Chapter 55: Eldrich Vs.Bale [2]
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The air grew impossibly thick, a tangible, suffocating heat that radiated from Eldrich Lionsheart. The pillar of fire-red mana that surrounded him wasn’t just a feeling; it was an active, visible force, a visual representation of his destructive power. He raised his wooden sword, and the mana coiled around it, its surface now glowing with an incandescent light. This was it. This was the finishing move.
For Instructor Bale, the sight was terrifying. He is a master in the blade, but this was a force of nature that he couldn’t comprehended. He was a reverend practitioner of the sword; Eldrich was a living calamity. He knew he couldn’t block it, couldn’t deflect it. He could only brace for impact, a silent acceptance of his defeat.
But as Eldrich prepared to unleash the strike, his mind didn’t register the awe or the fear in the room. His thoughts were a world away, pulled back to a ti before the titles, before the power, before the na of the Hell’s Knight.
He was a boy of 15, standing on a muddy field, his small, unexceptional fra trembling with nerves. The Royal Knight’s entrance exam was at the corner, one he desperatly wished to pass, but he failed. The judges, adorned in regal clothings, simply looked at him and shook their heads. There was no special bloodline, no innate talent, no hidden potential. He was a commoner, a son of a blacksmith, with nothing but a desire to be great. The chief judge’s words still echoed in his mind: "So have that spark in them, boy. You simply do not."
He went ho that day with his head down, the weight of his failure a physical burden on his shoulders. The look on his father’s face was not anger, but a deep, sorrowful disappointnt. His mother simply hugged him, her small fra shaking with silent sobs. That night, he felt the loneliness of being a failure, of being deed a misfit by the very people that surrounded him.
A few months later, he was at a regular academy, the kind that churned out dics for the front lines. The training was a mundane series of morizing spells, healing herbs and, knowing how to properly intergrate the new technology with magic, even learning how to bandage wounds and cauterize injuries.
He was no longer a warrior in training but a glorified nurse. He felt the bitterness of his new reality with every passing day, the constant reminder that he wasn’t strong enough, wasn’t good enough. He watched the knights train from a distance, the sight a sharp knife twisting in his heart.
Then ca the battle. It was a skirmish with a band of rogue goblins that creeped from a relatively small dungeon, but it turned into a nightmare. They were later outnumbered, and quickly beca outmatched. The front lines were crumbling, and the knights were falling behind. He was a dic, a non-combatant, but as he watched his comrades bleed and die, as he watched his friends fall, sothing snapped inside him.
The feeling was raw, a primal instinct that overrode all his training, all his fear. He felt a burning sensation in his chest, a spark that had been dormant for years. It was the sa spark the chief judge had said he lacked. It was the fire of a warrior, of a man who was pushed to the very edge.
He grabbed a discarded sword covered with the blood of his comrades, his hands quickly trembling, but not from fear. They trembled from the imnse power that was now coursing through his veins. He ran into the fray, not as a dic, but as a warrior, his blade a blur of motion. He didn’t use any of the fancy techniques of the knights; he used the simple, brute force of a man who had nothing to lose. He fought with a fury that scared even the goblins, his every swing an eruption of pure, unadulterated force.
The fire within him was not just a feeling; it was a reality. He didn’t just feel fire; he beca fire. With a roar that shook the very ground, he unleashed a firestorm, a vortex of flas that consud everything in its path. The goblins, the dead, the dying, everything was swallowed by the inferno. He stood in the middle of the carnage, a lone figure of pure destructive power. When the battle was over, the only thing that remained was him and the smoldering remains of his enemies.
He was no longer a dic. He was no longer a misfit. He was the Hell’s Knight, a force of nature, a man who had earned his place among the legends.
The mory snapped back to the present. The roar of the firestorm still rang in his ears, and the heat of his aura was a tangible force that made the air shimr. He looked at Instructor Bale, a man who had dedicated his life to the perfection of the sword. He saw the sa hunger in his eyes, the sa dedication, the sa desire to be great.
Eldrich lowered his sword a fraction of an inch, his eyes softening. This wasn’t a duel to determine the victor. It was a duel to show the students what was possible. He was a grandmaster, but he wasn’t always one. He was a dic who beca a hero, a misfit who beca a legend. He had to show them that they, too, could rise to the occasion, that they, too, could find their own fire.
He took a step forward, his aura intensifying. The wooden sword in his hand, now smoldering like a hot ember, was a testant to his sheer power. He moved with a speed that couldn’t be followed, a blur of motion that a normal person wouldn’t even be able to follow.
The sword ca to a stop a single milliter from Instructor Bale’s neck. A small wisp of smoke curled up from the tip of the blade, a silent show to the power he had held back. He could have ended it in a single mont, a single thrust, but he chose not to. He chose to show rcy, to show that even a warrior with destructive power could be humane.
"This duel is a draw," Eldrich said, his voice a low and resonant. He lowered his sword, the fire in his eyes slowly fading. He had made his point. He had shown them what they could beco. He had shown them that a misfit could beco a legend.
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[A/N]: If you enjoyed what you just read, consider supporting with more motivations by giving power stones, gifts and adding it to your library. n, once again for your support and read, let’s roll out.
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