[Translation complete]
Weapon: Bloodfang
Rank: Balancer
Tier: II
Skill: Sword of the Night
Skill Description: The blade's power swells with vigor when wielded under the moon's gaze, gaining strength as the night deepens.
Runes: Bloodthirsty
Rune Description: The runes etched into the weapon are tied to the bones of Yachiru, a once-feared demon from the land drenched in crimson. A lieutenant general of the demon army during the war, he was ultimately obliterated by the mysterious force known only as 'The Maker' His remains are bound within the sword, lending it their cursed strength.
Runic Chant:
"By fang and by blood, I call forth the might of the fallen. I drink from my own, and rise anew. With each drop spilled, my power grows, thriving in death's wake."
Belial stood amidst the ruined factory, his grip firm around Bloodfang, the cursed blade humming with dark energy. The enchanted sword pulsed in his hands, eager, impatient. It whispered through the void, calling for blood, for power.
The air was heavy, oppressive, as if the very atmosphere recoiled from the violence that had unfolded here. The factory, once a place of industry and life, now lay in ruins, its skeletal remains casting jagged shadows under the pale light of the moon.
The cultist staggered back, his robes torn, his body trembling from the battle's toll. His breath came in ragged gasps, and his eyes darted wildly, searching for an escape that no longer existed.
Flint, on the other hand, stood tall, a smirk playing at the edges of his lips, his aura pulsating with raw ether. He was a force of nature, a tempest given form, and his presence alone was enough to make the air crackle with tension.
Belial exhaled, his breath visible in the cold night air. The fight had been brutal, but he was far from finished. His body ached, his muscles screamed for rest, but he couldn't afford to falter. Not now. Not when so much was at stake. Then, he felt it.
[Shadow Trigger Activated]
Dark energy surged through him, coiling around his muscles like a living entity, threading into his very essence. It burned through his veins, strengthening his limbs, sharpening his senses. His focus narrowed. The cultist was of no concern now; he was already spent. Flint, however—Flint was the real fight.
Belial's form blurred. In an instant, three swords of darkness materialized around him, spectral blades that flickered like shadows given form. They spiraled outward, seeking their target.
The cultist faltered, raising his arms in a feeble attempt to ward off the dark blades. They struck with relentless precision, each impact driving him further back, stripping away what little resistance he had left. His robes tore, his skin split, and his cries of pain were swallowed by the night. He collapsed to his knees, his strength spent, his will broken.
Flint lunged almost instantly.
Belial's instincts flared, Bloodfang vibrating with an almost sadistic excitement. He pivoted, deflecting Flint's strike with the swords pommel, knocking him off balance. But Flint was cunning. The attack had been a feint. His true strike came a heartbeat later—a calculated burst of speed, an imperceptible flicker through the air.
Belial barely had time to react.
The impact sent shockwaves through the factory, the force of Flint's inertia carving through steel and stone alike. The clash resonated through the desolate expanse, reverberating into the night. A cloud of dust and debris swallowed the battlefield, obscuring everything in a hazy veil.
Flint rose from the wreckage, his body tense, his senses flaring. Something was wrong.
He scanned the rubble, eyes narrowing at the dark figure lying motionless amid the wreckage. Belial's body—no, something was off. The figure was too still, too unnatural.
A darkness puppet.
Realization dawned too late.
Flint turned sharply, his instincts screaming at him. His gaze snapped toward where he had come from.
Belial stood there, untouched, a phantom in the night. His stance was composed, his posture unwavering. Bloodfang rested at his side, its crimson edge gleaming beneath the moon's pale glow.
A whisper escaped Belial's lips, barely audible over the howling wind.
"Dance of Death No. 1: Rebirth."
The world stilled.
Then, a single, clean motion.
Belial dashed forward, the movement so fluid, so absolute, it was as if he had become the wind itself. Bloodfang sang through the air, slicing in a single, seamless arc.
The cultist's body barely had time to register what had happened before it collapsed, lifeless, the final vestiges of its wretched existence fading into the night.
And then, there were two.
Flint's smirk faltered. His fingers twitched, his body coiled like a predator sizing up its equal.
The game had changed.
Belial exhaled, his grip tightening around Bloodfang. The night was far from over.
A gust of wind swept through the factory ruins, carrying with it the scent of death and the cold whispers of battle past. The sky above was an endless abyss, the moon casting a pale glow upon the battlefield, illuminating the wreckage and the bodies that lay scattered.
Flint took a slow step forward, his eyes gleaming with something between amusement and caution. "That was clever," he admitted, tilting his head. "But tricks won't save you forever."
Belial remained silent.
His heart pounded, not with fear, but with the thrill of the fight.
Bloodfang pulsed in his grip, demanding more, urging him forward. The blade's enchantment, Sword of the Night, was in full effect now, enhancing his vigor under the moon's glow. He felt unstoppable.
Flint moved first, a blur of motion, his ether-infused speed making him appear as though he vanished from sight. Belial met him in kind, the clash of their weapons ringing through the air like a symphony of destruction.
Steel met steel.
Bloodfang's cursed edge parried and countered with supernatural precision, guided not only by Belial's skill but by its own insatiable hunger. Sparks erupted between them, and each exchange sent shockwaves through the ground beneath them.
Flint suddenly twisted mid-air, using the momentum to launch himself backward. He raised a hand, and the air around him crackled with energy. A moment later, a massive arc of ether shot toward Belial.
Belial dodged, barely, feeling the raw power graze past him. The explosion behind him sent debris flying, but he had no time to recover. Flint was on him again, relentless, a storm given human form.
Bloodfang hummed, sensing its master's intent. Belial let it guide him, shifting his stance. His breathing slowed, every sense sharpening as he prepared to unleash another technique.
"Dance of Death No. 2: Phantom's Embrace."
He moved like a shadow, his form slipping in and out of reality as he weaved through Flint's attacks, becoming intangible for mere fractions of a second. Each evasion left afterimages behind, confusing his opponent, opening the perfect window.
Then, he struck.
Bloodfang found its mark, cutting deep into Flint's side. For the first time, Flint's smirk twisted into something else—pain, surprise. He staggered back, gripping his wound, his eyes dark with fury.
Belial stepped forward, eyes locked onto his opponent. "Still think tricks won't save me?" he asked, his voice a low whisper.
Flint let out a breathless chuckle. "You might actually be fun."
The battle was far from over.
The night seemed to hold its breath as the two combatants circled each other, their movements measured, their eyes locked in a deadly dance. Flint's wound bled freely, staining his clothes and the ground beneath him, but he showed no signs of slowing. If anything, the pain seemed to fuel him, his aura growing more intense with every passing moment.
Belial adjusted his grip on Bloodfang, the blade's whispers growing louder in his mind. It craved more—more blood, more power. He pushed the thoughts aside, focusing on the fight. Flint was dangerous, more so now that he was wounded. A cornered beast was always the most unpredictable.
Flint's smirk returned, though it was tinged with something darker now. "You're good," he admitted, his voice low and gravelly. "But let's see how you handle this."
He raised his hands, and the air around him shimmered with energy. The ground beneath his feet cracked, and the debris scattered around the battlefield began to tremble. Belial's eyes widened as he realized what was coming.
Flint's ether surged, and the ruins of the factory came alive. Chunks of metal and stone rose into the air, swirling around him like a maelstrom. With a roar, he thrust his hands forward, and the debris shot toward Belial like a barrage of projectiles.
Belial moved, his body a blur as he dodged and weaved through the onslaught. Bloodfang sang in his hands, deflecting what he couldn't avoid. The force of the impacts rattled his bones, but he pressed on, his focus unwavering.
He couldn't keep this up forever. Flint's power was immense, and Belial was already pushing his limits. He needed to end this, and soon.
As the barrage subsided, Belial saw his opening. Flint was momentarily drained, his breathing heavy, his movements sluggish. Belial charged forward, Bloodfang gleaming in the moonlight.
"Dance of Death No. 3: Eclipse."
The world seemed to darken as Belial's form became a shadow, his movements too fast to follow. He struck in a circular motion, his blade cutting through the air with deadly precision. Flint tried to counter, but he was too slow, too exhausted.
The final strike came from above, Bloodfang descending like a bolt of lightning. Flint raised his arms to block, but the force of the blow drove him to his knees. The ground cracked beneath him, and for a moment, it seemed as though the earth itself would give way.
Belial stood over him, Bloodfang poised for the final blow. But he hesitated. Killing Flint would be easy, but it wasn't the right thing to do.
He had to find another way.
Flint looked up at him, his eyes filled with defiance.
"Do it," he growled. "Finish it."
Belial shook his head. "No," he said, his voice firm. "Thats not my job."
Flint's eyes widened in surprise, but before he could respond, the world went dark.