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墨書 Inktalez
Yan Kong took a deep breath, striving to calm the turmoil within him. The sound of his boots squelching in the mud echoed dully, splattering mud onto his pant legs. He approached the lifeless body step by step, the world around him seeming to quiet until only the sound of his footsteps remained. As he reached the side of the massive figure, his gaze swept over the traces on the ground, and his brow furrowed slightly.
The ground was littered with a chaotic array of footprints, each step deeply imprinted in the mud, exuding an undeniable sense of power. He crouched down, gently tracing the muddy impressions with his fingers, closing his eyes to merge the data in his mind with his instincts, beginning to analyze these steps.
For a top swordsman like Yan Kong, footprints were far more honest than words. Through these details of movement, he could piece together fragments of the battlefield's story. His fingers glided along the edges of the prints, and images began to form in his mind—those were the steps of a terminator, steady and forceful, each stride carrying an unstoppable momentum. He could feel the power that this enormous body had unleashed in life; it was a crushing attack, merciless and relentless.
However, as his hand continued to move, he suddenly sensed an entirely different set of footprints. These steps were astonishingly light, like wind sweeping across the ground, leaving hardly any depth behind. Yan Kong's brow tightened further as his fingertips followed these traces, and the images in his mind grew clearer.
These steps resembled not so much a battle as a dance. Yes, it was a relaxed and fluid rhythm, devoid of pressure or hesitation, even lacking any intent to kill. Yan Kong could sense that this person seemed completely immersed in their own tempo, radiating an inexplicable sense of ease. A graceful figure floated into his mind; it seemed not to be on a battlefield but rather dancing elegantly.
Yan Kong's steps felt particularly heavy in the mud; each one felt like treading into an abyss. He moved forward slowly, his eyes fixed intently on the massive body on the ground. The dampness after the rain enveloped him, and there was an almost indescribable oppression in the air. His heartbeat quickened gradually, and his clenched fists trembled slightly.
As he drew closer, Brain-Computer activated immediately, a display materializing before him as data scrolled rapidly before settling on a familiar name—Ezel Moran. Following that, a series of detailed battle records popped up on the screen: this Iron Dome's Terminator had single-handedly destroyed the entire border defenses of the Unwoven Nation and defeated four allied armies during the Battle of the Wastes. There were even records showing that five years ago during the Mecha Purge War, he had achieved overwhelming victory against three heavily armored mechs.
Yan Kong's gaze swept over these records as an unusual emotion surged within him. Memories of past legends about Ezel surfaced in his mind—the invincible terminator, the blade of Iron Dome—now lying cold and lifeless on this muddy hill.
He crouched down again, focusing on Ezel's shattered armor. What had once been smooth and impervious was now broken and battered; the chest plate had exploded outward as if some immense force had burst forth from within. He gently ran his fingers along the jagged edges of the broken armor, feeling its cold metallic surface.
"He gave it everything..." Yan Kong murmured softly, his voice low and tinged with an indescribable sentiment. He could imagine that on this hilltop, Ezel must have unleashed all his strength. This rupture was not caused by external attack but stemmed from within himself—a release of ultimate power that even tore apart his armor like a final struggle in despair.
Yet perplexingly, Ezel's body appeared almost unscathed externally. His limbs remained intact; the massive cybernetic structure showed no significant damage; even the great sword he wielded was still firmly gripped in hand. But when Yan Kong's gaze shifted to Ezel's neck, his pupils constricted slightly.
At Ezel's neck was a fine incision that was nearly imperceptible. It looked as if it had been sliced open by some extremely precise blade—clean and neat without any extraneous wounds—merely a line less than two millimeters wide. The blood had long since congealed; it did not splatter everywhere but quietly lingered at the edge of the wound like a silent testament.
Yan Kong extended his hand, hesitating for a moment before gently touching the thin cut. His fingertips felt the cold, silent death that lingered there. His breathing grew rapid, and countless images flashed through his mind as he tried to piece together the scene of the battle. Yet, the clean and ruthless nature of that cut stirred an indescribable unease within him.
"Was it... over in a single strike?" he murmured to himself, disbelief lacing his voice. He could not fathom how such a formidable and flawless terminator could fall to such a precise and merciless blow.
Yan Kong slowly closed his eyes, attempting to reconstruct the outline of that duel in his mind. His fingers lightly brushed against the muddy ground, feeling the deep imprints of footsteps. Data streams from Brain-Computer flashed through his brain, but he shut out all information at that moment, immersing himself entirely in his own intuition and thoughts.
His consciousness began to sketch a picture: Ezel Moran's massive sword swung through the air with unstoppable force, each stroke sending violent gusts that swept around him like raging waves. Every strike of the giant sword was filled with an aura of destruction—absolute violence, a ruthless will to crush the enemy completely. In Yan Kong's mind, he could almost hear the shrill whistle of the blade slicing through the air and feel the dents created in the muddy ground by its weight.
However, the figure of the other person remained particularly vague. It seemed as if they had never truly struck back, showing no signs of drawing their sword. Their movements were light and elusive, like a feather floating in the wind—devoid of any excess force yet impossible to grasp. This person was not evading nor did they seem afraid of Ezel's ferocious attacks; instead, they danced gracefully through this life-and-death clash, effortlessly dodging every strike.
Yan Kong's brow furrowed slightly as his thoughts delved deeper, simulating the trajectories of blades crossing in an attempt to understand the rhythm of this duel. Yet just as he became engrossed in it, a chilling intent to kill suddenly erupted in his mind.
This murderous intent was cold and precise, like an invisible blade piercing deep into his consciousness. Yan Kong shuddered violently, cold sweat instantly soaking his back. The sensation was not fabricated; it felt so real as if something had penetrated his soul—a pure and ruthless threat of death that struck at his very instincts.
"What—!" Yan Kong's eyes flew open as his hand instinctively drew the knife from his waist. The blade gleamed with a sharp light as he swiftly slashed through the air in a fierce arc. A sharp slicing sound seemed to resonate in the air, but before him lay nothing but stillness and muddy ground.
His heart pounded like war drums against his chest—thump, thump—each beat reverberating in his ears. His breathing was rapid and uneven; he gripped the blade tightly, knuckles turning white from exertion. Cold sweat trickled down his spine, soaking his clothes.
"What is happening..." Yan Kong gasped softly, shock and confusion evident in his voice. He struggled to steady his breath, but the lingering aura of murderous intent still clung to his mind.
At that moment, a faint mechanical sound broke through. He looked down to see a small recycling robot sprawled on the ground, clearly startled by his earlier movement. The robot trembled slightly, its tiny mechanical arms tightly hugging each other as if trying to protect itself. Its optical sensors flickered with anxious red lights, emitting soft beeping sounds.
Yan Kong's gaze fell upon it; the cold light on his blade had yet to fully dissipate. He raised his wrist slightly and relaxed his grip on the knife, taking a deep breath to suppress that chilling intent back into his heart. The small robot sensed that he had lowered his weapon and steadied itself somewhat but remained curled up, afraid to make any sudden movements.
"Did I scare you?" Yan Kong said coldly, a hint of self-mockery in his tone. He came back to his senses, realizing that his earlier reaction had been somewhat excessive, yet the palpable aura of killing intent still left him unsettled. He sheathed his knife and turned his gaze back to the corpse of the Terminator not far away, a flood of questions rising within him—who had left behind that killing intent?
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