Cataclysm War | Chapter 55: The Man Who Would Be King (First Draft)

Tuesday, August 2, 4 S.E.

Braedon received the first blow from the Terran Archon with a grunt, feeling his [Sunflare Core] accelerate within his dantian as the strike impacted his greatsword. The Alteran-forged steel weathered the blow without issue, stopping the Archon’s momentum dead as Braedon called on his [Marshal’s Dominion] and expanded a blue-lit field of power, claiming the territory within fifty meters of himself within a circle of radiant azure.

Achilles, the man who dared to pronounce his death, pushed for distance swiftly; the black-armored Knight’s body rapidly accelerating away as Braedon staked his position. [Marshal’s Dominion] was his newest control Skill, and paired with his primary Aspect Skill and Affinity, arguably his strongest overall.

The Prince-Royal took a breath as the Knight retreated, and then smiled to himself in satisfaction when the Terran paused at the edge of his Skill zone, realizing, it seemed, the maluses incurred by stepping outside of it. Braedon waited calmly in the epicenter as the Archon, a title he could only accept, now reassessed and adjusted his stance.

That’s it. Now you know you have to fight me.

Braedon braced himself as his [Sunflare Core] reached full acceleration and his opponent charged once more, to the tumultuous roar of the crowd’s approval.

When the Black Knight closed the distance with another surge of preternatural speed, Braedon activated his [Bannerlord’s Decree] and met the incoming strike with a solidified field of [Solarfire Repulsion] coating his blade. The impact echoed with a boom of discharge, and the flames coating his sword reacted to his Skill, exploding out to wrap around the Archon in a cloak of destructive power while blasting him backward.

A groan and cries of alarm echoed from the crowd, filling the arena with echoes of despair. Terrans shouted curses and denigrations, while the few Haelfenn within the masses cried out in mixed support and castigation, lost under the tumult of Terran displeasure.

Braedon smiled grimly as his opponent crashed across the arena in an audible scream of steel, somehow managing to master himself mid-tumble and stabbing his weapon into the manastone and using it to arrest his roll, kicking up sparks and cutting a small but visible groove into the otherwise impervious material.

He can cut through manastone? At Initiate rank? Preposterous…

Braedon’s eyes narrowed on the weapon, and he knew it had to be the sword, not Achilles himself. The idea of an Initiate being able to sunder manastone was absurd, outside the scope of understood limitations. The only explanation was the weapon, which—judging by Braedon’s earlier assessment of it—must have been sort of relic armament.

Yes. Definitely the blade, he affirmed to himself, ignoring the small voice of doubt that tried to encroach on his thoughts.

When Achilles staggered to his feet, the flames assaulting him abruptly guttered; smothered by the shimmering weave of a Psifield appearing around his body with crackles of scarlet lightning and violet bolts, momentarily giving Braedon pause.

What is that red energy? I saw it earlier, too. His Affinity is Psi, is it not?

Achilles, however, seemed disinclined to give Braedon time to assess and instead reaffirmed his stance and, as if he hadn’t learned his lesson, charged again. This time, he didn’t attack head-on, but instead truncated his trajectory, darting left at the last second and coming at the Prince-Royal’s flank with a blistering array of expertly-woven slashes.

Braedon grunted at the assault and wielded his greatsword two-handed, his left armored hand on the middle of the blade and his right on the hilt as he used it more like a stave than a weapon, wielding it cross-body to deflect the strikes as Uriel had trained him.

Despite the Tier difference, Braedon felt his brow furrowing in consternation.

The strength, speed, and ferocity the Archon was demonstrating were implausible; they exceeded all rational comprehension of power-scaling he’d been raised and tutored to understand. Braedon was Elite rank, yet he was forced to defend, determinedly, against an Initiate.

The crowd roared in approval as Achilles pressed the attack, and Braedon tuned it out, growling to himself at the frenzied glee the ungrateful simpletons were showing. The Arena had been built by his command and authorization, with his [Aetherium]. The base plebeians had no loyalty; that much was clear.

Then the Black Knight redoubled his assault, and Braedon snapped back to focus.

Each strike hit hard enough to test his own strength, even if not enough to break his guard, and the Bannerlord locked his jaw in frustration. The red eye lenses of his opponent burned as he moved, weaving and pivoting in a series of sword strokes that seemed as fluid and graceful as any Alteran blademaster. Braedon momentarily felt like he was fighting his Father again, guarding against strikes that defied his ability to counter.

The crowd roared its approval again, and Braedon’s jaw locked in irritation.

He’s holding me at bay. What did Ceruviel do to forge him this way?

His greatsword moved rapidly and with accuracy, parrying strikes and deflecting blows that would have taken off his head or split his warplate. His stance was set, benefitting from the passive stoicism of his [Marshal’s Dominion] as he weathered the assault. His frustration grew steadily, not from lack of power, that wasn’t the issue at all—it was, in a way, far more galling than that.

Braedon was forced on the defensive by superior technique.

Achilles was not breaking his guard, but he was holding him in a locked defensive position, forced to endure the assault without a window to retaliate. The strikes were too clean, too precise, too smooth in their transitions. There were no visible gaps, and it was, very evidently, a blend of Haelfenn swordsmanship and the brutal nature of Terran aggression, seamlessly integrated.

The Terran fought with preternatural intuition, never overcommitting, never pressing a feigned vulnerability or point of false weakness. He seemed to read every move and countermove Braedon wielded, flowing through ancient and modern forms with an expertise that defied possibility. The Terran had only been in Dawnhaven for less than a month, yet he’d already mastered this many combat forms? It defied all sense of reason.

It was an impossibility. It had to be a trick.

Enough of this!

Braedon triggered his [Marshal’s Dominion] again and overlayed it with [Warmonger], accelerating his reaction speeds and amplifying his physical attributes by a further 10% within the range of his Skill. The moment he did, he felt the difference, and his body moved, slamming his greatsword back against a particularly vicious downwards cut and throwing the Archon’s sword high, the man himself off-balance as a result.

Braedon followed through before he could react and manifested a [Solarfire Burst] at the pommel of his blade, smashing his weapon’s hilt into his opponent’s breastplate and detonating the [Solarfire Burst] at the same moment.

The resultant explosion threw Braedon back several feetbut blasted Achilles away, silencing his legion of vile supporters as the Black Knight smashed into the manastone and rolled away with an audible crack, his left arm demented by the impact and part of his armor sundered by the force.

Braedon smiled at the result and reset his stance.

Blind aggression was not the answer. It was not his way, despite common belief.

As a Marshal and Bannerlord, the battlefield was his to command, and within its confines, he was the ultimate authority. Forcing his foes to fight on his terms was Braedon’s greatest strength, and he would never willingly surrender that advantage. It was not just foolish, but downright idiotic to do so. His [Sunflare Core] achieved maximum acceleration again as he primed it, and he wove his sword, spinning it around him in a spiralling ouroboros pattern as he triggered his [Solarfire Wave] Skill.

Braedon pushed off his right foot, slicing the greatsword upward and sending a slicing wave of golden-white flames roaring toward the downed Archon.

Achilles barely had two seconds to react, still just barely within his [Marshal’s Domain], and the Archon thrust out his right hand, dropping his blade as a reinforced wall of what Braedon recognized as a [Psikinetic Shield] manifested before him tangibly, showing the immensity of the Psi investment.

The [Solarfire Wave] smashed into the shield with the sound of a tidal wave crashing against stone, and Braedon smirked in self-satisfaction as the psionic wall fractured, cracking along its length with radiant veins of gold until—with a backlash—it shattered, detonating with concussive force that sent the Terran Archon tumbling backward.

I was concerned for a moment, but in the end, an Initiate is just an Initiate.

Braedon’s eyes rose to the Royal Box, and he lifted his sword in mock salute to Aylar, who stood watching the exchange with a tense expression. Her gaze narrowed at his gesture, and his older sister raised her chin in disapproval, but Braedon cared little for her gesture.

Hold onto that pride as long as you can, sister. The Throne will soon be mine.

His eyes returned to the Black Knight as the Terran rose, shakily, from where he’d been blown backward—armor scorched and rent, golden veins of power still fading from where they’d cracked and damaged the plate. His left arm hung limp, twisted in a way that either indicated it was broken or dislocated.

The bastard sword he wielded was once again in his right hand, gripped firmly as Braedon appraised his foe’s disposition.

He has incredibly Willpower, the Prince-Royal acknowledged begrudgingly. Perhaps he may have made a truly potent asset. Still, this only solidifies the need to eliminate him—he cannot be allowed to grow into a threat in the future.

Braedon could taste the victory. He could feel it in the cries of disbelief from the crowd, the wavering of the Archon’s stance, and the scent of burnt flesh assailing his enhanced senses. He could feel the moment approaching—visualize it in his mind: a single blow, a destructive strike, one that would punch through the weakened obsidian warplate and end the fight before it could go further.

His [Marshal’s Dominion] was still new, acquired at Elite Tempering, and was soon to wear off. He had to be decisive.

No more defensive combat. Weaken, assess, kill. Just like Father taught me.

Braedon levelled his greatsword, and his opponent raised his longsword, stance firming as he seemed to recover some sense of his position.

Too little, too late.

Braedon triggered his [Solarfire Step] and surged forward, vanishing in a burst of radiant light, seeing the universe explode into whiteness, and then appearing a second later at the Archon’s flank.

The Terran pivoted instinctively, trying to set up for a block.

Braedon’s [Warmonger] boost slashed the Archon’s blade wide.

This is my moment!

The Prince-Royal pivoted off his heel and inverted his greatsword at the same moment, left hand on the pommel, right hand on the blade, and drove it into the Terran’s upper abdomen when he shifted unexpectedly at the last moment, missing his heart and punching it off-angle through the other man’s body, punching out of his back without securing the kill.

At the same moment, his [Monarch’s Domain] died.

Still, Braedon knew he had acted just in time.

The Archon staggered backwards and collapsed to one knee, stabbing his blade into the manastone once more and coughing in his helmet. Braedon smiled grimly, looking up once more at the crowd and enjoying the horrified looks on the faces of the watching Terrans.

Yes, they will be mine, just as he said. I will forge them into my hammer of Conquest, tempered by the unyielding truth of my supremacy after slaying their would-be Champion.

Before that, though, he had to actually confirm the kill.

Braedon was no braggadocious fool, regardless of his outward comportment. He’d been reared on Alteran doctrine, and he knew the cost of hesitating at the last moment—had read too many tales of victors robbed of their laurels by last-minute grandstanding. None of that would impede him. He strode forward decisively, reaching down to grip his greatsword, set a boot to Achilles’ chest, and tear the weapon out with a spray of the Archon’s blood—sending him crashing backward onto the manastone.

The Terran wheezed when he landed, and Braedon let out a sigh of relief.

Finally. My birthright is secured.

He marched forward with intent, not bothering to mince words, and raised the blade overhead, inverting it in a two-handed grip to deliver the deathblow.

Someone screamed in disbelief.

Braedon’s greatsword stabbed downward for the kill.

And at the last moment, the Archon’s body erupted with red lightning.