Battleforged
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Chapter 376 - Challenge Offered & Accepted
🕑 Added 2023-12-08 03:59:00 +0000 UTC“I got him, boss! Gonna bring him down!”
Eric could only glare at the wild-eyed gunner wearing bomber jacket, aviator goggles, cowboy hat, and bluejeans much like his own, straddling a dystopian cyberpunk dream of what the ultimate artillery weapon would look like as the air shrieked with rounds racing right for Eric, who’s suddenly shrieking danger sense made it damned clear that slowing down to the equivalent of 100 Quickness hero was playing with fire.
But it was the move he had to make when his danger sense had flared so damned hard in the trench, humbled anew that even ten seconds trash talking a fellow contender was putting hundreds… no thousands, of lives on the line. But as far as he was concerned, he had had no choice. Knowing the nature of his enemies, the ease with which a seemingly innocuous kid had transformed into a rabid werewolf the moment he had turned away after revealing secrets to a handful of nobodies, secrets the goblins would never want revealed, there was no way in hell he was taking any chances with three powerful young Contenders radiating the System sanctity of favored pawns, no doubt filled with wild luck and even wilder abilities that would give even Eric pause, and wouldn’t it be utterly ironic if their heartfelt redemption arc began with the death of his sister.
There was no way in hell he was letting that happen. They could have their fall from grace and heartfelt redemption somewhere else. Anywhere else. But nowhere near his territory, friends, or family. And somehow he just knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that should he bow under the pressure of a thousand desperate gazes and fail to make the kids swear just as he had, somehow there would always be a complication, an excuse, unforeseen events that would make it impossible for him pin those three to any oath or commitment at all. Not until one or all three were standing over the dying body of his sister, and whether their eyes were filled with dismay or darkest rapture, the worst nightmare imaginable would have come to fruition with Malice filling the ether with his bitter laughter, whether or not his mother had killed him or was tormenting or redeeming him even now.
Sure as fuck, the monster had a hate hard-on for Eric that defied all reason, no matter whatever twisted tender feelings he might or might not have for the girl he had seduced and enslaved when she was just sixteen years old. A once broken girl who had risen from the ashes of her own disgrace, a golden phoenix who had ascended upon the shattered remains of a dozen goblinoid worlds that were now no more, Eric right by her side.
He snarled, shaking away the too visceral too terrible memories he really didn’t want to look at ever again, focusing on the present. On the now. The only thing that mattered if he was going to keep all the hostages safe, after burning precious seconds trying to protect his sister.
He had spotted four separate artillery batteries in an area that had been orchestrated to be a killing field. And massive chevalier-reinforced trench wards or no, and stupid individual orcs or no, there were enough classers and contenders on the field to see all his sisters future citizens dead if Eric didn’t act NOW!
A flash of speed and killing intent that instantly drew the eye… while immediately slowing down so his foes could still track him. And the fire of the handful of classers was now entirely on him. Such a striking contrast to the clueless orcs struggling just to position their 24-pounders correctly.
But what was worse, far worse, was the cowboy gunner coked up to the gills glaring wildly at Eric as he tried to bring him down. And Eric had to move slowly enough that the classers could track him… lest they instead turn their fire to the helpless hostages.
Yet now he was moving so slowly that he himself was at risk of getting blown to kingdom come.
MOVE!
Before abruptly weaving and darting to the side when the air screamed with the echoes of shells exploding all around him as his careful weaving became a mad dash that still couldn’t make use of his full speed, as both Mana and Spiritual Energy were utterly tapped, Mana only now flooding back in thanks to his mother’s fiery hot bloodline, but as for Spiritual Energy? He needed an hour’s quiet cultivation…
or perhaps just fresh kills.
Because why the hell should potency floods be relegated to experience pools alone? Why not top the wild cauldron of power that his life entirely depended upon?
Even while battling the frustration of not being able to MOVE at full speed, lest he go bobbing in the air in uncoordinated leaps as if he were on the moon, his lips were still wide with the absolute rush of dodging and darting at speeds far beyond what any save the farmost gunner could track as his perception of exactly just how far he could push and manipulate his experience gains grew by leaps and bounds.
And even if he was moving at what was closer to 400 Quickness than 700, it was enough.
Enough for him to be in the surprised faces of the closest orc cavalry crew, turning their heads so slowly as a snarling Eric’s fist lashed out to slam into the bloated asshole’s massive belly with all the force and fury he could muster without tapping into Burst of Strength, or any limited reserves at all.
More than enough for the stunned orc’s eyes to rupture under the sudden shockwave of pressure that had just blown out his back in an explosion of gore, sending shattered iron links spraying his own line like grape shot as the cratered body flopped in the air. Falling to the ground so lazily as Eric’s hand smacked the cannon his furious strength could effortlessly lift, meaning it was his now, disappearing in the blink of an eye.
And he was already racing forward, lips stretching in a feral grin as he sensed the frustrated ire of multiple gunner classers, who only cut off their artillery fire when they risk serious contract backlashes, striking their own employers. Even as Eric’s furious fist slammed into one orc after another, his mind as always lost in the horrific memory of Gilton’s darkest hours, where the desperate cries of countless collard humans being thrown into fire pits or insane zombifying pods still haunted his dreams to this day. Innocent victims consigned to the most horrific of deaths by bloated pig-faced monstrosities very much like the assholes he was taking out even now. Assholes who had dared to come for him and his sister.
“Not this time, motherfuckers!” Eric roared to the confused looking orcs who had absolutely no idea what he was referring to, as the monsters of his nightmares were reduced to punching bags for his fury as he embraced furious impulse, leaping forward to clap massive shoulders that crumpled like fall leaves in his hand as his knee bomb exploded right through the closest hapless orc, the resulting crimson spray washing over all the survivors as Eric took too damned long falling back to the ground, time enough for one orc to actually line up his musket before blinking in confusion when Eric seemed to disappear the instant his feet touched the ground and Speed Racer took full effect once more, only for the stunned pig’s skull to explode with a louder crack than his own musket which did no more than tear a hole in Eric’s pants, the only article of clothing still on his person, as a snarling Eric slaughtered the remainder of the company.
And then he was before the wide-eyed human gazing at Eric in stunned disbelief.
“No way. No way you can move that fucking—”
You have critically struck your prey!
You have slain Level 35 Classer Mitch Sniper Mcdevons.
You have claimed Steampunk autocannon you don’t have the slightest idea how to use!
Experience earned!
Five more claps of his palm against cast iron that rang like bells and the battery was clear of everything save a trio of shell-shocked looking shaman incapable of anything but bickering for dominance, thanks to the ugly fusion of their tribes. Though it seemed like they could unite in one thing at least.
“Human! Get the—”
Eric’s lips curved in a fierce happy rictus when the precious moments he spent staring the shaman wards he now understood so well bore sweetest fruit, just long enough for one enthusiastic gunner on the other side of the battlefield to draw a bead, Eric’s danger sense suddenly flaring as he darted right around the triple warded shamans.
And that was when he felt it. The weight flowing away from his body as the largest shaman within roared and cackled, Eric finally paying attention to their insults.
“Ha! Stupid human! Do you really think you’re—”
Words cut off with a surprised open-mouth expression as the shaman sought desperately for words his perforated brain would never be able to process with a crispy fried hole in the center of his forehead. Then the shaman’s eyes rolled up as he toppled over in death.
As did his startled companions when Eric waited for the second pulse in the shaman force field as he fell back to earth.
“No! There’s no way an inferior human can pierce our—” Plasma death flared once more, Eric firing so fast that the pair of shaman’s died the blink of an eye.
Then he was moving, as fast as he could as the air screamed with multiple class enhanced artillery rounds. But not before Eric’s hands slammed against the haphazard pile of shot and powder casks the final dozen orcs were guarding. Orcs that had the sense to flee for all they were worth as a fiercely triumphant Eric chanted the words that filled him with such dark sweet joy, even as his furious fists continued pounding the fuck out of those fleeing orcs, his Master-tier perk happy to say that in this tiny corner of the battlefield, at least, victory was most definitely his.
“Surge Centuria! Imperator Imperat Tibi!”
Which was a damned good thing, because he didn’t even have the mana to raise fresh troops mid combat, though he most definitely felt a surge of… something flooding his soul when dozens of bronze covered vambraces smacked against chest plates, powerful baritone voices filling the air as the night rang with the boom of freshly fired artillery.
“Ave Imperator Abedimus!”
“Damn right you do!” Eric roared, jabbing his finger toward the leftmost artillery battery. “Now grab the torches these idiots actually had going and charge those fuckers and make them pay!”
His troops saluted and immediately began marching for the opposite side of the battlefield than Eric was racing for, their speed the equivalent of any marching legionnaire. Nothing like racing across the battlefield at hundreds of miles an hour. And they certainly didn’t need torches.
Yet the very things that utterly sabotaged their ability to serve as shock troops by Eric’s side made them fantastic targets for all the artillery shells now flying their way, as both night-blind orcs manning their pathetic cannons and the handful of classers depending on System messages on where red enemies and experience point pools were going as much as actual nighttime sight of course took the easier targets, a swarm of high level 50 potency rich targets they might actually hit.
Not the coldly smiling lone wolf now charging right for the second cannon battery set up nearly identical to the first. Save for the fact that the trio of shaman were actually working in concert, their coordinated spells sending a storm of fire searing through Eric’s revenants as they were slowly ground down by multiple cannon fire.
Cannon fire that was no longer trying to obliterate the humans under cover or himself.
Of course the Classer amongst the orc idiots guarding the cannon batter he was rapidly approaching immediately sensed the play, effortlessly manipulating a cannon that looked more like a Napoleon 12-pounder than any exotic steampunk or modern military equivalent. Eric felt a sudden shiver of apprehension, despite how mundane their cannon seemed, carefully eyeing his opponent kitted in enchanted mail and an odd bronze helmet with jeweled eye-sockets that was clearly a different breed of gunner than most of the fools he dealt with.
And Eric wasn’t about to underestimate any wildcards.
Not when he was such a wildcard himself.
“There! He’s right fucking—” The girl’s words… because it was a girl, were cut off in a long pull of superheated plasma. An attack totally unexpected from Eric, as she hadn’t quite made out how he had taken out the orc shamans when he had darted around them before he was fist pounding orcs once more. His fast-draw blaster strike was the farthest thing from a noble fist warrior sticking it to his enemies in melee range.
Because this wasn’t training, or a game.
This was about survival and butchering his opponents before they had the chance to cut him or his charges down.
Even if a part of him did regret not doing it in the way that would enhance his own growth the most… he wasn’t a complete idiot.
A choice vindicated when his flaring danger sense even at fifty yards had him curling up and leaping away, as the entire battery exploded with a massive retributive strike.
You have successfully killed Contender Iglin Morgan using a Soulbound weapon!
Full experience Boon granted!
You have earned 5% of your opponent’s primary stats!
Finesse, Quickness, and Perception have each gone up 4 points! Vitality and Mana have each gone up 3 points! Baseline boons have been enhanced by all modifiers!
You have have been struck by RETRIBUTIVE STRIKE!
All surrounding cannons and gunpowder have simultaneously erupted!
Quickness Check made! Finesse check made!
Mad Bomber perks are now in effect!
You have escaped Lethal blast radius!
Physical Resilience reduces wound severity!
Fatal Blow reduced to Serious Wound!
You have been temporarily stunned!
Words that flooded a dazed Eric’s interface as his curled up form when flying through the air, the entire world spinning madly as Eric wanted to either laugh or scream with a rush of power and agony in equal measure flooded through him, his snap decision to kill his mark at nearly fifty yards out the only reason why he wasn’t paste.
“Fuck! Contender gunners who can erupt on death violently enough to take out a Bronze? That’s utter bullshit!” He hollered in his own head as he went tumbling through the snow-covered fields some distance away from the kill box, praying that the flash, eruption, and distraction of his remaining revenants would keep his foes occupied for at least a few seconds as he infused some of that sweet, sweet potency into power healing the worst of his wounds, though it was still a number of seconds that he lay gasping for breath on the frozen winter ground as the last of his revenants flared out of existence before he forced himself back to his feet.
“Poor girl could only feed me 20 baseline points. Mid White tier, or lower if she had had her own fortuitous boons… yet her death strike still had my Danger Sense flaring to hell and back.”
He shook his head, both humbled and horrified by what it meant to be a Contender.
The monstrously sweet rush of claiming one or multiple level’s worth of power with a single kill… and the horror of feasting upon his own kind.
And the guilt for killing a girl who in an other time and place… if the cards of fate and folly had played even a slightly different hand for her…
He shook away regret that had no place on a killing field where his enemies clearly wanted him dead. Him and the two thousand souls he was now determined to save as he cracked his neck, making sure he truly was in one piece and his pants, miraculously intact… before racing for the battlefield once more.
Only to behold a sight that froze him where he stood, worst case scenario suddenly in play.
His slow moving revenants had been utterly obliterated by humanoid spells and artillery fire. The two remaining artillery regiments were no longer firing blind. All of them were, in fact, at attention as a powerfully built Bronze-tier Classer who wasn’t hiding the power radiating from his core, a man who looked like a power-lifting actor on a Battle-Trek set with a soft purple hue to his perfectly toned body, his physique appearing not only human but nearly as Scandinavian as Eric himself looked, save for a pair of tiny silver horns on his head. The man cracked his neck and smiled Eric’s way as he stepped out of the deadliest, most bad-assed mech suit that Eric had seen outside of his mother’s movies. It was a cross between high end powered armor and a battle-mech far more compact than the one he had almost sent into orbit before letting it crash into the only artillery unit Eric had feared taking on directly. An artillery unit that had actually pierced his sister’s defensive wards… though why it hadn’t been shelling the palace the entire time was a question that would probably never be answered.
The man was smiling before the ramp leading to the two thousand refugees, multiple glowing lights now lighting up the battlefield as well as any stadium that had once hosted Eric’s favorite baseball teams cracking bat to ball for late night homeruns.
The giant of a man gave Eric a cool nod of acknowledgement as he stood upon the frozen grass, light gusts of snow caressing his head and naked shoulders as he pinned Eric with his ice blue eyes.
Eric had to give him points for style. He might have been indirectly threatening the hostages with his positioning, lighting, and fresh command of the battlefield, but at least he was classy enough not to say it aloud.
Then he spoke with a powerful baritone voice that would have done any opera company proud.
“For the lives of my men, I would challenge you, Contender.”
***
Eric took a shuddering breath, starting to truly feel the weariness of the night, even beyond depleted potency pools, only one of them rapidly going back to full. And since his dual potency runic spells required multiple potency pools to cast… he was fucked. But what choice did he have? Fate itself literally compelled him to fight, after his would-be opponent made the classy move, having leveled the playing field by stepping out of power armor that most definitely had an absurdly sophisticated and deadly looking plasma minigun attached to the chassis among other instruments of death. Yet he forbore using those tools with which he could take out Eric effortlessly, if he was stupid enough to stick around, or the two thousand effective hostages, if Eric got smart and just cut and ran.
As it stood, he was challenging Eric wearing nothing more than an exotic mesh jumpsuit with a vibroblade strapped to his hip. Really, he couldn’t ask for a fairer contest than that.
All other things being equal.
Eric forced himself to smile, holding out empty hands, wearing nothing but what were now suspiciously intact bluejeans utterly free of holes and scuff-marks, now hugging his powerful quadriceps a lot better than they had just an hour ago.
“Seeking to hone yourself along the Warrior’s Path?” Eric quipped, his thoughts racing as he tried to buy himself time.
This earned a cold chuckle. “Always, Contender. And sure, at this point it would be effortless to slaughter both you and the thousands of Terrans my employers so dearly wishes eliminated. Make no mistake, boy. After costing us a fortune in lost capital, any merc company worth their salt would scorch your world with retribution that would make your eyes bleed. But I ask you, Contender, where’s the fun in that?”
The man’s laughter was downright charming, earning chuckles from all the mercenary Terrans beside the hooting and howling orcs and gnolls in the distance… even if only screams and sobs could be heard from the huddling humans Eric had been charged by his sister to protect, forced to accept that the natural gully, even with an exhausted Chevalier’s renewed wards, had just become a death trap.
Yet the mercenary’s eyes… so very cold and calculating.
Bronze Killing Aura boosted by 3000 Points in Martial Stats has ATTEMPTED TO SUPPRESS your own!
Willpower Check: Success!
Contender Status in effect.
You have successfully resisted Bronze-tier suppression!
Radiated Aura reveals your opponent’s build!
Moray Adonelle. Rank 35 Bronze Battlefield Commander - 600 Strength / 600 Vitality / 600 Quickness / 600 Finesse / 600 Perception (Potency pools hidden)
Note. Your opponent has achieved an Ideal Configuration and unlocked hidden bonuses!
Eric matched the merc’s smile with his own, cracking his neck and pretending his heart wasn’t pounding with dread as he was forced to face what might be his strongest opponent yet, with powers and abilities he couldn’t even guess at, while he was at his absolute weakest and most drained.
Pure fucking bullshit… and it was a trap easy enough to escape.
All he had to do was turn around and walk away. Speed Racer and 710 Quickness sure as fuck meant his foe wasn’t catching him.
Instead he stepped forward, calmly closing the distance as he felt over half a dozen sniper classers lock onto him… for all that their aim wobbled in and out of focus, probably thanks to nausea, though not one dared fire with a 35th level Bronze Classer radiating potency so powerful that pretty much the entire army were on their knees, many puking with vertigo, and Eric could only imagine how his charges felt, far closer to the Battlefield Commander than even the nominally affiliated humanoids who clearly weren’t directly under his command, or Eric doubted they’d be having any symptoms at all.
“Your right. Sending you hurtling into space would be fucking boring as hell. No challenge, no growth,” Eric said, enjoying the look this earned him.
His words were pure bluff, of course. But his foe didn’t have to know that. He felt a sharp twinge of satisfaction when Moray’s pupil’s dilated, Eric’s What the Other Party Wants and Know the Score perks massaging his exhausted brain as he suddenly sensed an angle that might leave them both ahead.
“So here’s what I propose. You and me have it out, one on one. No abilities, no powers, no crazy skills. Fists and feet only, honing ourselves in the most primal way we can as we forge ourselves in the crucible of battle, fighting for dominance, survival, and mastery. Because we both know a System-pasteurized glob of experience will only take us so far. After all, what good’s a fight over in the blink of an eye, when we can intensify the killing pressure that forges us over glorious minutes instead of a split second that hardly does us any good at all?”
Eric felt a pleased tingle when he caught the satisfied smirk on Moray’s face. No doubt this was pretty much exactly what the man was going to go for anyway, Eric was sure, his gesture of stepping out of his mecha without high tech weaponry enough of a clue.
Moray gave a satisfied nod. “I’m glad to see you understand what truly matters, newblood. All this?” He sneered at both the thousands of gathered troops and the hostages gazing up at him in fear. “Meaningless. Just pieces on someone else’s game board, worth nothing more than a ‘quest complete’ or a paycheck. It’s the glory of battle in the crucible of combat, battles against opponents who push us, challenge us! That is the only way we can continue to excel, continue to push ourselves to the limits of our potential!”
His grin turned hard, calculating. “But for our fight to mean something, there must be intensity. There must be… Peril.” With the inhuman grace of an over-leveled asshole who had both Quickness and Finesse at 600 who shouldn’t even be allowed on Earth, he flashed a neck-sized ring of mithril that sent a spike of dread lancing through Eric’s gut.
Eric froze and hissed, earning a cold chuckle.
“You understand what this is. Good. Then you know the price of failure. And I don’t even have to kill you. So, shall we begin?”
Eric coolly shook his head, ignoring the hard glare this earned him. Before the first punch was thrown, he’d make damned sure that the terms were clear… and give himself room to position at least one hidden ace of his own.
“If you win, all the fleeing refugees will be permitted safe passage to our destination wherein a truce will be in effect till first light with an option for a bloodless surrender come dawn.” He flashed a cold smile. “And you’re free to decline collaring me, if you choose. If you surrender to me, I will also have the option to spare your life, and you, your men, and the unified alliance of assholes here must swear to leave the northeast quadrant for at least a season.”
Moray gazed at him for long moments. “And if I decide I’m going to collar you, and not let you go with your friends?”
Eric chuckled coldly. “I guess we’ll let the contest of mithril be held right after the contest of unarmed skill. Fair enough? As to whether or not we’ll even have that… what should we call it, a second match? I’ll leave that up to you. Either way, the refugees will be granted safe passage out of here, and be granted the chance to surrender peacefully, should you all successfully breach my sister’s wards after first light.”
The mercenary commander glared at Eric for long seconds before filling the cold nighttime air with his laughter. “Done and Done! Let our match begin!”
“You can’t do that!” Roared a distant humanoid voice, before the words were cut off in a streak of superheated plasma.
Moray glared into the distant crowds, most of the humanoids still kneeling under the weight of his aura. “Anyone else have any objections? Good! Seeing as our goblin… concierge has fallen in the chaos of battle, command of this regiment is now mine to bear! When I give an order, I expect instant obedience. Insubordination will be met with swift retribution. Am I clear?”
Hundreds of clueless humanoid eyes gazed his way.
“Sir, yes sir!” Said a distant Terran voice.
“We obey the Big Boss!” a handful of orc shaman nervously agreed when Moray turned his killing glare their way. A glare that immediately softened into a warm, almost fatherly smile.
“That’s right, boys! You did good, getting us this far. Now take your ease, break out the drinks, and enjoy yourselves while I whip this boy into shape. Now that’s an order!”
“Yes, Big Boss!” Declared a bunch of happily hooting orcs, as they, and the other humanoid tribes immediately began breaking out flasks of drink, rations, cooking pots, and began taking their ease, countless hundreds of humanoid races and human classers now gazing Eric and Moray’s way as if eager for a show.
Eric gave a courteous dip of his head. “You handle your men well,” he said.
The mercenary chuckled. “Comes with experience. You thirsty, kid? You look like you’ve been through hell. Here, drink up.”
Eric took the water flask with a smile, drinking deep… and detecting no toxin all all.
“Thanks.”
“No problem. You ready, kid?”
Eric cracked his neck and stepped back into the circle the powerful bronze had carved into the tuft.
“Alright, kid. Here are the rules. We knock the shit out of each other as much as we like, and we fight like everything’s on the line. Because it is.”
Hard purple eyes glared into Eric’s own.
“When I eventually have you in a guillotine choke… and I will… tap my arm, hard, thrice, and you’re mine. Fight’s over, you get to live, your pawns get to meet up with your sister for all the good it will do them, and your time here on Earth is pretty much over. You understand?”
Eric’s heart was racing. He couldn’t help smiling as he bowed his head. “I understand. The moment either of us concede the fight, the trial of fists will be over and the trial of mithril will begin,” he said, even if he was castigating himself for seven kinds of fool for never learning how to properly grapple beyond the very basics. This would definitely be a stick and move kind of fight, if he had anything to say about it.
Moray snorted. “Sure, kid. Trial of Mithril. I like that. I hope your future owner does as well. You ready? Our match starts… now!”
Eric couldn’t help but flash a tight, excited grin, eager to see how well his hyper intense but utterly unorthodox training would fair against a trained Bronze-tier warrior.
As it turned out… not quite as well as he had hoped.
Chapter 377 - The Trial of Fists vs The Trial of Mithril
Comments
Antony Haynes
Given the number of people, including women, Eric has killed, at this point, he should be numb to killing them and should not still be feeling "guilt for killing a girl."
Agelion Graiyon
Exciting.. honestly have no idea how this will turn out.
