The Legendary battles of the second phase of the Tournant of Destiny continued, and they were nothing short of spectacular. The skill, ferocity, and sheer willpower displayed by the Viking Legends left the crowd breathless. Each clash unleashed phenona so intense—flashes of light, roars of energy, and the shuddering of the earth itself—that it filled the spectators with pure awe.
Even the mighty powerhouses of Valhalla, seated high above the arena, could not help but cast glances of admiration toward these Viking warriors. Being from the younger generation, these fighters wielded abilities and powers that secured the future of their race and their plane. They were the embodint of the Viking spirit—fierce, relentless, and ever-striving for glory.
Among these Legends, so shone even brighter, their presence like shooting stars streaking across the sky, their auras burning so fiercely they seed to tear through the fabric of the battlefield.
And one of them had just entered the arena.
He was a fearso Viking—tall, broad-shouldered, with a refined yet brutal aura that spoke of countless battles fought and survived. His short hair bristled like the spines of a wolf, and his gaze was sharp, honed from having faced horrors most could not even comprehend. He wasn’t just a warrior—he was a survivor, one who had used the crucible of war to burn away his weaknesses, forging himself into a perfect weapon.
"Angelo! Angelo! Angelo! Angelo!"
The crowd erupted in cheers, the na of the Viking Legend echoing like thunder across the arena. Angelo’s brutality and ferocity, especially against those who entered the tournant with wicked intentions, had earned the respect of the people. He was a fan favorite, a symbol of the Viking race’s unyielding honor.
Even among the podiums, the powerhouses of Valhalla nodded in quiet approval.
"That young man was just a Sage when he left for the Land of the Three Calamities, and yet in a few short years, he’s returned as a Legend—and a formidable one at that."
"I heard he fought in the final battle between the Greacia forces under Marshal Maximo, the one that destroyed the Voidheart Stronghold."
"No wonder his abilities are so exceptional."
While the powerful figures whispered their praise, one man looked on with barely restrained fury—Earl Octavio. His eyes blazed with searing rage as he watched Angelo enter the arena.
It had taken careful investigation, but Octavio had uncovered the truth: Angelo had managed to secure a private eting with Freya before the tournant began. And he was the only one who could have provided her with the powerful treasures she now wielded.
Octavio wanted nothing more than to crush Angelo beneath his heel—but Valhalla was a high civilization, and even those at the peak had to respect its rules and laws. As for charging Angelo with aiding a "criminal" in the middle of the tournant would only make Octavio look foolish.
Still, the frustration gnawed at him like a festering wound.
But then a slow smile curled across the earl’s lips as he watched Angelo’s opponent step into the arena.
"Hmph. Little ant, you really think you can interfere with us and not face the consequences?"
The one who erged to face Angelo was a handso young man with short black hair and an unsettlingly calm smile. His body was lean, not bulky like the typical Viking, yet every inch of him radiated a coiled, explosive power that seed ready to erupt at a mont’s notice. Totems—dark, ancient, and complex—crawled across his skin like living tattoos, glowing faintly as if feeding on so unseen force.
Angelo’s instincts, sharpened by surviving in the Doomsday World, scread at him—this young man was dangerous. Extrely dangerous.
Without hesitation, Angelo summoned his weapons—a one-handed axe and a shield, both Legendary treasures he had earned through blood and sweat in the Land of the Three Calamities.
The black-haired young man smiled faintly as he saw Angelo’s weapons. Then, with a casual flick of his wrist, a sword appeared in his right hand.
It wasn’t grand or ornate. In fact, it looked like a battered, rusted blade pulled from so forgotten battlefield. Yet the mont it manifested, a dark, oppressive aura flooded the arena—chilling the air, twisting the light, and filling even the bravest warriors with unease.
Angelo gripped his axe tighter, a bead of sweat rolling down his temple. He took a slow, steady breath as he locked eyes with his opponent.
"You’re Lucius. How could a man no one knew just months ago... obtain sothing like that?"
Lucius said nothing. He simply smiled, his lips curling ever so slightly, as if amused by the question.
The countdown blazed in red—five seconds... three... two... one...
Zero.
The mont the number vanished, the battlefield exploded into chaos.
Angelo charged, his aura hardening and sharpening around him like a wall of blades. He used his abilities to amplify both offense and defense, adapting in real ti—becoming a fortress when Lucius attacked, and a storm when he countered. His axe moved like a flash of steel, each swing calculated to exploit an opening.
Lucius, however, was like a phantom. His movents were fluid, effortless, almost lazy in appearance—but every swing of his rusty sword left deep, jagged cuts in Angelo’s shield, chipping away at its integrity with terrifying precision.
"CLANG! SLASH!"
A burst of sparks flew as their weapons clashed. Angelo pushed forward, tightening his stance, using the mass of his body to press Lucius back. He swung his axe in a vicious arc, aiming for Lucius’s neck.
But Lucius leaned back, just out of reach, his eyes glinting with amusent. In the sa breath, he twisted his wrist, and the rusty blade licked out like a serpent’s fang, carving a line across Angelo’s forearm despite the shield’s position.
Angelo grunted, adjusting his grip, and unleashed a flurry of strikes—each swing empowered by his aura, each strike aid to break through. The air roared as his axe blurred with speed, while his shield flashed like a wall of steel.
But Lucius’s sword... it was relentless.
No matter how Angelo maneuvered, Lucius was faster. Stronger. The rusty blade danced through the air, carving more and more cuts into the shield, each impact sending tremors up Angelo’s arm.
"CLANG! SHRRRK!"
A huge chunk of Angelo’s shield cracked away!
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