Zarkus stood over the defeated soldier, feeling the surge of power coursing through his undead body. The battle had been one-sided, his strength far exceeding anything the soldier could have anticipated. He remained calm, his gaze shifting toward the general, ready for the next challenge.
At the general's command, Olin stepped into the clearing.
An old, burly warrior emerged from the crowd, his muscular frame still imposing despite the weight of years. Deep lines etched his hardened face, and his cold, calculating eyes held the wisdom of countless battles. As he stepped forward, the tension in the air grew palpable.
Olin sized Zarkus up with a sneer, his gaze filled with disdain as he stepped forward. "So, this is the creature that just showed up? Doesn't look very impressive to me."
His hulking frame cast a long shadow as he looked Zarkus up and down, his expression twisted with arrogance.
"Not impressed, huh?" Zarkus's voice remained confident, his demeanor unwavering. "Let's see if you feel the same way after we fight."
Olin scoffed, rolling his shoulders in a display of confidence. "You talk big, but I'll make you eat your words, corpse."
Olin gripped his sword tightly, his muscular arms flexing as he prepared to strike.
"Come on, then," Zarkus taunted, his hands clenched into fists. "Show me what you're made of."
With a thunderous roar, Olin charged, his sword high above his head, ready to deliver a devastating blow. His eyes burned with fierce determination as he swung the blade down with brutal force. But Zarkus was ready. His body, now instinctively in tune with its new, undead agility, moved with practiced ease, effortlessly dodging to the side. The blade sliced through empty air, sending a gust of wind in its wake.
Olin let out a low growl, frustration etched on his face as his attack missed its mark. His knuckles whitened around the hilt of his sword. "Wind Cutter!" he bellowed, his voice hoarse with rage.
The air around Olin's sword shimmered and twisted, forming a razor-sharp gust that shot forward in a deadly arc. The wind howled as it tore through the battlefield, a blur of lethal energy. But Zarkus reacted just in time, his form shifting to the side in a quick, fluid motion, barely avoiding the slicing gust as it whipped past him, ruffling his cloak.
Olin's eyes flickered with surprise as Zarkus once again eluded his strike. "You're fast," he muttered under his breath, a slight tremor in his voice betraying his unease. His grip on the sword tightened, muscles tensing as he braced for another attack. "But it's only a matter of time before I land a hit."
Zarkus smirked, his eyes gleaming with a dark confidence. "You talk too much," he said coolly, the smirk widening. "Let's see if you can back up your words with action."
Olin grunted, his nostrils flaring as he prepared for another strike, anger coursing through him like a fire ready to explode. But Zarkus, growing weary of the charade, decided to end the game. His fingers flexed, the cold, eerie energy that now pulsed within him rising to the surface. Without hesitation, he raised his fist, a faint rumble reverberating through the ground beneath them.
"Earth's Embrace: Ground Crash!"
With a single, powerful strike to the earth, Zarkus unleashed a shockwave that rippled through the ground. The earth itself seemed to tremble in response, cracking and shifting beneath Olin's feet. The force of the blow sent the burly warrior flying back, his massive frame careening through the air before slamming into the dirt several paces away. He lay there, gasping for breath, his chest heaving as he struggled to regain his footing.
Around them, the gathered soldiers, who had been watching the battle in silence, exchanged startled glances. Whispers began to spread through the crowd like wildfire.
"Did he just use a Low-Level Fist Technique?" one soldier murmured, disbelief in his voice.
"That's Earth's Embrace!" another said in awe, his eyes wide. "Who uses that in a real battle?"
The murmurs grew louder, the soldiers baffled by the sheer audacity of Zarkus's technique choice. But high above them, the general remained silent, his sharp eyes never leaving the scene unfolding before him. He leaned forward slightly, a small, thoughtful smile playing on his lips.
"Interesting," the general mused under his breath, his gaze focused intently on Zarkus. "He chose the weakest technique in his arsenal. Either he's holding back or there's far more to him than meets the eye."
Olin, still dazed from the impact, groaned as he pushed himself up from the ground. His once smug expression had shifted, now tinged with a begrudging respect for his opponent. He wiped the blood from his split lip, his eyes narrowing.
"I didn't expect you to use a Low-Level Technique," Olin admitted, his voice slightly hoarse. "Not many warriors bother with that in combat. But you... you make it work."
Zarkus felt the weight of the general's eyes on him, the scrutiny of the soldiers, but he didn't flinch. The adrenaline coursing through his undead body gave him a strange clarity. He could feel that something had shifted within him since his resurrection, and every moment in battle pushed him deeper into the power he was only beginning to understand.
"You're underestimating me," Zarkus said, his voice low but steady, his eyes burning with a quiet resolve. "I may have used a Low-Level Fist Technique, but that doesn't make me weak. It's the only one the necromancer taught me."
A sneer curled across Olin's lips, his confidence creeping back. "So, you're just a puppet, then? A mindless creature, doing the bidding of your creator?" His grin widened maliciously. "Can you even think for yourself, or are you just another tool?"
Zarkus felt a flicker of irritation stir in his chest, but he remained composed. He took a deep, steadying breath, his eyes locking onto Olin's. "I may have been created by a necromancer," Zarkus said coldly, his voice firm. "But I am no mindless tool. I have my own will, my own thoughts. And I'm about to show you what that means."
Olin's grin stretched wider, clearly reveling in the banter. "We'll see about that," he growled, raising his sword once more. The air around them seemed to grow heavier, as Olin gathered his energy, his muscles tensing with anticipation. "Let's continue."
Without warning, Olin inhaled deeply, focusing his energy. The blade in his hands began to glow, a fiery light radiating from its edge. "Fire Blade Technique: Blazing Wave!" he shouted, his voice booming.
In a swift, decisive movement, Olin swung the glowing sword forward, and a wave of scorching flames erupted from its edge. The inferno roared to life, barreling toward Zarkus with terrifying speed.
Zarkus darted to the side, narrowly dodging the searing flames, but the heat singed his skin, leaving a faint burn along his arm. He grimaced, shaking off the dull sting as Olin's mocking laughter echoed across the battlefield.
"Not bad," Olin taunted, his sword still alight with fiery energy. "But can you handle more?"
Before Zarkus could fully recover, Olin raised his sword again, the flames swirling around him with even more intensity. "Fire Blade Technique: Flame Tornado!"
The flames whirled into a spiraling vortex, a blazing tornado of heat and destruction, surging forward with an unstoppable force. The ground beneath it sizzled and cracked as the firestorm rushed toward Zarkus, threatening to consume everything in its path.
Zarkus's eyes narrowed, calculating his next move as the inferno closed in.
Zarkus darted to the side, narrowly escaping the roaring flames that tore through the battlefield. Despite his quick reflexes, the searing heat licked at his clothes, scorching the fabric, and the pain of his skin blistering beneath made him grimace. His body, though numb in parts from his undead state, still recognized the agony.
Without wasting another moment, he clenched his fists and focused his energy inward, calling upon the power he had learned to control since his resurrection. His voice rang out clear and commanding, "Fire Resistance Barrier!"
In response, a shimmering shield of radiant energy materialized around him, its surface rippling like water as it deflected the worst of the heat. The temperature dropped instantly, the oppressive flames now held at bay by the barrier's protective aura. Zarkus felt the relief of cooler air filling his lungs as he stood tall behind the shield, his breath steadying.
Across the field, Olin's eyes narrowed. His flames had been repelled, and a flicker of annoyance crossed his features. "Interesting," he muttered, his voice edged with frustration. "You've got some tricks of your own."
Zarkus shot him a cold glance, the briefest smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Only a fool enters battle without thinking of defense," he replied, his tone as sharp as the tension in the air. "And here's a lesson for the idiot."
Without warning, Zarkus burst forward, his body moving with an uncanny speed that belied his size and weight. The shimmering barrier flickered out of existence as he charged, closing the distance between them in a heartbeat. Olin barely had time to react, his eyes widening in surprise, but it was too late. Zarkus's powerful leg swung up in a vicious arc, catching Olin squarely in the midsection.
The impact was brutal.
Olin's breath left him in a sharp, gasping wheeze as he was hurled backward, his large frame stumbling clumsily across the battlefield. His armor groaned under the force, and he barely managed to keep his footing as he staggered, disoriented.
Zarkus didn't let up. His hand curled into a fist, the familiar pulse of necromantic energy coursing through his veins, empowering his strike. He slammed his fist toward the ground with a guttural roar, the energy surging from him like an unstoppable wave.
"Earth's Embrace: Ground Pound!"
The earth trembled violently as Zarkus's fist connected with the ground. Cracks spider-webbed out from the impact point, the shockwave rippling outward with a thunderous rumble. The force hit Olin with unrelenting intensity, knocking him off his feet once again and sending him crashing into the dirt with a heavy, bone-jarring thud. Dust and debris swirled in the air, and for a moment, all was silent except for the faint groans of the fallen warrior.
Olin clawed at the earth, trying to push himself up, but his body was battered, his strength waning. A thin trickle of blood ran from the corner of his mouth, his chest heaving with labored breaths. "Damn it," he muttered through clenched teeth, his voice weak but defiant. His eyes, though pained, were filled with begrudging respect. "You're tougher than I thought."
Zarkus stood over him, his shadow casting a long, foreboding silhouette across the battlefield. His eyes glowed faintly with necromantic power, an eerie light that mirrored the cold detachment in his voice.
"And you... you're using another Low-Level Fist Technique?" Olin gasped, disbelief evident in his voice. His hands trembled as he fought to rise, his legs wobbling beneath him. "How... how many of those do you have?"
Zarkus stared down at him, his voice as cold as the necromantic energy that surged within him. "Enough to defeat you."
The soldiers around you remain captivated by the exchange, their eyes wide as they whisper among themselves. The weight of your words, combined with your unexpected proficiency, left them reeling.
The soldiers surrounding the fight also look on in surprise, some of them murmuring amongst themselves.
"He's using a Low Level Fist Technique... and he's doing quite well with it," one soldier mutters.
"But how is that possible? Those techniques are considered the weakest of the weakest. Who would use them in a real fight?" another soldier whispers.
Zarkus overheard the soldiers' murmurs, a sly smirk curling his lips. His confidence was palpable as he interjected, "You're right. These techniques are considered the weakest of the weak." His tone was steady, commanding attention. "But that doesn't make them useless. I'm using the Earth Embrace Fist Technique, one of the so-called 'low-level' methods. And as you can see, it's working just fine."
The soldiers exchanged uneasy glances, their initial scorn melting into reluctant admiration. Even Olin, still gasping for air after Zarkus's last strike, cast him a grudging nod of respect.
"No wonder you caught me off guard," Olin muttered, wiping sweat from his brow. "I underestimated you."
Zarkus stepped forward, the satisfaction of the moment written across his face. "Yes, you did," he said calmly. "That was your mistake. These techniques may not have the flash of higher-tier moves, but they allow me to conserve energy and resources while staying effective in combat. Efficiency doesn't equate to weakness."
The soldiers, once skeptical, were now listening intently. Olin, still recovering his breath, watched him with new eyes, the sting of defeat mixed with reluctant curiosity.
"My creator, the necromancer," Zarkus continued, his voice steady, "taught me the importance of conserving energy. These techniques allow me to deal significant damage with minimal effort. It may not look impressive, but the results are undeniable."
Olin winced, still feeling the aftershocks of Zarkus's last move. "So, it's not just about raw power... it's about efficiency," he mutters. "I should have taken you more seriously from the start."
"Exactly." Zarkus met his gaze, the intensity in his eyes unwavering. "These techniques aren't just about conserving energy—they protect me in close combat. They force my opponent to stay on the defensive while I maintain control, keeping myself out of harm's way."
A small smile crept onto Zarkus's face as he saw their interest deepen. "And as for the other reason I rely on these techniques... well, let's just say that's something I prefer to keep to myself."