章 279: Vaelor II
Vaelor couldn't believe it. His spear—his pride and symbol of dominance—was in his hands. His body trembled, not from exertion, but from a shame that coursed through him like a poison.
He had drawn his spear against a child. A boy who was less than a tenth of his age, a boy who had not surpassed the Wall, who hadn't even reached the Wall.
And yet, Vaelor had felt fear.
The moment Arthur's sword pressed against his astral energy, relentless and unyielding, a cold dread had crept into the Vampire Elder's chest. For a fleeting instant, he believed Arthur's blade might actually reach his throat.
The shame burned deeper. A Vampire Elder—an immortal warrior who had faced centuries of battle—forced to draw his spear against a child. It was unthinkable. Intolerable.
But it was necessary.
As the spear materialized in his grip, its surface rippled with power, the rhythmic pulse of its essence blending blood and night astral energy into a singular, ominous force. The air thickened around Vaelor, his presence swelling like a storm on the brink of unleashing its fury.
Vaelor was no mage. He was a warrior, forged in the crucible of countless battles. And so, he did what warriors do.
He struck.
The spear tip shot forward with blinding speed, its beating astral energy warping the space around it. The sheer pressure of the attack was suffocating, like the weight of an ocean bearing down. The point of the spear seemed to zero in on Arthur's chest, the promise of death just a heartbeat away.
Arthur moved. His body twisted with the precision of a dancer, his sword alive with water and wind-enhanced aura, swirling like liquid grace and roaring gales. He slid his blade alongside Vaelor's spear, deflecting it in an elegant parry that sent sparks cascading through the air.
But Vaelor was no ordinary opponent. He was a vampire who had reached Spear Heart, a master whose weapon was an extension of his very will. His foot dug into the ground, halting his momentum with the ease of someone who had done so a thousand times before. With fluid precision, he adjusted, driving the spear toward Arthur's right flank, cutting off his attempt to parry completely.
The resonating layers of enhanced aura on Arthur's blade collided with Vaelor's astral energy, but the crushing force of the spear was too much. The aura splintered and fractured, its light dimming under the relentless beat of the spear's power.
Arthur felt the weight of the attack, a force not just physical but suffused with centuries of skill and mastery. It bore down on him, threatening to overwhelm. But even as his blade faltered, his mind raced, searching for the next move, the next chance to turn the tide.
Arthur's blade danced once more, its movement a symphony of steel and magic. Space and time magic wrapped around him, bending the battlefield to his will as he shifted into position. His sword became an instrument of art and destruction, each stroke a note in an unending melody.
A thrust, sharp and deliberate, cut through the air like the first crack of thunder.
From the thrust came a slash, smooth and precise, slicing through the moment as though it were silk.
From the slash came a downward strike, heavy with the weight of inevitability, falling like a star dragged from the heavens.
From the downward strike came an upward sweep, cresting with the grace and power of a surging wave.
And the movement did not stop. It couldn't. Each strike flowed into the next, a ceaseless rhythm of destruction and creation, as natural as the pull of the tides.
A stream tumbled into a waterfall, cascading with relentless energy.
The waterfall crashed and twisted into a river, churning and carving its path with force.
The river surged, swelling into a sea, vast and unyielding.
And the sea stretched out into infinity, deep and boundless, until it became an ocean.
But as Arthur's dance reached its crescendo, as his blade moved with the fury and grace of a tempest, Vaelor stood firm. The Vampire Elder's spear met the blade, its pulse resonating like the steady beat of a war drum.
"Not enough," Vaelor said, his voice steady, unshaken. His spear struck with precision, and it was as if the moon itself descended upon the ocean.
The ocean broke.
Arthur's strikes shattered against Vaelor's spear, the relentless tide of his assault undone by the unyielding might of the Vampire Elder. Vaelor's presence loomed larger than ever, the air trembling with his dominance.
The dance was beautiful, but beauty alone could not conquer the moon.
"Not enough, huh," Arthur muttered under his breath, steadying himself as the remnants of his movement dissipated like fading embers.
He hadn't expected to defeat Vaelor with just his Grade 5 art. No, that was merely the prelude. The real battle was only beginning.
The two combatants stepped back, creating a careful distance. Their gazes locked, unyielding, as if the weight of their wills alone might determine the victor.
Vaelor broke the silence first, his tone calm but tinged with something deeper. "I will spare your life if you choose to join us—become a contractor of the vampires and serve the Red Chalice Cult."
Arthur's brows furrowed as the Vampire Elder continued, his words precise, deliberate. "You are exceptionally strong and talented. With your potential, you could even be contracted to His Majesty himself. You might one day rise to lead the Cult."
Arthur's lips curled into a smile, sharp and mocking. "Are you so afraid of losing that you'd offer me this?"
Vaelor's expression twisted, his composure cracking under the weight of Arthur's provocation.
Afraid?
The thought gnawed at him. Vaelor had to admit, the boy was extraordinary. His strength was undeniable. But there was a chasm between them, vast and unbridgeable. Vaelor was at mid Ascendant-rank, while Arthur had barely reached high Integration-rank.
To think someone like this could pose a threat to him was absurd. The very idea was galling.
"No," Vaelor said finally, his voice clipped but steady. "I simply think it's a waste for someone like you to die here."
Arthur's grin widened, his confidence unshaken. "Don't worry," he said, his tone light but firm. "I don't plan on dying."
The words hung in the air like a challenge. Neither moved. They simply stood there, watching, waiting. The tension grew thicker, pressing against the room like an invisible tide.
Then, Arthur shifted. His posture changed, subtly at first, but enough to send a ripple of unease through Vaelor's instincts.
"Now," Arthur whispered, his voice low, almost to himself. "I'll show you my full power."
Vaelor felt it immediately. The atmosphere around him shifted, a pressure building in the air as though the world itself was holding its breath.
For the first time in centuries, Vaelor wondered if perhaps—just perhaps—he had underestimated his opponent.
Arthur's footwork shifted once more.
At a glance, it was similar to the movements he'd used before, yet there was something fundamentally different—a refinement, a precision, a step beyond what he had shown. This was not mere repetition but evolution.
His body, already a masterpiece of power and control, surged further. Augmented by the strength of Mythic Body and the seamless flow of mana augmentation, Arthur abandoned enhanced aura for something greater. Pseudo astral energy coursed through him, the shift heralded by the activation of Astral Manifestation, pushing his abilities to even greater heights.
Within his mind, a stream of consciousness burned brightly, dedicated to a single task. The intricate spell formula worked tirelessly to unify the eleven layers of pseudo astral energy coursing through his body, weaving them together with the precision of a master craftsman.
'Remember,' he thought, his consciousness delving into the depths of his memory, sifting through the fragments of a battle he could never forget.
The movements of a man who had once surpassed him. A man whose skill remained beyond Arthur's reach, even now.
Art.
Specifically, Art's footwork.
Though Arthur had defeated Art, he knew better than to let pride cloud the truth. The victory had been one of mana, not mastery. Art's skill was still leagues ahead.
Arthur's lips pressed into a thin line as the memory solidified. To grow stronger, he had created something new—a part of himself that became inseparable from his Gift, Soul Resonance.
The ability to copy Art's movements for a fleeting moment in time.
It was an extension of Soul Resonance, born from the peculiar fact that Art's soul now resided dormant within Arthur's own body. It was also a testament to the relentless study Arthur had poured into analyzing those movements during his solitary year in the Isolation Chamber.
He named it with quiet reverence and defiance.
Divine Copy.
And now, as his footwork shifted into the unmistakable patterns of Art's, Arthur felt the connection take hold. Each step felt alien yet familiar, borrowed yet his own. The battlefield seemed to warp around him, adjusting to the new rhythm as his body moved with an almost divine fluidity.
This wasn't just a technique. It was an acknowledgment of the past and a step toward surpassing it.
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