Belial crouched low, his body coiled like a spring wound to its breaking point. His stance was straight-lined, precise, every muscle taut with anticipation.
The Longsword at his side quivered in his grip, its blade trembling as if it were a living thing, a viper poised to strike.
High above, the ceiling loomed, carved with faded glyphs that pulsed faintly with forgotten runes.
Across the chamber, the giant general statue loomed—a towering monolith of strength , its form radiating menace. Its eyes glowed with an eerie, mechanical light, twin embers burning in the darkness. The statue's massive jian, a blade as long as Belial was tall, gleamed with an unnatural sheen, its edge honed by centuries of arcane craft. Without warning, it struck.
The general's blade sliced horizontally through the air, moving with the speed of a storm tearing across a plain. The sheer force of the swing displaced the air, a gust howling in its wake. Belial reacted on instinct, twisting his body to evade, but the blow was too fast, too wide. The flat of the enchanted jian caught him mid-motion, and the impact was like a thunderclap. His body was hurled across the chamber, a ragdoll caught in a tempest. He slammed into the black stone wall with a sickening crunch, pain exploding through his ribs and spine. The world spun, his vision blurring as he rebounded, his boots scraping against the polished floor in a desperate half-slide.
Gritting his teeth, Belial forced himself to move. Pain was a teacher, not a master. His fingers tightened around the hilt of his jian, the weapon's familiar weight grounding him. Blood trickled from a cut above his eye, warm against his skin, but he ignored it. Instinct screamed at him to rise, to fight, to live.
Death Dance: Sanctuary of Death
He surged forward, no longer a man but a force unleashed, a blade released from its scabbard. His Blade carved an a scratch each time he stuck. The blade struck the general's chest with a sound like thunder, a resonant boom that echoed off the walls. The statue stumbled, its massive form sliding backward with an unnatural grace that belied its size. Stone ground against stone as it shifted, adopting a back stance, its glowing eyes never leaving Belial.
The general's Jian rose high, a guillotine poised to fall.
Then came the upward blow.
The statue's arm swept upward, a mountain rising from the earth with unstoppable force. Belial, was falling face-to-face with the towering figure, tightened his stance. He was a speck against its grandeur, a Child daring to challenge a grown adult forged in stone and ancient battle-lore. His instincts screamed, and he twisted just in time, his blade intercepting the giant's. The parry cracked through the chamber like a whip, sparks leaping across the polished floor, illuminating the space in fleeting bursts of fire.
He used the momentum.
With every fiber of his strength, Belial twisted his body and launched upward, his jian aimed straight for the general's neck. His muscles burned, his heart pounded, and for a moment, he was weightless—a predator in flight. His sword struck true, the blade biting into the statue's stone flesh.
But it was like hitting a fortress wall.
The impact sent a jolt through his bones, a shockwave that rattled his spine and numbed his fingers. The Longsword vibrated painfully in his grip, threatening to slip from his hands. He reeled back, dazed but not broken, his vision swimming as he fought to stay upright. The general loomed above him, unmoved, its surface unmarred save for a faint scratch where his blade had struck.
Belial's chest heaved, his breath ragged. He couldn't afford to hesitate. Gritting his teeth, he leapt again, this time planting his foot directly onto the general's stony face. The cold, unyielding surface met his boot, and he pushed off with all his might, flipping backward through the air. His body twisted, muscles screaming, as he kicked off the obsidian wall behind him, using the rebound to propel himself into a controlled landing.
He hit the ground behind the statue, his boots skidding slightly on the slick floor. His heart hammered, his lungs burned, and sweat stung his eyes. The space he'd created gave him a moment—just one—to gather himself.
He closed his eyes, forcing his breathing to steady.
A breath in. One heartbeat. Two.
Then the general turned.
Its glowing eyes locked onto him with mechanical precision, devoid of emotion yet brimming with purpose. The statue dashed forward, its massive jian dragging across the floor in a downward arc that screamed with power. Belial reacted instantly, crossing his blades to block. The impact was cataclysmic, steel shrieking against enchanted steel. The force drove him to one knee, crushing the air from his lungs. His arms trembled under the weight, his bones creaking as he fought to hold his ground.
But Belial was no stranger to pain.
He pushed off, rolling to the side in a fluid motion, and rose into an eight-direction stance—a posture of chaos and control, every angle a potential strike, every step a dance with death. His eyes burned with defiance as he whispered,
Death Dance: Black Wind.
His blade flashed, a streak of silver in the crystal light.
He struck low, aiming for the general's weapon, seeking to destabilize its stance. The jian met the statue's blade with a resounding clang, sparks dancing like fireflies in the darkness. The general responded with a violent sweep, its massive sword cutting through the air with the force of a falling star. Belial staggered back, hissing as the shock reverberated through his arms.
But something pulsed within him—a strength he hadn't noticed before, a fire kindled during his time with Xin. His blade felt heavier in his hand, but it no longer resisted him. It was as if the weapon had become an extension of his will, a partner in this deadly dance. He winced, a memory flickering unbidden: eyes like wildfire, laughter laced with danger, a voice that had taught him that power came with pain. Xin's lessons were etched into his soul, a reminder that every wound was a step toward mastery.
He shook it off.
Focus.
The general came at him again, its blade a relentless tide. Their swords clashed in a flurry of strikes, one blow after another, the chamber echoing with the ring of war. The rhythm was brutal—steel against stone, precision against chaos, brute power against wild instinct. The general moved with crushing force, every strike deliberate, heavy as judgment. Belial, by contrast, was a storm, a fury of motion, unpredictable and untamed. His feet barely touched the ground, his jian snapping and slashing in a hundred directions, shifting angles mid-strike, always pressing, always changing.
But strength favored the giant.
Each heavy blow chipped away at Belial's stamina, pushing him further back. His arms ached, his legs burned, and his vision blurred at the edges. The clash became a battle of two worlds—order against entropy, inevitability against defiance. They danced, a deadly waltz in the heart of the ancient chamber.
Belial ducked a sweeping strike and slashed at the general's legs, hoping to find a weakness. The statue stepped over the blow with eerie grace, retaliating with a heel-kick that cracked the floor where Belial had stood a heartbeat before. He spun behind the giant, striking at its shoulder joint, but the blade glanced off, leaving only a faint mark. It was like striking a mountain.
The statue turned, its Jian slashing with one arm while the other fist swung in a brutal punch. Belial blocked the blade, but the punch caught him across the ribs. Pain erupted, and he coughed blood as he was sent flying. Midair, he twisted, catching himself on one hand and flipping upright just before slamming into the wall.
Gasping, he touched the floor and whispered, "Again."
The general charged, an avalanche of stone and steel.
This time, Belial met it head-on.
Their swords clashed with such force that the air itself split, a thunderous boom shaking dust loose from the towering ceiling.
Strike.
Parry.
Dodge.
Counter.
The general delivered a spinning cut, aiming to cleave him in half. Belial ducked under it, rolling forward and slicing at the legs, but the armor was too thick. He planted his foot and leapt over the return strike, twisting in the air to slash downward with all his might.
The general raised its jian in time.
The blades met, and the shockwave sent both combatants stumbling back. Belial's legs buckled, his breathing ragged, his arms trembling. His body screamed for rest, but his spirit refused to yield.
He stood.
Barely.
The statue advanced, an unstoppable force.
And Belial was the wind—pushed, bruised, scattered.
But never still.