CLEAVER OF SIN-Chapter 105: Glee

A high-intensity shockwave ruptured the fabric of reality as two fists collided with cataclysmic force. Then, just as swiftly, the fists parted, only to meet again. And again. And again. Blow after blow rained down in a flurry of motion, their hands blurring backward and forward with enough power to erase entire mountain ranges.

Beneath their feet, the earth screamed. Ravines split and tore open, unable to withstand the pressure of their movement, each streak of motion so rapid it mocked the concept of teleportation itself.

Then came a blast, flesh against flesh, followed by an echo that shattered the air like a war cry. The wind howled in agony, ripped apart by the collision of these two titanic calamities.

Fist met fist.

Speed clashed with speed.

Strength collided with strength.

And raw, unfiltered intensity met its equal.

They didn’t pause to speak, there was no need. Each strike, each movement, carried the weight of unspoken words. Their fists were their voices, their blows the language of gods.

Dust rose like a harbinger of ruin, veiling the forest in a storm of silence and dread. The air thickened, pressure mounting with each passing second as both combatants pushed the limits of physicality, and reality.

With another thunderous impact, their elbows collided mid-motion, a jarring crack ringing through the storm. Neither flinched. Neither bled. It was as if damage had no place in a clash such as this.

Concussive wave detonated with every step, their feet gliding over the torn earth like phantoms. The ground quaked beneath them, trembling as though great behemoths were waging war upon its back.

Their martial prowess was staggering, flawless, terrifying. It was as if both had spent millennia preparing for this very moment... not just to fight, but to fight each other.

Orvak’s fist tore through the air like a cannonball, aiming for Malrik’s gut with the fury of a madman intent on ripping him apart. But Malrik’s palm rose with uncanny calm, redirecting the strike with a smooth deflection. In the same motion, his forefoot whipped upward in a vicious arc, aiming straight for Orvak’s temple.

Orvak responded instantly, one hand snapping up to catch Malrik’s ankle with terrifying ease. Then, with a casual twist of his torso, he hurled Malrik sideways with such force it looked as though he were tossing a twig, not a warrior.

Malrik’s body spun out of control for a heartbeat, the air around him screeching from the velocity. But then, he righted himself mid-flight, his instincts sharper than blades, his experience blazing like fire.

Twisting through the air with a grace that seemed almost divine, Malrik’s feet landed squarely on the thick trunk of a towering tree. He stood horizontal against the bark, perfectly balanced, parallel to the earth, defying gravity with practiced ease as though insulting the laws of physics.

But Orvak gave him no time.

The moment Malrik’s feet touched the wood, Orvak was already there, his colossal frame materializing in front of him, fist already crashing downward toward Malrik’s skull like a meteor falling from the heavens.

The smile on Malrik’s face stretched wider, a quiet thrill dancing in his eyes. Using the tree as a springboard, he launched himself sideways with instantaneous, almost incomprehensible speed. But he didn’t merely evade, he countered.

Mid-air, in that sliver of a moment, his fist rocketed forward and struck Orvak’s flank with pinpoint precision.

BOOM

Orvak’s descending blow annihilated the tree behind Malrik, reducing it to splinters and dust. But in the same breath, Malrik’s counter landed, a thunderous impact crashing into Orvak’s side.

The force roared through the Sinvaira’s body, a brutal reminder that even he did not stand above the physical laws of Crymora. Inertia surged through him, his body driven backward as trenches tore into the ground beneath his feet. Earth groaned and split in protest until, finally, Orvak ground to a halt.

His expression never contorted in pain; his body remained pristine, unmarred by the force of the strike, as though the attack had never landed. His smile lingered, showing no sign of disappearing, and his eyes glowed with a predatory gleam as he fixed his gaze on Malrik, like a beast eyeing its prey. But Malrik only returned the look with a feral grin of his own.

Then, like two deranged titans, they exploded off the ground, limbs coiling with power. Their legs collided mid-air with a resounding crash, sending shockwaves rippling through the terrain. What followed was a furious, almost absurd exchange of blows, each strike releasing gusts so violent that the very air recoiled, hurling debris and dust in every direction.

Malrik’s attacks came from every conceivable angle. If he detected an opening, he surged into it with terrifying lethality. His movements bore the rhythm of a war god, every motion calculated yet fluid, his feet, shoulders, and hips operating in seamless harmony as he clashed with a creature whose battle experience spanned an era beyond comprehension.

Orvak’s fist surged forward, aiming for Malrik’s chest with deadly intent. But Malrik caught it mid-air, his grip firm and unshaken. In one seamless motion, he pivoted, twisting his torso with effortless precision and hurled Orvak over his shoulder, intent on slamming him into the earth.

The throw was clean, textbook in form, devastating in force.

But Orvak was no novice.

He was a martial master whose hand-to-hand prowess had been carved through ages of blood and war. As his body spun through the air, he twisted violently, realigning himself before his back could meet the ground.

Then, impact.

With uncanny balance, Orvak landed on three limbs, feet and one hand, absorbing the force in a controlled descent. The ground caved slightly beneath him, the soil groaning under the sheer weight of his presence.

But there was no reprieve.

Before Orvak could even begin to rise, Malrik was already there. His foot shot out like a bolt of judgment, aimed directly at Orvak’s head, point-blank, merciless, and deadly.

But Orvak slipped to the side with fluid ease, his crimson eyes tracking Malrik’s foot as it passed mere inches from his head. There was no wasted motion, no delay. The moment he evaded, he surged forward like a missile, aiming to seize Malrik by the waist and slam him into the ground.

But Malrik was already anticipating it.

In a seamless shift, he adjusted his center of gravity, executing a forward roll midair, a front flip that defied timing and human mechanics. He twisted over Orvak’s lunging form with impossible agility, not merely evading, but countering.

He descended like a meteor, body crashing down with crushing momentum, his feet soles aimed straight for Orvak’s spine.

But the Sinvaira vanished in a flicker.

One instant, he was beneath Malrik, the next, gone.

Malrik’s feet struck the earth with punishing force. The ground couldn’t bear it. A thunderous impact erupted outward, and a massive ravine tore open beneath him, splitting wide like a yawning chasm. Debris, dust, and raw pressure exploded in every direction, tearing through the forest like a wave of judgment.

Dust billowed high into the air, cloaking the aftermath in a heavy, swirling shroud.

Then — footsteps.

Step. Step. Step. Step.

He emerged from the haze.

Same smile. Same ease. Same eyes.

Not a flicker of strain or unrest clung to his form. Malrik walked forward as if nothing extraordinary had just occurred, as if going toe to toe with a primeval force of chaos was simply another moment in a long day. He carried himself with the poise of one who belonged in that realm of monsters.

Orvak stared at him with a glint of madness in his crimson gaze. He wasn’t shocked. He wasn’t angered. He wasn’t even disappointed that Malrik had matched him blow for blow, or that he’d been struck once while landing none of his own.

No — he welcomed it.

After all, beings like him didn’t get to feel often. They didn’t often get to fight.

And that made this rare... Precious.

Their eyes locked, two destined adversaries, staring into each other like incarnations of fate itself. And then, without a word, they moved.

A long, obsidian weapon materialized in Orvak’s grasp, its black metallic surface gleaming ominously beneath the moonlight. The blade curved wickedly, its glint betraying an edge honed to sever through bone, steel, or soul; a scythe, born to reap.

In the same breath, a flash erupted at Malrik’s waist. His hand drifted with calm certainty to the hilt, and then came the hiss, low and menacing, as his weapon was drawn. A katana: sleek, blue, and slightly curved at the end, whispering of precision, control, and sudden death.

As though fate had given a signal, these two leviathans tore towards each other with nothing but glee.