"Proceeding to Round 7."
Jack sucked in a ragged breath. The ancient voice offered no reprieve. No mont for recovery.
The floor beneath his feet began to shift. Not with the gentle ripple of the previous transition. But with a sickening, organic churn.
Another environnt manipulating opponent? Jack guessed. Lifting his heavy war hamr and resting it on his shoulder.
The ground changed. There were patches of polished stone. And many big holes which turned into bubbling, venomous pools. A low, gurgling sound echoed around the vast space.
From these ten corrosive green puddles, forms began to rise. Slowly at first, then swelling and lifting. Detaching themselves from the corrupted floor.
They were liquid spheres. Big spheres. Almost as tall as human Jack's size. In a sickly, translucent green color. Thick with a corrosive, dripping fluid.
They didn't just appeared. They floated. Hovered. Suspended a few ters above the ground. Bobbing slightly. Ten of them.
Slis. Corrosive Slis. If the bubbling acid dripping from their forms was any indication. Unlike the ga slis, they had no solid cores. And they were floating.
"For real? Damn Corrosive Slis?" Jack swore. His monstrous eyes narrowed. A cold dread began to creep in his heart. It was different from the psychic terror of the Shadow Lurker. But it was similar in one way. It was a bad match for his combat style.
His Judgent Warhamr, his primary weapon, was a magnificent instrunt of close-quarters combat. Its weight. Its force. They were optimized for crushing blows and sweeping arcs.
But these monsters… these were ranged threats. And they were made of damn acid. His knowledge supplied the details his instincts already scread.
Corrosive Slis. Their touch lted flesh, bone, and tal with terrifying speed. They were a nightmare for any lee fighter. Even for one encased in valuable, powerful armor.
His Naraka Armor was potent. But even it had limits against constant, direct exposure to such potent corrosive agents. A montary touch might be fended off. But what about a sustained attack? A deluge?
The slis dispersed slightly. Spreading out in a loose semicircle before him. Their gurgling growing louder. More anticipatory.
Each one pulsed. And a new, unsettling sound joined the bubbling. A wet, spitting hiss.
Then, they attacked. Not with a charge. But with a synchronized volley. From each of the ten forms. A stream of viscous green fluid arced through the air.
It wasn't just a water stream. It was a spreading spray. A rain of corrosive droplets designed to cover an area. A deluge.
Jack reacted instantly. Abandoning his offensive stance. He hadn't trained for rain evading dances. But he was suddenly performing a frantic, desperate ballet of evasion.
The droplets sizzled on the stone where they landed. Leaving smoking craters. One larger glob splattered near his foot.
The Naraka Armor reacted in near-instantaneous flare of energy protection. However, he still felt a faint, burning sensation through the plating. This was dangerous. Extrely dangerous.
He dodged left. Sidestepped right. The Warhamr felt uselessly heavy in his hands. Swinging it to block would scatter the acid, yes. But it was likely onto himself.
Charging forward was suicide. He would be engulfed in the corrosive cloud. Long before he could land a single blow. And a lee strike would just make them explode. Spreading their toxic essence even wider.
He was trapped. A lee champion rendered helpless by airborne goo.
Frustration began to boil beneath his cool exterior. Sharp and hot frustration.
This was absurd! He was Judge Jack. The terror to the guilty. The Herald of Judgent. The Harbinger of Vengeance. And he was being held at bay by glorified puddles that could spit!
His lawless nature bristled against the unspoken 'rules' of this fight. Rules that clearly favored ranged, perhaps magical combatants. But he wasn't a mage. He was a lee fighter. And a very angry rakshasa.
He shuffled backward. Keeping his eyes on the bobbing, spitting forms. The slis continued their assault. Reloading and firing their corrosive payloads with unnerving efficiency.
The arena floor was rapidly becoming a pockmarked, fuming ss. The air filled with a acrid, tallic sll that burned his nostrils.
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"Bloody hell!" He muttered in low growl. "Ten floating blobs of toxic mucus. What am I supposed to do? Drown them in bad jokes?"
Sarcasm, his old friend in the face of absurdity, offered little solace now. He needed a solution. And fast. His armor was holding. But it wouldn't be for long.
He feinted left. Drawing a concentrated volley. Then lunged right. Barely avoiding a splash that would have coated half his leg.
The Warhamr felt heavy. Useless. A cruel mockery of his power. He couldn't close the distance. He couldn't reach them.
Reach them. The thought snagged. He couldn't reach them. But could he make sothing else reach them?
His gaze dropped from the floating slis. To the polished stone tiled floor beneath his feet. The floor that they were lting. The stone that was being reduced to smoking rubble.
A dangerous idea began to form. One born of desperation. And also his disregard for conventional rules. This was the arena. Yes. The designated battleground.
But who said he had to fight on it? Who said he couldn't use it as a weapon? He wasn't willing to be bound by the arena's structure. If that structure itself offered a solution.
The Judgent Warhamr had its imnse power and ability to disrupt. It wasn't just for smashing foes. It could also destroy the structural integrity of the stone-tiled ground.
A grim smile. More like a baring of sharp teeth. It spread across the rakshasa's face. They wanted a ranged fight? Fine. He would give them a ranged fight. With improvised artillery.
Jack ignored the continued rain of acid. He planted his feet firmly. And then hefted the Judgent Warhamr. Its imnse weight settling comfortably in his grasp. Now that his purpose was clear.
He didn't aim for a sli. He aid for the arena floor directly in front of him. He channeled his strength. Not for a precise blow. But for sheer, raw, destructive force.
The rage at his helplessness. The exhaustion. The sheer defiance of being cornered by floating puddles... He poured it all down into the next strike.
With a mighty roar that echoed across the arena, Jack brought the Judgent Warhamr down. Not a horizontal swing. But a terrifying, downward thrust.
BANG!
The impact was colossal. The stone floor shattered inwards with a deafening CRACK. Dust and pulverized rock exploded outwards.
Cracks webbed across the ground for yards. Around the point of impact. The force wasn't just physical. It was disruptive.
Jack didn't pause. He leveraged the hamr. Prying up larger chunks of the broken floor. Shards of polished stone. Fist-sized rocks. And jagged debris were exposed. Rubble. Dangerous, solid rubble.
The slis were montarily startled by the unexpected assault on the ground. They paused their spitting. They seed to gurgle with confusion. What was this strange, ground-based attack?
That pause was all Jack needed. He dropped the Warhamr montarily. And snatched up a jagged, heavy piece of debris with his armored hand. It was rough. Irregular. Nothing like a proper projectile.
He hefted it. Gauging its weight. It wasn't as heavy as his hamr. But it had mass. It had velocity if he supplied the force. And it was solid.
He spun. Ignoring the first renewed spatters of acid from the nearest sli. And threw the rock with all his might. It wasn't the graceful arc of practiced archery. But a brutal, powerful pitch.
The jagged rubble flew true, a solid missile cutting through the acidic rain. It slamd into the nearest floating sli.
There was no dramatic explosion of light or energy. Just a sickening wet thwack. The sli recoiled violently. Its translucent form distorting at the point of impact.
It shrieked. A high-pitched, gurgling sound. It didn't shatter. But a large portion of its mass seed to liquefy. And drip away instantly. Leaving it noticeably smaller and misshapen.
It worked. Physical force. Ranged physical force.
Jack grinned. A savage, triumphant expression on the rakshasa's face. "Oh, you thought you were safe up there, did you? Untouchable?"
He snatched up another piece of rubble. Larger this ti. "Let's see how your fancy acid holds up against good old-fashioned rocks!"
He didn't wait for the slis to fully recover. He beca a one-man siege engine. He ignored their renewed, frantic spitting. Which now seed less organized.
He focused on grabbing and launching projectiles.
The Warhamr ca back into his hand briefly. To smash another section of the floor. Sending more usable debris flying. Then he would drop it. Scoop up rocks. And throw again.
Throwing wasn't his forte. Not like wielding the hamr. But sheer power compensated for lack of finesse. Each throw was a grunt of effort. Not all of them hit, of course.
But when they did, each impact produced a satisfying thwack. Followed by a pained gurgle or shriek from a sli.
They tried to evade the incoming rocks. Bobbing and weaving. But they were slow compared to the speed of his throws.
The arena floor around him beca a churned-up ss. A testant to his unconventional tactics. He was the source for a storm of thrown rocks.
His movents were a brutal cycle of smash-and-throw, smash-and-throw. Punctuated by hurried sidesteps to avoid the worst of the acidic spray.
One by one, the slis were reduced. Each solid hit chipped away at their forms. Causing them to shrink and grow weaker. Their spitting beca less frequent. Their movents beca more sluggish.
Two were hit simultaneously by larger pieces of rubble. Causing them to simply deflate. And splatter onto the floor. As inert, non-corrosive puddles.
Jack kept going. Fueled by a grim determination. And the sheer satisfaction of turning the tables. His arms ached. His lungs burned. But the sight of the slis weakening spurred him on.
He was down to the last two. They huddled together defensively. Spitting frantically. But their aim was wild. Their power was diminished.
He gathered a final, heavy piece of jagged stone. Wrapping his powerful hand around it. He took aim at the cluster. "Taste this, you damn bubbles!"
He hurled the stone. It struck the first sli. Punching straight through its weakened form. And striking through the other one with the sheer force of the impact.
They burst. Not with fire. But with a final, pathetic gurgle. Their corrosive essence finally spent.
Silence fell again over the arena. Broken only by Jack's heavy, rasping breaths. And the faint sizzle of remaining acid on the floor around him.
He stood amidst a field of rubble. And inert, lted sli residue. The Judgent Warhamr held loosely at his side. His Naraka Armor was stained and scarred, but intact.
Ten down. His improvised ranged combat had been crude. But it was effective. He had adapted. He had survived.
But his exhaustion was even worse now. Every muscle scread in protest. He needed a mont. Just one mont.
But... No such luck.
"Round 7 complete. Clearing arena."
The arena floor began to subtly shift once more.
"Proceeding to Round 8."
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