Before taking part in the war, Blood's heart was first assailed by the horror of slaying his fellow humans. Killing beasts had felt wholly different; when it came to humans, the gulf was on the other side. It became tangled and a host of thoughts enveloped him, yet he had to wrestle with his conscience as he moved against it.
What finally steeled him and scattered his wavering resolve were the successive slayings of the Sand-Scale forces. A sudden flame ignited within him, and he found himself wondering, almost without meaning to, of how he had been so blind. Joining the war earlier might've spared his brethren instead of wasting time on idle doubts.
From beginning to end he had not once considered his life that hung in the balance. The battlefield was savage and cruel. It was a grim passage to fortune and fate.
The instant that thought flickered through his mind, his eyes glowered mercilessly and a surge of wrath and malice clouded his thoughts. He could think of nothing but the urge to fight; a deep hatred burned in his gaze which was plain for anyone to read.
Unwittingly, his movement art unfurled and he plunged into the fray. He saw at once that the battlefield's air differed from the world beyond. His skill surged to its limit and a razor trail of blood cleaved a straight path.
His movements were swift, and his enemies didn't even know who had struck them as bodies fell rapidly to the ground.
Blood saw, with startling clarity, dark net‑like chains shoot from his body toward the fallen. Without warning, they seized a pale, white substance from each corpse and tore it free, then drew the fragments together as they converged on him.
He moved to drive his trident through them, but he perceived no malice in their motion and let them pass. But he was stunned the next instant when they engulfed him, slipping into his Spiritual space, and settled there with calm, encircling the octagonal prism.
Strangely, the moment they settled, his abrasive mind cleared at once and he quickly regained his composure. He didn't dwell on the occurrence, as something like it had happened before, though only a vague memory remained.
Evasive Step...
Blood moved with the lethal movement art, skirting the chaos and striking only those he could fell in a single blow. He left the stronger foes for others; there were simply too many enemies to waste time on them.
The continuous ring of Exp pulsed around him, energizing and sharpening his focus. His plan was unfolding cleanly with each kill feeding the next, until a thunderous bellow split the air and halted the tide.
The shout rolled across the field like a breaking wall, forcing him to pause mid‑arc. The horses surrounding him reared, and his momentum wavered. He then tightened his grip and readied himself for whatever had answered the call.
"Out of the way..." an echo shook the surroundings as its owner moved, and with every thrust of their weapon the enemies were grievously wounded or slain outright.
Ballock moved like a shadow through the fray, holding the sword he had found in the spatial pouch Blood had gifted him. The blade had once belonged to the man he had met in the Sand‑Scale Forest's Dark Zone, and now it answered his hand as if remembering its old master. The foes around him were mostly in the Iron Realm, while some fighters are below the fifth stage of the Bronze Realm.
A figure in silver armor stepped forward and barred his way, a sword hanging at his waist. Ballock's gaze locked on the man; from the faint radiation of energy, he read the truth of the man's power—the enemy's cultivation base was two stages above his own. He tightened his grip and took a stance, letting the blade hum in readiness.
Without overthinking, Ballock lunged and swung his blade at the opponent, who wore a ridiculing smirk. The man didn't budge and met the strike with a measured parry and twisted to the side.
The parry carried Ballock forward, and in the follow‑through, the enemy drove a counterstroke that opened a deep cut across Ballock's back, tearing through his thin garments as if they were paper.
Ballock staggered, as taste of iron flooded his mouth, while the silver‑armored man held his ground with a cold expression.
Ouuh..
Ballock groaned, his eyes riming red. He had watched his friend fell foes one after another and had thought the war looked simple. He told himself he would do more than standing in a comfort zone, and so he acted.
At first, he cut down weaker men, but then he met an opponent at the third stage of the Bronze Realm and realized he had miscalculated; the strike that opened his back proved how costly that error was.
Nevertheless, that wouldn't stop him. The stroke that should've left him grievously weakened healed at an uncanny speed. It didn't take ten seconds before the wound had sealed and he stood upright, fixing his gaze on the culprit.
The enemy, who had expected a broken man, found himself bewildered; the sight defied reason and everything he had ever known.
"What the hell! How come you can heal so fast." He roared in anger, obviously befuddled by what he had seen as his face became dark.
Ballock's eyes were suddenly covered in red mist, the usual crimson hues radiated from his body as if a storm had risen behind his gaze. He drifted into an absentminded haze, completely unaware of himself, not until blood‑like veins crawled from both palms and his grip on the sword tightened until the hilt cracked.
From those living veins a pair of segmented stalks uncoiled, writhing and slithering through the air like twin serpents, before they shot straight at the stage‑three fighter.
The stalks struck with uncanny speed.
They had been impossibly swift, appearing above and below him in the blink of an eye. The opponent's ridiculing smile curdled into panic as he slashed wildly at the blood‑like stalks and tried to sidestep... but he was too slow.
The writhing stalks coiled and tightened, biting through flesh until his limbs were bound; when their grip became firm, they yanked him off balance toward Ballock.
Ballock, moved by an unfamiliar, brutal promptness, brought his blade down in a single, merciless arc and cleaved the man in two.
The fallen fighter had been utterly defenseless against the stalks of blood vein; his end came swift and grotesque.
Ballock's eyes cleared, yet the red hues didn't fade, and the blood‑like veins remained visible. He had regained full control of his body. It felt as if the earlier scene had been a lesson of how to wield his power; with a flicker of recognition the veins crawled over him, while only the two stalks remained free.
Those twin stalks lashed like flexible whips from one foe to the next. Sometimes constricting, sometimes piercing, and other times flinging opponents through the air. A few who engaged, managed to sever a stalk cleanly, but each cut was met by a new stalk that sprouted harder and colder than the last.
Groups of Bronze Realm fighters below the fifth stage surged forward in ragged formations. A tide of blades followed, aimed to overwhelm him.
Ballock felt the pressure tightening around him and for a moment thought whether he could hold the line alone; if he couldn't, he would call for help and fall back to regroup.
Unbeknownst to him, another presence had already turned their gaze his way—it was a silent decision lend a hand when the moment came.