This was not rely enhanced swordsmanship but sothing that touched the fundantal forces of existence. His next assault ca with renewed intensity, Astralend’s stellar fire blazing brighter as he channelled more of his essence into the blade.
Ekatarina’s eyes glead, wide with wonder, as Jolthar shifted his stance—calm, fluid, deadly. The violet flas spiralling around his sword crackled like lightning caught in a bottle.
She nearly stepped forward, heart pounding.
"Are you seeing this, Elder?" she whispered, voice trembling with awe.
"That boy... he has beco the Master of Chaos."
Her words silenced the watchers around her. Heads turned. Eyes widened. Even the wind seed to hush, as if nature itself leaned in to listen.
To be called Master of Chaos—it wasn’t a title.
A legend.
A mantle that once belonged only to those who could channel chaos without losing their soul to madness.
And now... it belonged to a nineteen-year-old human boy.
The Elder, ancient and still as a mountain, did not blink. He continued to watch Jolthar with eyes that had seen empires rise and crumble.
"I knew," he murmured finally, voice like stone sliding into place.
"The mont I saw the chaos fla flicker in his hands... I knew. He is not ordinary. He is a thread pulled by fate itself. A child woven into prophecy—whether he knows it or not."
In the ancient scrolls, such a title belonged only to those who wielded the "Sword of Broken Voidness", a technique where the user’s strikes didn’t follow logic. Their blades moved before thought, cut without touching, and their very presence twisted destiny.
The elder’s gaze never left Jolthar. "I saw a fire in his eyes, and it was not just fire—it’s hunger. The kind that once made emperors kneel and swords shatter just by being near it."
Ekatarina turned to him sharply, caught off guard.
She had never heard the Elder speak so openly of belief—let alone admiration.
"You... you believed in him all along?"
The Elder’s gaze never left Jolthar.
"Belief is for the unsure. I saw."
She was still processing that when a loud grunt ca from behind.
"Vareth is pissed, though," Ekatarina added under her breath, barely stifling a smirk.
From across the arena, Vareth stood stiffly, arms crossed, jaw twitching as Jolthar effortlessly flowed from stance to stance—purple chaos dancing at his heels like they belonged to him.
He wasn’t clapping.
But he wasn’t leaving, either.
For several exchanges, the two warriors danced their deadly ballet across the soft grass floor. Vareth’s technique was flawless, each movent flowing into the next with the inevitability of the tide.
His blade work spoke of centuries of refinent, of forms perfected through endless repetition until they transcended re technique and beca art. Yet for all his skill, he found himself pressed by an opponent whose power seed to grow with each clash of steel.
Jolthar’s chaos energy lashed out in unpredictable patterns, sotis manifesting as tendrils of pure destruction that sought to unmake whatever they touched, other tis coalescing into barriers of crystallized entropy that turned aside even Vareth’s most precise strikes.
At first glance, it looked like nothing more than a furious exchange of blades—just two warriors locked in combat. But the world around them told another story entirely.
The ground was torn and gouged, scarred with deep pits and jagged slashes. Craters smouldered where blades had missed, and entire sections of stone had been cleaved as if by giants. Each strike between them held the weight to split a mountain in half—but as they clashed, the power of one cancelled the other, their might grinding into a temporary stalemate.
Yet even in that balance, the aftermath of their blows echoed with devastation. The sheer residue of their clashing forces left shattered boulders and scorched earth in their wake, a battlefield reshaped by their duel.
The audience could only watch in stunned silence—witnessing not just a fight but the collision of two walking calamities.
The young man’s movents carried a raw intensity that spoke of battles fought at the very edge of existence, where survival depended not on perfect form but on the willingness to embrace powers that lesser beings would fear to touch.
The first sign that this would be no ordinary duel ca when Jolthar’s blade, wreathed in chaos fire, t Vareth’s descending strike with such force that the ground beneath their feet cracked in a spiderweb pattern extending thirty feet in all directions.
The sound was not rely the clash of tal on tal but sothing deeper—the protest of reality itself as forces that should not coexist were brought into violent contact.
Vareth imdiately shifted tactics, his blade work becoming more fluid, more adaptive.
Where before he had relied on perfect technique, now he began to improvise, allowing his millennia of experience to guide him through patterns that had no nas.
Astralend blazed with stellar fire as he channelled the power of distant suns into his strikes, each blow carrying the concentrated fury of dying stars.
It was then that Jolthar sensed the true depth of his opponent’s strength.
He could tell that Vareth wanted to finish this quickly.
Vareth was not rely skilled—he was formidable beyond anything the young man had previously encountered.
If he had to guess, he was just a few levels below Dakrasuer. Even with half of his strength absent, Dakrasuer was a lot stronger, and Jolthar barely kept himself alive against him.
But that was then, and now he had grown stronger.
This was an opponent who had earned his place among the elven elite through countless victories against foes that would have reduced mortal armies to ash.
The realization sparked sothing deep within Jolthar’s core.
The chaos power that had served him so well suddenly seed insufficient, like bringing a candle to illuminate the depths of an ocean. He needed more—not just greater power but a different kind of power entirely.
Jolthar knew that Vareth was a very skilled user of chaos, and so he had to change his tactics.
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