The Jester of Apocalypse

Chapter 113: Vengeance

Hunter received a nasty punch to his hip, yet he fully recovered and stood his ground. Three strikes were blocked with the sword, and a kick was rebutted with the shield.

Neave teleported behind him, yet, found his venues of attack surprisingly limited. By the time he was over the shock of Hunter’s achievement, his opponent had already recovered and raised his defense.

Grinning ear to ear, Neave struck Hunter’s shield full force, cracking his arm and kicking him in the side of his head, smashing his skull.

Gabrias held his bow, and Neave continuously felt he could only go places where his opponent would most likely reach safety. Pushing Gabrias’ defense to the limit, he teleported into his blind spot, only for the tall man to begin moving out of the way of the strike before he even saw Neave disappear, likely judging that he would use a movement technique.

Bloody impressive, I have to say, Neave thought, as he attacked him anyway and burst right through the pre-prepared defense.

Facing Harel now, he found that whenever he planned to position himself to strike her weakness, the ball was already flying in that direction, perfectly poised to hit him. This, without fail, opened a weakness somewhere on Harel’s body, but trying to capitalize on that was like showing your arm into a bear trap.

Neave poked the hornet’s nest just to see what would happen. His punch landed directly on her stomach, and the ball appeared to be flying past him completely. But the chain wasn’t. Before he could back away, Harel whipped the chain around his neck, which redirected the ball around him and into his back.

Harel frowned at Neave and yelled, “You let me hit you!”

He grinned, “Just wanted to see what you had in mind.” Following his snarky statement with a true strike headbutt, he continued to his next opponent.

Fighting Dukean felt like fighting a prescient scorpion. His sword, like a cursed stinger, was always directed exactly where Neave wanted to go, and by the time he changed his path, it would whip around and strike. The most frustrating part of this was that the follow-ups were usually somewhat suboptimal, mainly because they were delivered with the goal of responding to their direct counter.

Technically, there was an opening Dukean’s opponent could exploit. But it was such a small opening that required such tight precision that it was damn-near impossible for anyone to both find it consistently and fully exploit it, so in the case that he was facing an opponent like Neave, or rather, someone who could abuse this, he could quickly recover and change strategy.

Neave still thought the weapon was needlessly complicated, but if Dukean could do this much even without a spirit power, he could dominate most opponents once he had access to his full power.

An incredibly precise true strike kicked right at the tip of Dukean's sword, which disabled the follow-up flick Dukean was planning to use, and then a full-strength punch landed on his chest.

Dukean actually managed to bend his body enough to avoid instant knock-out, and it took Neave several more strikes to take him out. A kick to Dukean’s knee, another to his chin, and a third to his back secured the victory.

The fight against Marven barely even looked like a fight at this point. Neave had to throw countless impossibly precise strikes, using every bit of leverage and ensuring he accumulated every shred of damage he could before Marven's regeneration could reduce it.

The others couldn’t help but marvel at the display as Neave’s hand blazed at impossible speeds, always finding that minuscule opening and directly continuing into the next one. And when there was no opening, Neave threw several feints, struck the sword, and even sacrificed his fingers or limbs to create an opportunity he could exploit.

Once Marven was out, Neave took a moment to look at them. They had grown immensely. Frankly, it was enough that it could make a difference in their predicament. Yet, it still wasn’t enough to make him happy. But the fights against Marven have begun taking too much time in the schedule, and he decided it was time to move on.

“Now! We will momentarily leave the spirit realm to prepare for the next step.”

They seemed somewhat disappointed that it was over, yet, they also seemed excited to hear what came next.

Once they were back out, Neave instructed Harel to cultivate to the third step of the golden path, and he ordered Hunter and Gabrias to cultivate to the first step of the golden path.

Dukean and Marven were told to wait. Or train their bodies, whichever they preferred.

Neave balled a fist and punched through the spirit dome he had created, shattering it to bits so they could leave. First, food and rest. Then cultivation.

The monster coop had already been fixed up, and this time, Neave moved it to right beneath the chamber.

After preparing a rather copious amount of monster meat, they had a massive feast and slept for the first time in a while. It hadn’t actually been that long. It likely hadn’t been long enough to justify sleep, but spending so much time in the spirit realm built up a degree of fatigue that transcended normal exhaustion.

Neave watched them all sleep, and he wondered. How long had it been since he had last slept? Since he had last truly slept, that was. Was it back in Pavarrie? Or perhaps back in the carriage they took to the empire?

He couldn’t remember.

Not once had he slept since they had entered the nightmare realm. And they had been inside here for a long time already. Even before that, it had been a while. Not sleeping wasn’t a big deal to him, or at least he believed it wasn’t.

No.

That was a lie.

A deep, bone-piercing fatigue spread throughout his mind, spirit, and body. He had already kept it at bay for a long time but felt he was reaching the limits of what he could endure without consequences.

So he just had to sleep. That was all he had to do.

Yet he didn’t want to.

His heart sped up at the thought of sleep. The mere idea of not being awake appalled him. Why?

Now that he thought of it, he hadn’t felt the influence in a while. Had the manipulator given up? Or were they waiting for an opening? Neave took a deep breath and concentrated. His meager qi flowed through his body, slowly being accompanied by the endless pool of lifeforce.

It circulated through his body, sinking into his nerves and mind, flowing through his soul and spirit. The sense of fatigue lessened ever-so-slightly, and Neave relaxed. There was no need for sleep. He could postpone it indefinitely.

There was no way he would take such a risk.

He lowered his head and looked down at his comrades, whispering under his breath, “Not while they are here…”

***

The once-mangled body of Sateron lay unmoving in a pile of shattered glass. Despite the severity of his injuries, the regeneration capabilities of someone at the subdivinity stage weren’t to be taken lightly.

Yet, despite his body being fully healed, he couldn’t muster the ability to move.

The faint power of the soul oath that that fiend had made with him still echoed through his very core. He had a clue. All he really had to do was ask his creator. It was a simple task. Just ask. Ask whether he was telling the truth.

He finally mustered the force to move as he slammed a fist into his head.

You fool! You dare assume that the Great God would lie to you!?

The self-criticism felt empty and forced. The Great God had sent him against an opponent he wasn’t qualified to fight. Perhaps it wasn’t on purpose, but even then. Sateron had done everything perfectly, making no mistakes until the very end.

Yet I still failed…

Did that mean that the Great God’s plan was… Insufficient? Bad, even?

Another punch flew at his own head, followed by three more, each more violent than the last.

Those damn words echoed like a curse in his spirit. Explode? How… How ridiculous. What a preposterous thing to say. But his hand shook, and he felt his fingers reaching his throat.

Was there a way to check whether that really was the case?

Several more punches flew, this time slightly cracking his skull.

This was idiotic. All he had to do was ask. So he got up. The spacial awareness of someone on the diamond path was near perfect. He remembered precisely how far he had run, how far he was thrown. Thus, he knew exactly in which direction he had to walk to reach the Great God.

So he turned…

In the opposite direction.

Astrador had never told him what to do if he failed his mission. This must have meant that he expected him to try again or keep going until he succeeded…

…Or that he never expected Sateron to survive.

But that was preposterous. He wasn’t a bomb. He was a… A person. A living being with sapience and consciousness. A creature with a life ahead of him, centuries, millennia, eternities of existence.

So he would go and… Kill the…

Sateron stood, torn by indecision.

What the hell was he supposed to do?

***

ҾҾҾҾҾҾҾҾҾҾ…

The echoey whispers of the void traveled all around the vast obsidian forests. The sea of black sludge roiled as sleek, black demons made their way inside one after another.

At the bottom of this lake was a fat abominid wrapped in pitch-black tendrils of darkness.

The demon that wrapped around it caressed its head, wicked teeth showing in its permanent grin. A tiny tendril of darkness snaked under the monster’s skin, and dark ichor flowed into its veins.

A splotch of darkness seeped into the core that lay at its center.

And it remembered.

There was something that they needed to do.

A long-forgotten grudge, morphed into a cheap calamity; a cowardly move of mutual destruction.

Yet, now, those that surpassed it existed. Those that could, and would right the heavenly wrong, slithered in the shadows.

Those that wanted, no, needed the destruction of all…

With their very lives, they would fuel the fires of vengeance.