Scott’s lips curled into an amused smile. Slaughtering the innocent? Did these guys just arrive, or who do they think they are? His gaze lingered on the champions from afar, watching as they descended to the chaotic battlefield. Amid the clash of champions, a new series of system notifications appeared before the Celestial Blades. Shock distorted their expressions as they turned toward Scott, their faces growing uglier as they noted the vast darkness that encircled the voidweaver.
At that moment, the towering abomination’s wails grew louder, setting off sonic booms across the expansive field as its perforated body and hollow eye continued to expel torrents from within. Despite the chaos, the champions who had chanted the goddess of the night’s confessions persisted in their fervent proclamations. Each declaration seemed to inflict further suffering on the writhing creature.
You have slain numerous champions! You have yet to attain the minimum kills to be named in the territorial ranking!
Scott ignored the notifications, the cries of wailing summon, and the blasts echoing around him. His gaze was fixed on the Celestial Blades, now hovering in midair, surrounded by a translucent barrier that deflected rogue attacks from all directions.
The way they’re looking at me, with that deep-seated revulsion... Scott’s thoughts raced. They must come from a timeline where they were tormented by an Eidolon of Envy. Unperturbed by whatever grudges they harbored against his variant; he remained focused on his mission: gathering enough kills to earn a rank in the territorial standings. Anything else was irrelevant.
“Scott!” a hoarse voice thundered from afar.
Scott turned, recognizing the same champion who had boldly claimed the Celestial Blades wouldn’t stand by and watch the slaughter of innocents. Earlier, he had looked the part of a righteous hero, standing against a sea of bloodthirsty adversaries. Now, however, that hero’s face bore the same bloodthirsty intensity, as if facing his mortal enemy.
Scott watched as the man broke free of the barrier, brushing off those who tried to stop him. His grip tightened on his sword, which began to glow with an intense, almost blinding light. In an instant, the swordsman was upon him, his blade aimed for Scott’s neck with a speed few could follow.
The sword sliced through empty space as Scott’s form vanished just before the blade could reach him. Undeterred, the champion adjusted his stance, pivoting to deliver another powerful slash behind him. Yet again, Scott’s form blurred, eluding the strike.
“Fight me, coward! I’ll make you pay for what you did to my daughter!” The swordsman’s gaze scanned the area, seeking any sign of his elusive foe. Suddenly, he dodged to the side, just as three projectiles whizzed past where he had stood. He countered with a furious slash toward the source, feeling the sickening crunch of bones breaking and the scent of fresh blood thick in the air. But when he looked around, there was no sign of Scott.
His gaze swept across the shadowed battlefield, preparing for another attack.
“You can’t defeat me. You’re inviting your own death,” Scott’s voice taunted from the darkness, his form concealed within the shadows.
The champion, however, remained steadfast. His grip tightened on his sword, his outward calm betrayed only by the fierce blaze in his eyes, a storm of rage barely held in check.
“Do you think—” Scott began, but before he could finish, the swordsman struck, moving like a blur. With ruthless precision, his sword cleaved downward, and this time, he drew blood. Scott’s arm severed in a spray of crimson showers.
Without hesitation, the swordsman lunged for the kill, his form blurring as his sword flared with renewed ferocity. He appeared before Scott, raising his blade high, and then swung down furiously.
“Michael, what are you doing? Please, stop this madness!” A feminine voice escaped from Scott’s lips.
Michael froze, recognizing the voice. For a moment, a flicker of pain crossed his face, but rage quickly twisted his features as he brought his sword down, cleaving Scott’s form into two clean halves.
“You think you can deceive me?” Michael growled, looming over the bisected body, his grip unrelenting on his blade. “So many lives lost because of a selfish scum like you…”
He began to speak further but abruptly twisted to the side, dodging a blade that sliced past his previous position. Turning, he saw another Scott, this one armed and ready.
“I figured it was too easy,” Michael spat, his voice laced with contempt. “I’m glad you’re not dead yet. Someone like you doesn’t deserve a swift death.”
He assumed a new stance, his sword shining even brighter. “I’m done holding back. Even if it kills me, you’re dying here today.”
With a burst of speed, Michael surged forward, his blade flashing as he unleashed a devastating maelstrom of slashing lights. A vortex of sword energy surrounded Scott, expanding as the sounds of tearing flesh and splintering bones filled the air. But Michael wasn’t finished; he swung his sword repeatedly, forming successive vortexes that merged into a single, ferocious windstorm of blade light, ready to eviscerate everything in its path.
“You sacrificed innocent lives for power, for greed,” Michael shouted, his voice breaking with rage. “Do you think this is a game? Do you think I’ll fall for your tricks again? Show yourself and fight, Eidolon of Envy!”
Veins bulged across Michael’s forehead; his features twisted with fury. As if in response, multiple versions of Scott manifested around him, each wielding a sword. Michael clenched his teeth, biting down so hard that he drew blood.
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“You still want to play games? Very well!” he roared, his body surging with energy. His armor shattered into dust, and his form grew to three times its normal size, veins pulsing as greenish-gray fluids pumped through them. Encased in a purple haze, Michael unleashed a berserker’s howl and charged forward.
One by one, he slaughtered the Scotts with relentless brutality, each strike more violent than the last.
“I’ll kill you! I’ll kill every one of you!” His voice rose with unbridled rage, his once-graceful attacks devolving into brute savagery. Swing after swing, Michael wrought pure destruction, leaving nothing but blood and ruin in his wake.
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“C’mon, c’mon, this can’t be all you’ve got!”
Scott watched, a wry smile flickering as Michael’s deranged laughter filled the battlefield. The swordsman, lost in his violent reverie, tore through his own allies in a ruthless frenzy. Over a dozen Celestial Blades lay fallen, their attempts to awaken Michael from his madness turning to desperate survival as they fought with everything they had, terrified that holding back would spell their own doom.
It’s been a while since I’ve drawn someone into an illusion, Scott mused, observing the havoc his illusion had unleashed. Just as effective as I remembered. His gaze drifted briefly to the monstrosity summoned from the void, the largest target in sight, bearing the brunt of attacks from every corner, especially from the fervent followers of the goddess of the night.
But his attention shifted to the writhing tentacles, spewing vapor thick with venom and acid. The harmful clouds crept through the chaos, claiming any champion unfortunate enough to stray into its reach. Shrouded by the colored mist, the tentacles were an unseen menace, hidden to all but those who had witnessed their emergence—a silent, deadly yellow fog reigning over the field.
Scott cast his gaze toward the chains, stretching between portals and hauling massive forms from the depths. Any champion foolish enough to approach the shadowed zone found themselves either consumed by writhing tendrils or obliterated by flaming chains. Still, projectiles rained toward Scott, only to be swallowed by nihilistic barriers, the void devouring each attack before it reached him.
You have slain several champions! You have yet to attain the minimum kills to be named in the territorial ranking!
The notifications appeared in a constant stream, but Scott ignored them. His attention shifted towered the giants lugging a massive cross, accompanied by smaller champions singing a haunting hymn. Unlike others who avoided the dark, tar-like substance coating the ground, the Brotherhood of the Cross advanced unflinchingly.
They chanted, their voices rising over the battle:
By the iron and nails, let blood stain the wood,
In the shadow of the cross, where redemption once stood.
Let bones rattle low, as flesh grieves its loss,
For we worship the dark beneath the sacred cross.
The ominous hymn resonated across the battlefield, and the giants hauling the cross paused, lifting it high. With a thunderous crash, they slammed its wooden base into the ground. The giants raised it once more, slamming it down with even greater force as the champions chanted with fervor.
Scott narrowed his eyes, noticing thin, crimson lines etching across the giants’ skin. A third crash of the cross sent vibrations through the air, and their forms began to stretch, expanding as steam poured from their reddening skin and open mouths. They hoisted the cross for a fourth blow, even as Scott’s darkness spread toward them. Yet, the Brotherhood did not flee.
With the fourth thunderous strike, the giants stood tall, empty eye sockets fixed on Scott. Their skin glowed a deep crimson, their bodies smoldering as if scorched by an inner fire. The cross stood firm on its own, plain yet monumental in its presence.
The giants unleashed a palpable wave of bloodlust, all directed toward the voidweaver, while the champions in cassocks chanted with fevered devotion, kneeling reverently before the cross, eyes glazed with zeal.
The sprawling darkness reached the feet of the advancing giants, its shadowy tendrils curling upward, coiling around their reddened forms. Yet, the giants pressed on, unfazed. They roared, fists clenched, and with a unified movement, punched downward into the formless dark. A deep, resonant chime rang from the cross behind them, and their strikes shattered the shadow beneath them, cracking it like brittle porcelain.
Scott paused, eyes narrowing as he observed the fractured expanse of the nihilistic field—its supposed intangibility broken. The giants pushed forward, stomping and thrashing with their massive bodies, each step accompanied by another chime. The darkness spider webbed with cracks, slowly forced back as the giants closed in on Scott’s position.
Scott’s gaze remained impassive as he raised his free hand. The flaming chains rattled and shot forward, blending with the smog-like haze and twisting around the hulking giants with blinding speed. Blackened flames erupted along the chains, wreathing the champions in consuming fire. The giants bellowed, writhing against the bonds, their skin sizzling under the infernal heat. Yet, the chains only tightened, pressing into them until their cries turned to wretched howls of agony.
Then, in a silent command, an Annihilation Zone, the third ability of the chains manifested around the bound champions. A miasma of utter void engulfed the bound giants, pulling them into a decay that defied mortal comprehension. Their once formidable forms withered, skin and sinew evaporating until all that remained was dust, scattered among the remnants of the nihilistic field.
Scott’s attention shifted to the champions kneeling before the cross, their eyes alight with fervor. A dozen rose together, faces twisted in ecstasy as they rushed forward, straining to lift the towering cross. Despite their combined effort, it stood firm, the others around them continuing their chanting with even greater intensity.
A crease formed on Scott’s brow. What exactly are they trying to do?
As if in answer, the bodies of the champions swelled, flesh rippling as they grew taller, their clothes tearing apart under the strain. Then came a gruesome sound—sharp, wet pops echoing as their eyes burst in a sickening spray. Yet, not one of them winced or faltered. Instead, with their monstrous new strength, they heaved the cross into the air and slammed it down with a thunderous impact. Once, twice, thrice, and then a fourth time, each strike reverberated through the field. With every crash, the kneeling champions’ voices rose, singing to the ordinary yet imposing cross with an unnatural fervor.
Scott’s darkness stilled, unable to advance upon the champions or their cross, held at bay by some unseen force. But the chains continued their deadly dance, curling and snapping through the air like venomous serpents, inching toward the chanting devotees.
A voice cut through the chaos, reaching Scott in a private channel.
“Um, there’s someone really troublesome here,” Orion’s voice came, tinged with urgency.
The shadows dissipated while Orion’s words still lingered, the chains slackened, and the champions—both the giants and their smaller counterparts—stilled. The entire field took on an eerie calm.
Scott glanced to his right, his expression hardening as he met the yellow-eyed stares of several blood-smeared goblin chiefs grinning at him from afar, their gazes filled with a sinister delight.