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墨書 Inktalez
The scene continued to play out on the muddy ground, the gray tones and intermittent quality adding a layer of eerie oppression. The small recycling robot emitted a stuttering sound, distorted with a metallic edge, yet still clear enough to discern the words.
"I am Iron Dome's Terminator, Ezel Moran." The voice was deep and commanding, accompanied by the imposing figure of Ezel in the frame. He stood in the center of an open space, his massive sword crossed over his chest, resembling a mountain on the verge of collapse, exuding an unshakeable sense of pressure.
"I challenge you to a duel—let us decide life and death!" His voice echoed across the battlefield, resonating with a heart-stirring intensity. Even through the fragmented imagery and sound, one could feel the soul-piercing momentum. In the footage, he seemed to have complete control over the situation, the invincible belief of the Iron Dome Terminator etched clearly in every detail.
Then another voice emerged from the image, slightly cold yet calm. Unlike Ezel's aggressive tone, this voice carried a steadfastness and chill that struck deep.
"Ronin, Bing Lie." After this brief introduction, there was a momentary pause before he continued, "I swear by Kong Si, everything behind me shall continue to walk in peace."
The voice was as calm as water, but Ezel in the image seemed to tremble slightly at those words. His massive sword quivered as if he were contemplating something. Suddenly, he straightened up, his muscles bulging as steam began to pour from the seams of his armor.
The small recycling robot's sound shifted to a piercing static, and suddenly an orange-red glow filled the screen—this was the sign that the Terminator had activated level three enhancement. The image became even more blurred, but one could vaguely see Ezel's body rapidly expanding; the fibers and metal muscles of his cybernetic form appeared to be burning. His chest plate strained outward with a cracking sound. He raised that enormous sword and stomped down hard, causing the muddy ground to shatter and splash water everywhere.
With a deafening roar, Ezel charged toward the ronin. His speed was astonishing; his massive frame surged forward like a meteor, each step leaving deep impressions in the ground. The blade of his sword gleamed with blinding light, carrying an aura of destruction aimed directly at the still-standing figure.
At that moment, a blinding blue light suddenly appeared in the image, so bright it shook the dark scene. The blue light was fleeting, like lightning splitting through the night sky but carried an irresistible chill. The image trembled for an instant before a tremendous crash echoed as Ezel's mountain-like body fell heavily.
The screen was once again disrupted by static, but amidst the mud, one could faintly see Ezel's massive sword sliding down to the ground while his body lay motionless. After the blue light faded, the ronin remained standing in place, his blade shimmering with a faint blue glow like a cold moon in the night. His posture was graceful and serene, as if this duel were merely an ordinary day of practice.
Yan Kong stared intently at the projection, his chest heaving with excitement. His fists were clenched tightly, eyes filled with shock and disbelief. He scanned over the image on the muddy ground once more, focusing on the moment when that blue light appeared. It was not a clash of power but rather a precise dance of death.
Slowly sitting down on the ground despite getting mud splashed on his robe from behind him, Yan Kong remained unfazed. His gaze remained fixed on the projection on the ground as his fingertips gently glided over the interface of Brain-Computer, rewinding back to that moment when the blue light appeared. His brow furrowed deeply as he concentrated intently, as if he intended to dissect this moment into every minute fragment.
The image restarted, the blue light streaking across like a comet, piercing through the entire dim scene the moment it illuminated. Yan Kong's gaze was locked onto that instant, yet no matter how slowly he tried to analyze it, the fragmented image and the speed of that blade made it impossible for him to capture the complete motion. Each rewind, each replay yielded the same result—the strike was so fast it seemed beyond human capability.
"Damn it..." Yan Kong muttered under his breath, gripping his knees tightly, his knuckles turning white. Countless hypotheses and speculations flooded his mind, but they were all crushed by the oppressive force of that blue light. It was not an ordinary sword technique, nor was it merely speed and strength; that strike transcended everything he had ever known.
He shifted his gaze away from the ground projection to his waist and back. The dozen or so blades hung there like medals of honor, chronicling his history of battles. Each blade had once belonged to a powerful swordsman—some were astonishingly talented, others fiercely formidable, each a standout in their respective fields. Yan Kong recalled past opponents whose techniques had indeed amazed him, even becoming targets for his improvement for a time.
But never had any opponent left him feeling as profoundly shaken and insignificant as he did now.
He reached out to caress the hilt of one blade, taken from a swordsman renowned for his speed. That opponent had been famous for his quickness, but compared to that blue light, it was merely child's play. His Adam's apple bobbed as a complex emotion flickered in his eyes—jealousy, excitement, and an uncontrollable yearning.
"This strike..." Yan Kong whispered, his voice so low it was nearly inaudible. His gaze returned to the projection; the blue light magnified in his mind as if it sought to consume his consciousness entirely. He attempted to comprehend the essence of that strike, but the more he tried, the more he felt his ignorance.
That strike was not just fast; it contained some intangible power. Yan Kong could clearly sense that the blade's light was not solely meant for killing but carried an intent that pierced through everything—as if it sliced not only flesh but also space itself, even time.
What unsettled him most was that through this fragmented image, he could still feel the concealed killing intent within. That intent was cold and precise, exuding an irresistible sense of absolute oppression as if it condensed all the murderous energy in existence; with just a moment's notice, it could reduce everything to nothingness.
Yan Kong took a deep breath; cold sweat had soaked through his clothes. He looked at his hands, fingers trembling slightly. He couldn't remember the last time he had reacted this way. He had thought he had reached the pinnacle of swordsmanship; at least on this continent, no one could stand on equal footing with him. But that strike had completely overturned his beliefs.
"This... is not a skill of this world," he said softly, fear and reverence mingling in his voice. That strike not only ended the life of its target but also shattered his understanding of power within himself, as if reminding him that there were still some existences in this world beyond his reach.
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