Chapter 407+408: Showdown

You know the drill: a day late, so a double to catch up. Next one in 48h (to be sure to his the deadline this time).

Enjoy!

*

A few seconds earlier.

Seeing his opponent flee, Arnold analyzed the situation. Letting an enemy escape was against his nature. Besides, his recent studies on captured locals had revealed an unreasonable tendency toward vengeance. Better to tear the weed up by the roots—as his nemesis had always said.

Beyond that, the matter of the enemy’s body-image fusion was intriguing. If the Var Elegis could replicate that technique, it would patch one of the inherent weaknesses of his mechanical vessels: the shallow soul-physique tether.

And if he needed one last incentive, the data gleaned from a Tier 3 specimen would shed light on his options when it came time to select a Myth for his future Mythic skill.

Decision made, Arnold moved.

[Quantum Teleportation].

An anchor resonated in Elysium, and the Var Elegis slipped out of the Demiurge’s inner world without resistance. Even for a Tier 5, blocking such an esoteric Concept was difficult.

He rematerialized at the heart of the tribal camp and immediately swept the field. Heat, sound, light, radiation, aether… A dozen specialized skills synchronized, triangulating the enemy’s position. One step carried him before a manor. A second bypassed every ward, rune-array, and mundane trap, depositing him in a private garden.

“Hm?” Feeling the intrusion, the Tier 3 turned. His scorched brows drew together, and he spat on the ground. “Our fight is over, alien.”

Arnold raised his gaze. The roiling black clouds overhead might have seemed storm-born, but in truth they were only an illusion wrought from an astronomical swell of aether. A High Tribulation was descending.

“Your presence will doom us both!” the Tier 3 shouted when the homunculus failed to move.

The Var Elegis studied his prey again. His instinct—a faculty he had yet to master—whispered that the Aelbe did not grasp his current position.

As he was walking the path of the Tyrant, the Champion had to play his role. To gift his enemies a taste of despair.

“The High Tribulation won’t arrive for another ten seconds. By then, you’ll already be dead.”

“You madman! If you think I revealed all I had in the Colosseum—”

In the garden, a hundred glyphs flared, execution writ large enough to trouble even a Tier 4. Arnold didn’t blink. 

[Multiprocessing - Union].

For an instant, his core processor stopped juggling a hundred tasks, funneling every bit of RAM in the battle. Auxiliary supercomputers in his internal world and his secondary vessels scattered across the Wandering Islands synced, multiplying the Var Elegis’ processing power.

[Glitch].

Aided by his second Concept, the Tyrant warped reality. The offensive glyphs twisted, turning on their own master.

The Tier 3 roared, producing a fossilized femur, which he snapped in half. A colossal foot manifested a hundred kilometers above, plummeting to crush the world beneath. An attack worthy of an apex Tier 4. A last trick to escape death. 

[Army Deployment].

A hundred secondary vessels—each an MK-7, each equal in might to Arnold’s current body—appeared between the island and the quasi-divine heel.

[Nova - 100%].

Overloading their nuclear fusion cores, the homunculi became miniature supernovae. Elysium’s skies ignited, blazing with the fury of a hundred suns.

Unmoved by the spectacle—or its cost—Arnold blurred forward, materializing beside the Tier 3. A finger to his temple forced the foe into a [Simulation]. Even with aid from his third Concept, his fifth legendary skill strained to affect the thrice baptized soul, but it would suffice for a few minutes. After that, the Tyrant had more specialized facilities.

After a moment’s reflection, the Var Elegis tore the loser’s heart from his chest and replaced it with a mechanical pump. His clan must think him dead. A second vessel appeared to secure the test subject, and a quantum teleport whisked Arnold back into his internal world.

“The Var Elegis know but one end for defeat. Death.”

In and out, a 5-second adventure.

*

After a single heartbeat of tense silence, a Tier 4 rose, unleashing the full weight of his aura over the arena. The spiritual pressure raked against Arnold’s soul but failed to stir him. Léo Aelbe might be a Transcendent, but he was far from bending the Tyrant’s will.

“You dare?!”

The Champion assessed the situation, saw no profit in a verbal duel, and simply tossed the heart into the magma lake below. The organ sizzled before vanishing. As expected, the Demiurge made no move to resurrect the fallen scion. Without resonance between his Concept and inner world, he was far from omnipotent. The Tier 3 had fallen in Elysium, and no one would raise him again. Not even the Necromoon.

Igniting his reactors, the homunculus returned to Oasis’ lodge to watch the rest unfold, even as Léo’s fury roared louder. The High Marshal eventually commanded the Transcendent to silence, just as Arnold reached Priam.

He exchanged a nod with the First, wordlessly signaling he was playing Oasis’ game. For some reason, his rival had chosen to conceal his strength, limiting himself to the power of a strong local Tier 2. Arnold had first assumed it was to fly under the elves’ radar, but lately he had uncovered signs of a conspiracy linking several Champions. Whatever the truth, the Var Elegis had decided that being underestimated suited his own purposes. He had performed suboptimally, dragging out a duel that should have ended in seconds.

Perhaps that was why the nekomata had dared hope to escape him. A critical mistake—one that had delivered into Arnold’s hands a Myth generator.

His main neural network flickered with speculation. What Myth would the First choose, when the time came?

*

Priam felt his rival settle at the back of the lodge, attention locked onto him. It was unnerving, but he forced himself to ignore it.

“Well, that’s the end of the line for the Aelbes!” thundered Zulkar. “Let’s have a quick look at the standings, shall we? Reminder: a bracket victory nets three points, runner-up gets one. Oasis leads with seven, now at least eight thanks to the Tyrant’s win. Second place: the Aelbes with three points, courtesy of their young master Rohan. Since then? Nothing. Not even a win. Disappointing for such a proud clan… Third place: the Gaeserts, with two points. My gut says they gambled everything on their Tier 3. Finally, a big fat zero for the Snaherts. Do they even exist anymore, one wonders!”

The elf descended, levitating a few meters above the magma lake.

“For those of you slow on the uptake, let me spell it out. Oasis has already won. Clean and simple: no catching them now. Four Champions, freshly introduced to the System, have humiliated three clans older than empires. Utter disgrace.”

Priam smothered the flicker of pride rising within him. If the elf spoke so lightly, it meant he still considered the Champions beneath his people. Against the prodigies of the Empire of Knaya, Priam wasn’t certain he could jump Tiers so easily. All the better. It makes the game more interesting.

Zulkar raised a hand. “BUT! In his infinite generosity, our High Marshal offers two principal rewards. That makes second place worth its weight in Immortal gold. Two clans are still in the running. If the Gaeserts lose the next match, it’s game over. But if they win…” A grin. “They leapfrog ahead!”

Priam arched a brow, spotting the inconsistency. A Gaesert win over the Snaherts would only net them one point, putting them at three, tied with the Aelbes. The tiebreaker would have to wait until the final, and if Arnold won, a third-place playoff would be required.

“Yes, yes, I know what you’re thinking…” Zulkar shrugged. “Last-minute changes scrambled the schedule.”

On cue, a hooded figure appeared above the magma lake. The updraft tugged at his cloak, revealing a body entirely inked in tattoos. Deep lines etched his weathered face. Some scales sold the truth: it was a Snahert. 

The elder opened his mouth, faltered, clenched his fists, then spoke.

“I, Hissy Snahert, hereby declare my adoption by Gryphe Aelbe and my integration into his clan. Alongside me, two hundred and eighty-three other Snaherts have made the same choice.”

When the last echo of the weary voice faded, raucous laughter burst from the Gaesert lodge.

“Ah!” The old shaman doubled over, wheezing with mirth. “I once saw those two screwing.”

Priam wasn’t the only one with an odd expression. That a decrepit serpent, at the twilight of his life, would become the adopted son of an Aelbe Transcendent was absurd enough. That the two had once been lovers…

“Hah, seems we all enjoy a bit of gossip,” Zulkar grinned. “Anyway, the Snaherts’ contender has switched allegiance. Effectively, the Aelbes now have a second slot in the Tier 3 bracket. Which means one last chance. Think of the next match less as a semifinal and more as a bronze match!”

The murmurs of ten thousand spectators soon swelled into a restless din. Priam caught snatches of conversation.

“They should’ve announced this before the duels even started,” grumbled a mother.

“True, feels shady to me,” her daughter replied. “I don’t get why the Demiurge allows it. With his Justice Concept and all…”

“Damn it, I bet on a Snahert upset at two thousand to one!” an elf gambler howled. “They can’t just change the rules like this!”

Such voices multiplied in the stands, and confusion edged toward outrage until a heavy aura crashed down, silencing dissent.

In the Aelbe lodge, Léo rose, unleashing the spiritual pressure of a Tier 4.

“While Aelbe and Snahert once stood as rivals, our clans are now siblings. After the catastrophe that nearly erased them, the Snaherts hover on the brink of extinction. To stave off that tragedy, I offered to adopt their surviving volunteers into our tribe. Our Council of Transcendents accepted. The deed is now done. May their traditions endure, and bring glory and honor to our children.”

Silence greeted his words. Priam realized that despite the dissatisfaction in the air, no one dared contradict a Tier 4. Another reminder that he no longer lived in a democracy. In Elysium, only the strongest voice carried.

“Ah.” In the Gaesert lodge, Braato was stroking his chin. “A clan earns a slot, not an individual. I know you only like your own rules, but still…”

To Léo’s shame, there was more than one powerhouse in the Colosseum.

“A clan I’ve absorbed,” the Aelbe’s leader retorted.

“With whose blessing? Ophis is dead, and Sna is missing.”

“Which is to say dead or fled. The only one able to decide in the Snaherts’ name is Hissy, his status as the last Tier 3 making him an acceptable temporary leader.”

A flimsy argument, yet Braato didn’t press. He turned away, ending the exchange. Whatever the two leaders said, the decision was not theirs to make.

All eyes lifted to the sky. Floating above the Colosseum, Hekthorn said nothing. With a light gesture, he erased Arnold’s apocalyptic landscape and restored the arena to its pristine state. Ready for a fresh duel.

Silence means consent. I suppose his Justice extends only to elves, Priam mused, before a spark lit his eyes. He didn’t share the Tier 5’s vision of justice, but that didn’t change the man’s overwhelming strength. The conclusion was obvious: a Concept was, at least in part, personal. A clue to what lies beyond Unity?

Zulkar bowed to his master’s decision. “Well that settles it. Let us bask in the selfless generosity of Lord Aelbe and the forgiving nature of the Snahert survivors.”

Priam couldn’t help but laugh at the jab. The Aelbes had secured a second Tier 3 slot, while a few Snahert elites had ensured their futures. Yesterday, their leader Ophis had died at enemy hands; today they rushed to embrace those very hands. Clearly, blood ties paled before mutual interest.

“Anyway! On to the second semifinal: Hissy the Anaconda versus the Gaeserts’ still-unnamed contender. The winner takes second place on the tournament podium!”

The crowd’s attention swung back to Hissy. Silent, perhaps ashamed of his betrayal, the gladiator waited for his opponent. After ten seconds, Priam cast a glance toward the Gaesert lodge.

“What are they waiting for?”

“Rumors have named several candidates for their best Tier 3, but none stands out,” Jasmine replied. “I can’t tell you who they’ll send, but all the Gaeserts I met were really confident.”

“Doesn’t surprise me, I’d bet on them too.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Why?”

“Because Esmée believes the Aelbes will soon visit Proxima. Léo will find the planet far more appealing if it’s their only chance at survival.”

Behind him, Priam felt Kazuki stiffen. Before he could reassure his friend, movement caught his eye. The Gaesert leader, Braato, had risen. He vaulted from the balcony and strode deliberately toward the center of the arena.

“The fuck?” Jasmine blurted.

She wasn’t the only one shocked. Léo shot to his feet. “What’s the meaning of this?!”

Braato shrugged as he faced Hissy. “When I took up my father’s mantle at the all-clan council, you challenged me. Took you five minutes to beat me, and everyone assumed I was a Transcendent like you. I wasn’t. I was just good at taking hits. Now I’m good at giving them.”

“Identification skills—”

“My shaman is good.”

“And your spiritual pressure? It’s that of a Tier 4!”

“I’d call it half-step. The hallmark of a polished Mastery. A true Aura, born of Micro, and a body tempered twice over helps too. You’d know that if you didn’t think yourself above everyone else.”

“YOU—”

“Braato Gaesert is a Tier 3,” the Demiurge cut in, weary of the clans’ bickering. “Begin.”

Léo’s face was purple, but nobody cared anymore.

In the arena, Braato folded his arms. “The first strike is yours.”

From another Tier 3, it might have come off as arrogance. Not with this one. Towering well over two and a half meters, the mountain of muscle bore scars as formidable as his natural tusks. His two lower canines had mutated into lethal weapons; one kiss from him could skewer your brain.

More than his physique, it was his eyes that left a deep impression. The gaze of a warrior who had waded through blood and shit to reach his station. When he wasn’t laughing with his own, Braato inspired fear. Perhaps that was why he had managed to deceive tribal Transcendents for an entire decade.

Hissy’s face twisted. He looked toward the Aelbe lodge and found it empty. His new master hadn’t even stayed to watch. Jaw tight, he turned back.

“You shouldn’t underestimate me. We’re both Tier 3s.”

Braato only smiled.

Snarling, Hissy threw back his cloak, revealing a body covered in ink. Priam studied the markings but detected no runes, no pattern resonating with aether. Purely cosmetic?

Then the warrior began to dance. His tattoos rippled, merging in motion until new shapes formed—like a logo appearing on a spinning wheel. Fed by aether, the lines lit up until a serpent’s outline appeared.

“Jörmungandr!”

Both a skill and a call. 

The air itself thickened, almost solid. Behind Hissy, the image of a colossal Myth rose, looming over the world. A beast capable of ending a country with brute force alone. Its head pierced the clouds, with a single scale able to house the Colosseum. The invocation was vast…

And yet strangely light.

That was the word. Rohan’s White Tiger, or the Nekomata from the earlier duel, had been heavy with a deep presence. Their images were tangible, colored, crushingly real. By comparison, Hissy’s serpent seemed translucent. Illusory. 

“A Myth too vast for a Snahert too small,” Braato observed. “You’ll never reach Tier 4.”

Fury blazing in his eyes, Hissy slashed downward. Jörmungandr’s tail followed, crashing into the arena. Had the original been present, Priam was certain the world itself would have popped like a soap bubble. It wasn’t to be.

Still, the Colosseum quaked, its barrier glowing gold under the strain, sand exploding outward like shrapnel after a bomb blast.

When the dust cleared, Braato hadn’t moved an inch. A faint red welt on his forehead was proof he hadn’t dodged.

Priam felt an elbow dig into his ribs. He glanced at Jasmine. In her eyes he read the question. He gave the barest nod.

“It was more powerful than Arnold’s nova. I’d be dead if I’d had to tank that hit.”

“Ah. Noob.”

The young woman had been picking up vocabulary from Rose. Normally, it amused Priam. Not today. His pride smarting, he felt compelled to reply.

“I just haven’t tempered any physical resistance yet.”

“Skill issue.”

“Fuck you.”

“Yes, please.”

In the arena, Braato ran his tongue over his teeth. “A Myth has to be earned. You shouldn’t have used the System that much.”

Gripping the fallen scale, the clan leader heaved. Muscles corded, his twice-tempered body strained against the weight of a summoned Myth.

After a ten-second fight, the image of Jörmungandr shattered in a spray of sparks.

For the briefest instant, an immortal presence flared. Time froze. Fear bloomed.

“Unworthy.”

Then Hissy detonated, and Jörmungandr left.

Finally able to move, Priam widened his eyes.

“What a fool,” the Demiurge muttered after a few seconds. “Let’s proceed.”

While Zulkar proclaimed Braato’s victory, Priam realized Hissy wasn’t coming back. The Snahert had dishonored Jörmungandr, and the price was his life.

“It seems a Mythic skill comes bound to a contract, signed or not,” Priam mused.

A hand settled on his shoulder. “Not the time,” Kazuki said, pointing at the empty Aelbe lodge. “They left at the start of the fight.”

“So it begins.”

Priam exchanged a look with the Demiurge, then he and his companions headed for the portal to Elysium. A crowd was already gathered, but it parted quickly at the sight of the grim-faced Champions of Oasis.

Before the rift, they paused, waiting for Jasmine’s signal.

“... My instincts don’t pick up any immediate danger,” she reported.

“Mmh. I go first.”

Taking a steadying breath, Priam stepped forward. A blink later, he stood face-to-face with a dozen Tier 3s, their expressions stern. Their intent was obvious.

“Lord Priam Azura, our leader Léo invites you to his manor,” one of them announced.

Priam ignored him. His attention was on the new notification flashing before his eyes.

New Quest: Proxima - Defense

 An Elysium tribe has invaded your Bastion-planet.

Eliminate them.
(10 T3; 50 T2; 1 T0)

Reward:
You Are What You Kill boost: while on Proxima, any visitor from another Sector/Universe leaks their aetheric code much more readily. Gather enough code allow one to acquire their racial Talent(s).
The size of a code fragment scales with the difference between your Soul/Noble Tier and your victim’s.
As Homo Elysium (Tier 2 race), you may collect Talents up to Gold rarity.

Current Racial Talent Slots (2/3):
- [Spectral Familiarity - Bronze]
- [Hoplite Warpath - Gold]
- Free

“Priam… please?” 

The young man barked a laugh at the pleading tone in Jasmine’s voice. The assassin was already dreaming of feasting on the Aelbes. How can he blame her? Her build would surely be compatible with the pseudo-felines’ racial Talents. 

It was too good to pass. After all, to get [Spectral Familiarity], Priam had needed to slaughter more than fifty thousand Xa’Dawps during the Reunion. An insane number. Here his instincts told him only a handful of Aelbes would suffice. Apparently, Jasmine felt the same.

“Go, but the plan comes first.”

Jasmine nodded once before melting into shadow, drawing curses from several guards. Priam raised a hand to calm them.

“Hey, I’m the one you want, right?”

The guards exchanged glances, then nodded. “Yes. Will you come?”

“A visit to Léo? Of course. But first…”

Clad in Knightmare, Kazuki stepped forward, raising his arm. “First we pull the tiger’s teeth,” he said, and fired.

The Aelbes tensed, bracing for an attack. Instead, a flare arced skyward. A heartbeat later, a sound rose from the supposedly deserted Snahert quarter. The dreadful clatter of thousands of iron-shod boots.

By opening a portal to Proxima, Léo had laid his cards on the table. The other players had to follow. Time for the showdown.

Priam was certain he held a winning hand.

*

[He Who Eludes Death] charge: OFF. Reloaded in 19 hours 10 minutes 52 seconds.

*

Status: tomorrow or monday. I want to double check the numbers before.
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I didn't know where to cut the chapters, hence why you didn't see it.

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Arnold NetSky - MK-7 (407)

Braato (408)