Chapter 285 (1/2)

The crowd jumped to its feet, roaring and cheering after the referee had made a count to 10, and then pronounced the Ghosthound the winner of the match.

The winner, for his part, stood still, staring solemnly down at his opponent, his eyes strange. Both arms were at his sides, unmoving. The right from the muscles being severed earlier in the match, and now barely recovered, and the left because his collarbone had been crushed by Drak Wyrd’s second to last strike.

Aethon Thai’s eyes narrowed. It was a deliberate gamble, betting that weakness would cause Drak to go for the kill, throwing a powerful, but slow blow. His first strike had been sharp and brutal, aiming to incapacitate, leaving the Ghosthound weak.

Seeing this, the Ghosthound might have been able to dodge in the strange, almost ideal series of movements he had possessed towards the end, but instead he let it hit. And after being frustrated time and time again, Drak let the strike get to his head. His next, foolish strike led to it being countered.

Plus, the Ghosthound couldn’t have countered the other strike. The earlier shoulder wound, and built up damage from the fight, combined with the ripped gash in his side from seconds earlier had him too physically incapable to counter most other blows. Any spear blows for that matter.

But the Ghosthound acted decisively, then moved. Although in most other things the Ghosthound was inferior, in terms of seizing opportunities… he was truly the superior fighter.

Then the arena rumbled, and Aethon’s eyes narrowed. With a single step, he crossed the distance to the Ghosthound, sweeping the boy up, before the projection descended. And descend it did, a burning, bristling sun.

“You… you are still alive…?” Aethon whispered, his eyes widening.

The arrival only looked to be in his early 40s, with short, close cropped hair and a charming smile. But the flash of teeth from that construct of images made Aethon’s blood run cold. “Obviously, Aethon. Who could kill me? Now, how about you hand over that boy who beat my worthless great grandson. Or else…”

“Without your true body here, we can stop you. You are not welcome here, not until-”

“We, Aethon…?” The projection of the Crimson Dawn, Aegiant Wyrd spread his arms wide, looking around. “Who is we? I don’t think there is anyone coming to help you.”

Aethon was silent, as he recognized that was true. The Sleeping Moon didn’t appear, and the Toppling Mountain Matriarch was out of Deardun, on business since three days ago. She took most of the elders with her...

Business, Aethon thought grimly.

“So.” Aegiant said, still sporting that smile. “Hand the boy over.”

Aethon looked down at Randidly Ghosthound, who was wincing from the jostling, but extremely solemn as he regarded the two fighters. Then Aethon turned to look at Aegiant.

A projection was an amalgamation of skills. The main body would lose access to those skills while they were gone, but the projection would contain a portion of them, based on how solid the image of the skills was. Creating a projection was the demarcation line between Adepts and Pontiffs. A skill so powerful it could exist independently of the body. With Aegiant’s history too, he might even be at the Master level, which wouldn’t matter, as long as his main body wasn’t here...

And based on how old Aegiant must have been… Aethon knew that this would be very close to his actual skill. But still, the body’s stats should be low.

Feeling abruptly very tired, Aethon sighed. He had long seen how politics were breaking down in Deardun, and had done nothing because he was confident that the Steel Feather Style would be one of the main powers, even with the return of the Breaking Dawn. Now he wasn’t so sure. Ciel would definitely grow strong after her loss, but Drak Wyrd and Azriel Blanche would likely grow faster.

If those two were bound together… Well, probably no chance of that now. But if Aegiant was in Deardun, with Drak to succeed him…

The Breaking Dawn Style could crush the Steel Feather Style. It would probably have happened too, if not for this boy.

Aethon held the Ghosthound’s gaze for several long seconds. Then he sighed, turning to face Aegiant.

“...No.”

And then Aethon fled as fast as his legs could carry himself and the boy.

*****

Lucretia watched, half filled with fear, half filled with dread, half fascinated, as the strange being summoned from the Ghosthound’s Soul Skill fought Gerroark Char to a standstill. Part of it was his weapons, which were unbelievably powerful, but the other part was ingenuity, and a deceptively strong body.