Chapter 302: Stalemate
Kharom’s body skidded across the hard marble, the liquid mass snapping back into shape as scattered streams rushed together and reformed his frame.
By the time he reached the edge, his flesh had fully reconstituted; steel-hard fingers clawed into the floor and finally halted his slide, saving him from tumbling out of the arena at the last instant.
When he pushed up, there was a fresh sword wound on his chest—another gash to join the first. The earlier cut was already nearly closed; this new one, too, began knitting fast, black blood beading and hissing as it fell before the skin drew tight again.
"Coward—striking from above, without the courage to face me directly." He lifted his head, rage billowing off him as he glared at Adyr.
Kharom didn’t doubt he could win. In his mind, he still held the edge in raw strength, and his toughened body and high defense could weather even the strongest sword strikes.
The problem wasn’t durability; it was distance. He lacked a clean way to close on Adyr and force true close-quarters combat.
"Are you an idiot?" Adyr replied, hearing the excuse in Kharom’s own voice and looking at him as if at a fool. "My wings are part of my body—and my fighting strategy—just like my sword-slash repertoire. If you’re going to cry because your opponent has an advantage, go back to your parents and ask them for help." His tone stayed casual and openly mocking as he tipped his chin toward the Black Dragon’s crest—toward Sevrak—making his meaning plain.
Sevrak’s expression didn’t shift; he watched from above with the same sovereign stillness.
But Kharom’s did.
The words hit where they were meant to. His brows knotted, his teeth ground hard enough to creak. There was no worse insult for him than the suggestion that he was only a grandson trading on legend—useful for nothing without his forebear’s shadow. Those barbs found every nerve.
"You know what?" Kharom said, the fury on his face not fading but deepening as he started forward—and as his body began yet another transformation. "I won’t kill you. No—far too merciful. I’ll tear off your limbs first... then heal you... then keep you alive for days, for years, feeding you, tending you, until you die by age and rot."
With each word and step, his body hardened. The skin darkened to a more solid, metallic sheen; plates of density gathered in the grain of his flesh.
Defensive skill.
Adyr tracked the change coldly. He had seen this Spark skill before—thanks to Liora. It was the one that petrified Kharom’s body, stacking his defense to brutal levels."Sounds good to me," Adyr gave a soft laugh, undercutting the words, "But I doubt you can take care of anyone when you can’t even take care of yourself. Am I wrong?" He kept the taunt light, pushing Kharom toward rage-drunk decisions— as he himself readied another strike.
The instant Kharom’s defense-type Spark locked fully into place, Adyr committed. He burned 5.1 energy and swept his black sword, launching another slash.
BOOM!
Like the last, the arc hit dead center—hammering into Kharom’s chest and tearing on through in a wide curve that shredded the marble behind him, gouging a broad, bright scar across the arena floor.
But this time, something changed.
Kharom didn’t go flying. His feet looked fused to the marble; only his upper body bent back under the impact, bowing like sprung steel before settling again.
The damage had dropped, too. Instead of blasting him away, the strike added a third wound alongside the two that had already closed—more a dent in metal than a cut in flesh, visible beneath shattered leather and the now-darkened skin his defensive Spark had drawn over his once sickly white.
"You are weak." Kharom grinned as the aftershock bled off his frame. He squared his stance and kept coming—slow, deliberate, unbroken steps—closing on Adyr with the certainty of a man who believed distance was the only problem left to solve.
"Yeah, looks like it," Adyr said with a casual shrug. The easy acceptance got under Kharom’s skin more than any insult.
Kharom flared at the smallest jab; Adyr’s indifference was its own defense—taunts hit and fell away, and his focus stayed on the fight.
Seeing talk was useless, Kharom cut the chatter and drove forward, closing the distance fast.
Adyr didn’t waste another sword strike either; he’d already measured the effect on Kharom’s hardened body. He conserved energy and watched, reading angles and timing.
When he reached the point directly below his flying target, his smile deepened. He sprang straight up, metal-hard fingers spread like claws, snatching for Adyr’s ankles. "Come down, then—let me kill you."
His iron fingertips swept within a breath of Adyr’s boots. One grip was all Kharom needed; from there, it would be a long and methodical, one-sided beating. But it didn’t go as he planned.
Adyr barely moved. One soft wingbeat—just an inch of tilt—slid him out of reach. Kharom’s hand closed on empty air, and he dropped back to the floor, landing on his feet with a jolt.
"..."
The arena fell silent. Kharom’s arrogant smile faltered, and with his gambit in ruins, the crowd regarded him like a child pretending at menace.
"You bastard," he spat through clenched teeth, rage scraping raw against the shame of so many eyes.
"Don’t be discouraged." Adyr’s voice stayed mild, almost helpful. "Try again. Faster this time—and higher." No one heard advice; everyone heard the mockery.
Kharom accepted the obvious—he had no way to catch a target flying like that. He deactivated his defense-type Spark, the metallic grain draining from his skin, and in the same breath shifted to his movement skill; his body collapsed into corrosive black, hissing as droplets struck the marble, then surged forward with greater force and speed.
"You should have listened to my suggestion instead," Adyr said, and there was real amusement now.
He moved his sword back into its attacking stance. Sonic Burst kindled at the tip and ran down the edge until the blade thrummed inside a tight halo.
At the same time, he triggered Burst Hop, packing kinetic force through the shoulder, triceps, forearm, and wrist—each link tightening, clean and precise.
The air around the steel began to shiver. Dust skittered at his feet.
He swung.
The sword wave tore away from the blade with a sharp report and met the onrushing liquid mid-flight, scooping it up like a sickle through water and hurling it backward toward the marble in a hissing arc.
Kharom was hurled by the same sword strike and skidded all the way to the arena’s edge once again.
He changed his liquid form at the last instant, returning to his normal form, steel-hard fingers gouging the marble to stop himself—back where he’d started, breath hot, teeth bared. Above, Adyr hovered easily out of reach.
"Damn you." The words came low, his rage swelling like a volcano ready to break.
Built for defense, with no real long-range attacks and no flight skill, he finally saw the gap in his Spark repertoire laid bare. He could endure Adyr’s blows—that much was clear—but he could not touch him.
To the onlookers, the shape of the fight snapped into focus: a stalemate.
Adyr couldn’t force a clean finish from the air without a better attack; Kharom couldn’t reach him at all, hamstrung by his lack of range attack and movement skills.
One thing was clear: for either man to gain the upper hand—and finally break the stalemate—someone would have to reveal a hidden trump card.
For Adyr, that card was Malice. If he tainted his sword strike with it, the damage would double, and a fear effect would ride the blow—enough to truly hurt Kharom, maybe end it outright.
But Malice was an ability he couldn’t use under so many watching eyes.
For Kharom, the trump was more obvious.
"I need support." He swallowed his pride and shouted it, anger overruling restraint as he called for aid from his kingdom’s other Practitioners.
At once, the Umbraen squad pressing the Aqualeth broke off.
They pulled back in a clean snap and, after a quick read of the field, sent 10 to Kharom’s side—specifically those with support skills, long-range attacks, or flying skills.
On the Aqualeth line, the shift bought time.
Even though they were fewer, they’d been holding surprisingly well. Maruun Aqua anchored the front, turning aside most blows with his intimidating trident, while their higher [Will]—expressed in raw movement speed—let them fight evasively. They had yielded ground and looked disadvantaged, true, but despite the Umbraen numbers, they hadn’t lost a single fighter yet. Fatigue showed on every face, though, and without relief, losses were only a matter of time.
Now, with ten attackers peeled away and the Umbraen momentarily reset, the Aqualeth drew a precious breath. Pressure eased; a thin thread of hope pulled their formation tight and kept them pushing a little longer.
Good, Adyr thought, watching the field tilt exactly as he’d planned.