Lucian charged headlong into Godrick's army.
The storm surged around him, pushing his body faster, and faster still—until his montum beca a roaring gale. His twin blades crossed before him, their edges wreathed in furious wind. As his charge reached its peak, the blades howled with a storm that spun like a living thing.
Soldiers who tried to bar his way were torn apart, reduced to broken scraps of flesh and steel. Those who fled to the flanks were sucked into the vortex and shredded into pulp, hurled aside like refuse.
Lucian had turned himself into a drill of pure storm, carving a blood-soaked path straight toward the Grafted Lord.
One of the countless smaller arms upon Godrick's shoulder swung a warhamr, its head flashing with violet light. A heartbeat later, his golden greataxe slamd into the ground. Fractured stone flew upward, only to be pulled by that sa violet glow, fusing into his axe.
Ash of War – Cragblade.
At last, Lucian understood why Godrick carried so many weapons. They were not ant to be wielded one by one in battle—but to serve as vessels for Ashes of War.
Most n had but two hands, and could not easily bear nor swap between a dozen arms in the midst of combat. But Godrick, bloated with stolen limbs, wielded his collection with grotesque ease. With his lesser arms he could invoke skills, and with his great hands, empower his main weapon with their enchantnts.
The stone-clad greataxe crashed down before Lucian. His blades t it head on, the storm grinding away the rocky armor, reducing it grain by grain.
anwhile, Godrick's other hands were busy—firing crossbows that clattered uselessly against the storm, while another invoked Troll's Roar.
The bellow shook the air itself. The shockwave blasted Lucian off his feet, hurling him through the air. He twisted, righted himself, and landed with control—only to feel an ominous pressure, as though sothing unseen had locked upon him.
His eyes flicked toward Godrick. One gnarled hand clutched a blood-stained Finger Seal, glowing faintly.
In the next instant, fire erupted. Not one spell, but a chain—Incantation – Catch Fla. Rapid, rciless, cast one after another in a torrent.
But Lucian did not dispel the firestorm with wind. Instead, he slipped aside, his form weaving effortlessly between the gouts of fla.
He smiled. Godrick had managed to surprise him.
That incantation could not be Godrick's own. Catch Fla was the gift of On prophets, and Godrick had no ties to them. Which ant… he had inherited the incantations of the ones he had grafted.
So, even incantations and sorceries could be stolen along with limbs.
Fine. That only ant this fight would be more interesting. If Godrick had been weaker than even Morgott's shade, it would hardly be worth the trouble.
Lucian surged forward once more, his storm blades lashing out in a flurry to test Godrick's defenses.
In that instant, he had already taken the asure of the Grafted Lord.
Yes, Godrick was swollen with giant's strength, but his raw power was only slightly greater than Morgott's phantom—and nowhere near overwhelming. His swarm of Ashes of War and incantations would be dangerous, but only if he could weave them together at once.
Godrick sneered as he battered aside the storm blades, raising his voice in a guttural roar. "I command thee, kneel before !"
He lifted his golden greataxe high and smashed it down. Soldiers nearby fled in terror—they knew what was coming.
The ground convulsed as a wave of force radiated outward like an earthquake. Before the first tremor faded, Godrick slamd the axe down again, unleashing a second shockwave, even greater than the first. Stones burst apart, dust billowed into the air, obscuring all sight.
Yet when the haze cleared—Lucian stood untouched, storm still coiled about him. His blades were already falling.
Blood sprayed. Two of the lesser hands at Godrick's thigh were severed in a single stroke.
Better to cut them away before their weapons could be brought into play.
The greataxe swung again, but Lucian's blade struck its haft, deflecting the blow aside into shattered stone. His other sword swept down, shearing off another hand clutching a staff. Bolts and fire struck, but all dissolved into the storm.
So it was as Lucian suspected: Godrick's martial skill was crude at best. His strength ca not from talent, but from the monstrous grafting of others' limbs. Were it not for the sheer volu of skills at his disposal, he would be nothing.
It was no wonder he was the weakest of the demigods. Even his tactics—overwhelming by attrition, hoping for a single decisive strike—would never avail him against his peers.
"Damn you, buzzing gnat!" Godrick bellowed, veins swelling across his brow.
He could feel it. This Tarnished was not strong—not truly. If he could land but one strike, the wretch would be crushed. Yet Lucian darted endlessly about him, storm cutting, storm biting, storm always just out of reach.
It was like that battle long ago, against Malenia. He had never even touched the hem of her cloak, before being driven to kneel in humiliation.
Would he be defeated again? By a lowly Tarnished? Never!
If the fly would not be caught, then the world around him would burn.
Godrick had long awaited this mont. With the corpse of a dragon at his disposal, he could finally wield the ultimate graft.
"Hold him off!" he roared, lumbering toward the grafting chamber.
"Trying to flee?" Lucian's storm flashed as he cut through soldiers as though they were mist. None could slow him.
But then—sothing struck from behind.
A massive blow forced Lucian back, even though his two blades had caught it. He skidded several paces across the stone before he regained his footing.
The assailant landed with a thunderous crash.
A knight clad in burnished red-bronze armor, broad wings folding at his back.
A Crucible Knight.
"Tarnished," ca the voice, deep and implacable from within the helm, "you will advance no further."
Lucian's eyes narrowed. That voice was not the one he rembered. Not the knight he had faced within the Evergaol.
He glanced past the towering warrior. Upon a tower in the rear, wings folding as he descended, stood another Crucible Knight.
Redd, the one who had escaped the Evergaol.
It was he who had called his brethren here.
User Comments
0 comments from readers