Chapter 125: The World Trembles
Every collision between Lan and Karahad birthed a rift in the ruined city, sending shockwaves that turned stone into dust, that bent shattered towers into spirals of wreckage.
Sparks of crimson and black exploded in bursts, as if lightning and shadow had found war inside the veins of the world.
Lan’s arms burned, his chest heaved, but he did not retreat. Devil’s Lie pulsed in his hands like a living thing, its hungry edge humming with every taste of Karahad’s disdain.
The cloak of shadows that had once seemed untouchable now shivered where Lan’s Sword Intent cut into it, each swing wide enough to cleave through marble and air alike.
Yet Karahad did not falter. His grin, once casual, had sharpened into something focused, a predator’s gleam. The black flood of shadows that followed his steps writhed like serpents, forming walls, spears, and jagged maws.
Still—Lan met them head-on, his Severance Touch unraveling every construct that dared to close around him.
The battlefield quaked beneath their feet.
It was then that Karahad shifted.
The assassin’s breath slowed, and for a heartbeat, silence reigned. Then came a ripple — an audible crack, like the rending of chains. The shadows about him deepened, consuming the air, and from his lips fell words that rang like judgment:
"Second Breath."
The darkness multiplied. His every strike carried not one weight but two, not one edge but countless after-images that folded inward, devouring momentum.
Lan’s Qi Blades — crimson arcs of condensed killing will — launched outward in a storm, a hundred knives of pressure meant to carve flesh and spirit.
They did not reach him.
One by one, each Qi Blade unraveled in midair, dissolving like ash in a tide of black. The Second Breath coiled around Karahad like a second body, a mirror of shadows that intercepted all harm before it touched him. The world bent to his rhythm.
Lan’s pupils narrowed. The toll of this fight pressed heavy on his veins, but he forced the storm of his own blood to surge higher.
If Karahad had a second breath, then Lan would take his soul.
The pale fire in his eyes deepened, and when they lifted to Karahad, it was no longer the gaze of flesh but of something deeper, colder, more ancient. His voice was a whisper torn from another existence:
"Soulrend Gaze."
The world convulsed.
For an instant, Karahad froze. The shadows about him quivered, their cohesion fractured. In that silence, his spirit cracked under the weight of Lan’s will — not shattered, but staggered, as if something had reached into his chest and ripped the certainty from his bones.
Lan moved.
Sword Intent roared through space as Devil’s Lie cut wide, a scarlet arc of annihilation tearing through cloak and shadow.
The edge bit deep, sparks spraying as the blade nearly severed the veil that shielded Karahad. For the first time, blood bloomed — a dark splash against pale lips.
---
Far outside the capital, where Lan’s men had withdrawn, the earth gave voice to their terror.
Bragg lifted his head first. The mercenary’s scarred features tightened as the ground beneath him quaked, shuddering with each echo of the clash.
His hands clenched the hilt of his axe though no enemy stood before him. "By the pit," he muttered, his throat dry. "That... that ain’t men fighting."
Venom was silent at first, his cruel eyes narrowed as he stared toward the ruins. Shadows writhed unnaturally across the horizon, twisting like worms against a sky fractured into veins of red and black.
His scar burned as if remembering its carving, and at last he exhaled: "No. More like gods trying to decide who deserves to breathe."
Even Garran, stone-hearted and colder than frost, shifted his weight uneasily, fists tightening. He could feel it in his marrow — each tremor, each pulse of oppressive force.
Bragg spat into the dirt, his calculating eyes refusing to leave the horizon. "We shouldn’t even be standing here. If that tide spills, we’re corpses before we know we’ve bled."
Halmer, old and limping, looked older still as he braced against a stone. "Yet we must watch," he rasped. "That clash decides whether we live tomorrow, or not at all."
Around them, the surrendered Solaris soldiers fared worse. Their eyes rolled in terror, their spines bent, and some fell to their knees, whispering prayers that sounded like confessions.
"Not men... not men... gods... gods in flesh..." One soldier clawed at his throat as if suffocating, his voice breaking into sobs. Another vomited bile into the dirt, the weight of the unseen duel crushing his sanity.
Even the air seemed split between mourning and awe.
---
Back in the ruins, Karahad staggered. He dragged a gloved hand across his lip, smearing the line of blood that glistened there. It was rare — unthinkably rare — for his flesh to know pain.
His eyes, dark and sharp as spears of midnight, fixed on Lan with new gravity. When he spoke, the levity that had cloaked his tone was gone. In its place was a colder register, edged with something dangerously close to respect.
"No king I’ve ended has pushed me this far," Karahad said, voice low, yet carrying over the devastation like a tolling bell. "You are more than rebellion, Lanard."
Lan’s chest heaved. His skin gleamed with sweat and blood, his grip tight upon Devil’s Lie though the blade shook with hunger. He met the assassin’s words with eyes like stormlit steel, tired but unyielding.
His reply cut sharp:
"And you are still a leash that pretends it is the hand."
A silence spread — not empty, but taut, heavy, expectant. The rubble trembled as if even the stones awaited what came next.
Then the silence shattered.
Both moved at once — shadows flaring, crimson blades roaring. They vanished from sight, their forms devouring distance, reappearing only in the wake of impact.
The city was torn further still, towers collapsing like sand, streets buckling under the pressure of their wills.
Shadows lashed like a thousand spears, crimson arcs met them with the ferocity of rivers of blood. The air split, light bent, and reality itself frayed at the edges, as if unable to hold the weight of their hatred.
There was no victor in sight.
Only two figures — calamity and leash, storm and shadow — rending the world apart in their collision.
And as the battlefield trembled, the heavens themselves seemed to lean down, waiting to see who would fall first.