Chapter 172 - 174: Varkas And His Beast

Ingra turns just in time to raise her barrier—but the golem smashes into it, shattering it on impact. She stumbles back, gasping. Asdri grits his teeth. "Valia! Focus fire on the golem!" "Already on it!" She hurls a volley of searing holy lances—piercing into the golem's chest, slowing it. Gorath moves again. He lifts one foot and slams it down—the earth beneath Asdri drops as if the ground itself is rejecting him. A sinkhole forms, pulling Asdri in. Asdri reacts instantly—lightning bursts from his boots as he launches upward, flipping over Gorath's shoulder and striking from behind. The blade sinks in—a shallow wound across the back of the giant's neck. Gorath roars, spinning with impossible speed. His elbow catches Asdri mid-air and sends him flying, crashing into a broken siege tower. "You've improved," Gorath says, voice like a landslide. "But not enough." As Asdri crashes into the wreckage, half-buried in splinters and blood, the sky flashes red. The temperature drops—then rises sharply. Mana begins to warp and ripple, thickening the air like a storm about to break. Gorath straightens slowly. The battlefield churns around him—screams, steel, thunder—but his presence eclipses it all. And then— His aura detonates. The earth buckles outward in a perfect ring. Wind is driven back. Light warps. Dust is sucked in toward his feet like the breath of some colossal beast. "Enough warm-up," he rumbles, raising one massive hand to the sky. "Tier Five: Seismic Dominion." The ground beneath the entire battlefield shifts. Great rifts open in the soil, trenches exploding outward in all directions. Bones, weapons, even buried siege are cast into the air. Entire platoons fall screaming into the sudden canyons that yawn across the warfront. From one of the cliffs, Varkas watches grimly. "There it is," he murmurs. Asdri staggers from the rubble, eyes wide as the land itself rebels beneath his feet. "Damn it... This skill is ridiculous!" Valia grits her teeth and throws up a radiant dome just in time to shield her group from a cascade of falling debris. "That skill's not just terrain manipulation—it's reshaping the battlefield!" Gorath steps forward, slowly, calmly. Each step sends tremors outward. Magic flares around his form in earthen hues—brown, copper, molten gold. Then he vanishes. A blur—impossible for his size. He reappears directly in front of Pyke, who barely manages to raise his axe in time. "Tier 5: Colossus Wrath." The warhammer descends—wreathed in elemental fury. When it strikes Pyke's weapon, the sheer force shatters the axe at its haft and launches Pyke like a cannonball across the battlefield, crashing into a line of enemy pikemen. Ingra cries out, eyes flashing. She thrusts her staff forward. "Tier 5: Crystal Cage!" Ice erupts in a dome around Gorath—jagged and reinforced with layered mana. Spikes rush inward to impale him— "Tier 5: Unyielding Core." A dull pulse of power flares from Gorath's chest—and the ice instantly shatters into dust, unable to even pierce his aura. "Ice and light," he growls. "Fragile things." He lifts one hand—and makes a fist. A pulse surges outward. "Tier 4: Earthcall." Dozens of jagged stone arms rise from the ground like the limbs of titans, swatting soldiers, deflecting arrows, impaling horses mid-gallop. A barrier of terrain reshapes around Gorath—hostile and shifting, protecting him as he walks. Valia clenches her jaw. "We can't break through like this..." Asdri plants his feet. His armor hums with latent energy, sparking with arcs of raw lightning. "Then we stop holding back." ------ On the other side of the battlefield. Smoke coils through the wreckage of fallen siege engines. Flames flicker from shattered watchtowers. Among the chaos, two figures stand alone—motionless, yet immense in presence. One of them is Varkas, his dreadmaw prowling beside him like a shadow of death. Armor cracked, gauntlets stained, he exhales steam through his helm, eyes gleaming beneath it. Opposite him, boots crunch through the gravel. Marshal Tesvin walks forward, his cloak billowing in the wind, torn but proud. His left arm hangs slightly heavier than the right—not from injury, but from the Tier Six sword it bears. The blade is long, straight, and gleams with ancient, silver runes etched deep into its core. Its edge pulses faintly, as if sensing the monster before it. Varkas grins slowly as Tesvin approaches. "Oh," he growls, voice guttural, unnatural, echoing in his throat. "You're finally here." Tesvin stops, meeting his gaze. His jaw is tight. His armor is scorched in places. Blood stains his side—but his grip on the sword is unwavering. "This time," Tesvin says, voice low, resolute, "I will give it my all. It's either you die... or I do." Varkas throws his head back and laughs, a deep, bestial sound that rumbles through the air. He cracks his neck—a sickening crunch—and his limbs twist and stretch, bulking grotesquely. Fur begins to crawl from beneath his armor, shredding through the seams. His jaw elongates, teeth warping into blackened fangs. "I see, the as a courtesy, you'll see my real strength today, Marshal." Tesvin braces. "Then take off the mask." With a roar, Varkas lunges. The ground trembles beneath his charge. The dreadmaw follows, its monstrous claws gouging trenches in the earth, eyes glowing red like coals in the night. Marshal Tesvin doesn't flinch. He steps forward—calm, precise—and draws. The Tier Six sword hums like a living thing, its blade singing as it cuts the air. The runes along its surface ignite. A gale bursts outward as Tesvin swings. "Tier Four: Wind Lash." A razor-thin crescent of wind tears across the field, striking Varkas mid-leap. Blood sprays as the arc slices across his shoulder—but the Lycan doesn't slow. He twists through it, landing on all fours with a snarl. The dreadmaw veers right—circling wide, its flanks rippling with energy. "Now!" Varkas shouts. The beast reacts instantly. The dreadmaw releases a guttural, echoing cry—dark soundwaves ripple out like a tide. The moment they reach Tesvin, the air thickens around his joints—slowing his limbs, warping his balance. But the Marshal reacts fast. "Tier 4: Wind Reversal." A cyclonic burst erupts around him, shattering the soundwaves, clearing the fog from his muscles. Dust and blood spiral outward as he dashes forward with inhuman speed. Their weapons clash. Steel against claw. Varkas slashes low with monstrous speed, his claw a blur—Tesvin twists, deflecting with the flat of his sword, then counters with a high arc. The blade burns with wind, and the air screams as it descends. It carves across Varkas's chest, blood spraying, the cut deep. Varkas growls, but his grin never fades. "You've gotten faster," he snarls. "But you're still human." He moves—and the dreadmaw is already there. It vanishes in a burst of shadowed mana— "Tier 4: Beast Step." —and reappears behind Tesvin, jaws wide. Its fangs crash toward him like twin guillotines—but Tesvin turns mid-spin, blade flashing upward in a rising arc. "Tier 5: Tempest Wall!" The sword howls as a cyclone bursts from the edge, a vertical wall of spiraling wind. The dreadmaw's fangs slam into it—and recoil, bloodied and dazed, its head flung back with a wounded shriek. Tesvin uses the momentum—launching himself skyward in the spiral of wind, then diving toward Varkas, sword reversed. He strikes downward— —but Varkas catches the blade. His claws dig into the edge, blood pouring down his arms, but he holds it. His muscles swell—he used his tier 5 bloodline skill. Fur covers him now. His armor hangs in tatters. He looms, massive and feral. "You're not the only one with technique," he growls. "Tier 4: Predator's Wrath!" Varkas spins, dragging the blade with him—slamming Tesvin into the ground with a thunderous crash. The Marshal's breath leaves him in a gasp as the ground craters around his body. Before Tesvin can rise, the dreadmaw charges again. Its claws glow with dark energy—driving straight toward his chest— "Tier 4: Vortex Guard!" Tesvin's sword flashes, stabbing into the dirt. A spiraling shield of wind explodes outward, deflecting the claws at the last second and hurling the beast back with an angry roar. Tesvin rolls, coughing blood, then leaps to his feet. The sword's wind pulses, responding to his fury. "You'll need more than monsters and brute force," he growls. "I came prepared." He raises the blade high. "Tier 5: Sovereign Gale." The sky splits. A lance of pure wind energy crashes down from above, spearing toward both Varkas and the dreadmaw like divine judgment. Varkas snarls—his form blurs— "Tier 4: Pack Instinct!" He moves with the dreadmaw as one—both beasts dashing apart at the same instant, avoiding the full brunt. But the shockwave still hits. Trees are uprooted. Rocks are obliterated. The battlefield howls under the sheer pressure. The smoke clears. Varkas stands crouched, panting, blood streaming from his side. The dreadmaw beside him, one leg dragging, its flank scorched by the aftermath of Sovereign Gale. Both bear wounds—but both still stand. Across from them, Marshal Tesvin is on one knee, sword plunged into the earth to keep him upright. His breathing is labored. Blood seeps from a gash across his temple. His armor is cracked in three places, and his cape lies in tatters behind him. "...Still breathing," Varkas mutters. A flicker of movement. The dreadmaw circles wide again—limping, but still deadly. Varkas exhales, the last of his transformation locking into place. "You pushed us," Varkas says. "But you're slowing. Your wind's dying down." Tesvin grips his blade tighter. "Then I'll cut you with my last breath." He charges, feet kicking up gravel. But Varkas doesn't meet him head-on this time. He sidesteps—quick, almost graceful—and the dreadmaw strikes from behind. A vortex of shadow and force bursts from its throat, swallowing Tesvin mid-stride and flinging him sideways into a boulder. The rock cracks under the impact, and Tesvin crumples with a grunt.