Chapter 123: Joy

Ray stood in the middle of Old Town Spring’s dark streets, he had been looking for clues near the Ice House.

He had read from the report that some people had disappeared around there, but after hours of searching, he had found nothing.

Another dead end. He was tired of this mission that might as well have been non-mystic related.

Then he felt it.

A prickling sensation near the crown of his head, familiar and urgent, the spirits stirring where they always did when something was wrong.

He closed his eyes.

Flash.

A forest with dense and dark trees, a chalet with wooden walls and warm light spilling from windows and practitioners moving inside.

Flash.

Makun, frozen mid-air, axes swinging towards his hands, a man in black robes with his palm raised.

Flash.

Darkness. He could not see more.

Ray’s eyes snapped open, his breath shallow, sweat beading at his temples.

He did not know what was going on or what Makun had stepped into, but the spirits did not send warnings for nothing. They had shown him death, well possibilities of him dying.

That idiot.

He pressed on his earpiece, his voice sharp and urgent.

“Leader, everyone to the SUV. Now.” He paused, already moving. “The rookie completed the mission, but he is about to die.”

….

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.

They were approaching carrying with them monstrous destructive power.

The Cleaver warrior smiled, imagining the death of a practitioner for his lord’s sake, that was an honour.

While in the room, the black-robed priest wore a calm expression of someone who had expected this from the beginning, He looked at Makun a satisfied expression on his face.

Wait, why is he so calm, grinning.

Makun was not scared, nor did his face resemble that of someone who was about to die under the assault of Ashe-charged blades, No he was smiling.

A translucent barrier made of hardening particles appeared in front of Makun.

BANG!

The recoil propelled the short Cleaver warrior back into the room, his body crashing into one of the wooden pillars, the impact cracking the beam. He slumped to the floor, dazed, his axes clattering beside him.

Phase Bastion charm? The priest’s eyes flickered, his calm mask cracking for just a moment, confusion replacing certainty before he composed himself again. He was not sure, but it seemed to be that.

That was the only thing that made sense, Makun had circulated his Ashe into it just as he was being stopped.

Thud!

His heart was pounding, blood roaring in his ears. He had been a breath away from losing his hands, from ending his path as a warrior before it truly began.

The priest’s confusion had lasted only a moment, but a moment was all Makun needed. When certainty cracked, so did concentration as such, the Ruler’s grip on his body flickered, loosened, and in that sliver of hesitation, Makun wrenched himself free.

Makun landed on the floor, his knees hitting the stone, his hands catching himself before he collapsed entirely.

He sighed, Kenji had really saved him this time.

Earlier they had received a standard field kit from him, It was made of communication earpieces, Ashe compatible pistol, a spiritual residue detector and lastly a frequency distortion device with a ten-meters radius, which could only be used once.

In the car on the way to Old Town Spring, Sarah had briefed him on how the device operated, It was a mini device that could act as a phase veil charm, a phase bastion charm and create some type of mini bounded field of around ten meters.

Seeing the approaching axes, Makun had opted for the bastion version, that was the only logical solution as a mini bounded field would have taken too long, while a phase veil option would have stalled, but given them time.

The bastion had blocked and recoiled the damage, which meant the Cleaver was in a very bad state right now.

Makun looked across the room.

The short Cleaver warrior lay crumpled against the base of a wooden pillar, his stocky frame twisted at an unnatural angle, blood pouring from an open wound on his stomach.

He looked bad.

The recoil from the bastion had not simply pushed him back, it had returned every ounce of destructive power he had put into that swing, his own Ashe-charged strike reflected back into his body.

His thick arms hung limp at his sides while the twin axes lay scattered on the chequerboard floor, one blade cracked from the impact.

Blood pooled beneath him, leaking from his mouth, his nose, his ears and the gaping wound on his stomach.

He was not dead, but he was as good as done.

The Cleaver had swung with the intent to kill, and the bastion had made him pay the full price of it.

That was close man, damn. He had neglected the possibility of the priest directly interfering in the fight and that had almost cost him his life.

Makun rose to his feet, the Needle warrior with chains in his hands had retreated some steps his eyes locked on Makun with deathly intent in them.

Makun saw that, but had the same berserk grin on his face, he had no idea that he enjoyed fighting this much, and he had felt even better when his enemy, the Cleaver warrior had received the full brunt of his own attack.

He loved the emotions of despair that emanated from the Cleaver the moment he saw his strike being blocked, he loved the uncertainty that flickered in the priest.

He wanted to feel that feeling of destroying your enemy’s plan and vision again and again.

This is what it means to be a berserk.

Not just rage and destruction, but joy too.

The pure, primal joy of battling it out to the death, following your instincts like a beast and watching your enemy realise they had already lost.

He wanted more, more, more.

He moved, this time keeping an eye on the priest.

The Cleaver was done, the sword-wielder was getting back on his feet, so right now the only one worth attacking was the Needle.

Makun reached for him, his fist brutally charging with Ashe, red and chaotic, coiling around his knuckles like living flame.

WHOOSH!

He threw a wild unrefined punch aimed at the Needle warrior’s chest.

But the gaunt man’s unblinking eyes flickered, he was analysing and calculating every one of Makun’s moves, searching for weak points.

There, His ribs.

He sidestepped the punch, his chain-wrapped fist shooting towards Makun’s exposed ribs with surgical precision.

But Makun was not there.

FWIP!

His body twisted mid-motion, legs splitting open in a wide arc as he leapt upward, the chain-fist passing harmlessly beneath him. He landed in a crouch; his hands touching the floor like a primate ready to spring.

The Needle struck again, aiming for the throat this time.

But Makun’s head snapped to the side, the chains grazing his cheek, drawing a thin line of blood.

His body rolled, he tumbled and sprang back up at an angle no trained fighter would ever use.

What the hell is this?

The Needle gritted his teeth, frustration cracking his composure for the first time.

He had fought warriors before, though he was not as fast as some practitioners, nor was he as powerful when compared to the Cleaver, but even disciplined warriors had fallen under him. They had patterns he could exploit, weak sides they did not know about.

But this guy, he had nothing like that.

There was no logic in his stance, nor was there any rhythm in his movements, maybe there was and he was just not aware of it.

Makun moved like a beast, like a monkey drunk on its own blood, limbs flailing in directions that should not work but somehow did. However, every weak point the Needle warrior identified vanished the moment he struck, replaced by empty air or a sudden counter.

THWACK!

A kick came from nowhere, slamming into his forearm as he tried to block, the force rattling his bones.

CRACK!

A headbutt followed, Makun’s forehead smashing into his nose, blood spraying across the chequerboard floor.

The Needle stumbled back, vision blurring, his precision shattered.

His instincts are too powerful.

Every opening was a trap, every vulnerability was bait and the moment he committed to a strike, the beast had already moved.

This was the worst possible matchup for a Needle warrior.

A fighter who moved on instinct alone.

Makun looked at the priest, wondering why he had not intervened a second time, but when he saw the energy that surrounded him through his sight, he could not help but laugh.

Of course! Of course he could not do that multiple times, he had to recharge.

It made sense now.

Initiates fought with just their bodies, raw physicality enhanced by circulating Ashe through their muscles and bones while using memories from the deep. They had no particular techniques, no special abilities, just strength, speed, and endurance pushed beyond human limits.

Apprentices were different. They discovered a subroute, a specialisation, a path within their chosen route and then inserted those comprehensions into their martial arts, their movements and their fights.

A Needle saw weak points, a Cleaver delivered devastating power, a Blade Dancer moved with lethal precision. But even then, their abilities were personal, contained within their own bodies.

They did not have a domain. Not yet, Makun had touched upon that concept, unknowingly but was still far from it.

He remembered Jorg, the way his presence alone had crushed the air around him. He remembered Bol and Cheryl, how their Ashe seemed to extend beyond their skin, creating invisible territories that bent reality to their will.

That is something adepts touch upon.

A domain, an area of absolute influence where their comprehension became law.

The priest was not an adept. He was an apprentice, a Ruler, someone who had discovered the path of command and authority. His “Stop” had worked because it was a single word, a single order, fueled by concentration and Ashe.

But to project that command across almost a hundred meters, to freeze a fellow apprentice mid-motion, that was not cheap. That was burning through reserves he could not easily replace.

He paid a high price for that order.

Right now, the priest was recharging, pulling energy from the crowd, from the chanting, from the faith of the disconnected. But it would take time.

Time Makun was not going to give him.

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