The world itself shuddered as a colossal boom echoed through the crimson sky.
Brimeborg's voice, a declaration of celestial might, tore through the turbulent air, shaking the very fabric of reality. The once haughty Mathias, his face now a mask of grim concentration, remained silent, a stark contrast to his previous bravado.
The heavens themselves seemed to brace for the imminent collision. In one corner, a figure of crimson fury. Mathias, his obsidian armor gleaming with an ominous red glow, soared through the air, his wings humming with the power he wielded.
Opposite him stood Brimeborg, a colossus of a man. His colossal broadsword pulsed with an ethereal blue light, casting a celestial aura around him. In stark contrast to the spectacle surrounding Mathias, Brimeborg himself was an image of raw, unadorned power. He was a mountain forged in flesh and bone, his weathered face etched with an unwavering determination.
Within the suffocating shroud of black mist;
the masked figure cackled with cruel glee. "Hahahaha! Is that all you have left, Paragon? Just a pathetic shell cowering behind a flimsy shield?" He pressed the attack, conjuring a relentless barrage of weapons from the swirling darkness. Each strike resonated with a metallic clang, testing the limits of Sebastian's flickering emerald barrier.
Sebastian, his face etched with stoic determination, remained a silent figure. His lips moved in a silent prayer, eyes closed in concentration. Then, a name erupted from his lips, a word of power:
"Sverdnik!"
A surge of energy erupted from him, rippling outwards like a wave. The very ground beneath their feet convulsed, the brown earth twisting and churning violently. From the maelstrom of rock and debris, a terrifying entity materialized.
It was a man, his features twisted into a grotesque mockery of justice. His right hand gripped a massive mace, its cruel spikes glinting with an unnatural light. In his left hand, he held aloft scales, a symbol ironically warped. Yet, upon closer inspection, the figure lacked a conventional body. It was a construct – a swirling cabinet etched with arcane symbols, a single, gaping hole where a human should be.
This twisted embodiment of justice, however, wasn't directed at the figure shrouded in black mist. Instead, it turned towards Sebastian and his remaining comrades.
The soldiers in white and gold, locked in a desperate struggle against the Black Mane Legion, froze mid-battle. Their bodies were suddenly encased in metallic contraptions emerging from the ground, trapping them like helpless insects. Confusion reigned supreme. Even the black-clad figures, for the first time, faltered, a flicker of uncertainty crossing their shadowed face.
Inside the carriage, Abel felt a tremor run through the ground. A metallic groan filled the air as a colossal metal shell erupted from the earth, encasing the carriage in an impenetrable cocoon. Trapped and isolated, his heart pounded against his ribs.
"what are you do-"
The man in black, his voice cut short by a strangled cry, didn't stand a chance.
A torrent of raw energy, a celestial fury unleashed, ripped through the sky.
It tore through the fabric of reality itself, leaving a gaping tear in its wake. Anyone unfortunate enough to be caught in its direct path was instantly obliterated, their very existence erased as if they were mere specks of dust brushed aside by a god.
Silence descended upon the battlefield, a stunned hush replacing the cacophony of battle just moments before. In the center of the ravaged sky, two figures stood defiant.
Mathias, his obsidian armor cracked and his wings tattered, looked like a fallen angel. His crimson sword, however, thrummed with a terrifyingly potent energy, a testament to his unyielding will.
Across from him stood Brimeborg, his colossal form now cloaked in a blazing blue aura. The heat emanating from him warped the air around him, while his greatsword pulsed with a celestial glow.
Their clash, when it came, shook the very foundations of the world. The ground split open like a gaping wound, spewing forth molten rock and fire. The air itself crackled with raw power, the sky threatening to tear open once more.
The impact of their blades sent shockwaves rippling through the battlefield, shattering the ground and uprooting mountains. It was a dance of destruction, each strike leaving a scar on the very fabric of reality. The dimensional tear they'd created pulsed erratically, threatening to unravel the world itself. Yet, the two warriors fought on, consumed by an unyielding rage, oblivious to the potential cataclysm they were unleashing.
The clash echoed through the ravaged landscape, a lingering tremor in the air.
For a tense moment, the two figures locked in a stalemate
their blades singing a deadly song. Then, with a bestial roar that split the sky, Brimeborg surged with renewed power. His muscles bulged, veins threatening to explode as he pushed against Mathias with unimaginable force.
The Black Mane captain, caught off guard by the sudden surge, was sent flying. He hurtled through the sky, a crimson trail of destruction marking his path as he smashed through shockwaves and dimensional cracks.
Brimeborg, his celestial aura flickering like a dying flame, hovered in the air. A crimson stain bloomed across his chest, a testament to the tremendous exertion. Yet, despite the blood coating his lips, his gaze remained fixed on the direction Mathias had disappeared. He stood resolute, a mountain weathered but unbroken.
Moments later, a figure emerged from the wreckage of shattered rock – Mathias. His obsidian armor, once a testament to his power, now hung in tatters. The crimson sword, once vibrant with malevolent energy, now held a dull glow. His entire form radiated exhaustion, the fight etched deeply on his face. Yet, in his bloodshot eyes burned a dangerous glint, a flicker of defiance that refused to be extinguished.
"As expected of the Ironclad Fist," the voice echoed, laced with a grudging respect. "No wonder the Reysmiths chose you, even in your weakened state. But against one blessed by the heavens, even your strength will crumble."
In instance...
The world dissolved around Brimeborg, solidifying into a nightmare vision.
A blood-red sun cast an ominous glow over a desolate landscape littered with the corpses of countless warriors. Flocks of crows circled overhead, their harsh caws the only sound that pierced the oppressive silence. Mountains of bodies, a testament to countless battles, stretched as far as the eye could see.
"Welcome to my domain, Brimeborg," the voice boomed, a disembodied entity that seemed to emanate from everywhere and nowhere at once. Brimeborg strained to locate the source, his instincts screaming at him. Panic clawed at his throat, a cold dread settling in his gut. He attempted to channel his qi, the life energy that fueled his abilities, but a chilling emptiness greeted him.
He was utterly powerless, stripped of his very essence in this alien realm.
"Do you see now, Brimeborg?" the voice mocked. "Even the legendary Ironclad Fist falls before a true god!, HAHAHAHAHA!!" A cruel laugh echoed, sending shivers down Brimeborg's spine.
Suddenly, an invisible force slammed him to his knees. Crimson chains materialized from the blood-soaked ground, coiling around his body, binding him with an unyielding grip. The crows descended upon him, their excited caws a macabre symphony.
A blade, materialized from the very fabric of this crimson world, pierced through him. Despite his hardened physique, the blow resonated with a sickening thud. Yet, Brimeborg remained silent, his jaw clenched, his eyes burning with defiance.
More blades materialized, raining down upon him like a crimson downpour. Each strike was a searing agony, a relentless assault on his body and spirit. The crows grew more and more frenzied, their bloodthirsty cries echoing in his ears. Still, Brimeborg endured, a silent monument of unwavering willpower.
A flicker of surprise, genuine surprise, marred the voice's mocking tone. "Even after countless wounds, you remain silent? Your tenacity is truly awe-inspiring, Brimeborg."
But within Brimeborg, a storm raged. He was a warrior, forged in the fires of countless battles. Yet, here, stripped of his power, he was but a lamb to the slaughter. A single, desperate hope flickered in his mind:
'Sebastian... save that fool...'
The thought pulsed with a raw urgency, a silent plea that echoed amidst the cacophony of pain.