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Salt and Blood - Chapter 126
🕑 Added 2025-02-14 13:55:50 +0000 UTC<< Chapter 125 | Table of Contents | Chapter 127 >>
2.32 - Faith and Pride
Blind devotion to the pantheon is a terrifying thing. Men can become devils while believing every death on their hands is an act of mercy
-Excerpt from ‘The Darkness of Divinity’ by Alain Webb
“The words of a sinner are nothing but sacrilege. You will fall and your soul will be cleansed by the almighty redeemer!” the commodore roared, stomping his foot against the deck.
A wave of golden light burst forth, smashing into Aaron and Everyn like a charging doori. He gasped as he was knocked two steps backwards, blood spurting from his nose and mouth.
You have earned a new skill!
Divine Resistance 0 > 1
Everyn frowned as he saw the golden whorl splash into view. Divine Resistance. That confirmed that the man wasn’t babbling nonsense but truly wielded the power of a god.
Having experienced the strength of his father’s blessing many times during his childhood, Everyn knew the terror of divine energy. Facing this man would be the hardest battle of his life, but if he couldn’t overcome his own fear and strike him down, he wasn’t worthy to call himself a warrior.
Glancing to his guard, he saw Aaron had fared much worse from the blast. He was on the ground, bleeding from every orifice.
The man was still conscious but Everyn could hear his wheezing gasps even at a distance. “Aaron, leave him to me. Keep yourself alive,” he shouted out, rushing to meet the bastard commodore in combat.
He didn’t wait to hear Aaron’s response, his energy rushing to fill his circuits as he swung his sword into the dance. The man swung his hands wide, opening his chest in a pose of crucifixion.
Everyn’s sword carved through the air in a wide swing. If his blade struck true it would cleave the man who called himself ordained in a single blow.
Moments before he finished the slash, the man clapped his hands together. The world shook with the rumble of thunder and the flash of golden light.
He was blinded by the flash, but trusted his body and continued his swing. His arms grew cold and as his vision returned he saw red.
The red slowly faded, but his cheeks were wet. His sword had cut right into the man’s side but stopped at his skin.
The golden flesh was harder than steel and even his full strength swing hadn’t been enough to slice it apart. That was fine.
Everyn’s dance was an endless one. If a single slash wouldn’t fell his foe then he would deliver five. If five couldn’t slay his enemy he would rain down dozens until they were minced into chunks of flesh.
Once he began the dance of death it wouldn’t end until the final rest was reached, whether that was his own or his enemy’s. He swung again but it felt sluggish. His right arm felt freezing.
Looking down he saw a golden line carved across his forearm. It didn’t bleed, but he felt his lifeforce draining through the glistening cut.
Skill up!
Divine Resistance 1 > 2
The commodore was a savage bastard it seemed. This new form of his was not one of power, but of afflictions.
He planned to slowly drain Everyn of strength and then deliver the final blow when he was weakened. This was now a true battle of attrition.
Everyn clenched his jaw. He believed in the power of his sword. It came down to which of their strategies was the strongest.
The next moments passed in a blur. Everyn span and twirled, his blade singing as it cleaved the air in its wake.
Each strike was empowered with arcane energy, sparks of divine and arcane power flying with every clash. He still failed to break the man’s skin with his slashes but he knew it was only a matter of time.
Meanwhile, his foe continued to use his flashy skills. Golden flashes of light heralded more savage beams of divine energy that seared into his skin, draining his health faster and faster.
Suddenly the man stomped the ground again, another powerful wave of divine energy blasting outwards. Everyn was able to block this one with a heavy swing of his blade, but his strike was interrupted momentarily.
Blood spurted from his elbow as some of the smaller arcane circuits burst, but he forced his dance onwards. Only death would end it now.
He stepped on a slick plank and had to shift his weight so he didn’t slip. Glancing down he saw a pool of crimson blood coating the wooden deck.
The last wave of divine energy had smashed into the man while he rested. Unfortunately he hadn’t possessed the strength to resist.
Everyn roared his fury to the seas, turning his vengeful gaze on the golden bastard who’d slaughtered his loyal guard and close friend. Even though he was flagging, his energy slowly draining, Everyn swung his blade with more ferocity and power than ever before.
Something deep within him resonated with his emotions and he felt new understanding of his abilities and the world slide into place. It wasn’t anything to do with the tide or his skills, but his core understanding of energy and his body.
An eerie hum rang out with his next strike. The shimmering golden dome that trapped them in this tiny arena shook from the blast of air it left in its wake.
His foe stepped forward to meet his strike, raising a forearm to block. The man had a perpetual expression of righteous arrogance painted across his visage, looking down on Everyn the way a god might stare at an ant.
Every fibre of his being roared in defiance against the pompous prick. His muscles screamed even as they overflowed with arcane power, his blade smashing against the man’s arm with the force of a falling meteor.
A bright flash of golden light blinded him as his blade struck the commodore’s arm. He didn’t care about his sight.
All he knew was that his body held fast and his strike rang true. He forced his strength to push the blade down and instead of being rebuffed, he felt resistance vanishing under the power of his swing.
Skill up!
Blades 27 > 29
The whorl splashed in his ears as his vision slowly returned. He spun as the momentum of his strike fell towards the ground, bringing his blade back into the sky and around for another.
As he pivoted to slash at his foe once more, he roared in victorious rage when he saw the arrogant bastard holding up a severed golden stump. Where his hand had been, golden light leaked out into the air.
“You dare blemish the holy vessel of Thielar, foul sinner!? Blasphemy!” the man roared, a fresh wave of golden light flowing down his arm and exploding out of the stump.
A fresh hand grew from the light in seconds. Everyn was surprised, but it wasn’t a big deal. What did it matter if the man could regrow his limbs?
All that meant was he would need to carve him apart faster and with more precision. There was surely a limit to his energy. Even with a powerful blessing, men at their level could not channel the divine forever.
Even his father had his limits and the man had been using the powers granted to him by Thoramir for six decades. As his next strike fell, the commodore was no longer passively guarding.
His fists flashed as he punched the empty air repeatedly. His arms moved in a blur as he unleashed a dozen blows before Everyn’s sword fell.
In a single breath as the sword was about to strike the commodore’s shoulder, twelve illusory golden fists exploded forwards and struck in unison. Everyn’s sword was blown away and he gasped as a few of the blows smashed into his body.
Despite that, he could only smile. The crown prince was no stranger to pain. Pain was a warrior’s best friend.
It was only through blood, sweat, and tears that one could hone their skills to the pinnacle. A warrior who had never felt pain was a poor warrior. A greenhouse flower.
Everyn had resolved himself since he was a young man to never allow himself to hide from pain. The bruises were a mark of honour.
The battle exploded with fresh ferocity. Everyn’s sword blurred as he spun faster and faster. Every strike showered the surroundings with arcane sparks and cut deeply into the commodore’s golden flesh.
In turn, the commodore unleashed hundreds of punches and kicks at a speed imperceptible to the naked eye. Both men accumulated wounds rapidly until they found themselves panting with exhaustion.
Every stood tall, his sword clutched in two hands even as his armour was dented and broken, covered in blood and gore. The commodore no longer had a derisive sneer on his face, his features twisted in ugly rage.
“It seems you are not so righteous after all, Ordained bastard,” Everyn chuckled, lunging forwards.
He felt as though he only had a few blows left in him and he was determined to make them count. Even if he died, he would bring this fucker with him.
“The words of a sinner are worthless to the blessed of Thielar. Your evil made you strong, but even strength is nothing before the Ordained. Die,” the commodore snarled as he planted his feet and raised his fists to meet the prince’s swing.
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