Chapter 33 - Entering the Cave (II)

Chapter 33 - Entering the Cave (II)

The surreal scene unfolded with an unsettling grace, a testament to the sword's unparalleled ability to nullify both physical and magical defenses.

The once skillful wielders of arcane weapons, now rendered defenseless—their instruments of magical warfare cleaved into two, crumpled to the ground in the aftermath of the sword's relentless, unstoppable advance towards them.

The air, thick with the acrid scent of brutal annihilative conflict, bore witness to the swift and ghastly demise of the armored soldiers, who thought their large, potent and heavily enchanted weapons and instruments were artifact of strength and invincibility—a reality rewritten by the ethereal might of the Supercharging Annihilator Sword.

Unbeknownst to Maxmillan, his every move was continuously scrutinized through the large, projected screen of a compact magical orb, manipulated by the watchful gaze of the Sky Bridges Lord and a sinister old man who stood by his side—the sage-like, battle-seasoned Astra Spellcraft Commander.

These orbs, like malevolent eyes, glowed with an unnatural radiance as they fixated on the marveling but horrifying spectacle unfolding on the battlefield.

...

Maxmillan, his figure illuminated by the silver-grey glitter of the Supercharging Annihilator Sword constantly bathed by the sun rays, wielded the large technological broadsword with a mastery that seemed almost instinctual. The blade, a fusion of artistry and cutting-edge technology, responded to his every command with a lethal precision. Each swing carrying an air of malevolent brutality and untamed destruction, as if the sword itself ravenously hungered for the chaos it sowed.

The adversaries surrounding him—shield-bearers, sword-users, hammer-swingers, and so on, stood in a confrontative formation. The clash of metal against metal echoed through the battlefield, a dissonant symphony of violence. Maxmillan's movements were a dance of wild chaos, the sword cutting through the air with a whoosh that sent tremors across the battleground.

The adversarially confrontative gathering, initially defiant and undaunted, found themselves succumbing to the relentless slashing and gashing onslaught wrought by Maxmillan. His strikes were a whirlwind of devastation—cutting, slicing and impaling with an artful brutality that left no room for escape. The air crackled with the near-silent echoes of effortlessly-sliced metal and the acrid tang of magical energies parting like hot knife through butter.

As the last armored foe fell, Maxmillan stood amidst the aftermath—a lone figure surrounded by the remnants of his adversaries. The Supercharging Annihilator Sword, gracefully basking in the eerie glow of a triumphant battle, gleamed ominously in his right hand.

The projected screen continued to display everything unraveling on the battlefield, while the old man who watched and captured the scenes, had insidious curiosity, as well as the flame of fury and rage burn fiercely within his heart. His horrifying and hazy, devil-like gaze locked onto Maxmillan with an intensity that transcended mere animosity.

In this harrowing moment, Maxmillan stood as a savage wargod, an imposing figure shrouded in the macabre aftermath of battle. His entire form was cloaked in blood, an unsettling tableau that told a tale of unbridled violence. Crimson liquid that spouted from the bodies of foes he devilishly cleaved into half, clung to him with an eerie intensity, turning his once-distinguishable features into a haunting visage.

The way the blood adorned him was akin to emerging from a pool of bright red, the liquid clinging to his every contour like a second skin. The intensity of the saturation mirrored the immersion of his very essence in the visceral essence of combat—where each droplet seemed to tell a story of the unbound demonical ferocity that he unrestrainedly unleashed upon his foes. Alternatively, his appearance could be likened to one who had weathered a relentless torrential rain of blood.

Drenched and dripping, the red cascade left an indelible crimson dye on his entire figure. The continuous bloody deluge, lasting for hours in its unyielding brutality, seemed to soak his entire figure to the core and caused him to emit strongly choking ferric smell that could follow him for weeks.

To any witness, he would evoke a primal fear, resembling more than a mere mortal. Covered in blood, he transcended humanity, seeming like a mass-slaughtering belligerent force that felt like he embodied both brutality and malevolence.

His aura radiated a chilling ferocity, the aftermath of his relentless pursuit of victory on the battlefield. The air hung heavy with the metallic scent of blood, a palpable reminder of the carnage he had wrought.

The battlefield, once a theater of chaos, now bore witness to a nightmarish tapestry. Heavy spills of blood stained the ground, creating a grotesque mosaic of crimson. The viscous fluid oozed and gushed from near-countless severed bodies, pooling in grotesque puddles that mirrored the brutality of Maxmillan's onslaught. Each drop seemed to echo with the final throes of the fallen, a haunting symphony that filled the air with an oppressive heaviness.

Yet, the horror extended beyond the mere pools of spilled blood. The ground was littered with bloodied innards, remnants of lives violently extinguished. The once-hidden intricacies of the human anatomy lay exposed, a macabre display that bespoke the ruthlessness of the brutal and vicious sharpness of the Supercharging Annihilator Sword. Intestines, organs, and numerous unidentifiable fragments from the devastated bodies of foes, painted a ghastly scene, invoking a sense of dread that transcended the physical realm.

Even for the Sky Bridges Lord and the old man, safely ensconced in the secret underground room they were in, the view through the screen projected from the magical crystal orb was an unsettling spectacle.

The gruesome aftermath unfolded before their eyes, casting a shadow over the pristine surfaces of their hidden chambers. The vividness of the scene reached through the magical lens, an unwelcome intrusion of horror that left an indelible mark on their consciousness.

The valley, once a picturesque expanse, now stood witness to a nightmarish tableau—a testament to the unrelenting power of the Supercharging Annihilator Sword and the carnage it had wrought. The air hung heavy with the metallic tang of blood, the stench of death pervading every corner of the battlefield. In the wake of Maxmillan's ferocious, blood-lusting dance, the valley had transformed into a realm of horror, a chilling reminder of the price paid for victory.

Surprisingly, amidst the gruesome aftermath, the Supercharging Annihilator Sword wielded by Maxmillan stood as an anomaly. The blade, a marvel of engineering and destruction, remained untouched by the pervasive crimson hue that coated the battlefield. It pierced, incised, and lacerated with both deadly and violent precision, yet its surface resisted the macabre stains that adorned the entire ground of the battlefield.