Chapter 297: Brakhtar Gorat
The Obsidren took their place on the marble arena, drawing a brief hush with their unmistakable physiology.
Thin light skimmed the polished floor and climbed their frames, the crowd’s noise settling into a dense, expectant silence that made every breath feel louder.
Dark, quarried-stone skin sheathed hulking humanoids up to 2 meters tall, and even their gear seemed forged to match, dense metal fitted over stone-plated bodies. By nature akin to titan golems, they were a defensive race devoted to the Nether Path.
Each step landed with a muted thud, grit rasping under their soles, the weight of their bodies sending small tremors through the marble as if the arena itself acknowledged their presence.
Unfortunately, though for all that their racial traits and the [Resilience] stat afforded near-impervious defenses, they never matched the Umbraens, another Nether Path race, in talent.
The reason was simple—numbers.
Simple did not mean small; it meant the kind of iron law that shapes centuries.
Chronic low fertility kept their population thin, which in turn meant few Practitioners, fewer high ranks, and no depth to seize and hold territory.
Across the Outer Region, that shortage has kept them from ruling and fixed their place among the lower races. Courts and borders move on logistics; without a bench of fighters to replace the fallen, momentum dies, and with it the dream of dominion.
The crowd’s focus held them only a moment before sliding to their opponent: a one-man team. Heads turned in the same slow wave, anticipation tightening like a drawn bowstring.
Brakthar Gorat of the Gorathim drifted down like a weightless leaf and settled into his corner on the marble.
The air folded around him as he descended, the faintest swirl lifting dust from the floor.
His size struck first. He loomed close to 5 meters, a massive bulk with a domed belly and dark green skin. He filled the space the way a boulder fills a river, forcing the flow of attention to bend around him.
He wore the traditional minimal garb of his race, patterned with skull motifs that seemed to thicken the pressure he gave off. Round head, small eyes, and an unblinking stare; he measured the five figures across from him with calm interest.
Nothing about him hurried; the stillness read as confidence more than caution.
"It’ll be my first time seeing a Gorathim fight." Murmurs rippled through the stands. Whispers braided together, then broke apart again, the arena learning his name in pieces.
The Gorathim were a shy race, always staying far from public view. Little was known of their combat style beyond this: they walked the Aether Path and wielded spiritual Spark skills.
Rumor filled the gaps that secrecy left, and rumor, today, sounded almost like reverence.
"Don’t forget, they are said to be direct descendants of an Elder Race as well. This fight will be instructive." Another voice rose, tightening the air around the arena.
Expectation sharpened; even the impatient held still.
True or not, that claim alone commanded attention. The chance to watch a race directly linked to an Elder Race in battle was rare; even Rank 4 Practitioners, after centuries alive, had seldom witnessed it.
Rarity changes the temperature of a room; it makes ordinary moments feel like thresholds.
"Heh. Look at them, happy just to see a ’cousin’ of an Elder Race." Mirela kept her voice low and cut Adyr a sideways glance. The excitement of the crowd only tightened the quiet satisfaction in her chest.
Let them cheer for a descendant; the man at her shoulder was the real thing, an Elder Race in the flesh, known only to her and a handful.
The secret sat warm and heavy inside her, a jewel kept in the mouth so no one could see it shine.
"Then, if both sides are ready." Caprion waited for the crowd’s excitement to settle and the murmurs to die down, then announced the start. "Begin."
His hand cut the air, clean and final, like a gavel on stone.
The instant the signal was given, the Obsidren did not hesitate. All five surged forward, rushing the giant ogre, who still stood in silence.
Their formation tightened, shoulders angling, timing synched to the beat of their bare stone feet, the plan simple and direct.
Everyone knew the most dangerous hallmark of Aether Path Practitioners: mind attacks.
You do not see them coming; you only notice that your choices have fallen quiet.
Even though the Obsidren possessed the [Resilience] stat, which granted strong defenses for both soul and mind, they did not underestimate him or consider themselves safe.
The opponent before them was one of the top geniuses, so they chose to strike first, denying him any opening or time to use his skills. Speed was their shield now; initiative, their only clean window.
Alas, it was already too late.
The moment stretched, then locked.
As the 5 tall, stone-bodied fighters charged—marble shaking beneath them, the hard clatter of stone on stone echoing—their assault stalled all at once.
The echo kept going even after they stopped, as if the sound had not gotten the message.
Every stone body froze as if caught by invisible strings. Fingers tightened on hilts without finishing the grip, knees held mid-drive, and torsos tilted into a run that never landed.
Weapons hung in midair. Spark Skills remained half-charged, their resonance ready. The large, dark eyes in their stone-carved heads stayed locked on their target with grim focus, yet their bodies would not move.
A pressure like deep water filled the air behind the eyes, and stillness became a cage.
"Sigh. I knew it. Fighting an Aether Path is never a satisfying experience." The complaint sounded almost routine, as if this was how these stories usually ended.
Understanding what had happened, the crowd exhaled as one, a low sigh of pity for the 5 Obsidren. Relief and regret ran together, the audience grateful for mercy before it was even shown.
This match ended almost as fast as Thalira Luna’s bout, but unlike that one, everyone grasped the cause, and many could even name the Spark Skill Brakthar Gorat had used.
Knowledge spread like a ripple, each whisper teaching the next.
It was a Rank 3 mind-freeze Spark, counted among the rarest. Unless the opponent possessed a specific counter-skill and sufficiently high [Sense] or [Resilience], avoiding it was very difficult.
Most defenses start in the body; this one demanded clarity where fear lives.
There was, of course, one other way to evade it: remain outside the skill’s range, but in an arena this small, doing so without risking disqualification was extremely difficult. Borders matter, and today the boundary worked against them.
"Did I win?" Brakthar Gorat asked in a harsh, nasal voice, turning his small eyes toward Caprion. His tone held no triumph, only procedure.
"Well." Caprion paused, looked over the completely motionless team of 5, and spoke. "They look unable to go on, so let’s end this." He leaped into the arena and announced the winner. Formality closed the book on a fight that had barely opened.
The moment the victor was declared, Brakthar rose the way he had arrived, lifting like a weightless leaf and gliding toward the crown of the Giant Eye. He left the floor without a sound, as if gravity respected him enough to step aside.