CHAPTER 147: BATTLE

As the last flickers of dust spiraled downward from the cavernous ceiling, the world hung suspended in an eerie, stretched-out moment.

The earth still trembled beneath their feet, the scorched air thick with magic, smoke, and the bitter taste of ozone.

Amid the wreckage of the barrier and the ruin of the crystalline seal, Elius emerged like a deity reborn from war and shadows.

Light peeled away from his skin in strands, curling like vapor from molten steel.

"Hmmm, I still feel weird about this swapping thing..."

His eyes gleamed with raw spiritual fire, twin suns behind cold pupils that had seen countless deaths—and now, hungered for more.

He stood still.

Unmoving.

Breathing.

And then, softly, his voice broke through the settling silence.

"I didn’t expect," he murmured, almost to himself, "that switching with the clone would feel like this molting kind of thing..."

A drop of blood rolled down the side of his face, trailing from his scalp. His voice remained calm, casual even, yet the weight behind each syllable struck the air like thunder.

"...like a snake changing its skin."

He rolled his shoulders, slowly, deliberately. Beneath his torn uniform, his muscles flexed unnaturally. Bones cracked into new alignments. His aura—a bladed fog of golden Qi laced with black edges—began to pulse outward, more slowly now, but growing with every heartbeat.

"It’s strange," he said. "How much of myself I had to shed... to slither out of that little trick. But I suppose—"

His eyes lifted. The battlefield was wide again.

"...that’s the thing about evolution."

Then the thunder roared.

Zhark charged first, like a storm given flesh. Lightning coursed from his fists and down his back, snapping in jagged arcs as his boots tore across the broken stone floor. Each step cracked the ground beneath him, his core spinning with condensed lightning spheres ready to erupt.

"You talk too damn much!" Zhark roared, leaping straight into the air. Thunder pulsed in his fists—each blow capable of caving in a mountain wall. "Let’s see how much of yourself you really shed, monster!"

Elius raised one hand.

A single finger.

The first fist struck.

BOOOOOM!!!

The shockwave split the cavern down the middle. Stone and flame exploded outward. Sparks flew like razors. Elius caught the fist with one palm—his arm shook, muscles flexing violently as Zhark’s power slammed against him like a tidal wave of storm essence. His boots slid back an inch. Two inches. Three.

Then Keith appeared behind him.

No words. No scream. No flair.

Just the silent fury of a brother betrayed.

Keith struck like a falling boulder—his palm smashing toward Elius’s exposed ribcage. Not a punch, but a targeted strike—a Qi-disrupting blow designed to cripple an internal meridian point.

Elius twisted.

Not fast enough.

Keith’s hand landed.

CRACK!

His body jolted—veins spasming as a ripple of disharmony tore through his left side. For the briefest moment, his floating swords wavered, their formation disrupted.

Zhark saw the opportunity.

Lightning burst from both fists as he unleashed a twin hammer-blow from above.

Elius lifted both arms in defense—caught the strikes.

His knees buckled. Teeth clenched.

Behind him, the air warped.

Fraven was already floating, fingers splayed. His mind surged outward like a hundred invisible spears—telekinetic force collapsing around Elius from all sides. Invisible constructs wrapped like nooses around the floating swords, twisting them mid-air. Simultaneously, dozens of sharpened shards of broken obsidian launched toward Elius’s back.

Shania’s glyphs activated.

Mirrors of refracted light and illusion bloomed across the battlefield.

Elius blinked—and the world split.

Suddenly, there were five Zharks. Eight Keiths. Eleven Fravens. Seventeen Shania illusions, each projecting layered magic distortion fields. His vision twisted. His aura recoiled.

The ground under his feet melted into tar.

His hands were bound in lightning cuffs.

A telekinetic cage slammed over his head.

And from all directions—

They attacked.

Fist.

Blade.

Mental spike.

Illusion trap.

Thunder strike.

Flesh screamed. Bones buckled. Elius’s mind felt like it was being split into fractal shards, his soul pulled in seventeen different directions at once. Every attack landed like a world-ending blow. His body, exhausted from the soul-switch technique, felt like a poorly fitted shell. His Qi channels were still stabilizing. His mind still recalibrating.

He was off balance.

Cornered.

Beaten.

Bleeding.

Yet...

His feet never left the ground.

The swords, though slowed, still spun—one blocked a lightning bolt; another deflected a punch. His body, though wavering, moved like an echo—just enough to lessen a blow, turn a death strike into a graze.

The illusions bit into his psyche.

The telekinetic prison constricted like a vice.

And still, he endured.

Fraven’s brow was drenched in sweat. "He’s weakening—push harder!"

Shania gasped, her arms outstretched as her illusions shimmered. "His body’s breaking down—we almost have him!"

"Finish it!" Keith shouted, flipping mid-air as he drove a knee into Elius’s shoulder. "Now, while he’s still unstable!"

Zhark struck from below—lightning coiling around his fists like divine fire, turning his entire body into a spear of wrath.

And then—

Everything paused.

Elius exhaled.

Long. Deep. Calm.

He took one step forward.

All at once, the illusions shattered—glass-mirrors of light snapping into smoke.

The swords reformed, tightening into a deadly spiral behind his back.

The telekinetic prison bent outward, as if pressure from inside was pushing against it. Cracks formed in the invisible walls.

And then—

Crack.

Elius tilted his head left.

Crack.

Then right.

The sound of bones aligning.

Of something returning to its truest form.

And with that, his entire demeanor changed.

The weariness in his eyes faded.

The limp in his leg vanished.

The Qi distortion in his aura straightened into a blade-sharp edge.

He raised his head slowly, golden hair drifting slightly as a wind began to spiral around him. Flames and embers danced at his heels. The five swords vibrated, glowing brighter.

Then he smiled.

Not wide.

Not cruel.

Just a slight curve of the lips.

And he said—voice low, resonant, filled with finality:

"Now..."

He inhaled.

A deep breath of war.

"...it’s time to get serious."