CHAPTER 278: CHAPTER 277: A QUASI-TIER 7 WEAPON

Velkain aura flaring like a hurricane unchained. His sword glows, the runes etched into the steel blazing as though they will melt.

"Tier 6: Heaven-Rending Gale!"

The very heavens scream as his blade carves downward.

A cataclysm erupts.

From his strike surges a colossal cyclone, a sword-shaped storm hundreds of meters long, layered with countless blades of compressed wind stacked upon one another. Each edge within it is sharp enough to flay the earth, and together they form a storm that could erase a fortress in seconds.

The cyclone howls like a dragon of wind, its roar splitting the skies as it descends upon Alix. Every tree, every stone, every loose weapon across the battlefield is ripped into the air, shredded into fragments by the storm’s pull.

On the ground, the Ashedge warriors stumble, some forced to their knees, their faces pale. "The clan leader... is this strong?!" one gasps, shielding his face from the tearing winds.

But Velkain’s eyes blaze with the resolve of a man who has staked everything. His body strains, veins bulging, blood trickling from his nose and ears as he forces every last drop of his power into the attack. "Take this!"

The world seems to collapse inward as the storm converges, swallowing Alix whole in an explosion that blots out the horizon. The shockwave tears outward, flattening hills, snapping ancient trees, and reducing the battlements to rubble.

For long moments, nothing can be seen but devastation. The sky is a yawning wound of whirling gales.

Then—

The winds fade. The dust settles.

And Alix is still there.

Floating. Unmoved. His scales gleam faintly as though the storm had only polished them, his cloak flowing lazily in the aftermath of ruin. Not a single scratch mars his body.

Gasps ripple across the Ashedge ranks. Some drop their weapons outright, their eyes wide with disbelief.

Velkain staggers, sweat pouring down his temples, his breath ragged. His arm trembles from the weight of his own sword.

Alix’s expression remains calm, his tone unshaken as he speaks, his voice cutting through the silence like thunder:

"Two strikes down. One remains."

Velkain’s grip tightens on his blade. His chest rises and falls heavily, each breath a ragged drag of air. The two strongest strikes of his life—his pride as a wind swordsman—had vanished against Alix like pebbles cast into the sea.

He lowers his head for a moment, eyes shadowed, then draws in a long breath. His voice comes steady, though it carries the weight of desperation.

"You don’t mind me using external help, right?"

Alix’s gaze doesn’t waver. His voice is calm, cool, unshaken.

"Go ahead."

Velkain’s eyes harden, his tone dropping into something deep, reverent—almost ritualistic.

"This strike is not my own. It is the hidden card of the Ashedge Clan... a gift left by our founder. So—" his gaze sharpens, voice like iron, "you’d best take this seriously."

Alix’s lips curve faintly, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly.

"Let’s see about that."

Velkain turns his gaze downward, toward the heart of the Ashedge compound. His voice booms across the battlefield.

"Warriors of the Ashedge Clan—lend me your strength!"

A roar echoes from the walls. One by one, the warriors kneel, pressing their palms to the ground. Energy pours out of them like streams of light, rushing into the core of the fortress. The earth rumbles. Stone splits. And from deep within, something ancient awakens.

The ground cracks open. Dust and wind spiral upward as a massive sword rises—an ancient relic, its blade weathered yet gleaming with dormant power. The air thrums with violent gales as if the weapon itself breathes the storm.

Velkain extends his hand. The relic responds, breaking free from its resting place and soaring into his grasp. The moment his fingers close around the hilt, the sky howls.

The sword is heavy—not with weight, but with the will of countless generations. Its runes flare, spilling emerald and silver light into the storm above. Velkain grits his teeth as his body strains under its burden.

"This is the Windbreaker, the legacy of our founder!"

The relic vibrates, and power begins to gather at its core. Velkain raises the sword high, and winds spiral violently around him, coalescing into a massive formation that stretches across the heavens.

"Quasi-Tier 7 Skill—Eternal Tempest!"

Velkain’s roar shakes the sky as he thrusts the relic upward.

The runes flare brighter than lightning, and the air itself revolts. Winds scream into existence from every corner of the battlefield, not as blades this time, but as a world-consuming storm. Clouds are shredded into ribbons, the heavens darken, and the ground rumbles as though the entire domain has been placed under siege.

The cyclone takes the shape of a dome. A colossal prison of storm, miles wide, sealing Alix within. Inside, the wind rages endlessly, compressing, folding, tearing, until it becomes something akin to a world of storms—an eternal tempest where nothing survives.

Velkain’s voice carries above the howl, his tone reverent yet strained.

"This is no mere skill. This storm was carved from the will of our founder. A tempest without end, swallowing all who stand against the Ashedge Clan!"

His warriors cry out, their strength still being siphoned into the relic. Streams of force and aura pour into Velkain, who trembles as his body becomes the conduit for the ancient weapon. His veins glow faintly, his wings thrash, and blood sprays from the corners of his mouth.

The storm prison shrinks, condensing on Alix. Inside, gales rage at a speed that could strip flesh from bone, collapse lungs, and shatter spirit. Tornadoes rise and collapse in seconds, thunder cracks from friction alone, and the very atmosphere is crushed under its own fury.

From the outside, nothing can be seen—only a whirling sphere of unending wind, its scream louder than war drums.

The warriors roar with him, their voices nearly lost to the hurricane.

Then—

From inside the storm, a faint glow shines.

It grows brighter. Brighter. Until it cuts through the endless tempest like sunlight breaking through storm clouds.

A calm, steady glow.

And then the winds stop.

The Eternal Tempest collapses in on itself with a deafening implosion, scattering into harmless breezes that flutter across the ruined battlefield.

Floating in the air, at the eye of where the storm once raged, is Alix.

Unscathed. Cloak unruffled. Scales gleaming as though he had been bathed in light, not storms.

He tilts his head slightly, his expression unreadable. Then he exhales, a faint curl of disdain escaping his lips.

"Quasi–Tier Seven... yet not a trace of law in it. Impressive in size, but hollow." His eyes pierce through Velkain. "All that noise... and not a single scratch."

The battlefield falls into stunned silence. The Ashedge warriors, pale and trembling, can’t even raise their weapons. Some sink to their knees outright.

Velkain staggers, the relic heavy in his hands, his strength drained to the bone. Blood stains his chin, his wings sag. His storm had failed.

Alix’s voice is steady, cold as judgment.

"Three strikes. Your turn is over."

On the walls of the Ashedge stronghold, despair takes root. The warriors stare in silence, their mouths dry, their knees weak.

Muv grips the stone parapet until her knuckles pale. Her voice trembles as she mutters, half in disbelief, half in fear,

"I... I don’t believe it. Is that monster truly Tier 6? There’s no way anyone below Tier 7 could take the Eternal Tempest unscathed..."

Beside her, Velira clenches her fists until her nails bite into her palms. She steels herself, repeating over and over in her mind what her father once told her—The path of the clan is greater than the life of any one man.

But tears betray her resolve, spilling down her cheeks despite the hard set of her jaw.

Back in the sky, the storm has ended.

Alix floats in the air, his eyes sharp, his aura calm as a still ocean. He looks at Velkain without malice, but with the detached weight of inevitability.

"I will not hold back," he says, his tone even, every word ringing across the battlefield like iron striking stone. "And I am sure... you are going to die in this attack of mine."

Velkain steadies himself on the relic sword, chest heaving, but he still manages to smirk. "Bring it on. If you hold back... that’s the same as you looking down on me."

Alix inclines his head slightly, acknowledging the words. "Good."

Then—

Three circles flare open behind him, each vast and intricate, their runes glowing with different colors.

One burns crimson with the fury of flame. Tier 6 Skill: Infernal Cataclysm. The air ignites, and a tidal wave of molten fire surges in miniature suns.

The second radiates a glacial blue. Tier 6 Skill: Absolute Frostfang. The temperature plummets instantly, and blades of ice as tall as mountains sharpen in the sky, each one humming with killing intent.

The third crackles with violet lightning, arcs splitting the heavens. Tier 6 Skill: Heavenly Ruinbolt. Thunderheads churn into being, bolts the size of towers tearing downward with the promise of annihilation.

Three different elements. Three different Tier 6 skills. Conjured simultaneously.

Gasps erupt from the walls. Warriors stumble back as if the sight itself wounds them. Even the oldest elders, who have seen centuries of battles, cannot comprehend what they witness.

"No... no, that’s not possible..." one whispers, his voice thin.

"Three elements...? Three Tier 6 skills?" another stammers.

Muv grips the wall harder, her eyes wide. "That... that just doesn’t make sense..."

In this world, it is sacred knowledge: one masters a single element to refine their path, to ascend without discord. To wield two is the mark of a genius—so rare that the greatest powers of the realm would wage war to claim them. But three? Perhaps in the central continent such legends exist... yet in this land, not once in all recorded history has a soul been born who could command three elements and survive their inevitable clash.