The Dark Jian came down with frightening speed, a thunderous crash of metal and ether that split the air with a howl. The blade's descent was a force of nature, a guillotine of shadow and power that seemed to warp the very atmosphere around it. Belial barely sidestepped, his instincts screaming as he summoned a burst of ether from the soles of his feet. The energy propelled him upward, vaulting him into the sky in a desperate arc. Behind him, the Jian bit into the earth with a deafening crunch, leaving a jagged crater in the stone. Dust and debris exploded outward, and the wind screamed past his ears, sharp and cold, as if mourning the near miss.
Bloodhound, his trusted blade, Conducted his ether, its edge slicing through the air with a low, eager whistle. The weapon felt alive, almost impatient, as if it sensed the stakes of the moment. Belial's heart pounded, a drumbeat of adrenaline and dread. His mind teetering on the edge of recklessness.
This should be as good a time as any… I've gotten better, right?
He wasn't sure if it was confidence or desperation talking. Either way, there was no turning back now. His master's words resurfaced, unbidden, like a ghost whispering at his shoulder. A memory from years ago, when he was still a student, still learning the weight of the blade and the cost of power.
The technique his master had shown him—Death Dance: Bloodless Passage—was a battle art, a sequence of movements so precise, so devastating, that it was as much a ritual as a technique.
His master had performed it only once, a blur of motion too fast for Belial's young eyes to fully track. It was a dance meant for death, each step a stroke of annihilation, each gesture a brushstroke in a painting of slaughter. But the warning that followed had been seared into his memory, as clear now as it was then:
"Never perform it in full. Not yet. Not until your body and soul can endure it. Not until you understand ether."
Ether. The lifeblood of the world, the invisible force that flowed through every living thing, through every blade, through every Ability. Belial had spent years practicing Swordsmanship, not being able to use ether to the point of almost forgetting it.
His master had no Hax, therefore teaching him how to use ether without using his Hax had proven difficult.
That was a thought for another time. And now, facing an opponent like the general—a towering figure of black armor and merciless intent—there was no time for restraint.
No time to second-guess.
Death Dance: Bloodless Passage.
Midair, Belial's body shifted with practiced grace into the middle stance. His core tightened, his limbs loosened, and his vision narrowed to a pinpoint, the world fading to a tunnel of focus. Bloodhound gleamed in his grip, its edge catching the faint light as he drove it forward in a series of rapid, flowing stabs. The movements were fluid, almost liquid, each strike a note in a deadly symphony.
Brain
Throat.
Shoulder.
Heart.
Lung.
Stomach.
Liver.
Six strikes, each one landing with surgical precision. The rhythm was perfect, the form flawless. He could feel the air parting before his blade, the ether in his veins humming in time with his heartbeat. For a fleeting moment, he believed he had done it—executed the technique his master had forbidden him to attempt.
But every blow bounced off with a dull, disappointing clang. The general's armor didn't even dent. The strikes, though swift and true, were hollow, lacking the weight of true power. Belial's heart sank as he realized his mistake.
He had performed the motions, but not the essence. He hadn't fused his ether into the form, hadn't tapped into the synergy that gave the Death Dance its lethal edge. The technique was empty—an imitation without fire, a shadow of what it could have been.
His lungs burned. His heart pounded in his ears, each beat a reminder of his failure. Worse still, his body was beginning to betray him. The strain of the Death Dance, even in its incomplete form, was too much for his unready frame. His limbs twitched involuntarily, a sharp pain lancing through his spine like a blade of ice. He hit the ground hard, his knees buckling beneath him.
He didn't get up.
His muscles seized, spasming as if caught in a vice. He tried to move, to will even a single finger to obey, but his body felt like wet stone, heavy and unresponsive. His eyes still worked—he could see the cratered ground, the dust settling around him—but the rest of him was disconnected, as if his nerves had been severed from his will.
Ahh so this is the consequence..., he realized, bitterness flooding his mind. Before I fully understood ether… before I grasped how the Death Dance really works… I just mimicked it. Empty forms. Nothing more.
He gritted his teeth, frustration warring with pain.
The general had already reclaimed his massive Jian, pulling it from the stone with a slow, deliberate motion that spoke of unshakable confidence. The blade shimmered with reflective glow, a dark, oily energy that seemed to drink in the light around it. The general dropped into a low stance, the edge of the greatsword poised to deliver a killing blow.
Belial's brain screamed move, but his body lagged behind, sluggish, as if every nerve had to swim upstream to send a signal. His vision blurred, sweat and blood stinging his eyes. He couldn't afford to wait for his body to catch up. If muscle wouldn't obey, then he would rely on something else.
Etherial will.
It seemed ether responded to something other than the mind.
A pulse erupted from his chest, raw and primal. In a blink, he unleashed his demonic form.
Two curved horns burst from his head, sharper and longer than before, gleaming like polished obsidian. His skin hardened, darkened, transforming into a patchwork of coarse, leathery texture across his shoulders and neck. It wasn't the plated hide of the dragonborn—this was something more organic, resilient, like the hide of a black serpent stretched taut over bone. A whip-like tail lashed into existence behind him, balancing his weight, ready to strike or propel him forward. Then, with a heavy snap that sent a gust of wind howling through the battlefield, two leathery, bat-like wings unfurled from his back. The force of their emergence knocked debris aside, scattering pebbles and dust in a chaotic swirl.
His left arm twitched, finally responding to his will. With a desperate surge of effort, he raised Bloodhound in a shaky guard, the blade trembling in his grip. The general, unperturbed, brought the Jian down with merciless precision.
Steel met steel.
The impact was cataclysmic. The force flung Belial backward like a ragdoll, his body tumbling through the air. He crashed into a stone wall with a sickening crack, the sound of bone breaking echoing in his ears. Pain exploded down his entire right side, sharp and unrelenting. His arm hung limp, shattered, the bone piercing through torn muscle and glistening white in the dim light. Blood trickled down, pooling beneath him.
Breathing was agony. Thinking was worse. The ether in his veins sparked fitfully, like a fire struggling to reignite in a broken furnace. His wings twitched, one of them bent at an unnatural angle, useless. His tail lay still, its strength sapped. The transformation had bought him a moment, but it hadn't been enough.
The general began to walk forward, each step a thunderous declaration of inevitability. There was no rush in his movements, only the cold certainty of a predator closing in on wounded prey. The Jian dragged behind him, carving a shallow groove in the stone as he advanced.
Belial rolled onto his side, dragging himself forward with his unbroken arm. His clawed fingers dug into the dirt, each movement a battle against the pain that threatened to consume him. Every breath felt like inhaling shards of glass. He reached for Bloodhound, its familiar weight a small comfort in the face of oblivion. He wasn't sure if he could even lift it now, but he had to try.
His vision blurred further, a mix of sweat, blood, and something else—tears, perhaps, though he didn't have the strength to acknowledge them. He blinked, trying to clear his eyes, but the world remained a haze of pain and shadow.
He looked up.
The general loomed over him, massive, black, eternal—a living statue of death carved from nightmare. The Jian gleamed faintly, its edge still pulsing with corrupt ether, ready to deliver the final stroke.
Belial's trembling hands tightened around Bloodhound's hilt. With a monumental effort, he raised the blade, its tip wavering in the air. It was a futile gesture, more symbolic than practical, a final act of defiance in the face of certain defeat.
Ah...I'm done for... he thought, the words heavy with resignation.
But still—he faced him.