Terrifying amounts of mana then began expelling from Aemon's palm, and it wasn't only the fire that was harrowing; it was something else.
Aemon's fire attack had released without any incantations? How is it possible? Shit, there's no time to think. This is bad. Move, Xerxes. MOVE!
Xerxes immediately barrel-rolled to the left, just as the fine leather mat of the table ignited in flames, burning it to ash.
"Are you trying to kill me or something, Aemon? Even if we're training, what the hell was that?!" Xerxes snarled, eyes widening at the sheer potency of the attack.
It wasn't like anything he had seen in his life; it was a pure example of strength from the generation of mana, formation, and finally, execution... it was perfect. Xerxes was no expert, but when something looked so perfect, it was hard to deny the expertise.
Aemon regarded him with the same expressionless gaze. "That was power, Xerxes. Something you haven't achieved yet."
Xerxes saw Aemon bracing himself, preparing to launch another attack.
Instinctively, he reached for his sword, and when he did not feel anything, he looked down. He didn't have his sword; he had left it in the medical room. Despite that, he could still be tactful. If Aemon was out for blood, so was he.
His eyes darted to the neatly aligned cutlery on the table, which had not melted. Without hesitation, he sprinted alongside it, grabbing an assortment of knives and forks. Though it was searing hot, he didn't care.
He flung a few towards Aemon, disrupting his formation of mana. Perfect, he thought. Closing the distance as swiftly as possible, he chanted an incantation, releasing it point-blank. But for Aemon, this was all too easy.
With a single stomp of his foot, a surge of fire mana erupted from beneath him. Was this what he told me, the mana point from the heels of the foot?! Travelling upwards like lava spewing from a volcano. The flames swallowed Xerxes whole. He clenched his fists, bracing himself as he was sent hurtling towards the ceiling.
A sledgehammer of force slammed into his ribs. The impact was brutal. Xerxes crashed straight through the ceiling, tearing the stone from the ceiling as he propelled through.
There was no time to catch his breath. A trail of blue mana lingered in the air—Aemon was already where he wanted Xerxes to be. He moved with so much speed that it was almost impossible to track.
It was nothing like the battle with the Orc; it was significantly different. Each millisecond had to be accounted for now, but back then, Xerxes had more luxury.
Mana siphoned from Aemon's body at an alarming rate. He couldn't dodge. He was mid-air, after all. But he refused to go down so easily. He wasn't ready to lose to Aemon, no matter how much stronger he was.
Aemon mimicked his previous attack. If Xerxes couldn't dodge through ordinary means, then he wouldn't be ordinary. If there's one thing that Xerxes knew, each battle required some form of gambit that had to be executed when the odds weren't in your favour, and it was exactly that point now.
Funnelling mana into his palm, he propelled himself above the pathway of the attack. He had evaded it—but he wasn't out of danger yet.
Aemon anticipated his every move. Xerxes had to act fast.
His fingers tightened around something in his pocket. One of the knives from the table.
Channelling the power of the soul fragments he had absorbed from the goblins, Xerxes tensed his forearms, his teeth grinding together.
With a sharp exhale, he swung the knife, using it as a makeshift dagger. Green trails of energy flared from his arm. He poured every ounce of strength into the strike, but even with all of his strength. It meant nothing.
Aemon caught the dagger effortlessly between his index and middle fingers.
"You thought cheap tricks like this could amount to anything?" Aemon's voice was ice. "Let me educate you, Xerxes. And don't look at the knife. Look at me."
The blade shattered in Aemon's grasp. Before Xerxes could react, Aemon's hand clamped around his throat.
"When you're out of options," he murmured, his grip tightening, "when your opponent is about to carry out your execution—what do you do?"
Xerxes clawed at Aemon's hands, his body thrashing in resistance. It was futile. Aemon's strength was absolute.
Aemon frowned, watching his struggle with something akin to pity.