Chapter 122: Stop!

Makun looked at the three rushing towards him, they were a threat for sure, but his eyes trailed one last time on the priest.

The priest himself was not a warrior, Makun could tell, but the amount of Ashe flowing through him was staggering. If he decided to act, it would not be with fists.

He had to keep an eye on him at all moments.

BOOM!

Makun lunged towards the shorter man, the one with the twin axes, throwing a heavy cross full of his red chaotic Ashe. The blow came fast, faster than any of them expected, catching the man by surprise.

BANG!

The shorter man raised both his axes in a desperate block, the impact rattling through his arms, his feet sliding back against the chequerboard floor.

But they were not alone.

Swoosh!

Makun heard it before he saw it, the curved blade cutting through the air from his left, aiming to sever his extended arm at the elbow. He had no choice but to abandon his assault, pulling back, two quick steps to create distance.

However, two steps were not enough.

CRACK!

A fist wrapped in chains crashed into his nose, the metal links biting into his skin, the force behind it far heavier than it should have been. His vision flashed white, blood sprayed from his nostrils, and his body flew backwards, crashing through the open doors of the hall.

He hit the floor hard, sliding across the stone until his back slammed against the far wall of the corridor.

Fuck.

They were coordinated. They had fought together before, multiple times.

Makun wiped the blood from his nose with the back of his hand, his eyes already locked on the three figures stepping through the doorway.

This was going to be harder than he thought.

They had not used any particular Ashe, except for the strands of energy he saw sent to them by the priest, but even that they had not used.

They are holding back.

He slowly stood up, his eyes fixed on them.

He had been annoyed ever since he pursued Mr. and Mrs. Jones, even more when he had killed the guards, and his fury almost exploded when he saw Yohan.

He had not really learned what a berserk was or how to fight properly as one, how to make use of his own bottled rage to gain what seemed to be explosive power, but he could force himself somewhat to feel that rage.

He reached for it now.

The anger he had swallowed when Danielle dismissed him, the frustration from Bol and Cheryl targeting him, the Eyed Hand….

It all came flooding back.

His eyes burned, the edges of his vision bleeding orange. His route core pulsed, not steadily like before, but violently, like a heart trying to tear itself free from his chest.

His Ashe surged through his veins, red and chaotic, no longer contained but spilling out of him in waves.

He teetered at the edge of losing himself.

But this was what he wanted.

More.

FLASH!

Makun moved a second time, but this time different, he was not a man charging into battle, no, he was a beast that only knew how to hunt.

His first target was the chain-fist, the one who had bloodied his nose. Makun closed the distance in a heartbeat, his fist already cocked, his Ashe condensing around his knuckles like a second skin made of fire.

The gaunt man’s eyes widened, finally showing emotion, Makun was no normal first-grade apprentice.

The gaunt man had no choice but to circulate his Ashe. It pumped through him, a generic blue colour, cold and precise.

His eyes, those unblinking eyes, scanned Makun in a fraction of a second. That was what it meant to be a Needle. The world slowed, targets revealed themselves, weak points glowed like beacons. The solar plexus, exposed. The throat was unguarded and the inner knee was vulnerable.

There.

He ducked under Makun’s wild punch, his knees bending low, his body coiling, and he threw a straight punch aimed directly at Makun’s solar plexus.

A killing blow to any normal opponent.

But Makun was not functioning with logic, not anymore, he was working on instinct.

WHOOSH!

Makun jumped, using the Needle warrior’s shoulders as a springboard, his hands pressing down hard on the gaunt man’s frame. His body twisted in mid-air, spinning, inverting, legs whipping around like the blades of a tornado.

The sword-wielder saw it coming.

Too late.

BANG!

The first kick connected with his wrist, the impact shattering his grip, sending his curved blade spinning through the corridor, clattering against the stone floor somewhere in the darkness.

BANG!

The second kick connected with his jaw, snapping his head to the side, lifting his body off the ground. He flew backwards into the hall, crashing through the air, his body skidding across the chequerboard floor until it halted just before the six cloaked figures.

He groaned, heaving heavily, he had difficulty getting up.

FWOOSH!

Makun heard it before he landed, the heavy whistle of Ashe-charged axes cutting through the air in a brutal horizontal arc, aiming to sever the hands he had used to stand on the Needle warrior.

The Cleaver had entered the fight.

If this strike connected, not only was he going to lose his hands, he even risked exploding, the destructive power held by the axes was enormous, one no normal second-grade practitioner should have.

But Makun saw it, he had sacrificed speed for power. This gave him a brief instance, a nanosecond to adjust things before the strike could connect.

Makun tried moving, somehow changing his position with the Needle warrior, using some acrobatic stunts.

“Stop.”

The word was not loud, It had not been shouted but had been spoken, calmly, softly, like a parent telling a child to put down a toy.

But it was not a request.

The moment the syllable left the priest’s lips, Makun felt it.

A weight descended on him, invisible and absolute, pressing down on his muscles, his bones, his very will. His body refused to obey him.

His legs, which had been coiling to spring, locked in place. His arms, which had been reaching for the Needle’s shoulders, froze mid-motion.

He was not paralysed, he could feel everything but he simply could not move.

Like a decree had been issued by a king, and his body had no choice but to kneel.

Shit. A Ruler!

The priest stood at the far end of the hall, one hand raised, palm open, his grey eyes fixed on Makun with the calm certainty of a man who had already won.

This was not Ashe manipulation, this was not a warrior’s technique.

This was authority given form, command made manifest.

The Ruler route.

Makun watched the twin axes slowly reach for his hands, the Ashe-charged blades inching closer, glowing with destructive power.

He could not move, or dodge, he could only watch.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep