Chapter 131: New And Improved
[You didn’t fail necessarily, that truly is the way to do it.]
Kyone’s voice was calm, she seemed excited now.
He nodded to himself, eyes narrowing as the weight of those words settled in.
He had thought the technique through from beginning to end.
Kyone had told him to figure out a way and he had, by creating one huge slash and letting it split into five, they would retain the same energy and everything.
It wasn’t as complicated as it sounded.
At least, not to him.
Aura control like this was taught to him by Steven, it was hell to learn but he could finally find a use to it.
And yet after all that, something had gone wrong.
’So how did I get it wrong?’
[The sharpness,] Kyone’s reminded him, like a teacher correcting a stubborn student. [I told you, a dragon’s claws must be sharp. You should be able to cut through a lot of things—especially humans and monsters easily. While everything else was good, you have to work on the sharpness.]
Azel’s gaze hardened as the Rank 3 monster across from him stirred.
It’s body had been wounded by the strikes, long marks marring it’s skin and dripping with purple blood that once it touched the ground sizzled against the snow and vanished into mist.
Then, with a sickening heave, it spewed forth another wave of ghostly entities — shrieking, clawing, their twisted faces rushing forward toward him like a tide of nightmares.
The snow-covered battlefield became chaos.
But Veyra moved first.
Her lips twitched, cold irritation flashing across her features.
Raising her hands, she called the snow itself to answer.
Flakes gathered in unnatural currents, whirling into blades so fine they glimmered faintly under the moonlight.
With a flick, she sent them forward, slicing through the incoming horde.
Ghostly forms screamed as they were shredded into nothingness, their cries fading with the mist.
Anthony wasn’t idle either.
His spear reared back, his entire frame coiling with energy before he lunged forward.
The weapon shot out with the precision of a predator’s strike, aimed straight at the heart of the Sprite.
But the ghost twisted unnaturally, its body distorting to avoid the blow, and from its jaws billowed a dense cloud of purple smog.
Anthony’s eyes widened briefly, but his instincts roared louder.
He spun his spear with blinding speed, the shaft becoming a blur, creating currents of cutting wind that pushed the smog back.
Not a wisp touched him.
With a grunt, he withdrew, shifting to safer ground.
Azel inhaled deeply, shutting out the noise, letting the world narrow to a single thought.
"I just need to sharpen it."
His sword rose once more, the green glow returning.
This time, though, he did not hold back.
Aura surged from his body in a flood, rushing through his arm and into the blade.
Every fiber of his body screamed from the strain, but he did not flinch.
He didn’t know why but using every one of these attacks required him to push to the limit, it was annoying.
The weapon glowed brighter, light spiraling tightly around its edge.
He shaped it carefully, forcing it to coil in a razor-thin stream.
There were no dull edges to it. It had to be honed to perfection.
The air itself seemed to bend around the blade.
The ghosts faltered, hesitant, as though some primal instinct warned them of the strike to come.
Even Anthony and Veyra slowed, their bodies unconsciously giving Azel room.
The sheer pressure radiating from him demanded it.
Azel’s grip tightened. His eyes locked forward. And then —
He struck.
The slash was clean and decisive.
A massive arc of green aura ripped through the night.
And like before, it didn’t remain whole.
Mid-flight, it fractured — splitting into five blazing arcs, each one burning with lethal sharpness.
They flew with the inevitability of death, whistling as they cut through the frozen air.
Anthony’s eyes widened.
Veyra instinctively stepped back.
Even standing clear of the attack, both could feel the danger, their instincts screaming that to stand in its path would mean instant death.
The Rank 3 ghost tried to flee, its swollen body jerking back desperately.
Too slow.
The first arc struck. For a half-breath, it seemed to catch, delayed as though resisted.
Then it sliced clean through, severing the creature’s form.
The second followed, then the third, each tearing deeper, shredding the phantom’s essence.
The fourth carved the remnants apart, and the fifth delivered the final blow.
The monster shrieked, a chilling, otherworldly sound that clawed at the soul.
Its body convulsed, then unraveled completely, dissolving into mist.
From the haze, a single glowing core dropped into the snow with a faint clink.
And as its master fell, the remaining ghosts vanished instantly, unraveling into harmless wisps.
Azel slowly lowered his sword, his breath leaving him in a sharp exhale.
The glow faded, leaving only the silence of the night and the distant hiss of wind.
Veyra broke it with a growl.
"I fucking hate ghosts," she cried out, glaring at the dissipating mist.
Her tone carried more than annoyance — it was bitter loathing.
Sprites, she knew, were hateful creatures.
Their power didn’t just lie in their strength, but in their ability to store legions within their twisted bodies.
That made them dangerous, unpredictable, and endlessly infuriating to fight.
And that wasn’t even mentioning their illusions.
Descendants of Winter had always been resistant to mind tricks.
But layered illusions? Stacked over and over? That resistance could falter.
Even she, with her lineage and training, had felt her vision blur earlier, the edges of her perception twisting.
’Well, I had a talisman too,’ she thought, grimacing.
But she hadn’t been fast enough to use it.
Azel had.
He didn’t even look shaken by the illusion.
Her gaze flicked toward him, standing tall on the cliff.
She remembered that he had now dissolved two sword arts today.
Each one so overwhelming that she knew, without a doubt, stepping into their path would have meant her end.
She clenched her hand, flexing stiff fingers. Her heartbeat hadn’t slowed yet.
’Well, he’s strong too,’ she admitted.
Strong, versatile, calm under pressure. All the things a fighter needed, he carried effortlessly.
Her lips pressed into a thin line as her thoughts lingered on him.
’I really want him now,’ she thought to herself.