Chapter 177: Talents of the ascended

The Ascendant faction was actually one of the newer factions within the Bastion. It had been formed by non-legacy talents who believed that the true future of humanity rested solely upon the backs of the younger generation. They had cast aside the tired, bloated traditions of old empires.

Unlike the Pureblood faction, they didn’t care about ancient bloodlines, noble family names, or whether someone’s ancestors had helped erect the sovereign citadel. Such things were meaningless relics of a decayed era that had nearly brought mankind to absolute ruin.

What truly mattered to them was raw, unadulterated potential. They looked for natural talent, violent adaptability, and rapid growth above all else. If you could bleed and conquer, you had a rightful place beneath their banner.

So even though the other factions possessed ancient, legendary heroes, the Ascendant faction was an absolute nightmare to face whenever the younger generation took the field. They fought with a wild, hungry recklessness that bordered on sheer suicidal madness.

"You!!!!!"

From the high ramparts of the inner citadel, a broad figure suddenly leaped forward into the empty sky. His arms were spread out like battered wings as he launched his entire body directly at the flying dragon cruising through the upper clouds.

There was zero hesitation in his descent. He displayed no regard for his own life, no fear of the dizzying drop, and certainly no concern for the safety of the soldiers clashing on the stone courtyard below.

His heavy, steel-wrapped fist connected directly with the beast’s scaly jaw.

Boom!

The concussive force of the physical impact instantly altered the creature’s trajectory. The massive dragon groaned as its balance was shattered, sending it violently spiraling downward toward the bloodstained stone ground below.

"Damn!"

Ethen immediately pushed off the beast’s spine, throwing his body into the open air. His frame blurred through the rushing wind before he landed roughly a dozen meters away, tucking into a tight roll across the broken pavers to absorb the kinetic shock.

The colossal dragon crashed violently into the stone behind him.

Boom!

A blinding cloud of gray dust and shattered cobblestones exploded into the atmosphere. The heavy shockwave tore through the courtyard, throwing loose weapons, severed limbs, and loose gravel across a thirty-meter radius.

Ethen slowly rose to his feet, calmly patting the thick layer of chalky grit from his dark martial tunic. His breathing remained remarkably steady, his dark eyes instantly locking onto the reckless brawler standing amidst the clearing smoke.

"Grag Axe Cleaver," Ethen muttered under his breath, reading the crude posture.

The notable young talents stationed to defend the Thousand Beast Citadel numbered five in total. Yet according to the intelligence dossiers provided by the Dawn Faction, only two among them carried enough weight to dictate the battle.

Axe Cleaver.

And the elusive Severed Eye.

Both were apex talents who possessed contracted S-Rank summons. Unlike the untested aristocratic candidates Ethen had encountered during the entrance trials, these two possessed years of brutal operational experience as full members of the Bastion.

They had campaigned through hostile territories, surveyed untamed spatial rifts, and survived dozens of subterranean border skirmishes. Most importantly, they had grown into lethal combatants without being wiped out by the endless horrors of the Nether Realm.

"Quintuple S-Rank boy," Grag growled, slowly drawing a massive, two-faced battle axe from the magnetic harness across his broad back. His bloodshot eyes practically ignited with a manic, battle-hungry fury.

"I’ve been waiting to kick your teeth down your throat ever since your test results reached our barracks."

Ethen simply raised an eyebrow, completely unbothered by the crude provocation.

His reputation had spread like wildfire throughout the upper tiers of the mountain citadel. The second the diagnostic formations had confirmed five S-Rank summons under a single Tier 5 mortal, every ambitious warrior had taken note.

To the restless youth of the Ascendant faction, Ethen was not an awe-inspiring prodigy. He was a colossal, walking target that promised immediate continental fame to whoever could bring him down first.

When word arrived that the Dawn Faction had dispatched him to commandeer this specific fortress, the local champions had nearly torn each other apart arguing over who earned the privilege of facing him.

And judging by the heavy scars lining his forearms, Grag had beaten the rest to the prize.

"Hm?"

Ethen’s calm gaze drifted past the massive brute, scanning the shadowed archways of the surrounding fortress walls. He was looking for the second figure that should have been commanding the battle line alongside the brawler.

"Which one of you two holds the title of citadel warden?" Ethen asked evenly.

According to the strict administrative protocols of the Bastion, one of the two commanders held the official territorial seal. As long as Ethen shoved the formal transfer mandate into the warden’s hands, the Ascendant faction was legally obligated to yield.

He had no interest in wasting time; he simply needed to identify the signatory.

"I’ll only tell you if you can beat me one-on-one, you little coward!" Grag barked, his voice echoing off the stone parapets like thunder.

His heavy combat boots slammed into the flagstones, shattering the rock into powder as he propelled himself forward with violent, explosive acceleration. The two-faced axe whistled through the air, carving a lethal arc meant to cleave Ethen in two.

"One-on-one?"

Ethen’s expression shifted into genuine, deadpan bewilderment.

"Why on earth would we do that?"

They were summoners operating on a contested battlefield, not drunken gladiators dueling for coin in a border tavern. Why would anyone willingly discard their greatest tactical advantage just to indulge a brute’s vanity?

Before Ethen could even finish the dry thought, Grag was already directly upon him. The heavy steel blade cleaved downward with terrifying velocity, the compressed air screaming as it aimed straight for the center of Ethen’s collarbone.

Ethen’s gaze sharpened, his focus snapping tight. He didn’t waste a single millisecond attempting to dodge the descending arc.

A brilliant ring of pure silver light ignited beside his shoulder, and a colossal figure stepped out of the spatial void to intercept the blow.

Standing over seven feet tall, clad in pristine, ornate silver plate armor with radiant golden hair framing his stern visage, the legendary knight appeared. A massive greatsword rested effortlessly within his armored grip.

Arthur.

Cling!!!

The collision of god-forged steel and enchanted iron produced a deafening metallic screech that echoed across the entire valley. A violent, razor-sharp shockwave rippled outward, blowing back the surrounding mist and gouging deep ruts into the courtyard floor.

Grag’s wild eyes widened in sudden horror as his wrists absorbed the crushing kinetic backlash. A hairline fracture spider-webbed across the reinforced edge of his prized two-faced axe.

The brute stumbled backward, his heels dragging through the dirt to shed the staggering momentum.

"Shameless bastard!" Grag spat, shaking the numbness from his fingers. "Hiding behind your summons like a sheltered maiden!"

Standing like an immovable wall of pale silver before Ethen was the legendary King of Knights. Arthur’s posture was entirely relaxed, his greatsword angled casually toward the flagstones as if he had just deflected a child’s wooden stick.

"Because you barked a demand for a duel means I am obligated to obey?" Ethen sneered, stepping out from behind the knight’s shoulder. "You really have a fascinating sense of humor."

His eyes narrowed into icy, mocking slits.

"Do you honestly believe I came to the Nether Realm to play games with you?"

Grag’s rugged face flushed with deep crimson fury as his grip tightened on his fractured weapon. He had never been spoken to with such cold, clinical disdain by someone younger than him.

Ethen didn’t wait for the brute’s temper to find words. He glanced up at the towering knight.

"Arthur."

The legendary warrior slightly tilted his head, his golden eyes locking onto his master with absolute obedience.

"Break his legs," Ethen commanded flatly. "Leave him breathing."

The very instant the final syllable left Ethen’s lips, Arthur vanished from his position.

Boom!

The flagstones where the knight had stood detonated into flying fragments. Grag’s instincts screamed in warning as he desperately wrenched his axe upward to guard his chest.

Clang!

The heavy broadsword slammed into the haft with the force of an avalanche, forcing Grag’s boots several paces backward through the stone. Arthur offered no respite, immediately stepping into the pocket with blinding martial precision.

Slash!

A gleaming crescent of silver light cleaved through the air, forcing Grag to violently arch his back to avoid having his throat opened. The wind pressure alone sheared the top layer of leather from his breastplate.

At the exact same time, several distinct summoning circles erupted around the courtyard floor.

Grag’s contracted summons were finally called forth to stem the bleeding. Four ferocious, iron-scaled war beasts materialized with guttural roars, their crimson eyes instantly fixing upon the silver knight who was systematically breaking their master.

Grag had finally recognized the brutal truth: if he did not rely on his beasts to stall the knight, he would be slaughtered within ten exchanges.

Unfortunately for the Ascendant champion, Arthur had earned the title of the Killing King through oceans of spilled blood.

Slash!

The silver blade carved through the air with fluid, effortless brutality. The first iron-scaled beast was cleaved completely in half before its paws could even find traction on the cobblestones, its black blood spraying across the stone.

Slash!

The second creature lunged from Arthur’s blind spot, only to be met by a reverse backhand swing that severed its horned skull cleanly from its shoulders. Arthur moved through the pack with rhythmic, terrifying grace.

Every swing was executed with mechanical perfection. Every forward step drove him directly toward the retreating, wide-eyed Grag. The remaining summoned beasts attempted to clamp down on his armored limbs, but Arthur simply shrugged off their jaws.

Grag gritted his teeth until blood seeped from his gums, swinging his cracked axe with wild, desperate abandon.

"Tear him apart, kill him!" he bellowed.

The third beast leaped, aiming its venomous fangs for the knight’s exposed throat. Arthur didn’t even shift his gaze; his left gauntlet shot forward, seizing the creature by its windpipe mid-air before driving it into the stone floor with a sickening crunch.

Blood erupted across the pavers as the beast went limp.

Ethen watched the slaughter from a dozen paces away, his arms crossed over his chest. His expression remained entirely impassive, but his tactical senses were operating at peak capacity.

He knew Grag was a stubborn, reckless brawler, but the man was not entirely brainless. Even as his contracted summons were systematically executed like cattle, Grag’s eyes kept darting toward a specific shadowed archway along the inner perimeter.

There was an ambush in play. A hidden card held in reserve for the kill.

Ethen’s eyes narrowed as he focused his mental senses, attempting to sweep the surrounding mana currents for an invisible thread.

Yet before his perception could lock onto the anomaly, the ground beneath his own shadow rippled without a sound.

There had been no telltale fluctuation of spatial mana. Neither Arthur, who was busy breaking the last war beast, nor the Cryptic soldiers clashing on the perimeter noticed the quiet shift.

A massive, ink-black serpent slowly rose from the solid flagstones directly behind Ethen’s spine. Its scales absorbed the pale ambient light of the Nether Realm, keeping its colossal, serpentine coils perfectly masked within the surrounding gloom.

Its jaw unlocked with horrifying silence, widening until a dark, cavernous maw hovered less than three feet from the back of Ethen’s head.

A suffocating, paralyzing pressure suddenly descended upon the back of his neck.

Ethen’s danger instincts finally flared into absolute panic.

"Hm?"

He began to pivot his body, but the towering shadow had already completely eclipsed him.

The air grew bitterly cold as a primordial scent of decay washed over his senses.

And then—

[You have slain...]