Chapter : 873
But the Jahl, a being of pure, instinctual power, sensed the shift. Its triumphant roar faltered, a note of profound, instinctual confusion entering its voice. The descending, killing blow, which had been so certain, so absolute, hesitated for a fraction of a second.
And that fraction of a second was all that Lloyd needed.
He raised his head. And the blank, white mask, the symbol of the nameless, humble challenger, was gone. It had simply… dissolved. And the face that was revealed was not the kind, gentle face of Doctor Zayn.
It was the face of a god. Or a demon.
His skin was a pale, almost luminous white. His hair, which had been a simple, dark brown, was now a cascade of pure, incandescent silver, crackling with a faint, almost invisible, azure light. And his eyes… his eyes, which had been a gentle, compassionate brown, were now two pools of pure, molten gold, burning with a cold, ancient, and utterly inhuman intelligence. Ethereal, wolf-like ears, woven from moonlight and shadow, had sprouted from the sides of his head.
He had not just stood up. He had been reborn.
But the transformation was not just physical. It was a change in the very fabric of the reality around him. The oppressive, fiery heat that had been radiating from the Jahl was suddenly, inexplicably, pushed back, smothered by a new, and even more potent, kind of power. A wave of pure, white-hot, and absolutely terrifying energy erupted from Lloyd’s body, a silent, expanding sphere of pure, unadulterated will.
It was not the chaotic, raging fire of the Jahl. It was not the disciplined, contained fire of his own spirit, Ifrit. It was something else entirely. It was a clean, pure, and almost holy fire, the fire of a star being born.
A pillar of pure, white-hot flame, laced with streaks of brilliant, azure lightning, erupted from his body and shot straight up into the sky, a silent, incandescent beacon that seemed to pierce the very heavens.
The seventy thousand spectators, who had been on the verge of either cheering or weeping, were now struck dumb, their minds completely, utterly, and joyously broken by the sheer, impossible, and divine majesty of what they were witnessing.
The Jahl, its killing blow completely forgotten, took a stumbling, involuntary step backward. The arrogant, condescending amusement was gone. The triumphant, sadistic cruelty was gone. All that was left in its ancient, fiery soul was a single, new, and utterly alien emotion.
Fear.
Lloyd, or the being that had once been Lloyd, stood in the center of the pillar of divine, white-hot fire. He slowly, deliberately, raised his right hand. The air in front of him shimmered, and from the heart of the flame, a new weapon was forged.
It was a greatsword, even larger and more magnificent than the one his spirit had wielded. It was ten feet long, its blade a single, solid, and perfectly shaped piece of what looked like solidified, roaring, solar fire. It did not just glow; it was light. It was a piece of a sun, given form and purpose.
He took the sword in a single, effortless grip. He settled into his stance, a low, powerful, and utterly perfect mirror of the Jahl’s own. And then, he looked up, his molten, golden eyes fixing on the terrified, disbelieving Demon.
And he spoke.
His voice was a new, and terrible, thing. It was a dual resonance, a perfect, harmonic chord of two distinct voices speaking as one. It was the calm, clear, and human voice of Lloyd Ferrum, and it was the low, rumbling, and ancient voice of the god of fire he had forged in his own soul.
“The dance is not over,” the new, dual-voice said, a calm, quiet, and utterly final statement of fact. “It has only just begun.”
The humble healer was gone. The struggling underdog was a memory. In his place stood a knight. A Fire Knight. A four-meter-tall titan of pure, divine, and absolute power. The brink of defeat had been a stage. And the rise of the true hero, the true master of the arena, had finally, and gloriously, begun.
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The transformation was absolute. The man who had been a healer, a humble figure in simple robes, was gone, erased and rewritten by a power that defied all comprehension. In his place stood a being that was both terrifying and sublime, a fusion of mortal will and divine, elemental fury.
Chapter : 874
He was a colossus, a four-meter-tall titan whose very presence seemed to warp the air around him. His armor was not the simple, practical leather he had worn before, nor was it the jagged, volcanic plate of his Ascended spirit. This was something new, something more. It was a suit of interlocking, perfectly articulated plates of a material that seemed to be forged from solidified shadow and cooled starlight, its surface a deep, non-reflective black that seemed to drink the very light of the sun. Veins of a brilliant, white-hot energy pulsed within it, a captive star system contained within the armor’s perfect, geometric lines.
His face, now fully revealed, was a mask of serene, almost beautiful, and utterly inhuman power. The silver hair, crackling with a faint, azure static, framed a face that was all sharp, aristocratic angles, a face that was both familiar and terrifyingly alien. And his eyes, those pools of molten gold, held the vast, cold, and ancient emptiness of a cosmos, the gaze of a being who saw not a world of men, but a universe of simple, predictable, and easily manipulated energies.
And the sword. The sword was a thing of impossible, terrifying beauty. It was not a weapon that was wreathed in flame; it was flame. A ten-foot-long, solid, and perfectly shaped blade of what looked like a continuous, contained, and roaring solar flare. It did not radiate heat in the chaotic, undisciplined way of the Jahl’s fire. It radiated a clean, pure, and almost holy light, a power so immense and so perfectly controlled that it was a thing of profound, and deeply unsettling, artistry.
The entire arena, from the lowest, blood-soaked tier to the highest, most opulent Royal Box, was a single, unified entity of stunned, silent, and reverent terror. The seventy thousand spectators were no longer a mob; they were a congregation, and they were in the presence of a new, and very real, god.
The Jahl, the ancient, arrogant, and seemingly unbeatable Demon, had taken another stumbling, involuntary step backward. The raw, mindless rage that had been its defining characteristic was gone, replaced by a new, dawning, and utterly alien emotion that was flickering in the fiery vortex of its core. It was fear. A deep, primal, and existential fear. It was the fear of a lesser god that has just come face to face with its creator, or its destroyer.
It let out a low, guttural, and almost pleading whine, a sound so completely at odds with its previous, triumphant roars that it was a shocking, pathetic thing. It was the sound of a bully who has just realized that his victim is, in fact, the city executioner.
Lloyd, the Fire Knight, the being that had been forged in the crucible of his own will and the Transcendent power of his spirit, Iffrit, took a single, slow, and deliberate step forward. The movement was a study in contained, effortless power. The ground did not shake. The air did not crackle. There was only a profound, and deeply unsettling, silence.
He raised his greatsword of solar fire, the movement not a threat, but a simple, almost casual, gesture of acknowledgment.
“You wished for a dance,” his new, dual-resonant voice echoed in the silent arena, the words not shouted, but simply… present, as if spoken directly into the mind of every person there. “And I have promised you one. But you seem to have forgotten the first, and most important, rule of the dance.”
He took another, slow, inexorable step forward.
“You do not lead,” the voice continued, a low, calm, and utterly final statement of the new reality. “I do.”
And then, he attacked.
He did not charge. He did not roar. He simply… moved. One moment, he was standing fifty feet away. The next, he was directly in front of the Jahl, his greatsword of solar fire already descending in a clean, silent, and impossibly fast arc.
The movement was not physical speed. It was something else. It was a conceptual, almost instantaneous, displacement of reality, a trick he had learned from his silent, watchful partner, Fang Fairy. It was the speed of lightning, wielded by a god of fire.
The Jahl, for all its power, for all its ancient, predatory instincts, could not react in time. It was like a mountain trying to dodge a thought. It could only raise its massive, obsidian-clawed arm in a clumsy, desperate, and utterly futile attempt to block the blow.
The two forces met. Lloyd’s blade of pure, solar fire, and the Jahl’s arm of hardened, molten rock.
The impact was not the deafening clang of their previous exchanges. There was only a soft, hissing sound, like water being poured onto a forge.