Ayush fought Ego in hand-to-hand combat. Their strikes reverberated on the battlefield, each mini-quake giving the surrounding earth pause. It was like a duststorm around them, the dirt and debris that got thrown aloft by the power of their fighting.
Ego tried time and again with metallic blades and other weaponry at his disposal, only to have Ayush turn every single one of them to dust, leaving his opposition with nothing but futile attempts. And his hands flew, deftly disassembling every challenge before it could even graze him. The field was strewn with pieces of nothing that had been made in an instant.
Annoyed, Ego grunted irritably, squinting his eyes. His breathing was heavy but his bravado was still there. His hands curled into fists, knuckles white as he met Ayushs gaze, full of simmering hatred.
"I find you to be an annoying pest," he said with a spit of his words before conjuring a black blade into his palm.
When the blade appeared, a malevolent energy pulsed from it, causing the air to tingle. It was as though even the earth sensed the approach of the formidable weapon and quaked beneath them. Unlike the other blades, this one hummed with what was nearly sentient hatred, the edge dark and glittering as if in a dim light.
Seeing the weapon, Ayush stayed composed and self-assured. "Another useless attempt," he said, coming out. But when he held up his hand to disintegrate the blade, nothing happened. The blade mockingly stayed unmarred, despite him.
For a moment his confidence faltered and his brow furrowed in confusion. A flicker of unease crossed his eyes as he took a closer look at the weapon.
Ego smirked. "So, I was right. "You can't reduce multi-layered weapons to dust."
Ayush had a sudden realization, as his mind scrambled to comprehend what kind of weapon this was. It had been hammered out some other way — too stratified, too intricate, too complicated to boil down into nothing. Nothing his power, which had rendered every previous kind of weapon useless, could do had an effect on it. For the first time in his battle, Ayush felt vulnerable.
Without a second thought, Ego threw the blade in the air and sprinted towards Ayush with murderous intent. Ayush, suddenly aware of the tensions ahead, channeled his energies, muscles rippling as he charged towards his adversary. It was a furious fight, the hybrid combat styles clashing, quick sequences of strikes degenerating to brutal blows.
Fists collided with skin, bones splintered from the strength of their strikes, but neither of them gave ground. Ayush dodged a blinding chain of cuts, just barely avoiding the death sentence of Ego's black knife. He retaliated with a barrage of strikes, taking the initiative, but his opponent fought with the accuracy of one who had already played the whole match in his head.
Then, something changed.
Ego's movements grew disturbingly precise. He ducked and weaved and taunted as if he knew Ayush's next move before it was even made. With each strike came the precise response required to cancel it. The people had been right, and it hit Ayush like a hammer—Ego was not merely skilled. He was predicting his moves.
Ayush's mind raced. How? How could Ego predict his every move with such frightening precision? Was it instinct? Was it some unknown ability? The idea ate away at him, but there wasn't time to dissect it any further."
A spinning kick from Ego sent Ayush falling back as the black blade—a nimble weapon that Ego had flung into the air earlier—came crashing down in perfect rhythm, nestling itself between the frame of Ayush's throat and the extension of Ego's limb.
Ego's smirk widened. "Perfect timing."
Before Ayush could realize, Ego's leg struck forward, with force unstoppable, burying the blade deep in the flesh of Ayush's neck. The world seemed to freeze.
Crimson sprayed through the air, gleaming ruby streaks upon a canvas of battle. Ayush's head was severed and sent flying through the air before landing with a sickening thump in front of his comrades. His body froze for a moment, before collapsing to the blood-soaked floor.
For a moment, there was silence, and then víctima.
Ayush's friends were white as sheets as they looked at the beheaded corpse of a warrior they thought to be invincible. The enormity of the moment crushed them, a gut-punch realization sinking in — their leader was gone. The man who called them to arms, who had led into a hundred battles, had come crashing down.
now hard reality ixed the dagger deep into their hearts. Others instinctively backed off until they quivered, their very souls rattled. It wasn't only the loss — it was how it had occurred. So precise. So brutal. So absolute.
Some soldiers knelt onto the ground as they stared in disbelief at the horrifying view before them. Others tightened their fists in anger, their grief becoming mute wrath. But no one moved. No one spoke. The battlefield, once resounding with war cries and the clash of steel, had been plunged into a stifling silence.
Within the operation theater, the fight between Kim and the unknown girl intensified. Kim battled bravely, her blows and blocks sharp, but she could sense it — the wave of the tide changing. When Ayush fell, something inside her seemed to crack.
And then she saw it.
Her captain's brutal demise.
Her breath caught, her sight greying for a split second. A mistake. A fatal mistake.
Her stance was shaky, her hold shaky — just for a moment.
And that was all the enemy required.
The girl was quick to take it, immediately taking Kim down with a merciless strike to the neck that knocked her out cold. Kim fell to the ground body turning dead and as it hit the ground, the smile on the girl's face became darker. Taking a slow deep breath, she embraced the moment and then turned her eyes to Rudra.
Her eyes gleamed with malice.
Rudra labored to breathe, his mind spiraling in fear at the terror being enacted before him. His fists clenched at his sides, his body shaking—not from fear, but from the unfamiliar, white-hot anger seething within.
The girl took a step forward.
The battlefield that had just known the boiling sound of battle is now silent.
od under a viselike silence — in which death was the arbiter.
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