The blade hovered, a fraction of a millimeter from Rudra's throat. A thin line of crimson blood trickled down, but Rudra's eyes didn't blink. The Red Wolf's fury ignited, incinerating the air around him.
"How dare you..." Rudra's voice was a low, vibrating growl that shattered the nearby storefront windows. "How dare you put your weapon against a King's throat!"
Rudra didn't just move; he exploded. He released a shockwave of condensed Void energy, forcing No. 8 to retreat. The masked puppet landed gracefully on a crumbling spire, his black aura swirling like ink in water.
"Fight," No. 8 commanded, his voice devoid of humanity.
The clash began, and the very laws of physics warped around them. Their colliding auras created a gravitational field so dense it surpassed the pull of a Black Hole. The ground beneath them didn't just crack—it atomized, turning into dust under the absolute gravity of their power.
No. 8 raised his sword, and a beam of concentrated, blistering light erupted from the tip—a weaponized flare that burned with the intensity of the sun's core. Buildings in the path of the beam vanished, melted into slag instantly. Rudra gritted his teeth, thrusting his hands forward to weave a Void-Seal, barely managing to contain the solar heat before it consumed him and Isha.
"He's too fast," Rudra realized, his heart hammering. "His sword-play... it's not just skill; it's a lifetime of lethal perfection."
No. 8 fought with the cold, calculated efficiency of a master swordsman. Every strike was precise, aimed at ending the fight in a single motion. Rudra was being pushed back, his own defenses buckling under the relentless assault. Suddenly, No. 8 executed a Weight-of-the-World Technique—a strike so infused with pressure that Rudra's arms felt like they were holding up a mountain.
Rudra tried to raise his sword, Rukshi, but he couldn't even lift it an inch. He was pinned by the technique.
"Impossible," Rudra hissed, feeling his strength wane.
No. 8 switched his stance, his blade glowing with a brilliant, blinding light—a Light Sword that cut through the shadows of the void. Rudra roared, pouring every ounce of his remaining spirit into his own blade, forcing his muscles to move through the crushing weight.
The two blades collided.
SCREEECH!
The sound was not of metal on metal, but of reality tearing itself apart. The air around them began to shatter like a cracked mirror, the shockwaves slicing through nearby buildings as if they were made of paper. The wind turned into a vacuum, suffocating the area as the two powers locked in a stalemate of pure, violent intent.
The Impending Crisis:
Rudra is locked in a battle he cannot win with raw power alone, and his sword is being overwhelmed by N
o. 8's mastery.The clash of blades was a blur of lethal intent. No. 8 moved with the fluidity of water, his light-sword shifting into a searing blade of living fire. He danced around Rudra's strikes, anticipating every move before the King could even commit to it.
"He's reading me," Rudra realized, blood dripping from a shallow cut on his cheek. "Every technique I use, he knows its counter."
Inside his spirit, the Snow Wolf growled, its voice resonating in his marrow. "Master, use my power. Do not hold back!"
"Why did my eyes turn red when I faced him?" Rudra demanded, parrying a flaming arc that scorched his armor.
"I will tell you later! For now—survive!"
Rudra grit his teeth. "MṛgaPrāpti Vṛkaḥ Dama!"
His eyes ignited with that terrifying, blood-red intensity once more. No. 8 sneered, his movements accelerating. "Playing games with me, King?"
Rudra swung Rukshi with the force of a falling star. The blades connected, a symphony of sparks and shockwaves. But No. 8 was evolving. He shifted his sword from fire to piercing ice, countering Rudra's own elemental nature. Wherever Rudra stepped or flew, the ground shattered into frost, turning the city center into an arena of sub-zero death.
"Stop!" No. 8 commanded, his blade moving in a complex, blinding geometry.
Rudra's wolf spirit urged him to strike, but suddenly, he was paralyzed. No. 8 moved in a flash, his blade a silver needle stitching patterns of pain into Rudra's flesh. Slash after slash, the King's body was carved open. Blood pooled on the fractured pavement, but Rudra refused to fall.
No. 8 stood over him, radiating pure, suffocating dominance. "You are finished."
Rudra looked up, his red eyes blazing with a defiance that chilled even the puppet. "Number 8... you are powerful. You are smart. But you are a servant, and you lack the heart of a King."
Bhandasura, sensing the shift in the atmosphere, vanished into the shadows, abandoning his puppet.
Rudra stood tall, his blood-soaked clothes fluttering. He raised his sword to the sky, his voice dropping to a hollow, ancient chant. "Amtham Kamal Lone Soniyam."
The air behind Rudra turned into an abyss of absolute darkness. He swung Rukshi in a wide, desperate arc. The explosion that followed didn't just rattle the city—it shattered the obsidian dome. The barrier, once thought impenetrable, disintegrated into stardust.
Rudra landed heavily in the center of the Benz Circle, his blood dripping onto the ancient symbol etched into the stone. The moment his life-force touched the sigil, a shockwave of holy, purging light swept outward. Every demon within the city limits shrieked and dissolved into ash, fleeing the holy command.
Silence reclaimed the city.
No. 8 stumbled back, his porcelain mask cracking down the center from the sheer force of the ritual. As the mask fell away, the face revealed was not a monster's, but that of a stunningly beautiful woman.
Rudra stood frozen, his sword lowered, his breath ragged. "Wh
o... who are you?"