Elaria and Kael watched from the Ironhauler's cabin, their vantage point allowing them to view the chaotic battlefield. Ahead, through the dust and swirling darkness, a towering figure lurked. It was vast and daunting, cloaked in an aura that seemed to swallow all light around it. Elaria squinted, her expression tightening as she reached out with her abilities to search for Varos on the battlefield.
Her eyes glowed a faint, misty white as she formed a series of intricate hand signs, slipping into the ethereal plane where her mind could expand beyond physical limits. She inhaled deeply, attuning her essence and whispering,
"Varos…"
*****
Varos darted through the fray, every movement a blur of precision and lethal grace. Elaria's voice floated into his consciousness, soft but unmistakably clear.
"Varos..." she said, her tone steady.
"I have the location of the leader. North-east, about a klick from your current position. It's… enormous."
"Can you tell the rank?" Varos replied, sidestepping a lunge from an abomination before cleaving it in two with a quick flick of his blade.
"Not yet," Elaria admitted, her voice tinged with frustration.
"It's as if something is… blocking me. But it's commanding the horde, so it's likely a lord-class."
Varos muttered a quiet curse, relaying the information to Torvynn. If they could take down the leader, the rest of the abominations would be left in disarray. Torvynn's voice came through in agreement, his tone laced with determination.
"Time to strike, then. Varos, Isara—move with me," Torvynn ordered. He motioned to the three siblings, who were locking down the defense line.
"You three, hold the front and give support to the others."
The triplets nodded, their expressions momentarily serious as they prepared to back up the other fatewalkers holding the line. They exchanged brief glances and shifted into position with practiced ease, creating a gap for the assault team to break away.
Torvynn, Varos, and Isara surged forward in tight formation, moving like an arrowhead through the battlefield. They carved through clusters of abominations, clearing a path with deadly precision. Abominations crumbled under the onslaught of Torvynn's greatsword and Varos's twin katanas, while Isara lingered at the rear, her arrows finding and eliminating threats with ruthless accuracy. Her every shot was imbued with essence, and the golden glow of her arrows shone through the dust, dropping her targets with deadly precision.
Despite their efficiency, the weight of the horde pressed down on them. They hacked their way toward the towering figure in the distance, drawing closer with each brutal step. Torvynn's greatsword cleaved through a thick wave of abominations, the force of his strikes alone creating shockwaves that rattled the earth beneath their feet. Even without an authority, his mastery over essence and his specialized breathing technique granted him immense power. The ground fractured with each swing, as if the very earth recoiled from his strength.
Breathing techniques played a crucial role in the abilities of each fatewalker, setting the foundation of their combat style and powers. Each technique channeled essence along specific pathways in the body, refining the user's skills and adapting them to a specific style. Once a fatewalker learned a breathing technique, they couldn't simply switch to another on a whim; the essence pathways were permanently set, defining their entire combat approach or base per-say. It was why diviners like Elaria were confined to scouting and support roles, their pathways molded to enhance sensory perception rather than physical combat.
Likewise, sword wielders like Varos had essence pathways tailored for close-range attacks, granting him precision, lethality and flexibility, unable to wield other weapons instead. Varos's own breathing technique, honed over years of practice, was unique to him—a style he'd developed and refined, earning him the moniker "Deathwhisper", provided by the tower. It was a reflection of his silent, smoke-like movements, his form blending into the shadows, his presence all but undetectable until he struck. For Varos, this technique wasn't just a tool; it was an expression of his identity, a part of his very soul.
Beside him, Torvynn's breathing technique focused on raw power and durability. Without the influence of an authority, Torvynn relied purely on the strength of his essence manipulation and personal refinement. It made him resilient, like the iron walls of his Ironhauler—unyielding and indomitable. Though he lacked the outward elemental force that an authority could provide, his mastery over his breathing technique allowed him to exert a level of destructive force that rivaled many authority wielders.
Isara, trailing behind them, demonstrated yet another type of mastery. Her essence control allowed her to imbue her arrows with heightened potency, each shot a lethal blend of speed and precision. She aimed and released her arrows in rapid succession, her movements a seamless flow of practiced muscle memory, her eyes gleaming with an ethereal glow as she whispered ancient words of power.
"Burst," she muttered, releasing a golden arrow that exploded mid-flight, showering the approaching abominations in a deadly hail of shards. The creatures fell in droves, clearing the path for the trio as they pressed forward.
Varos shot a glance toward Isara, a faint smile breaking through his usual stern expression. She nodded back, maintaining her steady rhythm of fire, and Varos returned his attention to the path ahead. They were nearing the location Elaria had described, and the abominations seemed to thicken, as if they sensed the approach of their would-be assailants.
At the crest of a hill, partially hidden in the swirling fog, the colossal figure became fully visible. It was unlike anything Varos had encountered before—a hulking mass of twisted flesh and bone, draped in an aura that seemed to distort reality itself. It exuded a dark, oppressive energy, the ground trembling with each step it took. The abominations nearby seemed to rally around it, as if drawn to its presence like moths to flame.
"This is it," Torvynn muttered, gripping his greatsword with both hands. His eyes narrowed as he assessed the towering figure, a grim smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"Ready yourselves."
Varos glanced at the creature, his gaze sharpening as he recognized its aura.
"Corruptor rank…" he whispered, the words heavy in the air. All three of them grimaced, the weight of their situation sinking in. A fifth-ranked abomination, a foe that would mean certain death for most, loomed before them, exuding a power unlike anything they had faced. But where there was a will, there was a way, and they were fatewalkers—there was no turning back.
With a final nod between them, they steeled themselves and pressed forward, weapons ready, each of them poised for what would be either the fight of their lives or the end of them. The looming creature roared, and with renewed resolve, they charged, ready to face impending doom head-on.