Monsters were bearable and could be hunted by even the most ordinary of humans. However, that lavish dream ended when it ca to dealing with hellions.
Danger levels were another topic entirely - they separated the destruction capacities of these monsters from each other.
While a human could easily deal with a Disastrous savage, before a Catastrophic savage they were more likely to face death. And a Devilish savage?
A low-ranked monster had never been recorded to evolve that high in their danger level, but should there be one? A human would stand a better chance with six of them against a hundred Disastrous savages.
Catastrophe, Devil, Abysmal, and Apex.
These were incredibly dangerous levels of monsters-even a Master could not erge unscathed from a fight with a Catastrophic Beast. It was impossible, unless the Master was highly experienced, a true demon of slaughter.
Now to speak of anyone facing a Hellion-they'd need extensive preparation, spend several days learning its weaknesses, and lure it to conditions that favored their talent.
That was how dangerous a Hellion was. At this rank, these monsters surpassed common knowledge and handling. No ordinary human should ever dream of facing one, let alone dare
it.
Northern didn't have ti to warn her more than he already had. They had dealt with hundreds of savage rank, beast rank, and now hellions were appearing. He presud that the slight pause in the monster flood ant a vicious number of them was coming.
That was his reason for creating the wall of ice-to focus the monsters on himself and relieve the pressure on the two of them.
Though his ti was limited. The daystar slowly climbed to the peak of the sky, burning with searing heat each passing second.
It was only a matter of ti until the walls crumbled, and by then, he wanted to be done with all of them.
Northern hissed.
'Such a pity it's impossible to enter a shattered rift. This would have been so much easier...' The landscape and having two burdens behind him-one especially useless-did not favor his wild and nonchalant combat style.
But he couldn't brood forever. He fixed his eyes forward as the rift rumbled.
More monsters erged, mightier in numbers than they had ever seen, charging forward with savage steps. The slight tremors in the air proved it.
Northern gripped the sword tightly, feeling the ice blade cool his palms. Any other would be subjected to its freezing wrath.
The rift rumbled once more and monsters began to leap out. These were slightly different from before. Though they bore the sa grotesque look, these ones didn't rely on all limbs for movent.
Instead, they ran on their legs alone, moving as if their hands had lost all life.
Their pattern of movent was awkward, which raised questions about their insane speed. They didn't seem to be efficient flyers though.
But their legs were extraordinarily long. Northern was certain they served so purpose.
He didn't want to find out. He just wanted to kill them all before they got the chance to pass him.
Suppressing all thoughts that rummaged through his mind, Northern dashed forward, eting them in the middle of the narrow passage.
The ice swords danced in arcs, emitting frozen dust as he swung them rcilessly. His style turned ruthless and chaotic, caring for nothing around him.
He dove in quick, almost phasing as he moved, and twirled, swiftly decapitating several monsters around him.
He didn't look to confirm the kills-the system's voice was confirmation enough. Instead, he was already moving again, swinging the ice swords as he went. Grotesque figures dropped to the ground, ichor spilling forth like a gory fountain.
Northern weaved back and forth between the flood of disasters, swinging his swords in a chaotic dance pattern that could not be followed or predicted.
At so point, Gareon had wanted to join the battle. He took a step closer but froze. The re flow that Northern created with his linked movents was overwhelming.
Though the leader might not have much to say about his combat style, decades of experience scread at Gareon not to take another step forward.
A heavy weight hung in the air. It was almost as if the masked rcenary's presence filled everything. One wrong move and Gareon felt he would make a fatal mistake that would either disrupt the young man's deliberate yet seemingly coincidental flow or cost him a limb-if he was lucky.
There was perfection and magnificence to the battle flow, the way he weaved each sword and moved between the lines of grotesque runners.
They were swift and sharp-Gareon struggled to follow their movents, but none passed the masked rcenary.
He would suddenly appear to cut one that had slipped by a second ago while diving deeper into the flood. He would dissolve into several reflections, dealing ferocious damage throughout the horde.
Sotis a strike of his sword seed to resound a thousand tis. Gore spilled forth from places in the flood far from where he stood.
There was no limit to his creativity-he seed a great artist who had mastered the art of weaving chaos, making it look beautiful, appealing.
Each movent threatened to pull Gareon's eyes from their sockets, yearning for an artistic death.
"Oh-oh no. No, no, no-what am I thinking? What the hell is that thought? No. Don't think. Just-watch. No, wait, don't watch-feeling is better. Maybe worse."
Gareon slapped his own face, harder than necessary, the sting grounding him. But the sensation barely registered. Because the battle continued.
It was too much. Too much beauty. Too much horror. Too much of sothing he could never understand.
"Sages—they fight like concepts. That's it. Like war painted itself and decided to move. Like —but wait, wait-can you kill war? What if I step forward? What if I ruin it? What if I-what if
I die beautifully?"
He inhaled sharply, shook his head, swallowed back sothing that tasted like awe and
nausea.
"No. Not yet. I am not ready to be part of a masterpiece."
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