Jared met the charge unflinching. With a subtle flick, the notion-blade in his palm scattered into countless translucent shards that spun together, weaving a whirling vortex of sword intent before him.
Fist met vortex. The collision cracked the silence open, a thunderclap that shook loose stones from the ground and twisted the very air. Both figures were hurled backward by the shockwave. Jared slid three steps and halted, cloak billowing.
Enaricus skidded dozens, knees buckling as fresh blood seeped through reopened wounds, and his face drained ghost-white. Gasps rippled through the onlookers. “The Third Hall overlord is bleeding!”
Another voice, quivering with awe, added, “Jared Chance is unbelievable! Even Enaricus can’t match him!”
The whispers slashed at Enaricus’ pride.
Seeing Jared stand untouched only stoked the fire of jealousy and rage boiling behind his eyes.
Enaricus roared, voice raw. “Jared, today I will end you!”
He charged again, but fatigue dragged at every motion, speed and power leaked away like water from a cracked jar. Mid-sprint, he plunged both hands into his robes and drew out an unremarkable black bowl.
The moment it tasted open air, a wave of malignant pressure burst forth, thick, oily, and wrong. Jared was slammed backward, shoes carving trenches as he tumbled several hundred meters before regaining balance.
From the sidelines, Onneas felt her brow knot the instant she saw another artifact appear in Enaricus’ grip.
Percival’s eyes narrowed to slits. “That fool, he’s using the Soul-Snaring Bowl we gifted him?”
Esorin exhaled slowly. “If he doesn’t, he loses…”
Jared halted, gaze locked on the ominous vessel. “You call yourself the Third Hall’s lord, yet you wield such a wicked trinket?”
Enaricus snorted. “Spare me your lectures, prepare to die!”
With a contemptuous flick of his wrist, Enaricus hurled the tarnished begging bowl into the sky. Metal groaned as the relic swelled to the size of a mountain, blotting out what little light remained.
A suffocating pressure poured from its widening mouth, pinning Jared to the very air itself and denying him even a fingertip of space in which to breathe, let alone retreat.
Gasps rippled through the crowd. Every onlooker, veteran and novice alike, felt certain they were witnessing Jared’s final heartbeat.
Even Onneas, usually ice-cool, felt her pulse hitch. A bead of cold sweat traced the line of her jaw before she could master her composure.
“That rusty beggar’s bowl?” Jared said, a casual smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You think that little trinket can kill me?”
The blade of pure intent dissolved between his fingers, replaced by the Dragonslayer Sword, an obsidian weapon humming with unseen storms.
Moments earlier, he had held his own against Enaricus with nothing but sword intent. Now, choosing parity, he answered artifact with artifact, and the air itself seemed eager to see what would follow.
A single stroke, too swift for mortal sight, sparked from the blade with a sound like silk ripping through thunder. The slash carved downward, splitting clouds, parting wind, leaving only a lingering hiss that skittered across the battlefield.
The grotesque bowl shattered as though made of brittle glass, exploding into a rain of powdered bronze that glittered for a heartbeat before fading into nothing.
From the pulverized shards surged a choir of shrieks, thousands of tormented spirits, swirling like ash, scrambling toward freedom in frantic, ragged spirals.
“Do not let those spirits escape!” Percival boomed, his voice cracking across the sky like a war drum.
Esorin lifted a homespun cloth sack. With one sweep of his hand, the sack expanded into a vortex, its pull irresistible. Each fleeing wraith was dragged howling into the dark mouth of the bag, vanishing in rapid succession.
Jared watched without interference. He had no way of knowing to whom those spirits once belonged, and saw no sense in risking his neck for strangers, especially when facing an elder whose strength eclipsed even Enaricus’.
Enaricus stared at the empty air where his Soul-Snaring Bowl had been. Fury burned scarlet across his face. That artifact, gifted by the Malevolent Path Hall, was his livelihood, a vessel for trading captured souls for celestial gems. Now it lay in sparkling dust.
“Quit gawking and attack! All of you, kill him!” he roared, knowing full well that alone he stood no chance against Jared.
