When The System Spoi Chapter 88 - Eighty Eight

Chapter 88: Chapter Eighty Eight

---

BOOM!

Aaron’s shadow—the one wielding [Call Thunder]—summoned lightning with the full force of its remaining mana. The bolt struck Dean and the Berserker shadow simultaneously. The shadow dissipated on impact, its form unraveling into wisps of darkness that scattered and faded.

The smoke cleared. Dean stood at its center, a satisfied smile cutting across his charred face. His clothes were scorched, the fabric stiff with soot, the leather of his boots cracked from the heat. The attack had hurt. His skin tingled where the lightning had kissed it, and a dull throb pulsed through his shoulder where the strike had landed clean.

"I really love these clothes, man." He looked down at himself, shook his head. "But what are clothes in comparison to the beat down you’ll be receiving?"

The Berserker shadow was gone. The Blademaster, the Armor, and the [Call Thunder] shadow had dissipated as well. Five remained. Aaron watched them from behind his wall of summoned soldiers, his expression unreadable.

As For Dean, he could still go on, the damage dealt was shaken off thanks to his trait [ Pain Resistance ], the damage was registered in his body, but it did not impact his ability whatsoever.

Well it did, thanks to the injury, his trait [ Adrenaline Conversion ] his stats had gained a 20% boost and if he incurs more stress, injuries and actually reaches the point where he might die, the boost would peak at a 50% to his stats.

Dean flexed his hands. A sword appeared in his grip—pulled from the storage ring on his finger, the blade catching the light. The tal was clean, unadorned, functional. He rolled his wrist once, testing the weight.

Across the training ground, the number of Aaron’s shadows shifted. From five to nine. He had revived the fallen ones, pouring mana into their forms, watching them solidify from mist to flesh—or sothing close to it. His face held a taunting grin.

Sadly, I only have mana to raise three more after this.

Aaron chuckled internally. The fight would end soon. He had to hit Dean with everything he had—at least what a friendly spar would allow—and then face his inevitable defeat.

"That’s good." Dean’s voice carried across the space between them. "I was just about to get serious."

He rolled his shoulders, settling into his stance.

"You’ve put up a good fight, but I have a healthy piece of drumstick waiting for ."

He dashed forward.

"Well, I’m not going down anyti soon." Aaron’s grin widened. "So until then, you’ll have to deal with this gift."

PEW.

A barrage of beams flew toward Dean—not a volley, but a storm, each one aid with the precision of soone who had been waiting for this exact mont.

Dean smiled. He rolled his blade, deflecting the beams as they ca—so grazing his shoulders, his cheek, leaving thin red lines that welled with blood and were imdiately forgotten.

In the midst of the barrage, the close-quarters shadows reached him. Berserker. Blademaster. Armor. Three forms, three angles, three threats.

The Blademaster swung first.

Dean blocked. The impact shivered up his arm—the shadow hit harder than it looked. He parried, kicked the shadow back, turned—

The Berserker was already there.

Dean let go of his sword. His elbow ca around as he turned, catching the Berserker across the jaw. The shadow’s head snapped sideways. Dean caught his sword mid-fall, completed the turn, and cut off the shadow’s head in a single fluid motion.

"One down."

Dean had higher physical stats than the Berserker even before [ Adrenaline Conversion ] kicked in. With the twenty percent boost from accumulated damage, the shadow never stood a chance.

Its head fell. It dissipated before it hit the ground.

The Armor shadow dashed toward him. Dean threw his sword—not a careful throw, not aid, just released—and watched it sink into the shadow’s chest. The impact drove the shadow backward, its feet skidding across the stone.

Before it could recover, Dean was there.

A flying kick drove the sword deeper into the shadow’s chest. The blade erged from its back, dark and glistening. Dean pulled a second sword from his storage ring and cut off the shadow’s head in the sa motion.

The shadow dissipated. Dean bent, picked up his first sword, and turned to the Blademaster.

A white light flared in his peripheral vision.

"Not this ti."

Dean crossed both swords in front of him—one horizontal, one vertical—and braced. The thunder struck. The blades absorbed the brunt of it, the energy crackling across their surfaces, arcing into his hands, his arms, his shoulders. He held.

PEW.

A beam hit him flat in the back.

"Fuck!" Dean staggered, the swords dropping from his guard. The pain was sharp, imdiate—a hot lance between his shoulder blades. "Are you trying to kill ?"

"Sorry." Aaron grimaced, but his eyes were steady. "I thought you could take it."

"Of course I can." Dean straightened, rolling his shoulders. The burn was already fading, the pain settling into sothing manageable. "But I’m going to have to puml you. And you’re buying

food."

"No problem." Aaron’s smile returned. "Endure the rest and you can eat as much as you want."

"Tch."

As Aaron finished speaking, Dean sensed the Blademaster closing in. He switched posture without thinking—his body moving before his mind caught up—and dodged to the side.

He pounced.

The Blademaster had drawn a second sword. It t Dean’s first strike with one blade, his second with the other—a proper exchange, not the clumsy parries of before.

Dean blocked, turned, swung again. The Blademaster blocked again. Dean kicked it in the stomach, sending it backward, and pounced after it.

"This has gone on too long." Dean’s voice was calm, almost conversational. "Your swordsmanship is too subpar to get

to engage in a good sword duel."

He joined his swords together, holding them in one hand—a single blade now, longer, heavier, the weight distributed between both weapons. He swung down.

The force of it broke the shadow’s blade. The energy construct shattered, fragnts scattering, and the impact cracked the shadow’s form—a fissure running from its shoulder to its chest.

Dean separated the swords again. One in each hand. He bent low, turned, and slashed the shadow from stomach to sternum—cleaving it in two.

The upper half fell. The lower half followed. Both dissipated before they hit the ground.

"Now for you." Dean pointed his sword at Aaron. "I hope you’ve got more than tricks."

Aaron smiled. He rushed forward, his remaining shadows flanking him, and t Dean in the open space between them.

’Did you actually think you could win against ?’

Aaron’s grin was sharp, bloodied, sincere.

’Ti to show you a person’s rank is not all there is to rate a person.’

He had gained the necessary information he needed, the kid was good, a monster in the making, but right now, he was a bad match up for him.

’Zeke should be happy I created a teachable mont.’

They clashed.

The exchange was fast—not the explosive speed of Kenshin’s engagents, but sothing tighter, more contained. For every jab Aaron threw, Dean had an answer. For every hook, every cross, Dean weaved, dodged, and retaliated with an attack of his own. Dean’s grin was wide, almost gleeful. Aaron’s face was bloodied, his lip split, his eyebrow still leaking from the earlier gash.

In the middle of the exchange, Dean sensed a beam coming.

He tilted his head. The beam passed his ear, close enough that he felt the heat of it. He glanced at the source—a shadow, finger extended, already charging another.

He turned his head back. He was surrounded. Aaron’s remaining shadows had encircled him while he was focused on the exchange.

"Tsk." Dean grabbed Aaron by the shirt and flung him back toward where he had started. "I’ll deal with them first."

Aaron flew backward, arms pinwheeling.

As Dean turned to face the shadows, they attacked—air currents, black ice lances, beams, a coordinated assault from every direction. Dean summoned his swords again, deflecting what he could, dodging what he couldn’t, taking hits that left bruises and burns and bleeding lines across his arms, his chest, his legs.

He failed to notice Aaron’s smirk as he was flung back.

Dean rushed to each shadow. Destroyed them. One by one. The air currents stopped. The ice lances shattered. The beams fell silent. He turned to see Aaron standing alone, his face bloodied, his chest heaving.

Dean pounced.

As he drew closer, Aaron burst into a wide grin.

Three shadows appeared at his side—his last three, summoned from the dregs of his mana.

A white light flared.

"Oh, c’mon."

Dean was caught off guard. The thunder struck—not the full force of it, but enough to send him rolling, to scorch his already damaged clothes, to add another layer of pain to the accumulating weight on his body. He absorbed about forty percent of the attack, twisting as he fell, distributing the impact across his shoulder and side rather than taking it directly.

He raised his head.

Aaron stood over him.

"Sorry to tell you, my friend." Aaron’s voice was quiet, almost gentle. "But this is..."

"Checkmate."

Dean dropped.

The ground beneath him sank—not cracked, not cratered, but absorbed, the stone turning to sothing like mud, sothing like quicksand, sothing that gripped his legs and held him in place. [ Bottomless Swamp ]. One of Aaron’s shadows had cast it while Dean was focused on the thunder, while Aaron was smiling, while the fight was reaching its end.

Dean tried to rise. His legs would not move.

A giant spear of black ice materialized above him, its point aid at his chest.

"I..." Dean’s voice was quiet. "I lost?"

"Of course." Aaron burst into laughter—full, maniacal, the sound echoing across the training ground. Then it stopped. His eyes locked with Dean’s, and the laughter settled into sothing smaller, more sincere.

"You’re still way beyond what you’re capable of." Aaron’s voice was steady now. "And I have been trained by the best there is."

He extended his hand.

"Had you extricated yourself from the thrill of battle and gone for the king, you wouldn’t have been trapped by his pawns. When you face a summoner type, you deal with the summoner first—or his mage subordinates. You don’t engage in physical ’altercations’ with his brawlers."

Aaron called back his shadows. One by one, they dissolved into mist, returning to wherever shadows went when they were not needed. The spear of black ice faded. The swamp released Dean’s legs.

Aaron stretched out his hand.

"Let’s get you food, kid."

Dean stared at the offered hand for a long mont. Then he laughed—short, sharp, surprised out of him—and took it.

"Fine." Dean let Aaron pull him to his feet. "But I’m picking the place."

"Deal."

Aaron’s smile was tired, bloodied, and entirely satisfied.