Blood Art: Berserker
Val's eyes turned crimson.
From his body, a searing red aura erupted—fiery, alive, untamed. Bloodlust surged with every breath he took. His grip tightened around the massive battle axe. Then, like a meteor, he launched himself into the battlefield.
BOOM!
The ground quaked as his axe smashed into the earth. Cracks spread outward from the crater. Dust rose. Soldiers screamed.
And then the real bloodshed began.
With a sweeping arc, Val's axe cut down twenty men in a single swing. Bodies split. Blood splattered like paint on snow. He moved again—brutal, relentless, unstoppable.
"Surround him!" a soldier shouted in panic.
Tens of enemies closed in. But before they could touch him, they were ripped apart by a single, cleaving spin. Blood sprayed in every direction. Panic grew.
"Disperse! Attack one by one! Tire him out!"
The formation shifted. Squads pulled back and scattered, forming rotating waves—attack, retreat, repeat. But Val didn't let up. He leapt into the air again, eyes locking onto a tighter group still reorganizing. He descended like a falling comet.
Carnage.
Screams drowned beneath the roar of his axe. Bones shattered. Armor was meaningless.
He was growing stronger with every second.
Every swing carried more force.
Every heartbeat fueled the fire.
Meanwhile…
In the blur of shadows, Isla emerged—dagger in hand, eyes cold, expression unreadable. He moved like a death incarnate.
One moment, he was behind a soldier. The next, the man's head rolled onto the snow.
Shadow to shadow.
Kill to kill.
His dagger danced. In one moment, he stabbed an enemy through the heart. In the next, he hurled the blade, dashed through the void, and caught it mid-air—only to carve down another soldier from behind.
Behind him, the Hollows swept in.
Ghostly, precise, silent.
Their blades found joints and necks. Their movement shattered formations like paper against wind. A hundred elite killers, trained by the Emperor himself—disassembling the army's rhythm from within.
The Empire's 100 soldiers began pressing in as well, filling the gaps left by the slaughter. The tide was starting to shift.
Back to back.
In the heart of the enemy army, Isla and Val stood side by side. Blood dripped from their weapons. The ground was littered with corpses. They didn't speak—but moved as one.
Then, without warning, they split.
Val charged forward like a beast, his red aura scorching the air.
Isla stepped backward into shadow—his next targets already in sight.
The snowfall turned red.
"More are coming," Isla muttered, glancing at the endless waves descending from the Iron Duke's rear ranks.
Heavenly Dark Art – Second Form: Abyssal Bind
Dozens of shadowy tendrils erupted from beneath the snow, latching onto enemies. Their limbs froze mid-motion. Their mouths opened to scream—but no sound came.
In the next instant, Val's axe swept through them.
Blood showered across the battlefield.
Again. And again. Isla bound; Val killed. The pattern repeated—refined, perfected.
Still, they came.
Thousands more.
The Iron Duke watched from the hill, arms crossed, expression unreadable.
"Not even they can last forever…" he muttered.
But Isla's voice cut through the storm:
"Heavenly Dark Art – Third Form: Oblivion Slash."
He raised his dagger.
A wave of dark aura, shaped like a crescent, surged outward—razor-sharp and wide. It tore through the snow and the flesh alike. Over a hundred soldiers fell in a single instant.
And still, they came.
Val panted—blood dripping from his chin, his shoulders rising and falling. But he was grinning. Madness in his eyes.
Isla's aura shifted.
Heavenly Dark Art – Fourth Form: Void Piercer
A dark void opened before him—then another one above the battlefield.
Oblivion Slash again.
This time, the attack passed through the first shadow gate and emerged from the second, raining death from above. Soldiers looked up just in time to be cleaved by a blade they never saw.
The Hollows moved in the chaos, clearing the rest. Their pace didn't slow. If anything, they accelerated.
A lone martial artist tried to challenge Val—quick, sharp, trained.
Val didn't even flinch.
With a roar, he swung once.
The man's body split cleanly in half.
Four hours passed.
The snow was red.
Val's breath now came in ragged bursts. Isla's shadow form flickered, slightly delayed.
But they still stood.
Around them, the bodies of thousands.
Yet more came.
More still waited.
Attrition. A slow grind.
The Iron Duke's plan was working—but only barely.
For the first time, the Winter Sovereign narrowed his eyes.
"They're… still standing."