Chapter 284 (1/2)

Drak tried to quell the rising tide of blood that turned his vision red as he walked swiftly toward his opponent.

Unpredictable, adaptable, versatile… Drak had been ready for all of these things from his opponent. The other man was taller than he was, with black hair hanging around his face, framing his bright emerald eyes. Although he was passable with a spear, he was not at the level that Drak had really taken the fight seriously.

But this… destroying his image in the sky…Drak still didn’t understand how the Ghosthound had accomplished this. But he did understand how it would look to the crowd. Undoubtedly, his ancestors were rolling over in their graves, embarrassed enough to kill themselves all over again.

Drak refused to lose to this untrained fool. It was only that mediocre level of spear skill that had led Drak to strike the Ghosthound earlier, aiming to maim his right arm, rather than taking his opponent out of the fight.

Now he had a hot, acrid regret in his chest, the desire to hurt his opponent, rather than simply disabling his arm. What was more frustrating was that it appeared the Ghosthound had somehow healed his arm to some degree in the last several minutes of fight, which was absolutely ridiculous.

Time after time, this worm insisted on humiliating him…

As Drak strode closer, he examined his opponent closely. Everything the other man did spoke of a powerful devotion to spells, which was concerning. There was also something… strange about the opponent now. A difference in bearing. But his spear was inexplicably gone, which Drak wanted to be happy about, but just made him deeply suspicious.

After all, the Ghosthound had produced it so quickly, earlier in the fight…

Drak arrived, and lashed out. The Ghosthound hopped backwards, not using that strange, instantaneous skill, but moving the old fashioned way. Narrowing his eyes, Drak struck again, upping his speed.

Leaning back, the Ghosthound managed to move just beyond the range of the spear.

Growling, Drak advanced, then twisted, as the Ghosthound appeared to predict his move and rushed forward, aiming a punch for Drak’s gut.

With a powerful effort of will, Drak relaxed his gut, and smashed the butt of the spear outwards, completely willing to trade blows. Although his ancestor’s blood would curdle in their veins, what Drak needed was to wound his opponent, build momentum in his favor. Pleasing the crowd would have to wait.

But again, the Ghosthound surprised him, activating that strange Phantom move, and using the force of Drak’s blow to throw himself across the arena, but not before moving his hand from a fist to sticking a finger deep into Drak’s wound on his side, where those god forsaken roots had pierced him.

Growling again, Drak rushed towards his opponent, the light from his skill growing brighter, increasing his speed and strength. Time to crush him, then.

Drak considered activating another skill, but until he figured out how the Ghosthound had destroyed the first image he had floating above the arena, he would be cautious. This skill was his bread and butter. It simply increased his speed, coordination, and strength, all the while blinding the opponent with its light, but Drak’s high level in other skills combined with it very well, making it nigh unstoppable.

This time, when Drak attacked, it wasn’t a move aiming to gauge his opponent; it was time to finish it. To his chagrin, the Ghosthound appeared to have gathered the broken pieces of his earlier spear, holding one 1 meter piece in each hand.

Drak’s lip curled up at the same time that strange, violent mental pain struck. But of course, he was prepared, pressing through it. His spear blade disappeared, and he could tell by the Ghosthound’s lack of reaction that he couldn’t follow the movement. The speed boost, and the bright light, made it-

The Ghosthound, mirroring Drak’s own earlier move, reached out with a hand and wrapped it around the shaft of the spear, catching it.

Pupils dilating, Drak put all of his strength into throwing his opponent, but the Ghosthound had already let go. The strength with which he swung had Drak somewhat off balance, and the Ghosthound moved closer.

Hot, bloody, crimson, fury.

Waves of powerful heat exploded outwards, as the Breaking Dawn Style once more reasserted itself, as the most powerful Style. It had ruled this land, cleaned it and protected the people here, until the other 4 Styles had banded together to oust it out of fear. But even then, it did not falter. Drak refused to lose-