Chapter Twenty-Six
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The ground trembled beneath Cox's feet. Every step he took left a deep imprint in the soil, as though the earth itself wished to flee from him.
His eyes widened, and his broad grin nearly split his face.
"Hahahahaha!"
His shout blended with laughter, like a man reunited with a long-lost lover.
He lunged.
He charged madly toward Karsu, a massive crescent-bladed halberd in hand, nearly half his height.
Each step detonated the floor beneath him, leaving small craters like the aftermath of shells.
He raised the halberd high, drawing it back, widening the distance between his arm and body like a bow pulled taut before releasing an arrow.
He seemed ready to unleash an attack that could shatter the earth itself.
Karsu did not move.
He stood atop the tree trunk, still, watching. His cold eyes followed every detail: the angle of the halberd, the speed of the steps, the tilt of the shoulder, the tension in the muscles.
Then—Cox leapt.
With all his might, he brought the halberd down toward Karsu and the tree beneath him.
The air itself seemed to crack around the blade, as though protesting the blow.
Karsu jumped at the last moment.
The halberd split the tree in half.
Wood exploded in every direction, branches snapping like matchsticks.
Karsu landed smoothly on the ground, his eyes never leaving his opponent.
But Cox did not wait.
Through the cloud of dust and flying debris, Karsu saw his eyes—those eyes that had gleamed with amusement moments ago were now sharper, more focused.
Their gazes met.
Cox raised both hands and slammed them into the ground.
Dust and dirt burst outward like a wave, clearing an open space between them. Then—he charged.
Karsu drew his sword. He wrapped it in aura, feeling the energy flow from within him into the blade, as though the sword had become part of him.
They clashed.
The halberd and sword collided, releasing a shockwave that nearly deafened the air.
Dust scattered, and dry leaves rose into the sky like a swarm of frightened butterflies.
Both stepped back.
Then—attacked again.
Explosion.
Another.
Another.
Each strike stronger than the last. Cox's halberd fell like lightning, while Karsu's blade danced like a serpent.
Despite the overwhelming force of Cox's attacks, he could not break through Karsu's defense.
And despite the precision and flexibility of Karsu's sword, he could not wound Cox even once.
Both stood at the peak of offense and defense.
Both tested the other, measured him, searched for weakness.
Until the pattern emerged.
Karsu saw it first: Cox's seemingly wild attacks were not random.
They were focusing more and more on one point—the center of his blade.
He wants to break my sword.
Karsu smiled faintly.
What Cox did not know was that this sword was no ordinary one.
It was enveloped in Karsu's own aura, fused with it like blood with flesh. Breaking it was nearly impossible.
But Cox did not know. He kept striking, each blow roaring like thunder—and Karsu's blade did not budge.
Cox suddenly stopped. He leapt back, breathing heavily, but his eyes burned.
"Wait… what is this magnificent sword you have?!"
His laughter returned, louder than before.
"How does it withstand all these strikes without breaking? It seems their reports weren't wrong.
This sword doesn't just carry power… it carries durability too!"
He wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his hand.
"Haha! This is getting even more fun! What luck! I'll have a legendary weapon after I kill you! Hahahaha!"
Karsu had not moved a single step since the clash began.
He stood still, sword in hand, looking at Cox with eyes that reflected nothing.
He exhaled calmly.
Then—Cox's voice rose. Loud.
Thunderous. As though the forest itself trembled.
"I'll show you… what a true Qaz Lord looks like!"
The ground beneath him exploded.
Dozens—no, hundreds—of jagged stone spikes erupted from every direction.
Sharp as blades, pointed like spears, rushing toward Karsu like a torrent of death.
Karsu moved his hands.
Dozens of metallic threads shot from his fingers, wrapped in aura, spinning around him like a storm.
The threads sliced every spike they touched in half, and shattered stone scattered like dust.
But Cox smiled.
Because the spikes were not the true attack.
The ground beneath Karsu trembled violently. A massive spike—larger, sharper, more powerful than all before—erupted from beneath his feet, aimed straight for his heart.
But Karsu did not move.
He did not jump. He did not retreat. He did not block.
He simply—stood.
His feet settled upon the spike at two precise points. A specific angle. Weight distributed perfectly.
The spike stopped. It did not pierce him.
Cox froze.
His eyes widened. His grin stiffened.
What is this nonsense?
He is standing on the sharpest spike in my arsenal. The spike that split stone, pierced armor, killed dozens.
And this man—this wounded, poisoned, exhausted man—is standing on it as if it were solid ground.
No wound. No scratch. Not even his clothes were torn.
How?!
Cox did not understand. Everyone who faced this attack either jumped or blocked. Those who jumped were struck.
Those who blocked were drained. It never occurred to him that someone would simply stand still.
But this man—stood.
Did nothing.
Just stood.
Cox's blood boiled. Not in anger—but excitement. A thrill he had not felt in years.
"Hahahaha!"
His laughter returned, louder, crazed.
"Come! Entertain me more!"
He raised his right hand—and smoothly shifted the halberd into his left.
Then—the walls emerged.
Dozens of stone walls, identical in size and height, rose from his palm as though growing from it.
They stacked upon each other in layers, advancing toward Karsu like a moving barrier.
A simple attack, Cox thought. Will he cut it? Or evade?
Either way… I'll exploit it.
He knew such an attack was trivial for someone at the level of a Lord of Threads.
Perhaps he would underestimate it. Perhaps he would think it ordinary.
Then—the moment he touched the wall, it would transform into a giant stone arm.
It would wrap around him, crush him, immobilize him. Then—the finishing blow.
A perfect plan.
But Karsu read it from the very beginning.
He smiled slightly.
Then—he ran.
Not toward the wall. Not away from it.
He ran alongside it, in an arc, maintaining a safe distance, evading the attack before it even began.
Cox watched for a moment.
Did he notice? Or is he too exhausted to fight? Or… afraid?
He shouted with laughter:
"Haha! Coward! Trying to run?!"
But deep down, he knew. Karsu does not flee. Karsu does not fear. Karsu… plans.
Karsu continued running in the arc. Cox turned to face him, preparing another attack.
Then—he felt it.
A strange movement beneath the ground.
A thread.
He had not seen Karsu release it. Had not felt it as it slipped beneath the soil. It had been there before the arc began.
Before the walls. It had been waiting, beneath the floor, since the start of the battle.
The thread emerged.
Sharp. Wrapped in aura. Heading straight for Cox's neck.
The final moment.
Cox did not hesitate. His left arm rose instantly, shielding his face and neck.
At the same moment, he reinforced it with stone, turning it into a shield.
But the thread—was faster.
It sliced through his arm at the shoulder, cutting through flesh and muscle, reaching his neck.
Blood burst forth—a deep, long wound from shoulder to mid-neck.
Cox stepped back, his right hand still gripping the halberd.
Karsu did not waste the chance. He lunged forward, his sword wrapped in aura, aimed at the exposed neck.
But Cox—was not there.
He did not retreat. Did not flee.
He lifted his left leg and kicked Karsu with tremendous force before the blade could reach him.
The impact sent Karsu flying several meters before he regained balance and landed.
Cox stood still.
Blood flowed from his neck, soaking his black clothing, dripping onto the ground.
His left arm—the one torn by the thread—hung limp. But he did not care.
He raised his right hand to his neck and sealed the wound with reinforced stone.
The bleeding stopped instantly.
He looked at Karsu.
His eyes—those laughing, mocking, burning eyes—had changed.
Deeper. Colder. Sharper.
He smiled.
But this time… it was different.
"I'll get serious now."
He raised the halberd in his right hand. His muscles tensed, veins rising along his neck.
"Prepare yourself."
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Hm… a foolish move.
Karsu did not move. His eyes were fixed on Cox's left arm—the one the thread had torn moments ago.
It hung motionless, encased in reinforced stone, like part of a statue rather than a living limb.
I know the endurance of Rock Qaz Lords better than you do.
Are you trying to make me believe your arm is useless?
Fool.
Then—
A strike.
Not an ordinary one. It was so violent that the floor beneath Cox shattered, forming a massive crater that widened like a hungry maw.
Cox launched from it, soaring dozens of meters into the air, his crescent halberd raised above his head like a gallows.
Karsu did not move.
He simply raised his head, following the massive figure that now looked small against the clouded sky.
"Have you ever heard of stones harder than metal?"
Cox's voice came from above, clear and sharp, as though whispered into Karsu's ear.
"Perhaps not. Let me broaden your understanding…"
The air around him began to tremble. A sharp screech echoed from all directions, as though the sky itself were in pain.
The dust around him gathered, compressed, layered over his body, over his halberd.
"And introduce you to… obsidian!"
Everything changed.
Cox's beard, hair—even his exposed skin—was covered in a glossy black layer.
And the halberd in his hand turned dark, swallowing light before reflecting it.
Karsu recognized it.
A Rock Qaz Lord like him. He knew the power of obsidian better than Cox himself.
Stone forged under immense pressure, freezing cold, and time beyond imagination. Harder than steel, tougher than diamond.
And the man above—was turning his entire body into it.
I must stop him before he completes this attack.
He did not hesitate.
He drove his sword into the ground with his right hand. Adjusted his stance.
Then—he pulled both arms back, spreading them apart like drawing an invisible bow.
His palms opened, then his fingers curled as though grasping something unseen.
Cox saw it from above.
"Ha! That…!"
His smile returned—but different. Surprise. Excitement. A trace of delighted fear.
"Is that the Flower technique they spoke of? Haha! I heard it's dangerous!"
He halted his descent for a moment—then shifted direction.
He was not foolish. His attack was powerful, but he knew the Flower technique—as described in reports—was wide, devastating, draining.
If the two attacks collided, he might win, but the cost would be high. And his pride—his image—would suffer if he emerged exhausted.
I'll stop him. Then strike again.
But Karsu knew.
He knew Cox knew the Flower technique. Knew he would try to interrupt it before completion.
He knew… Cox did not know everything.
This is not the Flower.
The hands crossed.
Right toward left. Left toward right. Fingers interlocked, palms pressed, arms folding into a shape Cox had never seen.
A shape like interwoven flesh. Like scissors—an instrument that cuts cloth, bone, anything in its path.
From between Karsu's fingers—the threads burst forth.
Not one. Not dozens. Hundreds. Each thread thin as hair, yet twisted, interwoven, unified. As their number grew, so did their thickness.
As their thickness grew, so did their power.
All of it—wrapped in aura.
Dozens of threads became ropes.
Dozens of ropes became pillars.
Dozens of pillars became—scissors.
Cox stopped.
He did not attack. Did not retreat. He hovered in the air, suspended between and flight, raising both arms.
He abandoned surprise. Abandoned deception. Now—he needed everything.
Two pillars.
Not like before. Not sharp—but massive, cylindrical, layered with obsidian. Dozens of times larger than Cox himself—and he was a giant already.
Like the pillars of an ancient temple, descending from the sky to crush everything below.
They fell toward Karsu.
But the scissors were faster.
They met midair.
Black obsidian—the hardest creation of a Rock Qaz Lord—collided with silver threads wrapped in aura.
And—
Shattered.
Cox watched his pillars turn to dust before reaching the ground. As though they had never existed. As though they were butter beneath a heated blade.
His eyes widened.
"What is this nonsense?!"
He could not hide the shock in his voice.
"The report didn't mention an attack like this! This isn't the Flower technique! This—"
He stopped.
The scissors were heading toward him now.
His voice rose:
"He tricked me!"
Cox was still in the air. His pillars gone as if they had never been. Nothing held him but gravity, now reminding him he was no bird.
The scissors closed in—fast. With a sharp whistle tearing through the air.
Cox was in a position no one would envy.
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