With one final push, Aric concentrated on the flickering afterimages around Aszer. He didn’t need to fully control them—just enough to create an opening.
As Aszer charged, Aric altered a single thread.
The Martial King’s foot caught an invisible snag in the earth, just enough to throw off his momentum. His spear faltered, the strike losing its deadly precision for just a heartbeat.
And in that heartbeat, Aric struck.
His sword, forgotten until now, flashed forward with blinding speed. It wasn’t a powerful strike—it didn’t need to be. The tip of the blade found its mark, slipping through the tiniest gap in Aszer’s defenses, stabbing into his arm.
In that moment, Aric poured the chaotic mix of energy into Aszer.
The energy rushed from the sword into the king’s body like a flood breaching a dam, wild and uncontrollable. The source of thɪs content is 𝙣𝙤𝙫𝙚𝙡•𝙛𝙞𝙧𝙚•𝙣𝙚𝙩
Aszer’s spear, poised for another strike, suddenly shattered in his hands, crumbling like ash carried on the wind.
He blinked, confused for only a second, before his lips twisted into a triumphant grin. With a grunt, he yanked Aric’s sword from his arm and tossed it aside, laughing as blood streamed down his arm.
"Is this it?" he sneered, wiping blood from his chin. "Is this all you have, forgotten prince?"
But as the seconds dragged on, Aszer’s laughter began to wane. His smug grin faltered as he glanced at the wound on his arm. The blood—it wasn’t stopping. Instead, it poured freely, gushing in thick, dark streams.
He pressed his hand against the wound, but no matter how hard he tried to stem the flow, the pain only deepened, gnawing at him from the inside.
His ki—the source of his strength, his lifeblood—began to tremble, then ripple like a wild animal trapped in a cage. He staggered, eyes wide, feeling the familiar power that once made him a king falter, unraveling at the seams.
"What... what is this?"
Aszer’s voice cracked with desperation as his body convulsed, his muscles twitching uncontrollably. And then, all at once, his ki erupted, the force of it tearing through him in a violent shockwave.
He let out a guttural scream, doubling over as the surge ravaged his core, his very essence.
When the storm subsided, Aszer collapsed to his knees, gasping for air. His limbs trembled, but they were no longer his own.
The strength he’d wielded for so long—his might, his power, his pride—was gone. His ki, once a raging river, was now a barren stream. He was empty.
His cultivation had been crippled.
Aszer looked up, his breath ragged, his eyes wide with disbelief. Aric stood before him, bloodied, his body swaying on the brink of collapse, but a smile tugged at the corner of his lips.
It wasn’t a smile of joy or triumph—it was a weary, broken thing, the smile of a man who had pushed himself to the edge of the abyss and returned.
With slow, deliberate steps, Aric approached. His hands were shaking, his legs barely holding him up, but he moved forward, driven by something far deeper than strength. As he reached Aszer, he raised his hand and, with all the effort he could muster, he slapped the king across the face.
The force wasn’t great, but it was enough.
Aszer toppled to the ground, his lip splitting open as he hit the dirt, blood spilling onto the cold earth. He lay there, stunned, eyes wide with disbelief, the world around him narrowing to a single point of confusion and fear.
This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. He was a king, a ruler, he was like a god among men. How could this prince—the man who was to be nothing—reduce him to this?
Aric leaned over him, his breath coming in shallow gasps, his voice barely above a whisper, but it was laced with finality.
"This is your fate," he said, his eyes dark and hollow. "And sadly... it’s one you cannot change."
Aszer scrambled backward, his hands shaking, his eyes wide with terror.
"Wait—please!" he begged, his voice cracking as he crawled away from Aric. "I’ll give you anything! You may have Byzeth even!"
But Aric’s gaze was cold. There was no room for mercy, not here, not now. With a final, staggering step, he raised his sword high above his head, the blade trembling in his grip.
Then, with a single, fluid motion, he brought it down.
The blade sliced cleanly through flesh and bone, severing Aszer’s head from his body.
The king’s lifeless form slumped to the ground, blood pooling beneath it, while his head rolled a few feet away, eyes still open in shock.
Aric stood over the corpse for a moment, his body swaying, his vision blurring. His sword slipped from his grip, clattering onto the blood-soaked earth beside him.
He turned slowly, the battlefield stretched out before him, the soldiers and legionnaires standing frozen, watching from a far distance. Silence blanketed the field—no cheers, no shouts, just the quiet hum of disbelief.
Ysir had risen from the rubble, her body battered and bruised, but she stood tall, her eyes locked on Aric with a mixture of awe and disbelief as well. She, too, couldn’t find words, her face reflecting the stunned silence of the army that had just witnessed the impossible.
Aric glanced at them all, the significance of what had just happened slowly sinking in.
But as his eyes drifted upward, something else caught his attention.
Soft, delicate flakes were falling from the sky, drifting slowly down to the earth, covering the battlefield in a pale, silent blanket.
He stared at the sky, his mind distant, as a small, familiar ding echoed in his thoughts.
[You have received a new title: The Conqueror.]
Aric exhaled, a shaky, breathless sound, and then, with one last glance at the falling snow, his body gave way.
He collapsed to the ground, unconscious before he even hit the earth, his world fading into the quiet, cold embrace of the snow.
This was his first main battle since his regression, and Aric Valerian, the forgotten prince... had won.