Pestilence: Rise Of The Pure Undead-Chapter 346: Fear The Night : Aid From Beyond

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Blocking and dodging with every fibre of his being, Ohrn searched for an opening in the undead’s guard, but all that he saw were feints waiting to happen, traps, every and all of them, sparks flew, flew and flew into a dazzling show of fireworks, it was wonder how the elder’s blade was yet to be damaged.

Ourlon’s pale, chipped sword was dreadfully efficient, there was no doubt about it, it was tightly linked to his arts and himself, forged in the depths of the undead forces, using countless techniques and arts, both ancient and new, it was a masterpiece, a magnificent arm, eclipse by its wielder’s proficiency.

Nothing flashy had occurred just yet, both of their arts were unseen for the most part, his slashes of white light served no purpose here, there were not actual like and were thus not torn apart by the ambient darkness, but they were simply too weak, the minor lord had mastered arts to absorb and throw back those sort of attacks with double the force, Ohrn had learned this the hard way already.

Many cuts already covered his body, every time his heart was stopped and lungs were emptied, he had managed to throw his body into a dodge before another could reach him, but it was far from ideal still, Ourlon’s death art probably counted the number of blows necessary to put down a living by their life force, or vitality.

And whilst in great shape, Ohrn was still an old man with wizened limbs, it would probably not take many more scratches for him to truly breath his last, once again, he regained his sight as he was once more brought back from a short death, blocking the next strike, the old swordsman pushed with all of his might, pushing against an opponent’s sword was not a great move, but he had to buy himself some time, at the very least, Ourlon was not equipped with the physical strength of a beast, when using his augmentative arts to their limits, Ohrn could contend.

Quickly, he would start to weaken unlike his adversary, gritting his teeth, he held on as scanned the area with his sharpened senses, Ourlon had a perfect view from every direction thanks to darkness awareness, counting on help was out of the question, the ancient swordsman would see them coming from far away, it was not like Ohrn was troublesome enough to get all his attention.

Sheathing his blade, the most well-known type of arts to emerge from Tochi, where a big emphasis on speed had been placed upon the practice of combat, striking from a sheathed position was incredibly popular, it had been for as far as Ourlon could remember, the undead assumed a similar posture as well.

He could feel it, the intensity radiating from the eyes, this stern, focused expression, Ourlon knew it well, the face of a man ready to put his life on the line, he had once believed that one with this visage was ready to face death, but having embraced it himself, he knew well that once the final coldness and darkness came, only fear would be left.

Both of them slowly inched closer to one another, feet dragging against the beaten and condensed soil, upon which debris had been crushed and stacked by the stampeding of the undead ranks, at this very instant, grass and pale flowers already growing from the ravaged lands.

Slowly, but surely, they would get into range of their blades, the living aimed to be the faster one, he closed his eyes, not that they served much purpose at all in the first place, stabilising his breathing, rehearsing his plan.

’He’s not a gravelord… If I can just sever his arms, no, just his sword arm, I can win… I can…’ Ohrn senses slowed down, his perception extending to beyond the limits as he poured everything, from the very top of his head to the end of his toes, hoping for the sensation of bone being slashed apart to reach him.

His blade was diverted from its course, like the living targeted the arms, the undead targeted the blade itself, striking it aside, keeping control of its movements whilst positioning his own blade, Ourlon’s pale blade was driven right through Ohrn’s stomach, off to the right, without waiting, he ran it through grinding against the spine, ripping his sword when it reached the left side, effectively gutting the elder.

The last elite of Lady Syklon was sent spinning around when the blade was taken out, falling to his knees, still clutching his sword tightly.

A guttural cough plagued by blood escaped his lips, flowing upon his wrinkled face and white beard, a weary sigh following soon after, the undead cleaning the blood off his sword with a simple swing.

’Mmh, the spine wasn’t damaged enough’ Ourlon approached the kneeling elder, raising his chipped weapon high above his head, although the minor lord had dealt severe damage, the edge always against the crucially important bone, but the old man was tougher than he appeared, having focused his defensive arts upon this very area the second he felt the attack.

Cleaving the air, the skeleton’s jaw opened, his way of expressing a smile as the neck was not cut, blades clashed once more, one hand upon the hilt, one hand pushing against the back of the blade with its palm, still, Ohrn felt weakened and soon enough, another strike came, nearly bringing to the ground, managing to bring himself back on his own two feet, the elder felt wobbly, not yet defeated, he could not resolve himself to giving up.

After all, he was not yet dead, was he?

"Offer your blade, Ohrn"

"My blade belongs only to Lady Syklon, I won’t kneel to any other lord"

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"And what if she bent her knee to King Nitok?"

"Then so be it, I will follow her anywhere, without question"

"Very well then, prepare yourself, I am certain that you will find oblivion- Death, to be a most captivating muse" Ourlon moved, Ohrn readying himself to fight again, and he once again managed to bring his blade in the way, only barely, not enough to prevent an injury, and thus, his imminent passing.

He waited for it, but all that happened was the minor lord being flung back, the pommel of a large, heavy blade striking against his skull unexpectedly, followed by a hail of sparks turning into spikes.

Rubbing his bony fingers against the side of his head, finding only a subtle crack that was already mending itself, he stared ahead at the two figures that definitely just popped into existence.

The little commandant’s decision had been a most prodigious one.

Flanking the elder, the elites slayed by Loimos appeared, their fighting spirit at least, manifesting by the side of their last living member.

"Well… That is not very honourable, now is it?" cackled the undead.

"A warrior knows the difference between honour and victory" the elder swiped the blood around his mouth, ignoring his injuries as he stood at his full height, keeping the mortal injury shut by sheer force of will.

"Well said, well said! Those translucent warriors… To think that even those personally slayed by General Loimos could be manifested… Show me what you’ve got!"