Chapter 198: First Flight, Swamp Dragon

Eristasia swiped her hand right, and then left. Two slices of wind shot at Percival consecutively from both angles.

Percival leaped to corresponding angles of each wind slice, easily dodging the attack. In a blink of an eye, Eristasia had pushed herself with a rush of wind and she was suddenly heading right at him, spear poised to stab.

This surprised Percival because Mages, especially ones who controlled the wind, always maintained distance. He guessed the noblewoman was particularly assured of her spear combat skills.

He raised his sword, using the flat of the blade to block the attack. The spear tip sang and vibrated as it struck the blade, but Percival didn't move an inch.

Eristasia looked up at him, eyes wide with fear. Percival pushed her off, causing her to stumble and fall on her royal ass.

Then he pointed his sword at her, his eyes cold and dark.

"You're not the only one with wind powers," he muttered, sending a chill down the noblewoman's spine.

Suddenly, gusts of wind began to spin around his sword, as he spoke the next words with silent terror. "⸢Gale Thrust⸥"

Eristasia shut her eyes and covered her face with her hand. Percival aimed at her chest, but just as the wind-made spear was about to shoot out his blade, he redirected the Skill.

⸢Gale Thrust⸥ shot out rabidly and stabbed the Awakener that was running to aid the noblewoman. The Elf stopped in her tracks, a hole in her chest.

Percival leered at the Arcanist. "I did want to kill you most of all."

The Arcanist fell, and Percival received his boon for her death.

"You devil!" Eristasia yelled. She shot out blasts of wind from her hand but poured through Percival like an ordinary breeze, causing no damage.

Eristasia was shocked. Those blasts usually sent enemies flying? Just how stoic is he? And why is it only happening now?!

The remaining Wind Guard, seeing their lady fall, rallied and began to charge from all sides to protect her.

Percival's Skeletons — what was left of them — tried to chase after them, but the Awakeners were faster. Mercius and Willow battled a few. The rest were up to the Necromancer.

Percival flipped his sword, pointing the tip directly at the storm clouds gathering above them.

"⸢Sword Rain⸥."

The sky directly above the arena opened like it was judgment day. A light bathed the grounds, and from the hole in the heavens, hundreds of ethereal, glowing blue broadswords plummeted like a localized meteor shower.

The Awakeners ran helter skelter. Even though the primary objective of the raining swords was to kill, because the Awakeners were better dodgers, it turned into a way to control the battlefield.

The blades slammed into the earth. Two or three Awakeners were stabbed through the head to their death, but the others found themselves in a sword prison.

As it turned out, the blades had managed to surround the perimeter of the duel, creating a dense, impassable cage of magical steel that pinned the Elven reinforcements behind a wall of raw mana, completely isolating Eristasia and Percival.

When Mercius and Willow were done with the Awakeners they were battling, they turned to face their caged prey.

Eristasia, frustrated and furious, stood up, using her spear as a crutch, her breathing ragged. She looked around the field, then at Percival who was watching her with no particular expression.

"Thunderess!" she cried, calling her wounded mount. "Get up, Griffin! Get up and send this murderer to the abyss behind your eyes!"

Percival remembered that Gale-Stalker Griffins had a void behind their eyes where targets could be forced into as an eternal prison.

But not to worry.

The moment the Griffin's caws pierced the air again, Percival reached into his Space and pulled out the big gun.

"First Flight, Swamp Dragon."

Suddenly, ground behind Percival opened to a circle of blue fire, and from its depths, the Swamp God Dragon burst out into air, its neck stretching, a roar shaking the premises.

Everyone's heads raised in fear. The Griffin was too slow to respond. Percival's Dragon clamped its jaws around it, then dragged it back into the burning circle, the beast crying for help.

When silence returned, it was thicker.

Eristasia was flabbergasted. She gazed at the space her mount had just been dragged into, then up at Percival's face.

"What kind of monster are you?!" she cried. "You think because you can call upon dead beasts and men then you are greater than me? Then you can murder whoever you please?!"

The kinetic storm around her was no longer controlled; it was chaotic, lashing out wildly.

"I will mount your head on the walls of Arandor!" she shrieked, charging at him on foot. She closed the distance with terrifying speed, thrusting her spear in a flurry of desperate, lethal strikes.

Percival tilted his head, intrigued by relentless pursuit for revenge. Then, he met her charge without relent.

First, he parried the first thrust, sidestepped the second, and deflected a sweeping strike aimed at his knees. Her attacks were fast, but they were wild, driven entirely by emotion rather than technique.

She pulled her spear back for a devastating, two-handed lunging strike aimed directly at his heart.

Percival's eyes locked onto the weapon. "⸢Severance⸥."

Percival swung the Basilisk in a tight, impossibly fast diagonal slash. The blade collided with the enchanted shaft of the spear.

The magic holding the royal weapon together shattered. The tip of the spear was sheared off completely, clattering uselessly to the dirt.

This time, there was no reforming.

Eristasia stared at the broken shaft in her hands for a fraction of a second. Still, she didn't retreat.

With a feral scream, she threw the broken shaft at his face, drew a silver hunting dagger from her hip, and lunged directly into his guard, abandoning all defense to bury the blade in his neck.

Percival stepped inside her desperate lunge. He raised his left forearm, catching her wrist before the dagger could find his throat. He twisted her arm, locking her momentum.

He had the angle. He had his sword in his right hand. He could easily drive the Basilisk through her ribs and end the threat of the Windwhispers forever.

Eristasia struggled in his grasp, still fighting to kill him, still desperate for revenge so much that Percival could smell it in her breath.

He looked into her eyes. They were red, swollen, and entirely hollowed out by grief. She was weeping openly as she continued to struggle against his grip, a mother who had lost the only thing in the world that mattered to her.

Percival felt exhausted. He hated feeling guilty but he hated royalty too. The Kings, the Dukes, the nobles who played games with lives. Just as Eristasia had done with the lives of these young Awakeners.

All for her flimsy revenge.

But looking at Eristasia, he feared that killing her wouldn't bring any satisfaction, only a stupid guilt that would hang over him like a cloud.

In the end, she was only a weeping mother using what was available to her to avenge her child. Percival wondered if he would have done the same.

Whatever the case, politically, it wasn't a good idea either. Killing both the daughter and matriarch of a noble family would send the whole in blood frenzy that he couldn't outrun.

"Do it!" she yelled, weeping. "Kill me now cause if you don't, I will slice your throat first chance I get."

Percival stared into her face for a while then he let out a slow, steady breath.

Instead of raising the blade, he shifted his grip on the sword. With a swift, practiced motion, he brought the heavy, flat steel pommel of the weapon crashing down directly against the side of her temple.

The impact was loud and decisive. Eristasia's eyes instantly rolled back. The dagger slipped from her fingers, clattering against the stones, and she collapsed into his arms, entirely incapacitated.

Percival stood in the center of the field, the howling winds finally dying down as the matriarch lost consciousness. He gently lowered her to the dirt, stepping back and looking down at her tear-streaked face.

"Why does this antihero stuff have to be so difficult?"