The world seemed to hold its breath as the two blades collided. The Prince's Refined Iron-Wrought Blade, a weapon that had likely tasted the blood of high-tier warriors and been celebrated in the royal court, met the Pitch-Black Dagger in a scream of dying metal.
There was no struggle. No agonizing push-and-pull of strength. To Kaelen's shock, the "Perfect" tier dagger didn't just block the blow—it ignored the very existence of the iron-wrought steel. With a sound like silk tearing, the black blade sheared through the thick, rune-etched sword as if it were nothing more than a brittle twig.
The top half of the Prince's gift spun into the air, whistling as it vanished into the dark mists of the cliffside.
The momentum of Grok's overhead swing carried him forward, but he no longer had a blade to meet the ground. Instead, the Pitch-Black Dagger continued its upward arc, the tip catching Grok across the chest. Even through the blackened iron breastplate, the dagger bit deep. It didn't just cut the metal; it unraveled the essence holding the armor together. A spray of crimson erupted across the path, and Grok was thrown back, his boots skidding through the gravel until he slammed against a jagged rock.
Grok gasped, his hand clutching a wound that should have been impossible. He looked at the broken hilt in his hand, then at the deep, steaming gash in his chest. The 3rd-stage skin tempering that usually made him feel invincible was failing him; the "Soul-Sever" property of the dagger was preventing his essence from knitting the wound back together.
"A... dagger?" Grok wheezed, a bloody grin stretching across his face, driven by a mix of shock and a sudden, predatory greed. He spat a glob of blood onto the stones. "The little rat found a treasure of a High grade. Look at it... it doesn't even have a scratch. It didn't just break a Prince's gift; it ate the essence right out of the air."
Grok struggled to his feet, his breath rattling in his lungs. Despite the heavy injury, the greed in his eyes was a burning fire. He didn't see Kaelen as a threat; he saw him as a delivery boy for a weapon that could change his life.
"That's a Perfect-tier essence forged weapon, isn't it?" Grok laughed, his voice ragged. "You're using a god's tool to fight a dog. You don't even know how to hold it properly! Give it to me, Kaelen. Give me that blade, and I'll let you run. I'll tell them the bandits got me. With that dagger, I could be a General. I could be a King!"
"You'll be a corpse," Kaelen said, his voice cold.
The Primordial Eclipse technique was roaring in Kaelen's ears now. The silver aura around him didn't just glow; it began to swirl, a miniature vortex of power that made his 1st-stage body feel like a compressed spring. He could feel the dagger humming in his hand, a dark, hungry vibration that seemed to approve of his intent.
Grok roared, discarding the broken hilt. He didn't need a sword. He was a 3rd-stage master; his hands were weapons in their own right. He lunged, his fingers hooked like talons, aiming to tear the dagger from Kaelen's grip through sheer, brute force.
The battle turned into a dance of shadows and thunder. Grok was a wounded beast, but his 3rd-stage constitution meant his "Earth-like" resilience was still active. He ignored the blood soaking his tunic, swinging his massive fists with the weight of falling boulders. Every time his hand missed Kaelen and hit the cliffside, the stone shattered, sending shards of rock flying like shrapnel.
Kaelen moved with a grace he had never possessed. The Primordial Eclipse made the world feel slow. He could see the tension in Grok's shoulders before he struck, the slight shift in his weight. He didn't try to trade blows; he used the dagger like a surgical needle.
Flicker.
The black blade cut across Grok's bicep.
Flicker.
A shallow slice across the back of Grok's thigh.
With every cut, Grok's aura dimmed. The dagger wasn't just wounding his flesh; it was bleeding his Spirit Sea dry. The "Soul-Sever" property was systematically dismantling the overseer's ability to hold his cultivation together.
"Why... won't you... die!" Grok screamed, his movements becoming sluggish. The heavy heat of his aura was fading into a cold, trembling sweat. He realized, too late, that the boy wasn't just fighting him—the boy was harvesting him.
Kaelen saw the opening. Grok overextended on a massive, desperate haymaker. Kaelen didn't dodge away this time; he stepped into the strike, his silver aura flaring to its absolute limit to cushion the impact of Grok's forearm against his shoulder.
The force was immense. Kaelen felt his collarbone groan under the pressure, his 1st-stage skin tempering barely holding the bone together. But he was close enough now to smell the grease and fear on Grok's breath.
"This is for the boots," Kaelen whispered.
He drove the Pitch-Black Dagger into the gap in Grok's armor, right at the base of the throat.
The effect was instantaneous. The silver light from Kaelen's aura and the void-black essence of the dagger merged. Grok's eyes flew wide, the pupils dilating until they were nothing but black pools. He didn't scream. He couldn't. The dagger had severed the connection between his mind and his body.
The "Perfect" weapon began to pulse, a deep, rhythmic throb that vibrated through Kaelen's arm. He felt a surge of Grok's 3rd-stage essence being sucked through the blade and into his own Spirit Sea. It was a violent, raw infusion of power.
Grok's body stiffened, then went limp. The heavy, oppressive heat that had defined the overseer for years simply evaporated.
Kaelen pulled the dagger out. Grok collapsed into the dirt, his face frozen in a mask of realization—the realization that his "Dull Root" victim had been his executioner all along.
Kaelen stood over the body, his breath coming in ragged gasps. His Spirit Sea was churning, the stolen essence from Grok clashing with his own Primordial Eclipse energy. He felt a sharp, sudden heat in his chest—the sign of a forced breakthrough. He was no longer just at the 1st Stage. The battle and the "Soul-Sever" harvest had pushed him to the cusp of the 2nd.
He looked at the Pitch-Black Dagger. It was spotless, as if it had never touched blood.
He didn't feel triumph. He felt a cold, jagged clarity. He looked at the edge of the cliff and, with a final, disdainful kick, sent Master Grok's body into the dark abyss.
The silence returned to the Low Path. Kaelen cleaned his hands with a handful of dry grass, sheathed the dagger, and picked up the satchel of supplies. He had a story to tell at the palace gates—a story about bandits, a tragic accident, and a servant who was lucky to be alive.
As he walked back toward the towering walls of Aethelgard, the silver light in his eyes didn't fade. It hardened.