Martial Era: Starting With The Strongest Talent-Chapter 105: Spirit Manifestation

A few minutes earlier...

Adam sat cross-legged in the middle of the battlement. Around him, thirty mind-controlled, unranked level-3 sirens stood in a loose ring. Their bodies formed a living barrier as he prepared to do something reckless for this current moment.

Manifest his spirit.

The battlefield noise dulled at the edges of his mind, and a memory surfaced, uninvited.

​"A martial spirit is a vital tool," his instructor from his month of training at the dojo said, continuing, "Without it, we martial artists cannot use true techniques. Without it, we are nothing but food for the ever-encroaching monsters."

One of the trainees raised a hand.

"Instructor... where do martial spirits come from?"

The instructor looked at him for a long moment before answering.

"They are the egos of our minds."

"Made manifest through Existence gained from those you have slain."

"Shaped by the technique you comprehend."

"And limited only by the talent you possess."

Back in the present, Adam opened his eyes slightly.

You forgot to mention how draining it is to manifest one.

A notification appeared before him.

[1-Star Profound Spirit: 210 Existence + Martial Technique]

Adam exhaled slowly.

Without hesitation, he reached into his storage ring and pulled out a yellow-grade martial technique manual, the one he had bought long ago with his dirty bronze knife and standard essence absorption technique. Back then, it had been useless, but now, it mattered.

As Adam opened it, the manual was plain, with only four pages.

To form a martial spirit, one must grasp a concept from a technique. To solidify its form, Existence is required.

The instructor’s voice echoed in Adam’s head as he read. It didn’t take long, as Adam entered a state of enlightenment.

This wasn’t new. Every time he read a technique, the concept stuck, but previously, he had lacked the Existence required to manifest his spirit.

Now?

He had more than enough.

Adam didn’t waste time.

He spent 210 Existence and the moment he did, essence surged and an aura erupted from his body, twisting the air.

And something vast began to take shape behind him.

Normally, a spirit’s traits mirrored a martial artist’s single affinity, but Adam possessed two, and both erupted from him at once.

Death and wind tore free, coiling outward in a violent surge that warped the air itself. Invisible pressure rolled across the battlement, carrying a rot-deep chill that sank into bone. Those locked in battle were too consumed to notice, the stench of death was already thick, and the sirens encircling him moved on borrowed will, minds shackled and empty.

Adam didn’t need witnesses.

Power didn’t ask for admiration.

Behind him, the affinities fused into something profane.

A silhouette bled into existence, first a broad frame, then armor, then presence. Matted black plates layered over a towering warrior’s form, scarred and uneven like they had survived centuries of war. The pauldron was asymmetrical, forged with brutal intent, thick ridges flaring outward like a predator’s spine, while the vambraces were etched with sharp, spiraling grooves that bled wind with every movement. The armor didn’t shine. It swallowed light.

Wind streamed constantly from the apparition, not as a gale, but as a restrained scream. Tight, lethal currents orbited its body, and death clung to it like a frosty, oppressive stillness that pressed against the lungs of any fool brave enough to approach.

Then, the head finally formed. It was a skull of emerald flame that burned without heat ignited atop an armored neck, its hollow eyes blazing with ancient malice. The spirit, now fully manifested, leaned back before unleashing a thunderous roar.

Its battle-cry was absolute.

Adam didn’t hesitate.

​His focus snapped inward as essence surged through his being. There was no build-up, no mercy; he simply spoke under his breath:

"Wind Cyclone: Rendering."

The air around him stirred.

It was gentle at first, as loose currents brushed against armor, lifting ash from the stone. Then it became faster. The wind began to spiral, pressure climbing in a heartbeat. The currents expanded outward, accelerating violently, compressing into razor-edged streams.

In the next moment, the cyclone formed.

A towering vortex of screaming wind detonated across the battlement, its edges refined into countless invisible blades. Sirens were lifted, torn apart, and erased mid-scream. Bodies shredded before they could hit the ground, blood atomized into red mist.

The cyclone acted like an executioner, carving through the horde with surgical brutality.

Adam sat at its center, unmoving.

Behind him, the death-wind warrior loomed in silent approval, green flames roaring as the battlefield witnessed its might.

****

Abigail stared toward the heart of the cyclone. She carried a wind affinity herself and she had trained it enough to know its limits. What Adam had unleashed wasn’t just stronger.

It was wrong.

The vortex didn’t behave like wind. It didn’t scatter. It didn’t surge and fade. It hunted, its edges so precise they peeled monsters apart instead of throwing them aside.

But isn’t that a yellow-grade technique?

The thought surfaced unbidden.

Abigail knew most of the martial techniques tied to wind. She had studied them, catalogued them and watched others fail with them. Wind Cyclone: Rendering was familiar; infamous, even. Despite the dramatic name, it was little more than a beginner trap.

A flashy technique sold to ignorant martial artists who didn’t know better. Normally, it produced nothing more than forceful gusts, enough to knock enemies off balance, maybe scatter weaker foes.

This is different.

She forced herself to keep watching, even as something twisted in her chest. One of her men was gone and she knew what she was doing. Fixating on Adam and letting the spectacle pull her attention away from the loss.

It wasn’t healthy.

But it worked.

The cyclone Adam had formed wasn’t just wind. There was an added layer, something fused into the technique itself. The way the vortex moved, the way it cut, stripping flesh and bone in a single pass, wasn’t a knockback; it was extermination.

Monsters died in clusters, erased before they could even reach the outer edge of the storm. The wind didn’t just carry force; it carried intent.

Abigail swallowed.

It’s like the wind itself wants them dead.

Her eyes narrowed as the screams vanished into the roar of the vortex.

As if it’s a death-bringer.