Chapter 239
Off to the southwest of Orario, a low, guttural sound of battle clawed its way up from the confines of a narrow side street.
It was a noise less of organized combat and more akin to a predator cornering its prey, punctuated by wet, tearing impacts and choked cries.
“Gaaaaaaaaaah!” The sound ended abruptly, a strangled gurgle cut short as a tremendous, crushing impact slammed into flesh and bone.
A man, moments before shouting defiance, was now little more than a projectile.
A single, monstrous swing had struck him, bending his limbs into grotesque, unnatural angles and tearing through his form with sickening force.
He was hurled through the air like a broken doll, a spray of blood following his arc before his mangled body hit the grimy cobblestones with a wet thud, utterly lifeless.
"Kill him! Don't stop!" The desperate bellow came from the man's group leader, a figure huddled with the remnants of their small force.
They were evilus soldiers, currently tasked with a seemingly simple hunt: bring down Ottar, while he was vulnerable.
"His fight with Lord Zald... it left him shattered! Crippled and weak!" the leader yelled, trying to inject courage into his trembling ranks.
"Now is our chance to end him for good! Glory awaits!"
It was easy, perhaps, to understand their misguided hope.
Ottar, in his current state, was a sorry sight.
Thick, hastily applied bandages crisscrossed his large frame, many already stained a deep crimson.
As he moved, the crude bindings shifted, peeling away to reveal raw, ghastly wounds beneath – the brutal cost of his battle with Zald.
Each heavy step he took caused the torn flesh to pull and ache, leaving a clear, dark trail of his own blood on the street.
It was this scent, this sign of weakness, that the low-level evilus soldiers had used to track him, hoping to claim a prize far beyond their station.
Yet, despite the visible agony, despite the blood soaking his fur-trimmed armour and clinging to his massive great sword, Ottar seemed an unstoppable force of nature.
His injured body moved with grim purpose, his immense will unbending, focused with terrifying singularity.
Only one thought burned in the depths of his bloodshot eyes: destroy anything and anyone who dared to stand between him and his target.
"H-h-he can't be stopped!" one evilus soldier stammered, his short sword clattering to the ground as he backed away, eyes wide with terror.
He watched, paralyzed by fear, as his comrades fell around him like wheat before a scythe, their desperate attacks easily deflected or simply ignored.
The other soldiers, despite their leader's frantic shouts, also faltered, their initial bravado evaporating in the face of the charging Behemoth.
No command, no promise of glory, could inspire them to face such an overwhelming, wounded fury.
"Rooooooooooah!" A deep, resonant roar tore from Ottar's chest, a sound like grinding stone mixed with the rage of a trapped beast.
Steam plumed from his flared nostrils, and his massive frame seemed to swell with raw power, his presence alone crushing the remaining evilus soldiers' spirits like fragile glass.
With the bloodied great sword gripped in his hand, it felt, in that moment, like there was truly nothing in the world he couldn't cleave in two.
But this was a deceptive feeling.
It was a mask his sheer will imposed upon his broken body.
"Huff! Huff!" Soon, the only sounds left echoing in the narrow alley were the ragged, laboured breaths escaping Ottar's lips.
He stood amidst the carnage, surrounded by the mangled bodies of the evilus soldiers.
The hunt had ended quickly, brutally, and entirely one-sidedly.
Clap! Clap! Clap!
The sharp, distinct sound of applause sliced through the sudden silence.
Ottar, his senses heightened by battle and injury, tensed instantly, spinning around.
His grip tightened on his great sword, ready for another attack, his damaged body screaming in protest.
But the tension eased slightly as he recognized the voice that followed.
"Picking on small fry because you got thrashed, eh? Isn't that just pathetic, Ottar?" The voice was laced with a familiar, mocking edge, though strained.
"Allen." Ottar's reply was a low growl, his posture shifting from offensive threat to weary readiness.
He turned fully, his gaze fixing on the figure emerging from the shadows at the alley's entrance. It was Allen, his silver spear held loosely at his side.
Allen, too, bore the marks of recent, brutal combat.
His movements held a stiffness, and when he spoke again, his words were slightly slurred, a lingering effect of the sustained injuries he had suffered in his own failed battle against Mors. Calling it a "battle" felt generous; Mors had simply toyed with him.
"Look, I don't know what history you and Zald have," Allen continued, stepping further into the dim light.
His feline eyes, usually sharp and arrogant, held a hard, tired glint.
"But you have to put that aside. You can't just charge off by yourself like some damn wild animal when we've got a war to win."
"Leave me be, Allen. I don't have time for this," Ottar replied, his voice rough with exhaustion and impatience.
Since the moment he had regained consciousness following his disastrous confrontation with Zald, Ottar had been consumed by a maelstrom of conflicting emotions: searing rage at his defeat, grief for what was lost, and bitter disappointment in himself.
This emotional tempest had solidified into a singular, driving purpose: find Zald, seek retribution, and crush anyone foolish enough to impede his path.
Allen's ears twitched in annoyance at Ottar's curt dismissal.
It wasn't that he didn't understand Ottar's state of mind; a dark, bitter empathy twisted in his own gut.
He had failed spectacularly against Mors, barely clinging to life and forced into the humiliating position of being rescued by Draco, a person he detested.
He could see the same reckless despair reflected in Ottar's eyes – the dangerous belief that he had nothing left to lose.
Without another word, Ottar turned away, shifting his weight as if to continue his relentless pursuit.
"Where are you going now?" Allen's voice was sharper this time, cutting through the tense air.
"To find Zald," Ottar stated flatly, taking a step away.
"So he can finish you off?" Allen challenged, a cynical twist to his lips.
"No," Ottar stopped, his massive shoulders squaring, though he didn't look back.
"So I can destroy him." He ignored the subtle, desperate thread of caution woven into Allen's taunt.
The quiet, immensely strong man Allen had known for years seemed gone, replaced by a creature driven purely by instinct and pain.
"If that's the case..." Allen paused, his posture straightening, the weariness momentarily replaced by a cold resolution.
His feline eyes narrowed, fixing on the broad, wounded back of the Behemoth. "...Then it's time for you to die."
The words were delivered with chilling finality.
Allen didn't hesitate.
He surged forward, a blur of motion despite his own injuries, thrusting his spear with lethal intent, aiming directly for Ottar's back.
Ottar, though surprised by the sudden, savage betrayal, reacted with the instinct of a warrior who had faced death countless times.
He spun with surprising speed, the great sword a heavy shield brought up just in time.
The silver spearhead struck the flat of the massive blade with a deafening clang, inches from where it would have skewered his heart.
"What is the meaning of this, Allen?" Ottar's voice was a low growl, the surprise quickly turning to a simmering, dangerous rage directed now at his comrade.
"Since when did you become such a fool?" Allen retorted, pressing his advantage, though he too grunted with the effort, his injured body protesting.
"We both know fighting Zald in your state has only one outcome: your death!" He pushed harder against the great sword, his eyes burning with a cold, pragmatic fire.
"And if you're going to die anyway... it's better for me to claim your excelia for my own growth than for you to feed it to the enemy, making him stronger!"
The statement hung in the air, stark and brutal.
Gaining excelia, the invisible force that fuelled growth and level-ups, wasn't limited to killing monsters in the Dungeon.
Intense training could yield it, and so could defeating or killing other adventurers in combat.
For a Level 5 like Allen, taking down Ottar, a Level 6, represented a potential gateway to his next rank up, a chance to close the gap and perhaps avoid another humiliating defeat like the one he suffered against Mors.
"Rrrrh! Allen!" Ottar's response was a roar of pure, unadulterated fury.
He had known Allen for a long time, understood the ruthless pragmatism that lay beneath the arrogance.
He saw the look in Allen's eyes, that specific, cold gleam, and knew the cat person wasn't bluffing.
This wasn't a warning or a test; this was a battle Allen intended to win, intended to tear away the last thing Ottar seemed to cling to – his desperate drive for vengeance.
Without another exchange, their weapons clashed again, the sound a violent crack that echoed through the alley.
Allen's spear danced, swift and unpredictable like a gust of wind in a storm.
Ottar's great sword moved with immense, crushing power, heavy and unyielding like a falling mountain.
The storm of their blows peeled like thunder, shaking the very foundations of the street and buffeting the surrounding air with violent gusts, whipping up dust and debris.
Compared to the cataclysmic clash between Zald and Mors, where the very fabric of the city seemed to buckle, this fight might have been considered a shadow of that true peak power.
Yet, even injured, the clash between two high-level adventurers, a Level 6 and a Level 5, still carried immense, destructive force.
The small side street stood no chance.
Shockwaves from their colliding weapons and the sheer force of their movements tore apart what little remained of the adjacent buildings, sending rubble cascading onto the pavement.
The sounds of their duel – the ringing steel, the grunts of effort, the roar of power – carried block after block, drawing confused glances from distant passersby.
They wondered what kind of conflict, what meeting of armies, could possibly create such localized, terrifying noise.
The battle raged for only a few moments, a brief, brutal exchange of power and will despite their wounded states.
Blows were traded, parried, and deflected, neither fighter able to gain a decisive advantage immediately.
Then, with a final, explosive impact, one weapon was sent spinning through the air, clattering violently against a crumbling wall before falling heavily to the ground.
It was the great sword.
And the loser was Ottar.
He sagged, falling heavily to one knee, his vast strength finally giving out, the pain from his numerous wounds overwhelming him in the wake of the final clash.
Allen stood over him, spear lowered but ready.
Yet, the victorious cat person showed no sign of triumph.
His face was contorted not in pride, but in a bitter, weary disgust.
His arms, still locked from the immense force of that last, decisive blow, began to tremble uncontrollably, the cost of his victory etched onto his own exhausted frame.
He had won, but the look in his eyes suggested it was a victory he found unsatisfying.
“What the fuck was that?!” Allen screamed, the sound ripping from his throat, raw with fury, as he glared down at Ottar.
The Boaz lay slumped on the ground, defeated, a picture of utter devastation.
“Since when do you crumble so easily? When did the Warlord become… this?” Allen spat the word like venom, gesturing wildly at Ottar’s broken form.
“Barely two minutes! Barely two minutes against me!” He hammered a fist against his chest, the gesture born of frustrated rage rather than pride.
Ottar endured the verbal lashing, his face a masked with anguish.
He was broken in spirit as much as in body.
The sting of defeat was sharp, but the shame of this defeat, against Allen, was unbearable.
Never before had he lost a duel between them.
His mind scrabbled for an excuse – they were both gravely wounded before the fight, he was on a higher level – but the facts were undeniable.
He had lost.
Lost to Allen.
There were no words, no justification that didn’t taste like ash.
Seeing Ottar’s utter despair only fuelled Allen’s rage.
His jaw clenched, eyes narrowed.
“I swore to defeat you, to climb over your back and become the greatest chariot I could possibly be! Do you have any idea what I sacrificed for that? I didn’t say goodbye to that idiot so that you could just roll over and turn out like this!” The words were sharp, laced with a pain Allen rarely displayed.
Ottar froze at the mention, his eyes widening slightly.
He knew exactly who Allen spoke of – a wheel that had once completed Allen’s 'chariot', a small girl who followed his every footstep years ago.
"Allen..." Ottar murmured, the name barely a breath, stunned by the raw vulnerability Allen had just exposed.
He had never heard Allen speak of that sacrifice, not like this.
Faced with this unexpected outburst, Ottar found himself utterly speechless.
A harsh 'Tsk' broke the moment as Allen visibly recoiled from his own admission, irritation flashing across his features.
He had revealed far more than he had intended, the words torn from him by the sight of Ottar’s pathetic defeat.
"Stand up, you overgrown pig!" Allen barked, his voice hardening, burying the pain beneath a layer of cruelty.
"I don't want your pity. This isn't over. This time, it's to the death... for all of us."
As if summoned by his words, a wave of figures emerged from the shadows at the edge of their ruined duelling ground, stepping into the fading light of dusk.
First came the four Pallum brothers, their faces grim but eyes burning with a familiar energy.
Grer spoke first, his voice low and laced with grim humour. "Quite a picture you make there, Ottar."
"Pathetic, really," Alfrigg added, a wry twist to his lips. "Almost too pathetic to laugh at."
"But that's alright," Berling said, stepping slightly forward. "Because we looked just the same moments ago."
"We took our loss too," Dvalinn finished, his gaze steady.
"So kill us, Ottar. Defeat us. Absorb our strength, our failures, and forge yourself into the weapon we couldn't be. The one who can finally strike down the Apate Familia in our stead."
Behind them stood the stoic, contrasting figures of the white elf Hedin and the dark elf Hogni, their weapons held ready.
"We must bring an end to the evilus," Hogni declared, his voice cold and resolute, "those despicable sisters included."
Hedin stepped forward, his expression grave.
"Ottar... we have always fought for victory, often for selfish reasons. But now, we must cast that aside. We must unite, truly unite, and unleash our collective power."
They stood shoulder to shoulder before the downed Warlord, fully armed, fully armored, ready for battle not against each other, but with each other, through a trial by combat.
Hedin, took another step and spoke for the gathered warriors.
"We all want to fight, Ottar. We need to. It's the only way we can begin to atone for the mistakes of last night." A flicker of pain crossed his face as he recalled the innocent civilians caught and killed in the chaos caused by his own avarice.
"Everyone..." Ottar muttered, the word heavy with disbelief as he slowly pushed himself onto trembling hands and knees.
Never in the history of the Freya Familia had the core members assembled like this, stripped of their usual rivalries, united in a single purpose.
It had always been a brutal, individualistic competition for their goddess's favour.
"You can bet your ass that pallum bastard has some nasty scheme brewing," Allen said, his voice cutting through the moment.
"But until he finally deigns to share it with us, we fight. All of us."
Ottar offered no response, still reeling from the sheer impossibility of the scene unfolding before him.
"Whoever walks away from this," Allen declared, his voice ringing with grim purpose, "gets the right to face Zald, Alfia... and Mors."
The statement hung in the air, confusing Ottar further.
Chase those monsters? Why? Before he could voice the question, Allen elaborated, his eyes sweeping over the assembled warriors.
"This street... right here and now... this is our Folkvangr. This is where we will forge our strongest Einherjar. The one warrior brutal enough, powerful enough, consumed enough, to take on those three freaks of nature."
Folkvangr—it was the hallowed training grounds within the Freya Familia's home, a place where the city's most powerful warriors honed their skills, pushing past their limits in relentless, often bloody, combat.
Now, this scarred, urban battlefield would serve as their temporary, brutal substitute.
A contest of mortal combat, here on the dusty streets, to determine who among them possessed the strength – and the will – to be the last one standing.
As the last rays of the setting sun bled across the ashen clouds, staining the sky a bruised purple, Ottar finally found his voice, his gaze fixed on Allen.
"Allen... did you... did you perhaps do this... for me?"
Allen scoffed, the sound sharp and dismissive.
"What a monumentally idiotic question. There's only one person in this existence I do anything for, and it sure as hell isn't you, you broken down pig." He didn't elaborate, but the implication hung heavy in the air – his goddess, Freya.
This wasn't Allen's whim; it was a decree relayed from on high.
"Find this age's champion for me," Allen repeated the goddess's words, a chill entering his tone, delivering them directly to Ottar.
Ottar's eyes went wide.
His breath hitched.
A surge of energy, hot and potent, coursed through him, chasing away the vestiges of despair.
His hand clenched into a fist, hard as a boulder, a renewed sense of power flooding his limbs.
"Raaaaaaaagh!" A guttural, primal roar tore from his chest, echoing in the twilight.
It wasn't a cry of pain, but of resurgence, of purpose, utterly revitalized by the divine will of his mistress.
Freya, ever noble even in defeat, expected the same from him.
He would not sully her name with weakness.
"If you're just going to lie there and keep sullying our lady's good name with your pathetic defeat," Allen muttered, his voice low enough to sound like a private thought, yet loud enough for Ottar to hear, "then you can just die. I'll take care of those monsters myself."
Ottar rose to his feet, his shoulders back, his eyes blazing with a fierce, indomitable strength that had seemed extinguished moments before.
"No!" he declared, his voice ringing with absolute conviction.
"I will be the one to put an end to this." He turned to face his comrades, his gaze sweeping over their expectant faces.
"I will defeat Zald! I, and no one else!"
The Warlord was back.
The air crackled with his renewed power.
Unseen by Ottar, a subtle, almost imperceptible smile touched the corner of Allen's lips.
"Then raise your weapon's!" Allen yelled, stepping back, drawing his own weapon.
"It's time to fight!"
With a roar that seemed to challenge the heavens themselves – "Oryaaaaaaaaa!" – Ottar wrapped his hand around the hilt of his massive great sword.
Immediately, the street erupted.
A cacophony of clashing steel, crackling magic, and thunderous impact tore through the twilight.
The members of the Freya Familia, united by decree and desperation, threw themselves at each other in a brutal, necessary conflict.
This was the cry of the Folkvangr reborn, the very ground shaking as the never-ending battle unfolded.
Warrior clashed against warrior, driven by a desperate thirst for strength, a burning need to rise above the defeat they had suffered.
They fought tirelessly, relentlessly, because in this moment, there was no other option left to them.
……………………………………………………………..
Miles away, within the decaying industrial skeleton of the factory district, flashes of searing light erupted from the windows of an abandoned warehouse.
The bursts were uneven, uncontrolled, and a thick, suffocating aura of volatile power emanated from the structure, pressing down on the surrounding area.
"Is... is this the limit of my control?" a voice echoed from within, strained and hoarse.
Around the figure who spoke, the floor was scarred and blackened, dotted with smoking pits and small, bubbling pools of molten rock.
"Draco nii, are you... are you alright?" A soft, worried voice called out hesitantly, a figure hovering just outside the immediate zone of danger, reluctant to approach the radiating heat and unstable energy.
"I am fine, Vasiliki," Draco replied, though his voice was tight.
Flames licked uncontrollably at the edge of his lips, tendrils of unnatural radiance pulsed beneath his skin, and jagged crystalline horns protruded from his forehead, sparks of lightning dancing along their ridges.
After witnessing how grossly overpowered, Zald, Alfia, and Mors were during their recent confrontation, Draco had made a decision.
He needed to practice with his ultimate trump card, the unstable skill known as 'Raging Ascension,' in preparation for the battles to come.
He knew with chilling certainty that somewhere within this escalating war, he would inevitably come face-to-face with at least one, if not all, of those terrifying powerhouses.
He had to be ready, but the process was agonizing.
Controlling 'Raging Ascension' was a nightmare.
It unlocked latent power, but the cost was terrifying instability and severe, often agonizing, side effects.
Currently, he could only manage short bursts, pushing himself perhaps up to Stage 2 of the transformation.
Each progressive stage brought a more pronounced physical draconic transformation, an immense surge of power, but also increasingly potent and dangerous side effects.
Though temporary for now, he knew that excessive, uncontrolled use risked triggering permanent, irreversible changes to his body and perhaps his mind.
To make matters worse, each rank-up in his own Level had somehow amplified the skill, not just in terms of raw power, but by unlocking aspects of his inherent magic and draconic abilities that were clearly not meant to be accessible yet, manifesting only temporarily during the ascension.
Additionally, he was forced to acclimate his body and mind to the various new, monstrous draconic forms each stage of transformation imposed upon him.
With the 'loss of sanity' debuff that often accompanied such power boosts, he was consciously wrestling with raw, untamed chaos, making effective control incredibly difficult.
This arduous training was the only way he could hope to wield it without being consumed immediately.
As much as a part of him yearned to experience the transformations beyond Stage 2, to understand the power, Draco ruthlessly refrained.
He didn't know what catastrophic damage he might inflict if he lost control completely, especially with many civilians distressingly close by.
The last thing he needed was to become a monster in the eyes of the very people he might be trying to protect.
Yet, a cold dread settled in his gut.
He had a sinking feeling that defeating or even holding his ground against Zald, Alfia, or Mors would require him to push past Stage Three, into territory where his control was tenuous at best, and potentially non-existent.
The thought sent a fresh wave of stress through him.
‘Sigh’
He forced himself to breathe, the air tasting of ozone and burnt rock.
‘I'm not the only one fighting this war’ he reminded himself, glancing towards the distant lights of the city, where others were undoubtedly preparing, sacrificing, fighting in their own ways.
‘I'll just have to wait and see. If it comes down to using Stage Three, or even higher, just to survive... then so be it’
With his mind finally settling on a grim resolve, his heart steadying despite the residual tremors of power, Draco willed the transformation to recede.
The elements retreated, and his body reflected to normal, leaving him physically drained and trembling.
Reaching into a pouch, he retrieved a potent elixir and swallowed it down, feeling its restorative warmth spread through his exhausted body.
The darkness of night was fast approaching, swallowing the last vestiges of twilight.
And with the coming of night, came the very real possibility of an attack by the evilus, the harbinger of the war he was desperately trying to prepare for.
A/N: Feel free to read ahead on pat3on and donate.