A flicker of defiant inspiration seized Orion. He looked upon the two Archlords, beings of immense power and cosmic dread, and a slow, wicked smile spread across his face.
"Now," he said, his voice calm yet carrying over the rising wind, "which one of you will be the first to kneel?"
"Kneel?"
"Kneel?"
The two Archlords stared, momentarily baffled. The sheer, unadulterated arrogance of the statement, combined with the giant’s mocking grin, was so unexpected that it took them a second to process.
Then, fury erupted.
"You court death!" Sphinx snarled.
"Insolence!" Mokka boomed.
But before either could act on their rage, the wind rose to a gale. It was a strange wind, unsettling to the soul.
At one moment it shrieked like a dying crane, the next it sounded like weeping from a distant, forgotten age, and then it would fall to a murmur so faint it was like whispers in the dark.
The very air grew thick with roiling elemental power. A shimmering, green barrier descended, partitioning the world.
Mokka and Sphinx had no time to react. An invisible force seized them, pulling them apart, separating them as if they were on opposite sides of a vast, growing chasm. Though they were still close in physical distance, the translucent wall of wind between them was a gulf as wide as the heavens.
"A Sealing Ward!" Mokka’s voice reached Orion, sharp with a terror that bordered on disbelief.
Orion himself was stunned. To so silently and effortlessly imprison and separate two Archlords... to be on the receiving end of such a power would be horrifying. As an ally, however, it filled him with a profound sense of security.
"The Wind Ward is a sealing magic," the Deputy Commander’s voice echoed in his mind, seeming to come from both the edge of the sky and a whisper at his ear. "It will repel all attacks. Nothing short of a demigod can breach it."
"If I were to release the ward, you would face their combined strength, and the resonance of our power would draw enemy reinforcements within minutes."
"Therefore, you have two options: kill your opponent, or hold him here until Alexander finishes his own hunt and comes to your aid."
Kill or stall. Orion understood. Either path demanded everything he had.
At that moment, Mokka swelled to his full, hundred-meter glory, a living mountain of abyssal flesh shrouded in black mist. Without a second thought, he hurled his immense bulk at the shimmering green wall.
CLANG!
The sound was like two continents colliding, a deafening metallic shriek that made Orion’s head ring.
He’s distracted. Now is the time.
"How do you wish to die?" Orion asked, raising his trident. The Flame of Will at its tip seemed to sense his intent, blazing brighter, hotter.
"Hahaha... a mere Legend at his peak, speaking with such arrogance!" Mokka roared, shaking off the reverberations of the impact. He had only been testing the barrier’s strength. "Who gave you such courage?"
Since the ward was unbreakable, and he was sealed in with only this one warrior, Mokka’s fear gave way to contempt. Even if this giant was a Transcendent, how powerful could he truly be?
In Mokka’s estimation, he was worth one lesser Archlord at best. At the same time, he could probe the creature, learn of the faction that dared to challenge them.
But Orion was not taking the bait.
"Since you won’t choose, I will choose for you."
Orion thrust his trident skyward. The Spear Barrage materialized—countless spears of blood-red, solidified spidersilk hanging in the air, their tips aimed with murderous intent at the Abyssal Devil Ray.
With a sound like a thousand whips cracking, they launched.
Faced with the storm, Mokka was unconcerned. The black mist around him roiled, and a layer of fine, overlapping scales erupted from his skin, forming a dense coat of abyssal armor. The first wave of spears hammered against it, striking sparks and filling the air with a cacophony of screeching metal.
From a distance, Orion watched, his expression unchanged. Abyssal creatures were known for their resilience and regenerative abilities; he was not surprised. A wide, scattered attack would not be enough.
He swept his trident again. The hovering spears in the air began to writhe and merge, twisting together to form larger, thicker, sharper projectiles.
"Fall," he commanded.
The second wave descended with a roar that tore through the air.
Skrr-CHUNK! Pshk!
No matter how thick the armor, under the concentrated, three-hundred-and-sixty-degree bombardment, weaker points in Mokka’s defense gave way.
"ROOOAAAR!"
With a furious bellow from the Devil Ray, the spears still raining down upon him stopped dead, frozen a yard from his body, held fast by an invisible force.
"ROOOAAAR!"
With a second roar, the spears were hurled back, turning on their master.
"Interesting," Orion noted. The roars were sonic attacks. They not only had the power to paralyze, but to manipulate objects through sheer sound pressure. It was a rare ability. He’d only seen its like from the great whale broodmother of the fungal creatures, and Mokka’s power was a pale imitation of that.
As the spears flew back at him, Orion activated his Battle Will Surge. A pulse of pure power erupted from him, and he instantly reclaimed control of the projectiles, halting them in mid-air.
Across the enclosure, the wounds Mokka had sustained were already closing, wreathed in abyssal energy. Within a few breaths, he was whole again.
"An enviable healing ability," Orion remarked softly. It was the great advantage of the abyss-spawn.
"Vile crawler," Mokka hissed, his gaze fixed on Orion. "I smell a familiar scent on you. The scent of the abyss... but it is faint, diluted! What race are you?"
The abyssal energy on Orion was not truly weak, but insulting an enemy was standard practice.
"I am of the Giant tribe," Orion replied, his face a placid mask. He made no move to attack again, instead engaging his foe in dialogue.
"Giant?" Mokka scoffed. "Impossible. I have seen the giants of the abyss. They are tusked and brutish. They are not puny crawlers like you."
"You will believe me soon enough."
Orion’s expressionless face suddenly broke into a cold, predatory smile—the smile of a being who held the fate of another in his hands.