Chapter 119: Shield of Thirteen
The first night descended like a curtain across the trial world, and across the multiverse, the footage of the opening day began to spread like wildfire.
Clips were everywhere—hunters cutting down rivals, desperate alliances clashing, brutal duels decided in seconds. Some of the most popular showed individuals felling twelve opponents single-handedly. Others displayed thirteen. Yet despite the violence and spectacle, one video eclipsed them all.
It was not the strongest who caught the eye.
It was not the flashiest either.
It was the reptilion.
It was Apap.
The clip showed him not only fighting—but commanding. Shielding his team. Organizing their formation. Keeping them alive when most leaders treated their subordinates as nothing more than disposable cover. His sword strikes were sharp, his scales gleaming under the false light of the trial world, but it was his leadership that made the multiverse pause.
News anchors swarmed the story. One holo-broadcast played the footage again and again, narrating over it with reverent awe.
"Look here—watch closely," the anchor's voice urged, the image replaying in slow motion. "When the mecha descends, Apap does not scatter. He doesn't abandon. He holds. He commands. Every gesture, every order saves lives. Even when the machine mocks him, even when it hammers him into the dirt, he refuses to break. This is not mere survival. This is bravery. Leadership."
Across countless planets, feeds lit up with debate and praise. "Shiel of Thirteen" they began to call him, half in jest, half in admiration.
Meanwhile, far removed from the storm of attention, Apap himself had no idea. Neither he nor his battered team could know that their stand was now legend in the making.
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Elsewhere, Moon stirred awake in the jungle, his eyes glinting as he sat upright, the faint glow of his essence lighting the canopy around him. Without hesitation he took up his spear and moved deeper into the wilderness.
Six hours passed.
In that time, he encountered three—no, four—opponents. None were worth his effort. Already wounded, exhausted, scrambling on broken limbs… they fell like leaves before him.
Moon's grip slackened on his weapon. His stride slowed.
A sigh escaped him.
"This is getting dull."
He glanced at his system readout. Sixteen points. Just sixteen. A long way from fifty. He felt the worry flicker in his chest but dismissed it with a shake of his head. "Forget tension. It'll come when it comes."
He yawned—loud, careless, defiant.
And then everything changed.
A whisper rippled through his essence arts—an approaching force. No, not just approaching. Already there. Already on him.
The punch came out of nowhere.
Moon's body snapped sideways, the blow detonating against his skull with a crack that echoed across the jungle. He flew, smashing through branches and boulders, bones screaming in protest as he crashed across the ground.
"Damn—what the fuck is this force… this speed?!"
He barely had a second to stabilize before a blur was on him again. A second punch drove into his gut, collapsing his chest inward, hurling him into the soil with such fury that the ground for a kilometer around split open like fragile glass. Shockwaves thundered outward, trees collapsing in waves, the earth groaning beneath the impact.
And this place wasn't even an ordinary planet. It was a battleground forged to withstand combat at the planetary-tier. Had it been anywhere else, the land would already be dust.
The blur loomed above him, arm cocked back for another strike. Moon snarled and caught the hand mid-swing—his muscles trembling as he locked it in place.
"Not this time—"
Dhaam!
Another fist slammed into his ribs, bypassing his guard, sending pain lancing through his body. He staggered back, spit flecking his lips.
But finally—finally—he saw it clearly.
Four arms.
Lean, honed muscles.
Eyes sharp and merciless.
A Gandharva.
The title rose unbidden in Moon's mind, as if whispered by the multiverse itself.
The Four-Armed Speedster of Universes.
His breath caught, his chest still aching from the impact. He could barely comprehend the monster standing before him.
How was he supposed to fight this? How could he possibly win against something this fast, this relentless?
And yet—Moon smiled, blood on his teeth, defiance burning in his eyes.
With a single pivot, he twisted his body, leg whipping upward in a flawless arc.
A spinning kick.
It caught the Gandharva square on the jaw, sending the four-armed figure staggering a half-step back.
Moon rose to his feet, planting his spear into the dirt, his frame steady despite the ache tearing through him.
Before him stood the Gandharva.
Unshaken.
Unstoppable.
Waiting.
The battle was only just beginning.