This blob of living rcury possessed three abilities.
The first was an extraordinarily high resistance to magic, an alchemical miracle born from the labs of Alkhemia. It was absurd enough that even a paladin's Sacred Slash barely left a mark. The second was its instinct to devour what it saw, inherited from its sli ancestry, though now limited only to tals rather than flesh.
And the third, the most valuable ability, granted by Ambrose himself at great cost, was its new soulbound talent: Shapeshifting.
The living rcury was all but an infant, new to the world and unskilled in wielding its gifts. All it could do was imitate what it saw.
As such, by mimicking the paladin's form, it transford into a vaguely humanoid figure of gleaming rcury, roughly similar in outline but with indistinct details. It looked like a half-lted wax statue version of the paladin.
Still, crude or not, its imitation of the paladin's movents was unnervingly precise.
The living rcury swung its sword in a mirrored Sacred Slash. There was no holy light, only sheer mass and montum—but the blow was powerful enough to make the armored paladin stagger two steps back.
Pressing the advantage, the rcury repeated the sa strike again and again, fast as lightning.
But the paladin had already adapted. Twisting his wrist, he caught the next blow along the blade of his sword, deftly dissipating the force. Then, with a sharp turn, he countered. The blade cut deep into the living rcury's head, splitting it cleanly in two.
The strike would have ended a man, but for the living rcury, it was a re inconvenience.
The split halves of its head flowed together and solidified, trapping the paladin's sword inside its liquid body. Then, copying his motion, the creature spun and slashed back toward his helm.
But before the blow could land, a golden radiance flared around the paladin's head: Aegis of Faith, a divine ward born of unshakable devotion. It could block all sorts of attacks.
The rcury blade skidded off the light as if off a patch of ice, leaving the creature off-balance.
The paladin seized the opportunity to strike. His sword danced in a blur, carving the rcury sli apart until it lost all human shape.
The living rcury had been utterly outmatched in a single exchange. Its lack of technique showed.
Yet as the paladin stepped back to recover, the mangled tal began to flow again. Within seconds, the living rcury stood once more, copying the paladin's latest techniques flawlessly.
Ambrose, watching through a scrying orb, was very pleased by this developnt.
He had tuned the living rcury's soul by hand to ensure that its shapeshifting was paired with the ability to perfectly imitate what it saw. From how well it could mirror the paladin's attacks, it was clear that Ambrose's work had paid off.
Still, imitation alone was not enough. The paladin's swordsmanship, honed by faith and discipline, was leagues beyond what the sli could manage.
As naive as the paladin remained in matters pertaining to adventuring, his swordsmanship was on the level of a grandmaster.
Their blades clashed again and again. Despite the very sa strikes, the very sa timing, every exchange ended with the paladin's blade sinking into the living rcury's body while his own armor remained unscathed.
Even when their swordplay mirrored one another perfectly, subtle differences in angle, weight, and tempo left the duel one-sided. If not for the living rcury's ability to regenerate, it would already have been cut up into a dozen pieces.
And the paladin quickly discerned its flaw. The creature might be able to mimic his movents, but it couldn't really think. It couldn't tell a feint from a follow-up. It couldn't innovate or predict his actions.
Thus made confident, the paladin eased his pace, turning the battle into a live exercise.
He stopped using his divine techniques, conserving his holy energy for what he knew was the real threat: the lich watching from beyond the walls.
There was no point wasting strength on a puppet when the puppeteer still waited.
So the paladin stayed on the defensive, testing, waiting, letting the creature burn through its reserves.
He knew regeneration and transformation both cost energy, energy derived from digested tal. Eventually, it would run out.
And when it did, he would end it with a single strike.
Ambrose couldn't help but admire him. "The paladins of the Lyon Empire truly live up to their reputation," he murmured. "The continent's strongest empire indeed."
But admiration didn't pay the bills.
If his prototype were to lose, the footage from his mory crystal would be useless for business. Editing out a defeat was such a hassle.
He had no choice but to intervene. Through the iron door, he whispered, "Silly child, don't let your humanoid form restrict yourself. Why do you only wield one sword? You can have as many arms as you like! Shapeshifting is ant for imagination, not re imitation!"
The words were a revelation. The living rcury paused mid-regeneration. Instead of sealing its split head, the two halves stretched outward, lengthening into twin rapiers that shot straight toward the paladin's face.
The technique was the sa—but now there were two blades coming at impossible angles. The paladin barely reacted in ti, his steady tempo shattered.
He managed to deflect both and countered with a brutal poml strike that dented the creature's chest, but it was already too late.
The living rcury had been freed from its shackles.
In human form, it might not be able to rival the paladin's swordsmanship, but who said it had to be human at all?
Its liquid body twisted and expanded, sprouting arms and blades by the dozen. Like a spinning windmill of silver, it whirled forward, slashing from every direction.
The paladin felt as if a squadron of his comrades had turned on him at once, all wielding the sa flawless swordplay, all striking in perfect sync.
The problem wasn't where the next strike would co from. It was that there were too many swords to block.
User Comments
0 comments from readers