Dungeon of Niflheim

Chapter 987: Chapter 987: Fist of the Moon

The conflict dragged on, Rathborne’s valiant soldiers were culled like weeds by the superior forces commanded by Cavalish and Baron Glorfile, but every death now came with a great amount of risk.

As long as Rathborne could still swing his mace and hold his shield and more importantly lived morale would never waver. His soldiers would die with honour, willingly sacrifice themselves for an opportunity to take out even a limb of their enemies.

The single death amongst the neutral nobles and Prince Sedrick’s forces slowly climbed to three and the serious injuries doubled, desperate gambits in their final hours, moves that couldn’t be fully blocked unless one of the A-ranks made a move personally.

Rathborne witnessed all of this transpire but was powerless to do another about it. His death and the deaths of all of soldiers was inevitable, all that was needed was time, time that was soon approaching.

Squelch!

Suddenly blood burst forth from a deep wound on Rathborne’s right thigh. His mace, armour and even what remained of his shield successfully blocked 99% of Cavalish’s endless and rapid slashes but one got through and carved up his flesh, sinking several centimetres deep, revealing solid, dense muscle. His aura transformation and physical manifestation made Rathborne’s defences all but impenetrable to conventional attacks, Frost for example if he wanted to pierce his flesh would need to throw all he had into a single attack to equal just one of Cavalish’s flurries.

A single wound was not much in the grand scheme of things, but it opened the door, hastening his ultimate demise. A cut on his thigh affected not only his foundational stability, the force he could apply to his swings and the strength he could funnel into his shield arm but also his speed and more importantly his ability to flee from his aggressors.

To kill an A-rank was a tall order, a task almost impossible to achieve unless they were vastly outnumbered or outmatched. The moment shit hits the fan they’d simply run, bulldozing through any blockades and or enduring an onslaught of attacks....eventually they’d be clear of danger.

At least 50% of Cavalish and Baron Glorfile’s efforts when fighting against Rathborne were focused on pinning him down, preventing possible escape thus after tens of minutes they’d only managed to land a single meaningful blow on the man.

This blow however was a game changer, one that Baron Glorfile capitalised on instantly.

"[Martial art: Destructive lance]" Purple energy flowed through his body, covered and imbued the Baron’s right arm filling it with immense strength as the form shifted into that of a mighty, razor tipped lance that promised to fracture anything it made contact with. This skill focused entirely on destructive prowess, speed and flexibility was secondary. You wanted to survive, dodge, you block you die.

Unfortunately given the wound on his thigh, Cavalish’s aggression and the response reaction of the Baron, Rathborne had no time to evade, his instinctive reaction was to raise his heavily damaged shield in response, a poor decision but still much better than letting that skill strike against his body.

DONG!

The purple conjured lance met with the damaged shield and Rathborne felt as though he’d been struck by a heavy cavalry unit, the weight behind that strength was far beyond what a single individual with the Baron’s stature could possibly summon. The force jolted through the shield, hit his fingers, fracturing his pinkie and index before travelling to his wrist, then up his forearm, elbow and finally his shoulder.

Crunch! there was a sudden and painful crunching sound as Rathborne’s shoulder groaned in agony, the force hitting it being far too much for the bone and muscle to endure. If he chose to hold on not only would his shoulder dislocate perhaps even be torn from the socket many of the bones spanning down towards his hand would also suffer extreme damage.

There was only a single recourse, he had to abandon his shield and use whatever momentum remained to spin and retreat from his two aggressors lest the wound on his thigh becomes merely the first of many.

Rathborne’s reaction speed was superhuman, his decision and movements finalised in a fraction of a second but even so he couldn’t evade all damage.

Shatter!

His right arm was blown back as his shield was finally torn from his iron grip, the face of the mighty piece of equipment exploding into dozens of pieces as Baron Glorfile’s conjured lance pierced the centre point, pushing through with immense, unstoppable force, aggravating the already present fissures from his earlier attacks.

Rathborne had lost his shield, his body spinning and careening backwards from the residual force, a perfect opportunity to up the ante.

Cavalish like a reaper assassin flashed through the air, his claws lashing out at Rathborne in his stunned and weakened state while Baron Glorfile, slightly reeling back from his own attack briefly shivered before charging dead ahead knowing full well that such an opportunity shouldn’t be missed.

It was time to end the fight or at least deal enough damage to cripple their opponent.

"Fucking bastards!" Rathborne loudly cursed, the pain wracking his body fuelling his rage. His right hand now bereft of a weapon clinged to his mace turning it into a two handed monolith, his attacks would be even fiercer, heavier and far more risky to endure but his twin opponents didn’t care. One was fast enough to avoid such blows while the other had the mastery and technique to alter the weapon’s path and direction. Within an instant Rathborne once again found himself flanked on both sides, his enemies upping their already intimidating pressure. Their auras in full affect, their killing intent and bloodlust growing like a pair of apex predators catching the scent of blood.

Rathborne no longer had a shield so he could only go after a single target. Baron Glorfile was too intimidating, his instincts screaming that even with a two handed mace attack he’d still fail to make any worthwhile damage thus Cavalish, the one he held the most hatred for was his chosen target. He practically ignored the Baron, allowing him to wind up a heavier and more accurate attack just for an opportunity to carve a piece of flesh from Cavalish’s back, a worthwhile trade in his mind given his current circumstances.

With his exhaustion, lack of shield and wounded thigh escape was all but impossible now. Dragging the fight out wasn’t a solution either, his men and women were all but culled thus the other albeit weaker A-ranks would soon be free to join Cavalish and the Baron. Two enemies was bad enough let alone six.

As his demise became a forgone conclusion Rathborne couldn’t help but feel slightly torn emotionally. While he was the commander of these brave men and women he wasn’t the only leader. His companion, friend from childhood and occasional on an off lover was also by his side for this incursion but despite the din of battle stretching all the way to Niflheim for the past twenty minutes she had never shown herself even once.

With her by his side they could have endured longer and perhaps dealt a more significant blow to their enemy but in the end they’d still lose, and his master Prince Randolph would lose not one but rather two of his hidden blades. Such a price, even his soul would have to suffer condemnation for a failure of that magnitude, so he was both glad and disappointed that she didn’t show.

’She must have returned from scouting and saw the impossible situation we’re in.’ His partner left to gather intelligence before they were set to attack Niflheim and killing all those who resided there be they part of the neutral nobles, Prince Sedrick or otherwise it did not matter. She was therefore thankfully away from the camp and thus free to escape the danger.

’Good, if she’s alive then Master will be informed and...’ Rathborne’s mind as he raised his mace on high and summoned his most devasting skill [Temple guardian’s judgement] – a move that required him to wield the mace with both hands- summoned thoughts and images of a young tiger beastman boy, ten maybe eleven years of age.

’Raito can do without his father but as long as his mother’s still around.... I can go in peace.’ His expression morphed from one of rage and anger to something serene, peaceful and strangely welcoming. The giant apparition in the form of a mace wielding temple guard only bigger and far more sanctified solidified an extra degree, its power jumping a small level as if rewarding Rathborne’s sense of enlightenment.

Cavalish who was the target of this terrifying conjuration felt a shiver run down his spine, a sense of dread threatening to overwhelm him as power beyond the early stages of A-rank swarmed around Rathborne. The tiger beastman with his do or die attack had managed to briefly cross the barrier, summoning power that could do him serious harm if struck in the wrong place.

He wasn’t deterred by this however only momentarily jealous before responding with his own ultimate skill, [Envoy of death: reaper’s calling]. Instead of a flurry of hundreds of rapid slashes this time he’d be making only two, one slash to kill the body and another for the soul. It’s killing power even with Rathborne’s partial jump in strength barely fell behind, Cavalish was staking much on this blow.

Baron Glorfile on the other hand, free from Rathborne’s attentions slowed rather than hastened his steps. His fists and his entire back tensing to the extreme, heralding a calamity in human form. He refused to be outdone by Rathborne’s momentary jump in power, ready to show them the salt that came with accrued age.

The very air around the three of them shook and groaned in anticipation as if fearing the repercussions of their conflict.

The few surviving soldiers, inundated by vicious attacks from their enemies shuddered in response as a cold chill enveloped their surroundings. They turned their heads as did those who were attacking them not a moment earlier to witness this clash, their instincts refusing to allow any distraction. Those who chased after power could never resist the pull of seeing it firsthand.

Frost and his subordinates were no better, their eyes pried open as far as they could go, their breaths falling silent as they forgot all else, focusing entirely on this momentous clash that was set to determine the final winner between Cavalish, Rathborne and Baron Glorfile.