Leo Kalenos once again found himself in a pickle because of his long-time friend. Aristoteles Kalokagathos was a brilliant man, and one glimpse from those ardent eyes was enough to rouse hearts and banish all shadows of fear.
Yet the situations the man got him into caused a very particular brand of fear in and of itself.
He had twelve officers looking expectantly at him from where he sat behind the small desk in the temporary office in Acrocorinth.
"I'm afraid that's all I'm at a liberty to say, I know little more than that it is a sensitive affair, and that your commanding officer has left command in my hands. More will become clear over the next weeks, I'd expect. For now, we merely act as a
centuria at double strength. I trust and hope that we won't face serious action before
centurio Kalokagathos returns, but if that does turn out to be the case, I expect you to perform at peak efficiency."
He got a round of stern nods, lightly tinged with indignation. Of course they would be mildly affronted at the mere suggestion they would perform less than outstandingly. Aris was ever the drillmaster.
"My
optio Epeigeus speaks for me in all things, please heed whatever he has to say, even if he is your equal rank-wise.
Optio Atiphates, a word later, if you will. Now, dismissed."
A round of salutes and nods.
Leo looked intently at the jade slip with Aris' final set of orders imprinted on it before he departed.
His friend had better return soon, and with something to show for this little jaunt.
--
Ash was mixed with oil and a few drops of blood. The substance was applied liberally to arms, head, neck and torso.
To Diokles Aseius, death was sacred. It ran through his family's veins, coated his skin like a veneer of tarnished brass.
His family did not keep to the Imperator like almost all of his kinsmen. They worshiped the God of Death and his nine Sons, Erlik and Karash Han, Badysh Han and Shyngay Han. It was always thus.
He smelled the small bowl laid before him. A sour, coppery smell with bitter, herbal notes. Blood, gall, vinegar, Iron Hemlock and Death-eating Belladonna.
To wield death, one needed to be like death.
Diokles washed his hands of the ash-like substance, then dabbed his eyelids and lips with shining mercury from a small clay jar.
He then brought the blood-filled bowl to his lips.
He struggled to hold the thick substance down, as he did every time he performed the ritual. There was no getting used to it.
He heard a faraway noise, and tensed up.
Carefully, he put the empty bowl down and wiped it with a cloth.
He had requested a secluded room in Acrocorinth, making it clear he was not to be disturbed.
It was not Blood Path – but an unfortunate intruder would not be able to tell the difference.
The noise slowly died away, and Diokles relaxed a hair.
The imbibing of blood was a ritual sacred to Lord Erlik, and necessary to use his family's gifts and sacred art. It did not grant him leaps in cultivation – any profane ingestion of blood would even render him forever unable to use Erlik Khan's Arts.
But it did grant him
sight.
He looked up at the small portable shrine to Elrik and the Karaoğlanlar, and saw his grey-irised eyes reflected in the tarnished glass, silvery mercury dripping down like tears.
"I am now become Death, the tenth child. I shall dispense thy mercy freely and not seek to escape thine own judgement."
He rose from seiza, picking up his
yanmaodao resting on his lap. In the reflection of the blade, a drawn out death's head figure briefly appeared.
--
Aris had arrived late to the Qiguai lands. Most of the Golden Devil contingent had entered the Secret Realm already.
Six days for three thousand
li. He had been lucky in Simmering Soup Sect lands, waiting time at Mogui City had been minimal, thanks to his writ of passage. In addition, the departure of an airship bound for the Qiguai Clan had been delayed for a day for him.
One of the Inns reserved for foreign non-Righteous visitors had been near-empty, only a few stragglers waiting for this or that before entering the Secret Realm.
The Qiguai architecture seemed to emulate their all-important gateway. Stone, arches and natural edges smoothed to curve around windows and stone furniture. The people were used to visitors, the Secret Realm at the heart of the Clan lands the source of their wealth and continued survival. Yet their existence hinged on Righteous approval. A general rule that painted every minute interaction.
Demonic visitors were tolerated and treated with all due politeness, but the way one would treat a generous, yet cruel and belligerent patron.
In the eyes of the Qiguai guards and overseers, the mortal staff and inhabitants, there was a small, cruel edge when looking upon him or other Demonic cultivators. They knew that many who entered would never be coming back.
Everyone seized them up, hoping that the particularly vile-looking would meet a violent and painful death inside, and the righteous-looking would bring them back great riches.
Aris' eyes had grown sharper over these past few days, that he noticed such things with such clarity.
His mind was stilled.
The old wisdom that stated that a still pond reflected images more truly was particularly applicable, he thought.
He closed his eyes while seated on the rough bench, recovering his Qi, and now felt like he carried the will of two people with him. His uncle, and the strange –
Dark green eyes and pearly white teeth and beautiful dark skin and golden bracers and rings and that strange whispering --
Yes. That.
He looked over the items he was taking inside; spear, shield, bronze bow and three hundred arrows, dagger, two regular one-handed sabers made from spiritual bronze, his favored
liuyedao and the brutal
yanchidao with the serrated head. The Starlight Mirror shard, should all go wrong. A decent quantity of moderate-quality spirit stones.
In his ring, the golden jade slip containing his Golden Deva's Immortal Body Art. The Thunder Basilisk potion guaranteeing his rapid deployment to the Song Empire, should he come out of the Qiguai realm relatively unscathed.
While running, he had further probed the inside of the ring, and one small part of the small chamber-sized space had felt…less solid than the other contours of the space. With enough force, he imagined he could probe it. It seemed like his uncle had not shared all his secrets with him just yet.
With an expression of will, the items arrayed before him were all stored inside the ring.
He made his way to the doorway in short order.
A grandiose thing, the hall built around it fit to accommodate thousands of individuals with ease. Here, the looks grew more hostile from the few Righteous cultivators that were loitering in front of the entrance.
Inside the Secret Realm, all bets were off.
Stories from what happened inside were varied, often resembling mad dreamscapes amidst a shifting sea ocean. Yet one only heard the stories of those that came back. What those that didn't come back saw, no one knew.
A gaggle of Seven Divine Saber Palace experts eyed him like a pack of wolves, their bared arms with silver bracers crossed across their chests broadcasting their casual intimacy with violence and their position of pre-eminence over all Southern Righteous Sects.
He met their eyes and bared his teeth in a look of pure distain, broadcasting his intention clearly – "come and get me then, if you dare".
Posturing cowards. He imagined that a taste of pure all-out warfare would spoil their appetites for violence quite thoroughly.
But they didn't matter, ultimately.
He averted his eyes and stepped in front of the shifting mirror-surface, feeling a small pang of child-like giddiness. He hoped he'd find a sword – a
jian – he hadn't found one that suited his fancy yet. He allowed himself a small smirk.
Then he dived through.
--
Leo beheld the carnage.
Ward Thunderbolt based around Fort Ji Ren Ha, as the Strength Purity Sect and the handful of Song Empire natives called it, had been struck by a nightly raid of Demonic Altar forces.
While Leo's double-strength
centuria marched in, they were doing some hasty repairs on the fort's outer wards, dragging in a seemingly unceasing stream of dead and crippled from outside of the walls, where Allied sallies had met Demonic counterstrikes. Hubris from the defenders, or the attackers had had some advantage that made turtling up a losing proposition. Or the enemy commander was a particularly skilled general who could afford to take losses making risky feints. None of those possibilities boded well.
Leo had taken his and Aris'
centuriae from the Ninety-First to relieve one of the forts on the Fearless Line. They had been marching east – the Demons had been cutting closer and closer to the webs of the Ten-Ten-Thousand Year Spider – when the orders came through to reinforce Ward Thunderbolt on the Fearless Line which had been badly damaged in a daring Demon raid.
The fortress was a sad, spartan affair. Stone walls in a rectangle around an oversized muddy field, centred around three squat stone buildings on a hillock. The rest were rows of orderly tents, most of them thoroughly stained a dark brown by mud or other substances.
The walls facing west were pitted and smeared with ash, two large fissures breaching the walled cordon around the tented camp, chunks of rubble scattered here and there. At the edges of the breaches, Arraywork sputtered and sparked yellow.
Aside from the electric crackling of the broken Arraywork, the only sounds were the sucking sound of boots getting stuck in mud and a few low moans from wounded soldiers. A slight drizzle that made the air smell like ash coated the entire scene in an additional layer of gloom.
Leo had seen mass graves more cheerful than this fort.
He marched to the command buildings with his two
optiones, and bade his men to help with the recovery and repairs before setting up.
The commander of the fort was a greyed expert with a plain blue-and-grey hanfu. His skin had a sheen of tarnished iron, and when he moved his footsteps made loud thumping sounds. No armour or weapons, but only an absolute greenhorn would find this suspicious – his weapons were plain for all to see.
In the small, spartan commander's office with small arrowslit windows, an iron desk anchored into the stone took up most space. The three Golden Devil officers, crested helmets in their hands at their side, nearly took up the remaining space.
"You are Heavensent, my Child-eating Bronze-bodied friends, though I wish I had had time to prepare the welcome party."
The good-natured jab was said without mirth, the commander going through the motions and saying the things expected of a Strength Purity commander greeting an allied Golden Devil
centurio. Yet there was no heart in them, this was a man who was run to the bone.
Leo briefly smiled in response, acknowledging the jab, but not unduly extending the formality.
"Capitain Steelgong. I bring two hundred Qi Condensation soldiers, fifteen attached Array engineers and myself as reinforcements. I have two legionnaires who can roughly hold their own against a weak early Foundation building expert. I've already set my men to work – what are our orders going forwards, are we expecting to deploy as a counter-raiding force soon?"
"Centurion Kalenos. If we can avoid being butchered by Altar scum over the next week or so I'd consider us lucky. Until our defences are plugged, our capacity to engage in counter-raids or maintain our patrols along the line is effectively crippled. This makes us a lightning rod for every marrow-hungry band of Altar rats between Grandma Spider and One-Boat Town."
The grey commander runs a hand through his hair, the wiry grey strings of hair making a metallic tingling sound against his skin.
"Every one of them a band of loose sand, but the one that seems to have set its sights on us is run by a tyrant that has whipped his band of pathetic scum into something resembling a coherent fighting force. They attack, and fragment at the first serious resistance from my men, as every Demon force has done since we started fighting them all those millennia ago. A few platoons sally forth to get their pound of flesh – the moment they are too far from the walls to make a swift retreat, the demons converge again like wasps on a peach. We gear up for a serious fight, then we find out it's all one big distraction and they blow two holes in our rear end."
Leo nods with a troubled expression.
"Troubling. But we are drenched in large-scale cultivator warfare and my century has been stomping out suspiciously organized Blood Path demons for near a hundred years now. Captain, can you hold the fort as it stands now with your troops here and my Array engineers?"
The steely-eyed captain looks at him for five, ten seconds, then slowly nods.
"The Sons of Gold will set up, then sally forth in a matter of hours. The two centuries under my command can operate independently. With our Formations, we should be able to dissuade any enterprising raiders from taking advantage of the fort's weakness, and hopefully put our dangerous adversary on the back foot, at least until the fortress is repaired."
"Good hunting, then, my bronze-clad friends."
--
Black Blood Gurgler whipped the green frothy liquid to perfection with a bamboo brush. He carefully, deliberately tapped the bamboo whisk against the edge, then placed it down next to the bowl.
He inhaled the bitter flavour, and took a small sip. He allowed himself a small sigh of contentedness. Small pleasures in the field, these were important to stay sane.
The half-molten body of one of his soldiers had stopped moving where it lay before him, bound by invisible chains, contorting his body in a near-circle. Splashes of an acid-like substance had eaten through his legs, stomach and head, every drop seemingly having left a deep hole in the now-corpse.
He supposed his subordinate looked like a particularly chewed-up round human chew toy, the things his senior colleague Tai Chen used for his Bloodbeasts as a novelty item to emulate mundane hounds. He supposed it was indeed somewhat humorous.
The rest of his red tent was unoccupied, save for the table, tea set, and his sabre leaning against the tent wall.
The rest of his soldiers were doing this and that outside, trying to look very busy indeed, never looking inside the tent.
He cleared his throat.
The five hundred-so Demonic Altar juniors immediately froze.
He spoke with a soft voice, which one would have to strain to hear from more than a metre or two away.
"Can anyone tell me what this man's crime was? Winner gets the prize."
There was silence for a second or two. He smiled heartily.
One of the younger juniors spoke. Blood Gurgler knew that in this time, they had reached a consensus on who would provide the answer. He so very much hated people talking over one other.
"Cowardice, Lord Black Blood Gurgler. He did not countercharge immediately, likely fearing that he would be overwhelmed and killed."
"Correct, Junior Ji. What is he now?"
"Killed, sir."
"You may have your prize."
He released his Ethereal Shackles Art, and the disfigured corpse sagged into a more natural position.
Junior Ji fetched the corpse, bowed, and walked out of his tent backwards.
"Carry on, soldiers."
As one, activity resumed.
He took another sip. He did hope there would be some challenge in this venture yet.
--
Leo passed the gate of the fortress for the third time in two days, lightly vexed.
The Line held, and the few raiding bands that either century had faced were the same Demonic Altar riffraff that one generally expected to face. Leo's tactics had worked flawlessly each time, very much prepared for an assault from a numerically superior and equally disciplined force.
Spread the squads far enough around, centred around a core of forty with Formations experts. Wait for a raiding band to take one of the pieces of bait and commit to the engagement, then use the Cataphractoi formation to take out the leader, spread out to mop up the thoroughly-shaken and now-leaderless band. Other squads would reinforce with Eagles if the signal was given, but a few stragglers that had managed to escape had thus far hardly been worth showing their full hand for. Here, their Formations were not such common knowledge, especially among the Blood Demon juniors.
Yet no sign whatsoever of a force of the sort that had so thoroughly shaken Ward Thunderbolt two days ago.
The conventional move for the mysterious Altar force would be to seize on the advantage, keep forcing the enemy to commit to protecting their very vulnerable flank and poke at their underdefended other sides meanwhile, up until they strip the hole of some of its essential protection, then punch through with all force and wreak havoc. Cultivators – certainly those under Nascent Soul – were after all not immune to acting on instinct and faulty reasoning.
Yet their mysterious adversary had not shown his hand. Yet he must, why expend resources to create a hole you weren't going to exploit? Morale damage was significant, but these were Strength Purity juniors protecting their lands and a fortress, things would have to get significantly more dire before anyone would consider anything but fighting to the death, even if they were somewhat shaken.
Captain Steelgong was a capable commander, but more on the 'experienced and tough' side, rather than being an actual military genius. The men would hold together under him, and without him the chain of command would remain intact.
Leo tsked.
This would be significantly easier if the roles were reversed. Strength Purity ranging far and wide, crushing any enemy in single combat where they so excelled, Sons of Gold holding the fort, Hoplite Formation making forcing them into any engagement a ridiculously stupid proposition, unless they possessed overwhelming force.
But no one in their right mind would agree to surrendering a fortress entirely to the Golden Devils, unless in the direst circumstances. They were trusted auxiliaries, but if word got out that the Strength Purity needed the Devils to man their fortifications for them, the Sect would suffer significant loss of face.
These circumstances made these battlegrounds a mediocrity trap. You were shoehorned into a role that your allies saw for you or the situation demanded, and could do little but follow what was agreed upon. True excellence on the battlefield was contingent upon controlling all circumstances of the engagement.
Leo looked at the setting red sun, painting the still-relatively lush green landscape in hues of grey-crimson-brown.
Would the Altar commander perhaps wait until larger groups of raiders started converging on the fortress, and then try to take advantage of the increased pressure and chaos to try and take them out in one stroke before they managed to repair the damage done?
He felt in his bones that wasn't it. That was a patient strategy, for the sort of commander that liked to have ten irons in the fire, and would not think twice of it when he didn't get to use eight of them. It relied on chance, the actions of others and being in the right spot to take advantage of a favourable situation if it manifested itself. More typical Blood Path behaviour – though successfully putting it into practice was another thing entirely. An Altar commander consistently taking favourable engagements successfully was a dangerous foe.
Yet their adversary was a different beast entirely. Such a bare-faced assault as the one two days ago, and the amount of paradigm-defying discipline that it required was not the work of a pragmatic commander, it was the work of a visionary. A megalomaniac. It was exactly the sort of thing Aris would do, and he was intimately familiar with it.
Yet megalomaniacs had their own particular strain of weaknesses, even if they were geniuses. That was the key to anything – strip yourself of all prejudice and emotion on the battlefield and keep only your facts. Be as a newborn, examine all knowledge you possess as if looking upon it for the first time, without any emotional attachment, then adopt the strategy that counters that. Do not favour, do not advantage, have no style, no signature move. Be the tool needed to resolve the situation, nothing more.
War was an affair of hard facts.
The fact was that the fame they enjoyed among their foes was like an irresistible manna to these narcissistic commanders. As was keeping those foes forever wondering, forever uncertain.
Realisation slowly dawned on Leo.
He hoped their mysterious adversary would give him a few days to work with. He might have an iron or two in the fire yet.
--
Aris'
centuria was out, and Leo had just returned with his. It was late evening, fifth day after the initial attack. No further major engagements to speak of, though the intensity of raids had increased.
With his back to the red, setting sun, a sole figure appeared to the north-west, a large white banner fluttering behind him.
The breaches in the walls were filled in, the Arraywork was partially operational again. Full operationality would take a day more.
A scramble of activity, most gathering on the west wall to watch the approaching figure. Though the other walls remained nearly equally manned – they wouldn't be caught in their flanks again.
The order was given to stand down.
Leo's eyes picked out the figure at a few li distance.
A man with refined features and long, pitch-black hair approached, wearing beautifully embroidered broad pants and a light white tunic, delicately holding a sheathed sabre by his side.
A few soldiers brandished spyglasses to watch the approaching figure.
About two li from the walls, the figure stopped.
He moved his lips, making no sound anyone could hear.
"I, Black Blood Gurgler, true name Tan Qiu, challenge Captain Steelgong, true name Cao Ying, to a duel to the death. I want your fortress. If I win, I intend to take it, but I will allow you to evacuate before I attack. If you do not, we will not spare you. If I lose, my force is now fifteen li behind me. Without my leadership, they are helpless and could probably be scattered easily."
He holds up a chain of red beads, resonating with his words. A Duel Treasure, establishing the terms of a challenge. Its precise nature escaped Leo, but it would inflict some harm upon the issuer of the challenge if he did not abide by the terms.
The Sect members with spyglasses murmured the terms of the challenge to other lookers-on, looking concerned.
Leo narrowed his eyes. The Blood Demon was Late Foundation Establishment, equivalent to Steelgong. It was a rare Altar Demon indeed who could stand up to a Strength Purity Sect member in the same small realm, let alone have a chance at winning.
There was no refusing this challenge.
The image was as old as time itself, a besieging commander offering terms for a duel to resolve the situation with single combat. A bare-faced warrior standing in front of the gates, daring the defending commander to show his mettle.
Even if trickery was afoot, declining to engage an Altar Demon in honourable single combat as their founder had done was against their entire Way. Even apart from that, taking out an Altar Demon capable of whipping a loose pile of sand into a fearsome fighting force was a great victory. Single combat was what the Sect excelled at, an opportunity like this – even if it was a trap – played too strongly to their strengths to be disregarded.
The Strength Purity Sect members murmured among themselves. There didn't even seem to be a trap, the disadvantage was clear to see, the stringer exposed. If he killed their commander, there was only a Mid-Foundation building expert from a foreign fighting force to offer resistance.
He would take the castle, and use it as a leisurely base to raid the Southern Song with impunity, so the soldiers said, sounding convinced. They would even be able to throw back an assault by a superior force, behind the protective arrays. That was why he had waited until they were largely – but not entirely – repaired. Still easy enough to take, yet easy to bring to full functionality.
But the fortress being occupied by Altar Demons would be the least of the Allies' worries – there would be a breach in the Fearless Line, and every Altar Demon raider would use the convenient gap to probe into Southern Song. It would require significant force investment to uproot the organised Altar force holding open the breach in the Line, even without accounting for the thousands of Altar demons running amok. Like trying to mop up a flowing river.
Other Altar Demons would have been satisfied with sneaking over the Line alone or with a bare handful, but this commander had a more ambitious goal. He must also possess some overwhelming advantage to think he stands a chance against a Strength Purity disciple. Leo could hear the note of disgusted awe in the voices of the Sect warriors. This dragon of a man had chosen their fortress as a target, and now only their hard bodies and Arts would save them.
The voice of Steelgong rang out "I, Cao Ying, accept the terms of your challenge."
He walked forward to the edge of the wall, and doffed the upper part of his hanfu, revealing a withered and worn body like warped steel, still corded by fist-thick muscle, criss-crossed and pitted by numerous scars. A body forged in the fires of war. Steelgong looked at him, and nodded solemnly. Nothing more needed to be said.
He jumped down from the wall. Blood Gurgler crossed the distance leisurely, bowing with his fist clasped in his palm.
Steelgong returned the bow.
Blood Gurgler spoke softly, his every word a refined crystal chime sounding.
"I do so hope your troops take the chance to flee. Only the few Song Empire bites among them are really worth doing battle for. And I'd hate for the terms of the duel to be for nothing."
"They will break every bone in their bodies just to strike at you once, fiend."
"I'd feared so. Well, perhaps your Bronze-blooded successor commander shows greater wisdom and at least evacuates his men."
He looked directly at Leo, a private smirk playing on his features.
Blood Gurgler drew his sabre in a fluid movement, casting aside the scabbard. The surface gleamed dully in the waning light of day. An easy grip, three fingers on the handle, middle and index fingers resting on the flat of the blade.
He swung the
dao one, two times to warm up, then took an easy pose, sabre by his side.
Steelgong presented his fists, arms outstretched, his face taking on a rictus of combat. He shifted into a tense horse
stance, elbow forward, fist across his chest.
"Let's start."
Steelgong burst forwards in an explosion of movement and killing intent. A palm strike by the arm held across his chest is accompanied by a thunderclap and is barely parried by the flat of the saber's blade. Blood Gurgler flows around a follow-up kick-punch combination, his sabre flashes out to find Steelgong's side, but a backwards sweep with the back of his hand parries away the sabre with a loud metallic clang. Qi pumps in his legs, and a loud crack is followed by a full-length punch to Gurgler's face.
One second had passed.
Gurgler bends backwards under the force of the blow. Then a wet, gurgling sound emits from deep in the Demon commander's chest, and a large splash of a black, viscous liquid splashes across Steelgong's face, too committed to the blow to dodge it entirely.
He jumps backwards as the black liquid sizzles loudly. He tears off his pants to try and wipe the noxious substance off, but upon the smallest contact of the pants with the substance, the fabric practically disintegrates in smoke. His face is already a mess of warped brown metal, his eyes covered in a layer of thick acid.
"Blood Demon Art: Black Blood Acid Respiration"
Gurgler bends forwards again, and then he is upon him. His sabre flashes out like a steel viper, and the blinded Steelgong defensively parries his blows with one arm, trying to wipe the acid out of his eyes with the other.
Gurgler presses the advantage, but the Strength Purity expert parries most blows with broad sweeps or hollow palms. Yet his parrying arm is already criss-crossed by red lines, oozing small drops of brown-red blood. One, two cuts mar his sides.
Steelgong manages to wipe clear one rheumy eye, brown and puffed up, the eyelid mostly gone. The other is still coated in a thick layer of black acid, bubbling away horribly. A necessary sacrifice.
Gurgler lashes out with a broad overhand strike, aimed at the maimed part of Steelgong's face, acid still eating away at his metallic skin.
"Eight Extremities Style: Steel Tiger Fist"
The Body cultivator blurs a half-step forwards, in extreme-close range of the Blood Demon and on the inside of his swing.
A low, nearly vertical punch catches Gurgler on the slightly extended underside of his thorax, the sabre expert's upper body slightly overextended because of the overhand movement.
A painful, high clicking crunch rings out, and the Demon is thrown a few meters into the air.
Steelgong is the real deal, Leo thought. That advantage was minute, even the most agile and aggressive hand-to-hand experts would not think of striking there. It required controlled abandon, an absolute mastery of the own Body, and the absolute certainty that in extremely close range, no equal opponent could meaningfully threaten you.
Gurgler twisted and tried to move in mid-air, rotating his vulnerable belly and internals away from Steelgong, but he was too slow.
"Eight Extremities Style: Jumping Steel Tiger"
Steelgong exploded upwards, pouncing on the airborne sabre expert. His fists clenched close to his chest, almost touching. No need for limb movement or rotation, the explosive power of the jump gave the strike all the power it needed.
Like a cannonball, he crashed into Gurgler's upper body once again, either fist crushing one side of his lower ribs, pushing the mass into his crushed solar plexus. His momentum carried them both dozens of meters high, high above the walls, Gurgler almost bent over double from the impact of the double strike.
Steelgong reached around the Demon's waist with both arms, holding onto him in a bear-hug like embrace. He shifted his weight and they both tilted forwards, Gurgler's back facing the ground, Steelgong's shoulder set against his adversary's solar plexus.
"Ying Family Technique: Ten-Thousand Ton Body"
Suddenly, gravity seemed to lurch, and both dropped to the ground like a lead brick.
Steelgong's improbable weight crashed loudly into the ground, making a deep crater. Above the noise of the crash, the horrible sound of bones being crushed into pulp was audible.
A loud and horrible, plaintive gurgle was audible at the bottom of the crater before the falling motion had reached its conclusion.
From where Leo stood, it looked like an atrociously grievous wound on their foe – and for a moment, he thought that was the end of it.
Then Gurgler's chest swelled like a grotesque pustule around the point of impact, then his throat stretched to nearly three times its usual size, and the jaw of his open mouth distended, the tendons and muscle holding it to his head tearing with fleshy snaps and small crunches.
A body-sized blob of black blood shot out and into the air. Below, Gurgler's jaw had already mended, and his neck was proportionate to his body again. Brackish black blood trickled down his mouth, and he smiled wickedly.
The black blob was rendered into a humanoid figure with a long blade for an arm, which shifted in mid-air, and fell down towards Steelgong, blade-arm outstretched.
Steelgong jumped out of the crater, and the humanoid figure made out of black blood crashed into the soil.
The dust settled, and on the bottom of the crater Gurgler stood alongside a rough, faceless clone of his. Where the clone touched the soil with his feet, it sputtered, dissolved and turned black.
"Secret Blood Cannibal Technique: Black Blood Clone"
Gurgler was hunched over, his eyes tinged with madness. His white tunic was stained red and black around his solar plexus. Black blood intermixed with red dripped from his mouth.
Both Gurglers shoot forward, crossing each other two times in a helix-like pattern. Steelgong parries the steel sabre of the real Gurgler, and makes a careful attempt to do the same with the Black Blood Clone's blade, using the back of his hand in a backwards sweep. The blade's substance burns an angry red-brown line across Steelgong's hand.
The Body cultivator stops the motion, and shifts to dodge the Clone's strike instead.
The cadence of the fight had shifted. Gurgler used his real body as bait, his strikes having lost a great deal of their power, seemingly no longer capable of executing broad strokes which turn and shift his body, instead opting for rough stabbing and chopping motions. The clone forced Steelgong to dodge, always striking the exact same moment he parried the real Gurgler's strike, hampering his ability to follow through or counterattack, or even defend effectively.
A quick combination throw hurls Gurgler a few dozen meters away, and the captain attempts to strike at the clone using pure force projection and air displacement.
One, two, three cracking punches that never touch the liquid tear holes in the construct, which reform immediately, be they in head, groin or chest.
Then the real Blood Demon expert is again into the game, and the dance continues.
That technique was a fearsome weapon against a cultivator such as Steelgong, Leo thought.
His biggest asset was that in any close-range competition of force, he could afford to take much more punishment than his opponent. But his prodigious eye for an opponent's weaknesses, combined with the aggressiveness of his style made even that capacity largely obsolete, as he was able to resolve most fights before any serious damage was done. Both advantages, however, were useless against such a construct.
With ranged backup or a blade cultivator – even a weaker one – this fight would be trivial. It seemed to specifically counter Body cultivators of a certain type, which must be a priceless asset in the Altar Sect.
Yet there seemed a clear-cut counter to it – take a damaging hit from the construct, but kill its controller in one blow. Steelgong wasn't taking it. It was too obvious, the trap too clear. This setup – no matter how clever or annoying for Steelgong – was too precarious for there not to be a hidden stinger. Yet if Steelgong did nothing, he would be forced to spring the trap at some later point, exhausted and wounded.
Steelgong parried a steel sabre-strike, then turned and made to throw another air-displacement punch at the construct's head. Instead of the expected force projection forwards, the thunderclap turned the force of the blow around, and Steelgong's elbow shot out backwards towards Gurgler's head, the acupoint at the tip of his elbow glowing a vicious steely grey.
The construct used the opening to score an ugly, deep slash across the Body expert's lower back, the acid sputtering and popping in the deep wound.
But the elbow completes its movement otherwise unhindered and crunches into Gurgler's surprised face, even as he futilely tries to shift his body away from the strike, his ruined torso making evasion all but impossible.
Then the force of the blow releases, the Qi payload in his elbow exploding part of Gurgler's skull.
For a moment, all is quiet.
Then, the body of Gurgler dissolves into black blood, and the viscous mass explodes forward, covering Steelgong's entire body. The mass of viscous black liquid containing the Strength Purity captain shivers and quakes, but seems to hold its prisoner in place for now.
Gurgler's clone collapses on itself, rendering itself into a black, gelatinous mound. Out of the mound, as if out of a womb, a shaky, very naked Black Blood Gurgler rises, black viscous liquid streaming out of the sack now breached by Gurgler's emergence.
He did not seem healed, but the ruinous cavity on his chest at least seemed to have largely scabbed over.
"Secret Blood Cannibal Technique: Black Blood Rebirth Womb"
He threw back his head, and reached inside his mouth, throat and deeper with his hand, pulling out a new sabre.
He walked unsteadily and hunched over to the restrained Steelgong, thrusting the sabre through the black liquid-covered figure with little ceremony.
That moment, the prison released, the black blood splashing down and almost instantly evaporating.
Night had nearly fallen, the last light of day casting everything in gloomy shadows.
The withered Strength Purity captain was gruesomely scarred in his face and was still bleeding from the cut on his back, but aside from the sabre cleanly penetrating his gut, seemed to suffer only from relatively superficial wounds.
To Leo's spiritual sight, the now-naked Blood Demon was almost devoid of qi, having expended every little bit of reserve he had left for this pyrrhic victory.
As Steelgong collapsed, Gurgler withdrew his sabre from his gut with a metallic scraping sound.
The otherwise stoic Strength Purity soldiers seemed shaken by the defeat of their commander, murmuring darkly among themselves. Even Leo's Bronze Devils seemed lightly perturbed.
It was a dark day indeed when an Altar Demon beat a Strength Purity disciple in single combat.
As Blood Gurgler moved to grab Steelgong by the hair, a few panicked Altar warriors came into sight behind the Altar commander, running at near maximum speed.
Blood Gurgler turned around, his eyes contorted in panic.
--
Narcissists invariably thought their enemies were stupid.
His gambit had been clever. Almost too clever.
Attack from the west side, planning to approach from the same side a week later. Make the enemy
believe that you are committed to taking the fortress, and willing to expend significant resources doing so. Tie up the enemy for a while in an engagement he would not refuse, even discounting honour. The only side they would not be watching like hawks for bands sneaking past would be the side where the duel was taking place and the enemy had just said the force necessary for their objective was.
Make the enemy think you have one objective while pursuing another was still one of the best ones in the book. The wording of the challenge was crafted to leave room for interpretation in that regard. Gurgle after all would gladly have allowed them to evacuate, and he had only said he
intended to take the fortress.
Blood Gurgler never wanted to take Ward Thunderbolt, merely sneak past without notice, splitting up his force and using their discipline to keep their drain on mortal populations beneath expert notice, eating Qi Condensenation forces sent to deal with one of the many nuisances. Nesting ticks, growing fat where one big one would have been pinched long before. And the defenders wouldn't be certain whether the raiders were Blood Gurgler's force, or whether they had run off in the end and it was a handful of other lucky raiders.
Or perhaps Blood Gurgler had had some specific objective in mind, some cultivator with a rare bloodline to consume somewhere in Southern Song, or perhaps even orders from above.
Yes, if Blood Gurgler had won the duel and then run off, they would know he was at large somewhere behind the Line. Yet the fortress most equipped to respond would be down their commander and most powerful asset. Mobilising a squad of experts to hunt Gurgler down would be an egregious waste of resources, provided he did not draw too much attention to himself.
Yet his gambit was half-baked, a dreamt-up victory where he runs away cackling and his enemies are left wondering.
It was clever in that more reinforcements to Ward Thunderbolt would make little difference. Another expert would be troublesome, two would be problematic – but such force commitments were irresponsible in a war where they were stretched to the bone. And even in the unlikely event they would have an expert to covertly strike at Gurgler's troops while he was tied up with the duel – so Gurgler must have thought – the troops wouldn't be where anyone expected them to be, already far behind the Line in Southern Song. They would only know trouble was afoot after it was too late.
Leo smiled as more of the Altar troops rounded the faraway hill, a dark figure flitting between them, stilling them one by one.
But he didn't need reinforcements, merely one exceptionally stealthy cultivator lying in wait at exactly the right moment for a favourable strike. He hadn't known exactly where the troops would attempt to cross the line, but conventional wisdom would state at around four-fifths to the halfway point with the next fortress on the line. If you had a genius plan, you tended to pass over the details and not account for every improbable contingency.
Yet that was what strategy was – work around the thousand small pitfalls in your head that caused you to make the same mistakes over and over again.
The flitting figure was now visible more clearly. A small, mousy Golden Devil with a large two-handed sabre, moving like a spectre between the groups of Altar Demons. Diokles Aseius. Even from here, the man's cultivation felt fuzzy, and it was difficult to map his spiritual self to the physically moving figure.
Black Blood Gurgler steeled himself to charge Diokles, casting a glance backwards at the prone figure of Steelgong.
That was the only bit Leo was still uncertain about. Even with Black Blood Gurgler's improbably impressive techniques, the outcome of the duel had been far from certain. Even if their foe had been very well informed about Steelgong's combat potential, losing or being too crippled to escape were very realistic outcomes. Was it pure hubris? Or had he had another ace or two up his sleeve that would have tilted the balance even further in his favour? Or had the desire to breathe in the awe of his foes proven decisive in hinging his plan's success on his victory in single combat over an expert of the Strength Purity's Sect? Leo could make little sense of it.
As Gurgler was about to muster his last bit of strength to break into a dead charge, he suddenly coughed up a glob of blood and looked down.
Five steel fingers poked out of his chest.
Steelgong had lifted himself up slightly on one arm and now held his arm outstretched out towards his foe. The arm now missed a hand, neatly separated at the wrist.
The hand with fingers outstretched was now embedded in the Blood Demon's back, blood dripping down from the holes made by the steel fingers.
"Ying Family Flying Fist Technique"
Not only Blood Demons were capable of deception, Strength Purity disciples only needed a bit more encouragement to engage in it, especially if it concerned their honour.
Though the doctrine those Strength Purity experts were steeped in
was terrific, Leo admired privately. No strike had been excessive, each technique just as lethal as it needed to be, never overextending. The gulf in power between an Altar Demon and a Strength Purity disciple was not stronger bodies, better techniques and experience borne of continuous conditioning in live combat – at least, not only. It was the layers and layers of iron discipline, that had made it so that no fight of theirs hinged on one successful strike, never turning a slight opening into an insurmountable advantage, but rather responding appropriately and proportionally to every opening. A pragmatism that saw one party to this duel mortally wounded, the other merely crippled.
Something shattered, and starting at his feet, Black Blood Gurgler gradually started disappearing into a fine red mist.
A Life-saving Treasure. Not unexpected, considering the techniques he was throwing around.
He looked resigned for a mere second, then he turned around and looked Leo straight in the eye. Then he grinned a white-red smile, teeth stained with crimson heartblood. He shrugged with blasé nonchalance, arms lightly spread, then disappeared.
The beads he was holding fell down and shattered, and Leo felt as if a wave of static passed through him. He had violated the terms of the duel and would suffer some commensurate ill, going by the feeling probably a reduction in cultivation base.
Leo raised his voice.
"Soldiers, bring your captain to a medic immediately! First to third platoons, range out near the fortress and help
centurio Diokles mop up. Devils, Eagle Formations, chase down individual stragglers further afield!"
An enemy Foundation Establishment crippled for one of their own, in addition to a fighting force of five hundred juniors taken out. A good exchange, especially as their enemy could not afford taking many unfavourable exchanges before the momentum of the war would turn against them, and sharply.
Leo inhaled contentedly. This was war – thousands of small exchanges and insignificant victories that tied the noose around your enemy, leaving brilliant commanders and visionary leaders wondering where it all went wrong.
It went wrong for them because of many merely good men that used the tools at their disposal to eke out merely good victories.
___
After a few more introspective omake, one that returns (somewhat) to the business of cultivator warfare.
@no. hope you enjoy!
(To be certain:
@TehChron @Alectai @ReaderOfFate, threadmark please!)
