Enraged, Belial dashed at the creature, lashing out with countless strikes, each one blurring together in a whirlwind of steel. His movements were wild, yet precise—a dance of death that only those who had embraced the chaos of battle could perform. His blade sang through the air, seeking weak points, probing for any flaw in the creature's thick, segmented carapace.
Dance of Death: Sanctuary.
It wasn't the perfect moment for it—not yet. The true potential of the technique only revealed itself when he was on the brink of death, pushing his body beyond its limits. But right now, this was his best plan of attack. And at this moment, he had no thoughts of self-preservation, no concern for his own well-being.
There was only one thing in his mind.
The monster had to die.
Belial attacked from all angles, his movements erratic yet calculated. One moment he was on the ground, the next he was bounding off the walls of the narrow tunnel, then off the ceiling. Each strike was delivered with the full force of his momentum, each impact a deadly kiss upon the beast's armored hide. His speed increased with every move, his body a blur, his sword flashing like lightning in the dim, flickering light.
The monster shrieked, an unnatural, high-pitched sound that reverberated through the tunnels. It was working. His relentless assault was paying off. Slowly but surely, he could see the results—thin rivulets of dark, steaming blood began to leak from the creature's joints, seeping through the cracks forming in its carapace.
Still, he couldn't slow down. He couldn't stop. His momentum had taken over, and there was no room for hesitation. Each leap brought him closer to victory, and with each strike, the beast weakened. He pushed himself harder, faster, throwing everything he had into this fight.
Then, in his final jump, something changed.
The trajectory of his leap was leading him straight toward Raven. A flicker of surprise shot through him, but there was no time to process it. He locked in—he had no choice. His arms stretched out, bracing for impact, preparing to adjust mid-air. He was supposed to crash into Raven, but that never happened.
Instead, his body twisted violently. A sudden shift in inertia, an unnatural force tugging at him, altering his movement. A powerful shockwave rippled through him, sending a shudder down his spine. In an instant, he was no longer flying toward Raven but instead hurtling directly toward the monstrous creature once more.
The force of the shift made it difficult to lift his longsword, the g-force pressing down on him like an invisible weight. He could feel the strain in his muscles, the resistance in his joints. His fingers clenched around the hilt of his weapon, hoping—praying—that his blade wouldn't snap under the immense pressure.
But then, in one final burst of sheer willpower, he broke free of the force binding him. With harrowing speed, he swung his sword, putting every last ounce of strength he had left into the strike.
The blade met resistance for only a fraction of a second.
Then, with a sickening, wet sound, it sliced clean through.
The monster's head separated from its body, tumbling through the air in slow motion. Dark blood spurted from the wound, spraying the tunnel walls, sizzling upon contact with the cold stone. The beast's body convulsed for a moment before collapsing into a twitching heap.
Belial exhaled sharply, relief washing over him. But there was no time to celebrate.
He was still moving—still flying at an impossible speed.
His body slammed into the tunnel wall with bone-rattling force. A thunderous crash echoed through the passageway as he struck the unforgiving stone, dust and debris exploding outward from the impact. Pain flared through his body, a sharp, agonizing reminder that, despite his supernatural reflexes and training, he was still bound by the laws of physics.
He groaned, pushing himself up from the rubble. His limbs ached, his muscles screamed in protest, but he was alive.
Lucky.
If he hadn't reinforced his body with ether before that impact, he might have been reduced to a broken mess on the ground. Even so, the pain was unbearable, a deep, lingering agony that pulsed with every breath he took.
His vision blurred for a moment before sharpening again, his focus locking onto the remains of the creature. It was dead. He had won.
But he done yet.
he went above the corpse of the monster and reached his hand out activating his ether vison he grabbed the ether flowing outwards from the monster
Certainly! Here's the next part of your scene, extended and fleshed out into a more detailed narrative:
The moment the foreign ether infiltrated Belial's body, he felt the familiar sharp sting of intrusion, like invisible daggers cutting through his veins. He clenched his jaw, biting back the urge to scream, forcing himself to ignore the gnawing pain that spread through his limbs. It felt as though the very essence of his being was being warped from the inside. The ether was strange, foreign—almost malevolent in its presence. Yet, Belial knew better than to show weakness now.
This was the price of survival.
He steadied himself, pushing through the pain, reminding himself of his purpose. He had no time for the luxury of feeling discomfort. The monster was dead, but the blood spilled would have been in vain if he didn't seize the chance to turn this moment to his advantage. There was power to be taken from the creature's death, something to be harvested from its energy—if he could endure the torment long enough to properly absorb it.
His chest churned as the ether began to settle in, like shards of glass twisting within his muscles, piercing his bones, twisting deep into his core. Each pulse of foreign power felt like a violent, internal storm, but Belial refused to relent. He had to endure it.
He couldn't waste this chance.
Not when there was still so much at stake.
Finally, after an eternity of torment, the foreign ether began to subside, though he could still feel the remnants of its invasive force, its jagged edges still scraping against the delicate fibers of his being.
Shaking his head to clear his thoughts, Belial turned his attention back to the others. His eyes narrowed as he looked over at Xin and Raven, who stood at a distance, silent and still as the aftermath of the battle loomed over them.
With careful steps, Belial moved toward Xin, kneeling by his side. His heart gave a small jolt as he checked the younger warrior's vitals. Xin's breathing was shallow and labored, a small but steady rise and fall of his chest—barely enough to keep him alive. Belial exhaled in relief, though the worry in his gut didn't abate. The wound to Xin's chest was deep, far too deep for any normal person to survive without immediate medical attention. Yet here he was, hanging onto life by a thread.
"You're going to be fine," Belial said, his voice low but firm. It was more to reassure himself than Xin, but the words still left his lips without hesitation.
Belial's gaze turned briefly to the small, fragile breath that Xin managed to take. He looked to Raven, but the man was still a statue, his expression unreadable beneath his helmet.
Belial didn't waste time questioning his companion's stoic nature. He ripped the fabric from one of his ragged pant legs, tearing off a strip of cloth to use as a makeshift bandage. Swiftly, he wrapped it around Xin's chest, pressing it down hard to stem the bleeding. The fabric wasn't ideal, but it would have to do.
Raven stepped forward, his movements quiet, and gently lifted Xin's limp form. There was a strange tenderness in his movements, a brief glimpse of something buried beneath the cold exterior. But it was gone almost as quickly as it had come.
"Follow me," Belial instructed, his voice firm but not unkind. He led the way through the tunnels, navigating the darkened labyrinth of stone until they came upon a small alcove, a shallow depression where they could rest for a while without being exposed.
Raven settled down, placing Xin gently on the ground. The man's cold, empty holes of darkness stared straight ahead, his visor reflecting nothing but darkness. There was no visible emotion, no sign of weariness, not even a hint of concern for their predicament. He was like a machine, functioning purely on instinct, but not truly engaging with the world around him. Belial glanced at him for a moment before turning his attention back to Xin.
Xin's face was pale, sweat beading on his forehead as he struggled to breathe. Belial knew that they had little time to waste.
The wound, the blood loss, and the lack of proper medical supplies were all slowly robbing Xin of his strength. There was no telling how long he could last without proper care,
Xin was the only one that could be heal Afterall.
Belial sat down next to Xin, his eyes never leaving the young warrior's fragile form. His breath was shallow, his chest heaving with each ragged inhalation. Nothing more could be done for now except to hope and wait.
He closed his eyes and focused inward, trying to meditate, trying to calm his racing thoughts. The remnants of the foreign ether inside him still gnawed at him, a constant, intrusive presence that he had to purge before it overwhelmed him.
Hours passed in silence.
Belial's mind remained locked in intense concentration, every thought devoted to extracting the impurities, to purifying the foreign energy that had lodged itself deep within his body. His heart pounded in his chest as the process grew more intense. The ether resisted, but he didn't allow himself to relent. There would be no peace until it was gone.
Finally, after what felt like a grueling eternity, Belial finished. He opened his eyes, sweat glistening on his brow as he exhaled slowly, relief flooding through him. But there was no time to rest.
He turned to Xin.
The younger warrior's body twitched slightly. His eyes were sunken, his skin dry and cracked. Belial's brow furrowed.
"Dehydration," he muttered to himself, his voice hoarse from the exertion.
The water source was hosting a dangerous abomination and Xin was too weak to survive without it.
Belial rose to his feet, wiping the sweat from his brow. "I'm heading out now," he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. "We need water. It's going to get dark soon, and Xin can't wait any longer."
Raven looked up at him, the cold, emotionless gaze still locked behind his visor. He took a step forward as if to protest, but Belial's voice was firm.
"Stay and protect Xin." It wasn't a request. It was a command.