed the natural path, hoping it would lead him to safety. The zombies continued to pursue, their guttural growls a constant reminder of the danger.
The ravine turned into a twisting maze of narrow passages, the air cooler and the storm's fury barely a whisper above. Nathor navigated the maze, using his shadow tentacles to feel for obstacles and threats in the dim light. The zombies were less frequent now, but the ones that appeared were more desperate, their movements more aggressive as if sensing that he was close to escaping their reach.
In one particularly tight passage, Nathor found himself cornered by a particularly large sand zombie. The creature's size and strength were formidable, and it charged at him with a roar. Nathor braced himself, his shadow tentacles forming a protective barrier. The zombie slammed into the barrier, cracking it but not breaking through. Nathor grinned fiercely, then drove his fist into the creature's chest, shattering its core and sending it crumbling to the ground.
As the dust settled, Nathor saw an opening ahead—a cave mouth, leading underground. The sight filled him with a mix of relief and urgency. The horde of zombies behind him was growing, their numbers swelling as more of them poured into the ravine. He knew he couldn't fight them all; there were simply too many.
With a final glance at the approaching horde, Nathor sprinted toward the cave. The narrow entrance forced him to fold his wings tight against his back, the darkness inside swallowing him whole. He plunged into the cave, the sounds of the zombies muffled by the thick stone walls. He didn't stop running, his shadow tentacles feeling out the path ahead, guiding him deeper into the safety of the underground.
The air grew cooler, the sounds of the storm and the undead fading into the distance. Nathor's footsteps echoed in the cavernous space, the only sound now the harsh rasp of his own breathing. He continued down the winding path, hoping it would lead him to a place where he could rest, regroup, and plan his next move.
As Nathor ventured deeper into the cave, the darkness enveloped him like a comforting cloak. His vision began to shift, the inky blackness of the cave interior transforming into a rich tapestry of shadowy hues. Under the throne of shadows, Nathor felt at home, his eyes adjusting to the absence of light with ease. Darkness was his friend, and he could see through it as clearly as others might in the daylight. The rough rock and sand underfoot felt familiar, grounding him as he moved silently, his black wings tucked close to his back.
The air grew cooler as he descended further, the sounds of the world above fading into a distant memory. Nathor's keen eyes scanned the surroundings, noting the natural formations of the cave, the jagged stalactites hanging from the ceiling like teeth. He moved with a predator's grace, careful not to disturb the peace of this subterranean world.
It wasn't long before a faint glow caught his attention—a flicker of orange light in the distance. Nathor slowed his pace, blending seamlessly with the shadows as he approached the source. The glow resolved into the warm, inviting light of a small fire, crackling softly in the stillness. Staying in the shadows, Nathor peered around a rocky outcrop, his eyes narrowing as he observed the scene before him.
A man sat by the fire, his posture relaxed yet somehow alert. He was a tall, imposing figure, with long, wavy black hair cascading down his back. His strong jawline framed a clean-shaven face, giving him an air of rugged handsomeness. The man wore a loincloth made from native fabrics, deerskin leather bracers on his wrists, and matching ankle stirrups. Several thick necklaces made of leaves and bones hung around his neck, adding to his wild and regal appearance. A helmet resembling a bear skull, adorned with massive feathers, sat nearby, enhancing the aura of both ferocity and nobility.
The man rested his elbows on his knees, staring down at his feet. His light green eyes, sharp and determined, flickered occasionally as he glanced into the flames. The firelight danced across his tanned skin, casting shadows that shifted and writhed with the movement of the flames. There was a palpable sense of solitude and introspection about him, as though he were deep in thought.
Nathor watched him silently, his presence concealed within the darkness. This was the man he had seen driving Paola and Ayla. The wildcard. The one element they had not accounted for, a small but significant oversight. Nathor's lips curled into a small smile as he realized the opportunity before him. Finding this man alone was a stroke of luck, a chance to gather information—or perhaps to eliminate a threat—without interference.
As he watched, Nathor's mind wandered briefly to the star that Paola possessed. Thrix had been adamant about not harming anyone, especially Paola. Nathor, for his part, had no particular desire to hurt anyone either. The throne of death had dictated much of his life, a life filled with violence and conflict. But the idea of possessing a Fallen Star, of the power it might bring, was tantalizing. It could change things, give him the freedom to finally step away from a life of constant violence.
For once, he could just... drink. The thought made him chuckle silently to himself. The simple pleasure of sitting in a tavern, sipping on a fine drink without a care in the world—how long had it been since he had enjoyed such a simple luxury? Nathor's gaze drifted, imagining for a moment a quiet evening in Emberfall, a place where he could relax and forget the burdens of his past. Surely, they had good taverns there. The thought was tempting, but he knew it was a fantasy for later. First, he had to deal with the matter at hand.
Nathor's attention snapped back to the present as the man by the fire shifted. He hadn't moved much, still staring into the flames, seemingly lost in thought. But there was something in the way he held himself, a readiness beneath the calm facade. Nathor recognized it as the poise of a seasoned warrior, someone who could spring into action at a moment's notice.
Cautiously, Nathor readied himself to attack. He let the shadows around him deepen, preparing his shadow tentacles for a quick, decisive strike. The man's presence here, separate from Paola and Ayla, suggested he might know more than they had anticipated. Nathor needed information, and if necessary, he would extract it by force.
Just as he was about to step from the shadows, the man looked up from the fire. His light green eyes, sharp and penetrating, locked onto Nathor's own. Even hidden in the darkness, Nathor felt exposed under that intense gaze. The man's expression remained calm, almost serene, as if he had been expecting company all along. There was no sign of surprise or fear—only a quiet acknowledgment of Nathor's presence.
As the man by the fire looked up, his light green eyes locked onto Nathor's, even in the shadows. Nathor's lips curled into a mocking smile as he stepped out of the darkness, shadow tentacles writhing around him like living appendages. The man didn't flinch; his expression remained calm and focused. Nathor felt a twinge of irritation. He hated it when opponents didn't react with the fear he expected.
"Well, well, looks like the savage has a cozy little hideout," Nathor sneered, his voice dripping with contempt. He flexed his wings, the obsidian feathers glinting in the firelight. "Didn't think the girl had another dog on a leash. Guess I was wrong."
The man stood slowly, his tall frame imposing even without armor. He reached for a tomahawk at his side, the weapon gleaming with a hint of elemental power. In his other hand, he hefted a large, ornate shield, its surface adorned with symbols of earth and storm. Nathor's eyes flicked over the equipment, noting the quality and craftsmanship. This was no ordinary warrior.
"You've trespassed, shadow walker," the man said in a deep, resonant voice, calm and unwavering. He raised his shield, positioning it defensively as he squared off against Nathor. His eyes remained steady, betraying no emotion.
"Big words for someone about to die," Nathor spat back, summoning his shadow tentacles. "I'll be sure to make it quick, for your sake."
Without another word, Nathor lashed out with Obsidian Grasp, his tentacles surging forward to ensnare the man. The tentacles moved with blinding speed, seeking to bind and crush. The man reacted instantly, raising his shield infused with Earthen Guard. The tentacles struck the shield, and an immediate shockwave burst forth, knocking Nathor back. The impact resonated through the tentacles, breaking their hold and sending ripples of force through the air.
"Fuck!" Nathor growled, barely keeping his balance. His eyes narrowed, assessing his opponent. This guy was tougher than he looked. He'd need to be careful.
The man moved forward with a smooth, practiced grace, closing the distance. He swung his tomahawk in a wide arc, channeling Elemental Cleave. Nathor dodged, but the blade crackled with air energy, sending a shockwave that sliced through the air. The edge grazed Nathor's side, leaving a stinging cut. He hissed in pain, feeling the blood trickle down his ribs.
"Nice try, but it's gonna take more than that to kill me," Nathor taunted, grinning wickedly. He retaliated with Abyssal Lash, whipping his shadow tentacles towards the man. The tentacles struck out, but the man's shield was ready, absorbing the blows. He retaliated with a quick thrust of his tomahawk, aiming for Nathor's chest.
Nathor barely dodged, the tomahawk grazing his shoulder. The sharp edge cut through his skin, leaving a deep gash. "Shit!" he cursed, feeling the pain radiate through his body. This was not going as planned.
The man remained stoic, eyes cold and unyielding. He pressed the attack, his movements fluid and precise. Nathor lashed out with his wings, activating Wings of Obsidian. The blades formed along the edges of his wings, slashing towards his opponent. The man deflected with his shield, countering with a Storm's Edge strike. Lightning crackled along the tomahawk's blade, and when it connected with Nathor's side, the shock sent a paralyzing jolt through him.
Nathor gasped, the pain intense and disorienting. He stumbled back, his wings folding protectively around him. He could feel his energy draining, the wounds adding up. The man was relentless, not giving him a moment to recover.
"Who the fuck are you, anyway?" Nathor snarled, breathing heavily. "Some kind of forest fuck?"
The man didn't respond, instead advancing with a series of swift, precise strikes. Nathor barely parried with his tentacles, feeling the strain of each blow. His opponent was a master of both defense and offense, seamlessly blending the two. Nathor could see the elemental energy coursing through the man's weapons, making each hit more potent.
As Nathor struggled to keep up, he felt his strength waning. His tentacles were losing their force, and the wounds were taking their toll. The man seemed tireless, his green eyes focused and unyielding.
Nathor growled in frustration, summoning the last of his strength. He charged forward, unleashing Void Strike with a powerful punch aimed at the man's face. The punch, infused with shadow energy, phased through the shield, aiming for the man's core. But the man twisted at the last moment, taking the hit on his shoulder instead. The force of the blow sent him stumbling, but he quickly recovered, retaliating with a brutal swing of his tomahawk.
The tomahawk struck Nathor's side, slicing deep. Blood sprayed, and Nathor cried out, staggering back. He clutched his side, feeling the warmth of his own blood soaking through his clothes. He was losing—badly. The man's combat prowess was overwhelming, each strike measured and devastating.
Breathing heavily, Nathor knew he couldn't sustain the fight. He'd underestimated this opponent, a mistake that was costing him dearly. The man raised his shield, preparing for another attack. Nathor's mind raced, realizing he had no choice but to retreat.
"Fuck this," he spat, the words laced with both anger and pain. He activated Obsidian Shield, his wings folding around him to form a protective barrier. The man lunged, but the shield held, deflecting the blow. Nathor used the moment to retreat, blending into the shadows.
The last thing he saw was the man's piercing green eyes, locked onto his even as he faded into the darkness. Nathor retreated deeper into the cave, his heart pounding, blood dripping from his wounds. He barely managed to stay on his feet, the pain nearly overwhelming. His breath came in ragged gasps as he stumbled through the dark corridors, the man's stoic gaze haunting him.
He finally stopped, leaning against the cold stone wall, clutching his side. His health was dangerously low, 90 out of 545. Nathor gritted his teeth, furious at himself for underestimating the "forest fuck," as he had mockingly named him. Whoever that man was, he was a formidable opponent. Nathor knew he needed to regroup, heal, and reassess. This fight wasn't over, but for now, he had to acknowledge his loss and survive. The shadows were his refuge, and he would use them to lick his wounds and plan his next move.