grievinglands
patreon
Book 5: Chapter 48 - The Taste of Victory (RAW)
🕑 Added 2025-04-23 12:54:10 +0000 UTC"The Nex—Neural Interface Exosuits—derive their name from the neural core that translates human thought into mechanical motion, seamlessly binding intention to cybernetic strength. Humanity discovered swiftly, and often painfully, that the Nex demands conformity; deviation from the familiar shape of our own bodies invites confusion and eventually madness, a flaw especially apparent in early experimental designs. Further constraints arise not only from the natural limits of human anatomy but from the interface itself, whose reliance on rapid neural connectivity renders remote operation impossible. The Nex suits stand as towering reflections of ourselves, varying from human scale up to eight meters, the upper bound set by the artificial nerve fiber bundles. These mechanized suits have since become indispensable, integrated seamlessly into industry, rescue operations, construction, exploration—and inevitably, warfare."
— Rebirth of Man & Machine: A Primer for Nex Pilots.
The axe-wielder heaved himself upright, helm skewed, nostrils flaring like a war-steed’s as iron fury hardened every line of his face. His three companions closed ranks with mechanical grace, boot-heels hammering the flagstones in a perfect martial cadence—one, two, three, four—the heartbeat of a battlefield drum. Behind them, Alexandros lingered in regal reserve, violet spear leveled across a half-raised shield, his eyes cool and appraising. He meant to drown me beneath a tide of overwhelming skill, then pierce whatever piece of me still drew breath. A coward’s move if there ever was one.
Humanity’s curse is to repeat its mistakes, and I am no exception—though first one must learn whether the initial act was a mistake at all.
I loosed a second Inferno Bolt at the bowman, a miniature meteor that stitched the air between us with its molten light. The spearman jerked up a mirror-polished shield with heroic speed, catching the flare in a white-hot blossom of sparks and witch-fire—but only half deflecting it. The impact nearly severed his arm; it now hung at a grotesque angle, armor charred, flesh sizzling. My intended mark survived, yet the close formation paid a ruinous price.
Warriors bred to Bronze Age doctrines fight shoulder-to-shoulder, each the other’s shield and bulwark. They have never met the impartial and indiscriminate savagery of modern ordnance—or at least my equivalent of it—and this ignorance cost them dearly. Liquid metal splashed across bronze, flesh, spirit-flesh alike. Their mouths moved as if to cry out in agony, but the summoned souls, wracked with unspeakable pain, could only wear silent expressions of torment. The summoned souls of antiquity had no voices, mute in the present and the now.
Very well—they would not sing for me. Alexandros had shown one of his aces; I had yet to unveil mine. I needed to probe the boundaries of his magic—how often could he respawn these ancient souls?
Yet, I smiled. For in truth, he had handed me four immortal test subjects, ideal for testing every trick in my grim repertoire in a “real battle” situation. I had slowly learned that it was best to savor life’s little blessings.
They closed in on me, much more cautious now and spaced themselves apart from one another, thinking to attack me from all sides. Fools that they were, this worked more in my favor than theirs. I could break the engagement into four swift duels instead of one hopeless melee of four against one. Well, if Alexandros joined in, five against one.
Behind my serpent’s helm of black-and-gold, I laughed, a velvet rasp of malign delight that rippled through the ancient shades arrayed before me. And, my summoned wraiths were anything but idle: the survivors of their ranks wheeled around these paragons of antique warfare. Forced wide by their own caution, the warriors could no longer shield and support one another, and the circling spectres struck from every angle, stealing precious focus with each darting blow of their shadowed strikes.
I chose my target—the large warrior to my right, wielding that absurdly designed double-bladed axe. Bringing him down would be like felling a mighty tree, and speed was crucial. Though my hammer was gone, I still carried my backup weapons, the two swords resting at my hip. I placed my hand deliberately upon the longer blade: Caselel’s Cutting Leaf.
My heightened Intelligence attribute granted me near-perfect clarity of recollection of most moments I deemed important. Fen’s teachings echoed sharply in my mind, specifically her technique, Cutting the Trees, a swift and lethal move executed exclusively straight from the draw. I had scoffed at the practicality of such a technique—drawing your blade to strike seemed so utterly pointless. She had explained the essence of the move lay not in the blade itself, but in the scabbard, gathering and concentrating one’s Kai there, to be released explosively in a single, decisive blow. Such mysticism had struck me as nonsense.
Still, I had been forced to memorize the form through countless repetitions—a tedious task I had endured solely to move on to more intriguing and practical skills. And now, strangely, a whimsical, capricious part of me whispered, "Why not?"
I turned my focus toward the scabbard, and my Entropic Aura responded eagerly, screaming its dark approval. Again, why not indulge it? After all, who was I to deny the macabre forces of the universe—my most reliable and steadfast companions?
I had never truly grasped the mysterious energies of Kai, but Entropy—that was power I intimately understood. It surged forth from within me, fierce and unrestrained, like the release at a lover's climax. I became a conductor of its symphony, guiding it where I wanted, the energies of it swiftly coalescing inside the scabbard. There, I felt a terrible, explosive force rapidly building, ready to erupt.
Seeing a wraith distract the axeman, I used Improved Rush Strike, closing the distance between the axeman and me in a half-beat of the heart, preparing to draw my curved sword. But bronze, even magicked, was not iron’s equal and was most definitely not the equal of ensorcelled Mithril. As if exploding from a gun, the sword flew, guided by my hand from the scabbard. My blade cut through armor, flesh, and bone, slicing through his armored chest and arms in a spray of blood and viscera. A technique of an older style of swordsmanship, it was an expression of elevated violence from a different time.
You have learned [Draw] Vorpal Slash (lvl.1)
You have gained 1 Dexterity.
Who would have known, my old master Fen had been correct all along? The scabbard, not the blade, holds the heart of the storm.
Blood spattered my blade, already drying into brittle flakes of brown dust. Irritated by the blemish defiling the pristine Saint’s Silver, I flicked my wrist sharply, sending the residue scattering before smoothly sheathing my sword.
The three remaining warriors cautiously stepped back, wary and uncertain, and I indulged myself with a slow, mocking smile. How quickly I forgot—mere numbers meant nothing against my unrivaled might.
“Is that truly all, Alex? Is that all you have? Come now!” I called, the thrill of victory humming intoxicatingly through my veins. “Bring the oaf back! Second chances are not handed out every day, you know. Let him know death again once more, or twice more, or three times! It matters not.”
Raising my visor with deliberate care, I examined Alexandros closely. His expression was set in a rigid mask of strained concentration, but the raw, savage snarl in his eyes was unmistakable. It was a truly magnificent sight. My fingertips brushed against Cutting Leaf’s hilt as I considered my next victim: the spearman, whose injured arm hung limp and useless beneath what remained of his once-magnificent shield.
I unleashed my new technique in a flourish of lethal elegance; the strike was so swift, so graceful, that death itself seemed to embrace him gently, reclaiming him once again. His ancient armor crumbled like paper beneath my focused ferocity, the Mithril’s edge unstoppable. The sheer delight of it—like a dozen victories condensed into a single exquisite moment—surged warmly within my heart.
Using the technique left me vulnerable. Drawing from the hip in such a manner presented no guard, no protection that an already drawn blade would give. Yet why concern myself with trivialities when my massive defense could protect me from all but the mightiest of blows?
The one with the twin swords surged forward next, curved kopides flashing wickedly in the light. Inspired by the spearman’s fate, I decided upon a delightful surprise specifically for him. His face twisted in soundless fury as he charged, blades spinning with lethal intent. Drawing my second sword with leisure, blade to blade, I met each strike effortlessly. Blow after desperate blow, I parried with elegant disdain, gradually accelerating the tempo. He faltered—unable to match my rhythm—and I savored the delicious spectacle of dismantling my opponent, beating him at his own game with a superior showing of skill. The lines of his body, the intense concentration and focus in his eyes, spoke of a most frantic desperation even without a single audible cry.
Suddenly, an arrow scraped sharply across my vambrace; My Mimic, the horror guardian residing within my farm, had instinctively sprung forth to shield my face. Predictably, the swordsman lunged toward this apparent opening—the arrogant fool. With a flicker of annoyance, I reprimanded his presumption with a swift slash across his wrist, sending one cherished blade skittering loudly across the stones. Within the circle of my twin swords, none could challenge me. It was a shame that the archer’s rude interruption had ended our game too soon.
Another arrow zipped rudely toward my visor. Infuriating—I had not yet finished with the swordsman. Meanwhile, Alexandros, eyes blazing with defiance, completed his summoning ritual anew. The axeman emerged once more from the ether, seemingly oblivious to the futility of his cause, and charged mindlessly toward me again.
He slowed abruptly at the perimeter of my Entropic Aura, confusion rippling through his simple mind as the very stuff of Entropy, the waves of it, gnawed relentlessly at his very being. Seizing this brief hesitation, I cast Greater Drain; a thick, shadowy tendril snaked out hungrily, siphoning his strength into me. A heady rush of euphoria flooded my senses, an intoxicating thrill that bordered on ecstasy.
Sheathing one sword swiftly, I bent my knees and adopted a low stance, preparing to unleash my variant of Fen’s technique. Recognition flashed painfully across the axeman’s face—he remembered this moment, this agony. However, I decided to go for a different tack. With an Improved Dash, I closed the distance in a heartbeat, gripping the haft of his massive axe and pitting my immense Strength against his. We struggled briefly, locked in a savage tug-of-war, until his resistance inevitably collapsed under the relentless drain of my magic. I wrenched the weapon free, sweeping his legs from beneath him and sending him sprawling helplessly to the stones like a child. Rather than end his misery swiftly, I contented myself by cleaving through his leg just below the knee with his own axe. Blood gushed forth in a satisfying torrent of red, spilling onto the stones, and his silent scream of anguish brought me a chilling thrill.
Cruelty, yes—but carefully measured. A strategic cruelty had whispered itself clearly into my consciousness, freeing me now to savor each exquisite moment of raw suffering. I had realized that Alexandros could not resummon his fallen warriors while they lingered upon this plane of existence, mutilated but alive. This sure truth was sweet ambrosia, a balm for the spirit, filling the empty parts of my soul.
Using the gifted axe, I severed his hand as additional punishment for his audacity, then invoked Heal upon him. The spell sang out in protest at such a twisted mercy, but I callously ignored its plaintive melody. Disappointingly, the axeman's consciousness fled; another hero of legend reduced to mere ruin—how utterly uninspiring.
My wraiths circled eagerly, drawn irresistibly to his vulnerability, but I waved them impatiently toward the swordsman who stood defiantly now with a single remaining sword.
“Have you realized the futility yet, Alex? These useless adds, they can not stop me. Do you not see it? The pointlessness of this… your pathetic struggle,” I mocked, voice rich with scorn as the ghosts of my past victims harried him. “These weaklings bore me. Have you truly no stronger champions to offer? No other cunning stratagems to test me? I grow weary of playing with such brittle toys. This is not good sport for Gilgamesh of Uruk. Come attack me all at once! If you dare that is!”
I laughed coldly, reveling in the shifting emotions visible in Alexandros’s gaze: a thin fracture of fear and uncertainty. Ah, so the storied hero of old it turned was so very mortal after all.
Comments
Mesa
You will find out!
Mesa
The world was bigger back in the old days because travel was slow
KingOrgasmusTwo
First of: We see Entropic aura and greater drain finally again. Now he’s fighting at nearly full force. Love it. And on a side note: he rly didn’t see much of this new world. He was a prisoner in the Sahara desert, visited a forest, and arrived at Alexandria so to speak, only a small corner of the whole world
KingOrgasmusTwo
The opening text is interesting. Hinting at a game mechanic? VRMMORGP?
