The Ash before them was no longer the beautiful devil.
No, his shoulders broadened, his jaw tightened, and his hair shifted from midnight black to weathered silver. The devil's allure was gone, replaced by King Alaric—the man mocked by every kingdom for the last two centuries.
The transformation was so flawless that even Seris, who had witnessed nearly every illusion and shapeshifting trick in her three hundred years of war, found her battle instincts sensing nothing but the presence of the genuine, pitiable king.
Only the weight behind those borrowed eyes gave away the lie; they were too sharp, too hungry, too alive. Ash rolled his newly burdened shoulders, flexed his fingers, and let a private, vicious smirk tug at the corner of his mouth.
'Perfect Disguise really is a handy little talent,' he mused.
They stepped into the coliseum's blinding light.
A million voices roared like a tidal wave, then shattered into stunned silence when the western gate revealed only three figures.
Ash, wearing Alaric's face, walked confidently to the center of the massive arena, hands folded behind his back as his crimson-and-white cloak whipped in the scorching wind. Thalion and Seris trailed five paces behind, their expressions blending cool composure with a hint of curiosity.
Overhead, the floating announcement crystals thundered, their voices magnified by ancient arrays:
"A wager of land and treasure is on the line. The rules are absolute, and there's only one: killing is allowed. The last side standing takes half of the loser's territory and riches. Let the battle begin!"
Before the echo had even begun to fade, Ash lifted one hand from behind his back in a languid, almost bored gesture, palm open as if requesting silence at a banquet.
"Ahem," he rasped in Alaric's gravelly tone, head tilting toward the floating announcer encased in layers of reinforced crystal.
"Instead of fifty percent, let's make it ninety." He fought to keep the grin from breaking across his face.
'Haha, I'm totally scamming these ants.' His gaze swept over the Thalor formation, assessing, dismissing, cataloging. Nothing worth more than a flicker of attention… except for two.
Darius Vale and Lysara Vale, the twin powerhouses of Thalor's military, stood at the very top of A-rank, each boasting twenty thousand EL.
Out of the hundred present, theirs were the only two heartbeats that sparked the faintest hint of excitement in Ash.
Laughter erupted from the stands as King Thalor strode past the barrier, trident thrust into the ground like a challenge.
"Ninety? You really are the fool they claim, Alaric. I accept."
The crystals glowed a deeper crimson, scrawling the amendment in blazing letters across the sky. Once he gave his consent, he slipped behind the barrier as his hundred companions surged forward.
Above, the crystals flared a vivid blood-red.
"The wager has been revised to claim 90% of the territory and treasury. No surrender, no mercy."
Ash inclined his head with theatrical grace, the very picture of a gracious host offering tea to guests he already planned to poison.
"Thalion, Seris… just enjoy the show," he murmured, voice soft enough that only they heard the promise beneath the words. "If you blink, you might miss it."
The eastern gate exploded.
A hundred peak human cultivators moved as one, a living weapon built for destruction.
Fifty charged ahead in flawless formation, boots slamming into the sand hard enough to turn it to glass, weapons blazing with solar fire and storm-born lightning.
Thirty more launched skyward, elemental power flaring into crimson wings of flame, spears of crackling violet lightning, and wind-forged blades so sharp they screamed through the air.
The last twenty stood firm, hands weaving in perfect unison as gold arrays blossomed above like sending obsidian chains as thick as ship anchors crashing down to form a cage.
Fifteen meters. Ten. Five.
Meteors of searing flame and crackling lightning crashed down in a storm fit for the apocalypse.
Chains screamed.
Ash, wearing Alaric's smile, spoke a single sentence that tasted like the end of everything.
|Absolute Null Zone|
There was no flash, no roar, no warning tremor.
Mana vanished completely within a two-million, five-hundred-thousand-kilometer sphere centered on Ash's heart.
The sky dimmed as every elemental light flickered out in unison.
Crimson meteors turned to harmless stone mid-fall, shattering across the sand.
Lightning spears became lifeless metal, clattering uselessly to the ground.
Golden arrays broke apart into shimmering dust, while obsidian chains melted away into pure essence.
Warriors who had been soaring thirty meters in the air came crashing down, their screams echoing.
Every enchanted shield, sword, and piece of armor touched by even a trace of mana reverted to plain iron, splitting along hairline cracks older than the kingdoms watching.
A hundred peak cultivators were reduced to ordinary mortals, armed only with panic and dull steel.
Ash pulled a battered scrap sword from his ring—a plain, nicked, cheap-looking piece, one of countless forgotten relics from the Seraphiel proving grounds—and took a slow, deliberate step forward.
The massacre began.
He moved through the front line like a hurricane tearing through paper houses.
His sword swung in slow, almost gentle arcs—no wasted motion, no showy flourishes—and every sweep claimed lives.
A leftward slash opened six throats at once, spraying the sand with perfect crimson fans.
A quick flick to the right crushed chests, ribs bursting outward in wet red blooms. One smooth spin sent three heads drifting through the air together, turning like bloody moons before they dropped with soft, damp thuds.
A lazy downward stroke split a man from head to groin, the halves peeling apart with a sound like tearing wet parchment, spilling intestines before he even knew he was dead.
Blood fell in heavy sheets, while limbs spun lazily overhead trailing ribbons of red.
Bodies came apart so quickly the sand became dark, glistening mud beneath a carpet of flesh and bone.
No screams broke the silence.
The Null Zone swallowed sound as easily as it swallowed mana; all that remained was the wet whisper of steel through flesh, the dull thud of severed parts hitting sand, and the steady drip of blood from Ash's unhurried blade.
Four seconds.
Ninety-eight corpses.
The coliseum, a roaring beast just moments before, fell into a silence so deep it felt like even the wind dared not stir.
A million cultivators sat frozen in place, mouths agape, their laughter dying mid-breath.
Seris, centuries of battle carved into every fiber of her being, felt her stomach twist until the metallic tang of iron touched her tongue.
Thalion's glasses slipped slightly down his nose; for the first time in six hundred years, the ever-prepared strategist had no clever remark, no insight—only a faint tremor in the hand that nudged his lenses back into place.
Amid the red-stained ruin, only two figures remained standing.
Darius Vale, twin tower-shields cracked and useless at his feet, skin the color of old ash, eyes wide and unseeing.
Lysara Vale, white hair plastered to her cheeks with someone else's blood, hands frozen in the half-finished sigil, lips parted in a silent scream that would never come.
Ash flicked the sword once.
Sound crashed back into the world like floodwaters bursting free. A single drop of blood drifted lazily through the air, pausing for a heartbeat before falling to the sand at his feet with a soft, deliberate plink.
He raised Alaric's bloodied, borrowed face toward the royal viewing box, where King Thalor stood, pale as bone.
"Shall we continue?" he asked pleasantly, voice light, as if inquiring about the weather.
[+4,900 EL]
[Current EL - Rank A (12,932.5)