Rivers of the Night - Chapter 336: Corner

Chapter 336: Corner

Theron skipped and then flipped backward. Lines of Sword Mana crossed beneath his feet and over his head, overlapping and then separating as though tripwires were spontaneously spawning in the air. Just touching one of them would mean absolute death.

However, just as he spun through the air, his back arching and his legs straightening along the curve, another golden blade fell from above.

Theron crossed his sword over his chest, pressing his free palm against the flat of its blade.

BANG!

A projectile of blood came from Theron, spilling out like an arrow whizzing through the air. With his head curling back the way it was, he just managed to control the projectile of blood enough to deviate a spiderweb line of Sword Mana out of his way.

His skull survived the fate of being split in two down the length of his ears, and he completed his flip, landing on the ground and rebounding into a sprint instantly.

He could no longer stay in the same spot. The sword was too menacing, and the Tribulation Blades from above were only coming faster and sharper.

But the more he moved like this, the less mental space he was able to put toward deciphering the blades coming from above. At the same time, the challenge itself was only becoming harder.

He was being drawn into a smaller and smaller corner. While he was growing weaker in his capacity to read and react to the Tribulation, the sword was only growing stronger…

And then it finally managed to pull itself out of the ground.

Wren’s sword shot into the air, hovering in the midst of the Tribulation like a deity looking down from above. There was a depth of arrogance to it, a rage, a coldness as it looked down on Theron.

It had been by Wren’s side ever since he was a child. It had seen Wren grow every step of the way—scratching, clawing, bleeding.

It was nothing but a minor weapon, but Wren had been able to help it reach a height it could have never imagined.

From its inception, its fate was to become a shattered, ruined mess. Destined for the hand of a weak foot soldier, or the over-eager, overconfident hands of some small-time farmer, it was meant to fade into obscurity.

But now, the blood of a genius ran through its veins, and it could stand at this height.

It owed Wren more than it could describe with the simplicity of its current thoughts. All it felt was gratitude and a desire for murder.

The only time it had been useful to Wren was when it tasted blood. And right now, that was exactly what it wanted to taste.

A sword howl peeled across the skies, streaking like bolts of lightning and spreading across the city. If there was anyone that wasn’t already paying attention to this region, they certainly were now. There was no escaping it.

This was the rage of a weapon that had lost its master, and the target of its ire was no one but Theron himself.

Down on the ground below, Theron was still continuously dodging streaking lines of thin Sword Mana. They were getting more and more difficult to pick out in the air, not radiating the slightest hint of light.

At some point, even the danger they presented vanished from his thoughts, and rather than relying on his instinct for survival, he had to pick them out directly, his body moving akin to the wind.

Flipping, twisting—his toes hardly graced the ground for a moment before he had to dodge again.

One blade after another was swallowed by Wren’s sword, so much so that they didn’t even reach Theron any longer. But the crisscrossing menace of the death trap down below was only becoming all the worse.

Yet, much the same as always, there was a deathly stillness in Theron’s eyes. His breathing was calm, his expression unmoved. His short sword rested almost lazily in his palm.

From time to time, his gaze would shift, looking toward another region of the battlefield he was stuck within before shifting elsewhere.

Calm and unhurried. They were the eyes of a man—even while covered head to toe in his own blood—who had faced death too many times to be fazed.

The actions of the sword were enraging the Tribulation further. It wanted to target Theron, but it was being stopped from doing so. How could it not be infuriated?

But the sword was likewise taking advantage of this to absorb more, to become stronger, to become closer to the sword Wren would have needed.

Maybe if it had been stronger, Wren would have never fallen. Maybe its master would still be here. Maybe it would be Theron’s corpse scattered across the ground in piles of endless flesh, unrecognizable even by the parents he had never met.

The sword trembled, rust falling from its body as it gained a resplendent golden hue. And then its blade fragmented. Or, rather, it split—countless golden strands extending from it and whipping down from above.

The spiderwebs of Sword Mana Theron continuously dodged vanished, replaced by these whipping lines of sword blades coming from above.

There was nowhere to dodge, nowhere to go.

There seemed to be only death waiting with its arms spread wide, ready to embrace Theron from the skies hovering above his head.

Theron exhaled a breath, the glow of his eyes dimming for a moment before bursting forward.

His hair extended, a length of rainbow-like shades of pale pink, washed violet, and sky, baby blues taking shape as his Immortal Jellyfish Echo took hold of his body.

Theron’s blade danced, his stance changing. He shifted, making his body skinny and extending out his blade before him. He placed an arm behind his back as his body itself became as light as a feather.

He tapped a foot and seemed to glide along the grass—or the fragmented remains that were left of it.

Misty wisps of Water Mana hung around his blade, Runes dancing into being.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by novlove.com