Chapter 225
Click clack!
The sound arrived first, a rhythmic, heavy iron tread echoing through the skeletal remains of what was once a bustling cityscape.
It was the unmistakable report of monumental power in motion, the deliberate, unhurried advance of a force of nature encased in steel.
A thick pair of black foot armour anchored by sturdy, reinforced soles stepped through the ruined streets.
Debris, shattered masonry, and twisted metal groaned under the immense weight, the very earth seeming to register the passage of its bearer.
This wearer was Zald.
He moved with an unnerving economy of motion, each step consuming ground with purpose, yet without haste.
Demolished buildings loomed like broken teeth around him, monuments not just to past conflict, but to the raw destructive potential he himself embodied.
He navigated this landscape of devastation as if it were his personal domain, his focus singular.
He stopped inches away from Ottar, who lay flat on the ground amidst the rubble, a figure of absolute defeat.
Zald looked down, his perspective dominating the broken form beneath him.
His voice, when he spoke, was a low rumble, devoid of inflection, yet carrying a weight that pressed down on Ottar alongside the physical pain.
"Is that all you have? Is this the culmination of your accomplishments after all these years? If so, then I am very disappointed."
To Ottar, Zald’s words struggled to penetrate the haze of pain and encroaching darkness.
They sounded distant and muffled, like they were coming from deep under water, a distorted echo in the ruins of his consciousness.
Every muscle screamed in protest, every nerve ending felt raw and exposed.
He couldn’t move an inch, his body a leaden weight pinned to the ground, his mind tethered precariously at the border of consciousness and oblivion.
The will to fight, the pride that had defined him, was still there, a faint spark behind the fog, but it lacked the fuel to ignite action.
He couldn't even muster up the energy to scowl, to offer a final act of defiance.
All he could do was barely move the tip of his fingers, which only trembled slightly against the grit and dust.
Zald stared at him, his gaze unreadable, yet radiating a lack of warmth.
His expression was a mask, devoid of compassion or mercy, replaced solely by that chilling disappointment.
It was the look of an artisan observing a failed creation, utterly detached from the suffering of the subject.
Then, without hesitation, he raised his great sword up.
It was a monstrous slab of black metal, unnervingly simple in design but radiating an aura of raw, destructive potential.
It hung in the air, heavy and silent, the final arbiter of a lost battle.
"If you can no longer stand, then I guess this is the end," Zald stated, his monotone tone giving the words an air of simple fact rather than a pronouncement of doom.
Ottar lacked the breath, the strength, the very capacity to reply.
He could only lay there, battered and broken, and accept his fate.
Just as the heavy blade began its descent, a dark shape suddenly came hurling through the air towards Zald.
It moved with astonishing speed, a projectile born of significant force.
Sparing only a fleeting glance at it, a flicker of something akin to mild curiosity breaking the monotony of his focus, Zald paused his slashing motion mid-arc.
He caught the incoming body effortlessly with his free hand, the impact barely shifting his stance, and then, with the same easy strength, threw it right next to Ottar.
It landed with a painful thud, coughing and groaning.
Looking down, Zald recognized the person who had been so unceremoniously tossed.
It was Allen.
Zald’s mental file on Allen was brief and dismissive: a weakling who had run from battle against him, someone who lacked the fundamental grit required to stand against true power.
That was how Zald perceived Allen – not a warrior, but a fleeting obstacle easily brushed aside. He could have easily cleaved Allen in two with his great sword as he flew past, or simply crushed him into paste with his armored fist upon catching him.
But such actions would have sent a mess of blood and viscera raining down on his pristine black armour and impassive face.
Zald found the mess… inefficient.
"What is the meaning of this, Mors?" Zald questioned, his voice once again a flat line, revealing no emotion beyond the simple demand for information.
A figure stepped into the ruined street a short distance away, a stark contrast to Zald's monolithic presence.
This was Mors, leaning casually on a long, slender silver spear that seemed almost too elegant for the brutal surroundings.
His smile was wide and unsettling.
"Well, you just ruined my epic battle with that flashy move of yours from earlier. How are you going to fix this, brat!" he replied, his tone laced with genuine annoyance, the playful challenge in his eyes warring with irritation.
Mors hadn't been focused on Zald and Ottar.
He had been engrossed in his own confrontation with Allen, a battle he found... entertaining. There was a certain frantic energy to Allen that Mors enjoyed toying with.
Allen also fought in a similar style as him, and their characters overlapped in certain areas, adding to the intrigue.
But Zald’s powerful attack had launched Ottar across the battlefield, landing him inconveniently close to where Mors was cornering Allen.
With Ottar collapsing in such a pathetic state so nearby, Mors instantly judged that Allen had lost his value as an opponent; the dramatic tension had evaporated.
He'd simply picked up Allen and thrown him like discarded refuse towards Zald, the source of his annoyance.
"You fuckers!" Allen managed to curse, the words ripped from his throat by pain and fury.
He groaned, pushing himself weakly against the ground, trying to crawl like a worm towards Ottar.
Being toyed around with by Mors had been humiliating enough; the effortless deflection and subsequent throwing by Zald felt like a fresh, unbearable layer of insult.
Tossed like a nobody, a mere inconvenience!
How much more were they going to humiliate him, Allen wondered, his body aching, his pride shattered.
For a person like Allen, who was somewhat prideful, this felt worse than any physical wound. Death seemed like a better alternative than being toyed with like this, reduced to a grovelling wretch, but even in his despair, a spark of stubborn defiance refused to let things end on their terms.
"Still got a lot of spunk, huh?" Mors said, his eerie smile widening, a touch of genuine amusement now mixing with the prior annoyance.
He twirled his silver spear idly, the polished metal catching the dim, dusty light.
"What do you want?" Zald asked again, cutting through Mors's theatrics with blunt practicality.
Mors chuckled, a dry, unsettling sound in the ruined quiet.
"If you let me punch you in the face just once, a good, solid one, we can call it even for ruining my fun," he proposed, the sinister smile reaching his eyes.
It was an absurd demand, a clear provocation masquerading as a negotiation.
Zald just stared at him blankly, his expression remaining unchanging, refusing to grant Mors the reaction he clearly sought.
Mors games held no interest for him.
"If you want to fight me, just say so and stop wasting my time," Zald finally stated, his grip subtly tightening around the massive hilt of his great sword.
The underlying power, always present, became a little more pronounced.
"Hehehehehe," Mors just laughed, the sound echoing slightly.
He stopped twirling his spear, bringing the point down to rest lightly on the shattered pavement. The air between the two warriors began to vibrate with latent energy.
Without ceremony, without further dialogue or posturing, the two monstrous warriors clashed.
It was not a slow build-up, but an instantaneous explosion of force.
One moment they were inches apart, the next they were blurs of motion and energy.
Zald's great sword swept out in a devastating arc, a black wall of force aimed to cleave the world in two.
Mors met it not with brute force, but with blinding speed and precision, deflecting the blow with the shaft of his silver spear, the impact sending a shockwave rippling outwards, kicking up dust and tearing at the already fragile structures around them.
A thick pair of black foot armour was momentarily displaced as Zald adjusted to counter Mors's lightning-fast riposte.
The silver spear flickered like a serpent's tongue, aiming for vulnerable points Zald's armour couldn't fully protect.
Each parry, each block, each attempted strike released concussive forces that made the ground tremble more violently than Zald's mere walking.
The ruins seemed to groan under the strain, walls crumbling further, debris raining down from damaged roofs.
This wasn't a battle for territory or ideals; it was a raw exchange of power driven by annoyance and a willingness to collide with anything worthy of the effort.
Zald's style was direct, overwhelming, every movement backed by crushing weight and irresistible force.
Mors, in contrast, danced on the edges, his movements fluid and unpredictable, weaving around Zald's power, using his spear as an extension of his own unsettling energy – sometimes deflecting, sometimes redirecting, sometimes thrusting with terrifying speed.
For those few allies who might have witnessed it from a distance – their own skirmishes momentarily forgotten – it was a scene that was both unnerving and utterly confusing.
Their most powerful champions, locked in what appeared to be a spontaneous, furious duel amidst the wreckage.
Why were they fighting each other? The logic eluded them, the raw power on display overwhelming any attempt at understanding.
Ottar and Allen, lying prone and helpless near the centre of this maelstrom, felt the blunt force of the clash physically.
The ground hammered against them with each impact, miniature shockwaves tossing their already broken bodies slightly like ragdolls discarded by indifferent giants.
Dust and small stones rained down on them, adding insult to injury.
They were utterly irrelevant to the titans now locked in combat.
…………………………………………………………………………………………….
Meanwhile, Draco, who had been watching things play out from a precarious vantage point high above the ruined streets, felt a surge of something akin to relief wash over him.
Till the very last moment, as Zald had raised that terrifying sword over Ottar, Draco had been agonizingly unable to come up with a viable means to save either Ottar or Allen.
When he envisioned any potential plan in his head – a sudden dive, a feint, a distraction, anything – taking such a risk seemed suicidal and pointless.
Zald and Mors were so strong, moved with such impossible speed, that his eyes could barely follow them when they were truly exerting themselves.
Even his draconic enhanced senses, usually capable of tracking the fastest movements, struggled to keep up, reducing them to flickering streaks of black and silver power.
How far would he even make it before one of them, perhaps sensing his movement like a fly, simply turned and skewered him?
They weren't currently even going all out.
Then there was the other, larger issue.
Even if, by impossible luck, he managed to save Ottar and Allen, what would it accomplish? Zald, Mors, and the chillingly effective Alfia would still be there, utterly unopposed.
They would simply continue their advance to the Central Park, their objective undisturbed.
In other words, the situation logically seemed entirely hopeless, any individual act of heroism a meaningless gesture against such overwhelming power.
But then, the unexpected had happened.
Mors had interrupted Zald, and now they were fighting each other.
It was illogical, bizarre, a complete disruption of the expected progression of dominance.
It was also – crucially – a distraction of monumental scale.
While Zald and Mors were locked in their ferocious, inexplicable dance of destruction, their attention was entirely consumed by one another.
This was the window.
This was the improbable chance.
Draco didn't overthink it further.
Logic dictated hopelessness, but instinct, honed from surviving an encounter with the one eyed black dragon, and perhaps a flicker of something more heroic, screamed to act.
He had managed to muster the courage, seizing the moment of utter chaos created by the colliding titans, to sneak in.
Moving with a speed born of desperation, using the dust clouds and the very vibrations of the battle as cover, he darted towards the prone figures of Ottar and Allen.
The sheer noise and energy output of Zald and Mors’s clash drowned out the subtle sounds of his approach.
The battle between Zald and Mors continued.
Black sword met silver spear, generating sparks that looked like miniature stars in the gloom.
They moved faster than thought, each exchange a fraction of a second of intense, destructive energy.
Neither gained a clear advantage; their powers seemed almost perfectly matched, their clash a stalemate of mutual annihilation potential.
It was magnificent in its terrifying power, and utterly blind to anything outside its immediate sphere.
For a few minutes, the world was just the sound of their impacts, the trembling ground, and the sight of two forces of nature colliding.
Then, as suddenly as it began, it stopped.
The furious exchange ceased, the air stilling slightly as Zald and Mors pulled back from their intricate, deadly dance.
Their eyes, sharp and focused, scanned the immediate vicinity.
The reason for their abrupt halt became clear.
Their combat, their argument, their entire focus had been so absolute that they hadn't noticed someone had daringly, impossibly, slipped in and taken the two broken figures who had been lying at their feet.
They finally noticed.
Ottar and Allen were missing.
The ruined street, still smoking from their clash, was empty save for the debris and the two of them who now stood in surprised, silent realization.
The opportunity had been seized, the impossible rescue executed under the very noses of the unstoppable.
The game, it seemed, had just taken an unexpected twist.
“Achaaaaa!, looks like they got away” Mors said, his tone slightly dramatic.
“Does it matter?, they will soon come to know that running away is pointless” Zald replied.
He had already lost interest in Ottar, a defeated opponent.
“Tsk, onward with the mission I guess” Mors said.
Without sparing a glance at Mors, Zald picked a direction and started walking.
Seeing Zald depart, Mors picked the opposite direction.
A/N: Originally wanted to use mcs raging ascension skill here, but thinking deeply, it seemed like a low IQ move. I mean the plot armour gotta be crazy if mc somehow faces two level 7+ at the same time ?.