Brent Stinebaker
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II-35 Dominance
🕑 Added 2024-12-12 17:44:52 +0000 UTCThe creatures that thrive the most in the Claimed Hells are sadists. There is no delusion about this. Everyone knows. But what people miss is that there are two kinds of sadists. Well, more than two, but two predominantly, determined by how they use their cruelty and why.
The first is your run-of-the-mill sadist. They are emotional. They hurt people to nourish their own feelings. They hurt people because there’s something missing in them, or because they’re addicted.
This is not a good kind of sadist to be.
Mostly, they die while trying to pass through the Moongraves. A few unfortunate ones become citizens and eventually meet their untimely ends.
Then there’s the other kind of sadist—the calculating kind.
This one is a thinking predator that hurts to make a point, that inflicts harm to leave a name. They leave a scar on you, just so you can remember them, so that when you close your eyes, when your nightmares come and you wake screaming, it will be their name on your lips forevermore.
That is the sadist that thrives here.
And that is why I have such high hopes for little Wei.
-Mepheleon the Harbinger
II-35
Dominance
Countess Many-Wed’s attacks crashed upon the young master like a hailstorm of falling artillery. Her melodic notes, infused with a myriad of Essence types, crashed down around Wei. The blast swallowed him. Everything for three hundred meters was pummeled into nothingness.
Everything except for Wei.
Corrosion licked at his body, seared his very eyes. Heavy concussive blasts hammered against his ashen shroud. Piercing sonic screeches stabbed at his ears, and psionic blasts shattered and popped his thoughts like bubbles.
Yet he stood his ground. He did not flee.
As the flooding tide of offensive melodies crashed against the young master, his Empyrael Wrath’s faded embers shifted around him, shrouding him like armor. The attacks came, painted by his dilations, and Wei shattered them with his new Specialization. Every attack unleashed was enough to destroy him ten times over normally. If but one landed, his body would come asunder. Merely being in the presence of these attacks rattled his bones, boiled his veins, and made him bleed from his orifices.
Yet, that was still not enough. The young master danced the edge, with each stroke of his glaive, he unmade the attacks inflicted on him with edge and Essence, deconstructing and recycling the Countess’s assault to fuel his own power.
Many-Wed screamed as her suitors sang their wailing tune. The husbands widened their mouths and eyes as light bled out. Howling wails of symphonic melodies poured from them as their spirits were drained further, squeezed dry of every droplet of Essence she could claim.
More power poured forth from the Countess. More.
The notes flying over her were practically like a stream. Her wand burned brilliant hot, turning white like a star.
And through it all, no one could see Wei—not anymore—not after he was drowned under that avalanche of destruction.
Yet, as note after note crashed where the young master once stood, through the rising smoke and dust came a flicker, then a flare, and finally, a defiant radiance that rivaled her wand’s blossomed.
***
The Countess froze and stumbled back in surprise.“What?”
A blast of celestial fire cleaved through her assault. Wei expanded his aura, a wave of celestial fire spreading out from him as Many-wed’s attacks were unmade. He rose as the winds swirled around him, and the Ferro-Weave flowed around his arm, Divine Lightning coursing along its lattice.
The young master re-emerged, radiant as he had been before, Scorn at full capacity.
The celestial vanguard had taught him the rudiments of his new Class Specialization. A Scion of the Celestial Flame burned hot and dimmed fast. But he could rekindle his fires. All it took was countering his enemies attack—unmaking them. It was the perfect Specialization for him, where he could use his skills to ensure his own rekindling. One good strike to restoring his Scorn, one mistake from absolute obliteration.
He fought in cycles, most vulnerable at his offensive, and most durable at his drained.
The young master approached. Even the ash he strode on ceased to be. His Pale Fang gleamed, a bright wound upon the surface of the world. Worst of all was that look on his face, that disappointed sneer directed at the Countness.
“You… you…” the Countess managed. She took a step back, her body starting to shake. She had spent a full ten percent of her Envy on him. Ten percent to destroy him outright.
And it did nothing.
“It was as I feared,” the young master muttered, a look of pure disdain in his eyes. “You were worthless, just like your champion. I came here to fight a duel. Instead, I find a worthless, pathetic excuse for a Countness. All your power, all that Essence, all those slaves… they are wasted on you.”
He looked around, taking the spectator’s of Cherub’s Corpse. Disgust on his face turned visceral. “This is what you consider entertainment? These are you champions?” Wei spat. “If so, then it is little wonder why degeneracy has won here. But I will show you what it means to fight. And she will show you want it means to fall.”
The Countess saw a pulse of light and dark flicker within his eyes. Felt it. That wasn’t Essence. That was something else.
“This is not your arena, not anymore,” he continued. “For I am here, and I will make corrections to remedy a mistake the heavens allowed to exist for far too long.”
“Die!” Many-wed shrieked. She swept her wand, and a searing missile came streaking out at supersonic speeds—a high note that sent the world quivering, tearing the Spatial Essence ahead of her like wet tissue. But the young master swept his glaive up a full second ahead of her assault.
A tide of rising wind, lightning, and crystal crashed into her attack—and tore it apart. It was impossible. She had far more Essence. But as the celestial slash came for her, Many-wed was forced to bring her Wings of the Taken Symphony to shield herself. Mellifluous crash sang as her notes wrapped around her, shrouded her from the blast. But even with how much power she channeled, she could feel his cut digging through her wings, disintegrating them outright.
Just what kind of flames were those? How did he obtain such a Specialization.
This question went unanswered as, horrifyingly, the young master burst from his very own fires with an Essenceshift, his body coated by dying embers once more. Many-wed reacted. She was still over twice as fast as he. A cone of thunderous force exploded from her want. He slashed through it. Instantly, his body flared once more. But then, she saw Divine Lightning surge across his body, and the Ferror-Weave he stole from Silt activated again.
For the second time, the young master used Railblade Slash. He slid between the Countess’s alloyed legs, dragging his glaive and Ferro-Weave along her midsection. A disembowelment followed. But rather than the Countess dying, another of her suitors was split from groin to head. They gave her a gasping shock and died.
Slowly, the Countess felt her Essence dropping, her power draining.
Twenty eight left. Twenty—Angus. He was her favorite pianist.
“No,” Many-wed cried, catching the parted halves of his body. The count was clean. Perfect. It was like a thin slice of him ceased to be down the middle. “No!”
The crowds were murmuring. Random sections burst out in raucous cheers. But the Countess only felt sorrow, rage, and the faint building of cold despair.
“Twenty eight more,” Wei said, chuckling. “It is a fortune that I get to kill you twenty-eight more times, for if I were to sharpen my glaive on you as a whetstone for skill, I fear I might come out of this diminished.”
Then, with a burst of Divine Wind and a rush of glowing water, he came for her once more.
***
Two suns flared into existence within the private viewing platform. The first was a pure white. The second was abyssal dark. A second later, the Old Man of Pride arrived, and Mulver Groon flinched before his spiritual pressure. The Count came stomping forward, that signature scowl on his face and a look of disbelief in his eyes.
“Mulver, if that fool boy got himself killed—”
The orc interrupted his superior with a grunt of laughter.
He pointed down.
The Old Man, usually not one to take an interruption lightly, followed the orc’s finger. A second later, he fell wordless. His jaw opened and closed a few times, and his eyes grew wider.
“Is she—is the bitch running from him?”
“Seems to be,” Wolverine said.
The Old Man continued staring, unable to process the unfolding scene. His reaction was one shared by countless millions in the audience.
Silt of Storms was one thing—that could have been a fluke, or some kind of trick. But right now, here, it was the Countess fighting on the defensive, unleashing note, burning through her Essence, hammering the entirety of the battlefield just to keep him at bay.
And not once did she land a clean hit.
Rather, every blow she sent at him was either dissolved, parried, or dodged with peternatural grace.
She had more Essence by far. If any of her notes landed, it should have shattered him outright—each one at the yield of a hill-flattening bomb.
But she couldn’t hit him. She didn’t have the skill. She didn’t dance on the edge quite well enough.
And so, she missed again and again, and he carved and bled her again and again, stalking her, humiliating her, breaking her in front of everyone, murdering her suitors.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” the Old Man muttered. “Just what the hell did we fish out of the Moongraves?”
Mulver grinned. “You wanna hear the best part? Word is he’s already on the outs with the Lodge. They tried to assassinate him. He’s a free agent. Sir, I present to you our second best shot at becoming Warmasters for the Invasion of Earth.”
***
Why won’t you die? Why?” the Countess screamed over and over.
Full songs of ruin or torment were flowing from her, notes channeled so fast they became coruscating beams of sheet musical that lifted columns of destruction kilometers high. At the same time, her wings had spread wide, with each shivering symbol becoming a point of teleportation for her to utilize.
But it was to no avail. Everywhere she fled, he followed—like a prophet who knew what she was about to do before she did. His flames were as deceitful as they were destructive. Every single note she shot at him was unmade.
And though her power was far superior, he persisted—a burning beacon of defiance against her tsunami of sound and havoc.
She crashed against him time and time again, battering him with every Skill and Invocation she had, exerted her every Title. Corrosive blasts. Fields of incineration. Mind-rending bells that she summoned through her countless compositions. These bells had shattered the mind of a rival Count-Tiers. But when she used it against that boy, that monster, all that showed on his face was a slight hint of annoyance.
And through it all, his glaive fell and fell and fell again. He carved her husbands away, one after another. He’d killed ten already. Ten of her precious loves. Ten of her treasures. Ten, never to be hers again.
Ten times she felt the deathly touch of his blade’s edge. Ten times she felt herself run through, split down, and incinated from within.
She only had eighteen husbands left. Eighteen until it was her life on the line.
No. No, this couldn’t continue.
She needed to win. She needed to find a way.
But how? Never before had Silt or her power failed her? A truce? A bribe?
The Tribulator loomed above, his chains ringing with the cold sound of judgment.
She could feel the creature’s gaze on her, Mepheleon’s perfect guardian waiting to take her away after this was over. She still needed to find some way—some way to overcome this boy.
If not through direct force, then…
Three cuts danced down her body. Three more of her husbands tumbled apart within her grasp.
No. No more…
She had to risk it.
With a thought, she accessed a spatial cage back within her viewing platform and released her hound. A message followed thereafter. “Dagos! I have need of you! There is prey for you to hunt!”
A second later, a response came. “I hear you, mistress…”
***
With each swing, with each second, the rage within Wei grew. He came here expecting a fight—a proper duel against a Count-Tier adversary. Instead, what he got was an insult, a pathetic showing from one with too much power and not enough skill.
Her notes crashed down blindly, savagely, devastatingly, but they were wielded without any coherence or foresight. Every blow was telegraphed and thoughtlessly delivered. If not for her ability to put a hole through the side of a mountain or the few psionic notes that plucked at his focus, this was a travesty.
She didn’t predict. She didn’t even guess. She just hammered the entirety of the arena over and over, hammered against his celestial flames over and over, even when it was all useless.
Meanwhile, he cycled though supernovas and dusks, Aspects growing. His Class Level rising from the Scornful display he inflicted upon the Countess.
Class Level > 84
Relativity Advanced > 73
Enlightenment > 55
Omniscience > 56
>[46/100] Aspect Advancements to Core Ascension
And through it all, she never figured out what she had to do to strike at him when he was at his most radiant, rather than at his darkest. She failed to focus on his Essence, understand his strategies.
Hopefully, when he was done with her, a better caliber of foe would present themselves.
As he shattered through another note, he flicked a finger and a crystalline projectile burst out from underground, catching the Countess under the ribs. She jolted sideways, and one of her six remaining husbands cried out as he slumped over on his tendril, blood oozing out of his chest.
This was the worst thing about fighting her. How others died in her stead. Boys spent to protect an unworthy Countess.
The young master accelerated forth, his Dilation Echoes warning him of a forthcoming attack. Her wings, made from sheet music, speared down, crushing noise and cacophonous blasts nearly swallowing the whole arena. But she was slowing, her Essence running dry. With all those loud and heavy attacks, She spent herself without success, while he flowed seamlessly—his attacks layered, his winds, lightning, crystals, and flames serving as both offense and obfuscation. He Essenceshifted into a bolt of lightning and passed beyond her guard. Twisting, he slammed a fist into her thorax, and the alloy rang like a gong.
Many-wed cried out in outrage. This attack barely phased her, so high was her Constitution. But as she slashed down, he spent the remainder of his Scorn in a burst of Deconstruction as he Essenceshifted upward into a wind as she shattered a crystal decoy he left behind.
She let out a cry of triumph then, thinking the battle over. Then, he reemerged above her, and triggered Railblade Slash straight down. He impaled her using his glaive, the impact sending them down a full ten meters into the ash. Wei twisted his weapon, and the Countess gave a ragged cry of frustration as another of her husbands died.
This one grasped at something as he tumbled next to Wei, muttering a final “Thank you,” as he passed.
“ENOUGH! ENOUGH!” The Countess cried. She tried to rise but Wei drove his knee into her face, shattering her helmet and revealing the mascara running down her cheeks. No so pristine now.
Her wings flickered. Her notes grew quieter, loud cries and hollers sounded from the crowd. Mongrels. Wei didn’t need them. The only song he wanted to hear was his glaive’s: cut, stab, flick, blood. The Countess was carved over and over, mortal blows transferred to her husbands. One. Two. Three. Four.
And one more.
She brought her wand up—but Wei snatched it out from between her fingers and pulled it into his Inventory. A look of disbelief and outrage played across her face before he shaped dagger from his Ferro-Weave and put it through her eye. As the last of her husbands died, Wei pulled his blade out and prepared to finish Many-wed.
“Wait!” She cried. The young master didn’t. Not until she projected an image with a wave of her hand. Before him materialized a scene. A scene that displayed his disciples—of someone watching them from within the viewing platform without their knowledge.
Fury boiled over in the young master. He seized her by the throat. “Honorless cur. You dare do this before the Tribulator?”
She sniffled, snot receding up her nostrils. “I will accept any punishment bestowed by the Highest Court. I will pay you anything. But I wish to live. I only wish to live. If you would just…” She clenched her teeth. “Give me mercy. I will grant you any desire… And your people will live.”
Chains crashed down around Wei, the Tribulators presence sank like a crumbling mountain. The perspective hovering before Many-wed showed her assassin creeping closer. To Agnesia. To Ellena. The young master held up a hand, delaying their judgment.
Many-wed had the audacity to smirk. “Good. I knew… I knew you were a wise—”
Then, suddenly, Agnesia, Ellena, and all the rest of his disciples vanished. In their place burned Signs and Reference Circuits. Ciphers. A surprised cry came from Many-wed’s assassin as they were suddenly hit from the side by a massive draconic avatar composed of blackest flames. A doglike yelp sounded as chaos unfolded.
The perspective jolted about as the assassin was slammed against the ground over and over again.
“Roggi! Stalag. Agate! CHAINS!” Agnesia cried. Steam burst across the window projected before Many-wed, and whimpering followed. The sound of an arrow striking flesh followed. A cry of agony answered. Suddenly, Wei saw the furious faces of his disciples—but mainly the soles of their shoes. They were stomping the assassin, all of them kicking and beating him.
Get diabetes!” the orc chef roared, smashing a large cream bun onto the assassin. “Eat it.”
Through it all, neither Many-wed, Wei, nor the Tribulator said anything.
Cries of “Countess! They knew I was coming! Help me!” came from Many-wed’s agent, and “Hold him still, I will use a vacuum cipher to prolapse his folds” signalled Rafael’s presence.
Slowly, the young master began to laugh with pride while the Countess broke down in bitter sobs.
“Please,” she said, sniffling. “I just wanted… to be a patroness of the arts.”
Wei breathed. “And I just wanted a good fight. Both of us have been failed today. What a shame.”
Then, he drove his glaive into her, split her open from gut to groin. Many-wed let out a shuddering gasp. Her face contorted in agony, but suddenly, a vicious idea came to Wei.
If the Circle of Envy was going to insult him with this trash, then he will take this fued personally, and bring this humiliation to a close.
With a channeling of his flames, he used his Concept of Creation to mend her wounds. Suddenly, the Countess’s eyes widened, and he flung her back. Looking down, she saw a dimming patch of radiance painting her torso. There, her armor and flesh were both restored.
Suddenly, her wand was cast back into the ashes. Chucked at her feet like garbage.
“Pick it up,” Wei demanded, his voice as sharp as his glaive’s edge.
The Countess stared at him, her mind unable to process what was happening.
The arena was deathly silent again.
“I—”
“Pick it up,” Wei repeated, flourishing his glaive. “I am unsatisfied. We will do this until I am happy.” And until his Class and Aspects stopped growing.
“I…” Many-wed’s lip quivered.
“I wish to see how well my Specialization can heal someone. I will be training my disciples tomorrow. It will annoy me greatly if they died under my administrations. You will serve me as a practice dummy, for you could not perform the duty of rival.”
“No,” she breathed.
“Yes,” Wei said, advancing on her. “Now pick it up. Or don’t. It makes no difference.”
***
Mulver flinched and looked away as another anguished scream of despair sounded across the Bloodgrounds. Many-wed had pitches. Real pipes. And they were all used to channel her pain and begging now. Other Knights and Marquises from the Circle of Pride turned away, some of them pale, a few excited.
The Old Man, meanwhile, looked lost in thought. “How long ago did you say he arrived in Preceptor’s Descent.”
“A day.”
“Good Christ. What a find.”
Comments
Dar-Angol
Wei is the Fucking shit bro, always has been!!
Brady Fiola
Wei is such a gem. Btw, I think you meant “ministrations” and not “administrations.” I could be wrong though!
Brent Stinebaker
Doing some more edits on latest ttf chapters. Multiple releases incoming.
Daf High-Voltage
Wei truly belongs to the circle of pride, he won't even accept a subpar opponent.
Daf High-Voltage
Tftc
Mimic
This is great man
Cosmoros Subs
Start of chap "Where" got converted into a link.
Brent Stinebaker
Cleaning up new godclads chapter. Warfare escalation incoming
