Rivers of the Night

Theron side-stepped and lunged, retreated and parried, pressed and suffocated. His movements became sharper and sharper, one line after another forming a seamless flow of gliding blue that blended into blooming flowers in the air.

Threads of Water Mana formed a cascading avalanche of blows, blending into the crashing waves of a waterfall and then flowing into the gentle pulsing stream of a small river.

He swallowed the comprehension of one Rune after another; the Laws became sharper and faster in his mind. And then he began to apply the Laws he already had in ways he had never thought to before.

By the time he had exchanged hundreds of blows with Wren’s blade, the pillars of gold in the skies still falling in a raining attempt to kill them both, there was no competition.

The blade was too predictable, its style too stringent, its Laws too simple. Theron read it like the back of his hand, appearing in locations it thought to three moves from now, only to be suppressed before it could even make its second.

The clashing lines of gold and blue danced through the air, and holding his father’s blade in one hand, his hair a stream of cotton pink, blue, and violet, Theron seemed to have lost himself to a completely different part of his soul.

His blood boiled, his skin reddening, and his Mana flowed like a roaring beast.

He suppressed, suffocated, slashing down from above with a momentum that carried all the fury in his heart. It didn’t feel like he was just attacking the sword before him at all, but like he was splitting the dark clouds once again, rending his enemies in two, severing the hatred that fueled him to their very depths.

Chi.

The sword light swallowed everything, so much so that the rumbling clouds and the clash of blades fell on deaf ears. A hollowness was left in the air, and the only room one’s senses had was for the sight of a violet blade cutting across the air in slashing might. freewebnøvel.coɱ

It cut the earth in two, split the skies above, severed even the rain itself as though before Theron’s presence, even a single droplet had no right to fall.

And then it all came crashing back as the blade light vanished into the distance, splitting down the cityscape and continuing on as though it might split the Imperial Capital in two.

The golden sword shattered on impact, its sparkling light severing the land around it. Destruction and carnage spread in waves akin to the ocean, plumes of dirt and chaos splattering in blacks and browns only illuminated by the flashing gold lightning and the now only partially obscured moon.

There was a certain beauty to the destruction, the sort that captured the soul for fleeting moments before the deathly cold of the rain reminded you of what you were witnessing.

A monster.

Theron had always thought that the rain was a fascinating thing. Looking up at it, the pillars of gold concentrating all of their rage onto his body, he couldn’t help but feel the same way as he always did.

It could be so comfortable at times, and yet so damning at others.

It brought the call of a coming storm, but it was also an excuse to stay inside. That made one wonder: was it truly the rain itself that was so comforting? Or just the chance to escape from it?

Was there happiness if there was no sadness? Was there any calm if there was no rage? Could rain be comforting if not for a chance to watch it from afar?

And what if you had no place to call home? No mother to rush into the bosom of? No father to ruffle your hair, or little sister to squeeze until she wiggled away with all the might her small body could muster?

As the rain fell harder, falling down the lines of Theron’s face, pelting into his body and chilling him down to the bone, questions he didn’t know why he was asking right now came one after another, just as sharp as the swords that fell from above.

One after another, relentless in their cadence and never-ending in their pursuit of his life.

He just stood there, his body suffering one blow after another.

But this time, as it seemed the blades were entering his body, they were actually shattering on impact, their bodies dissolving into masses of Laws and Runes that infused themselves into Theron’s core.

And Theron himself just stood there, feeling the rain in all its glory. In all its devastation.

His father’s sword rested loosely in his palm, his hair falling as his Immortal Jellyfish Echo faded away.

The aches in his body became more prominent, the blood mixing with the falling rain as he looked on from below. And sitting in all that pain, all the sudden sadness, was that very same bundle of fury.

It had retreated, hiding in the depths of his heart, the corners of his soul. It came and went as it pleased, digging up the trauma of his past with fleeting, careless disregard.

It was a Tribulation not much unlike this one that had taken the life of his family. And now, this was already the second time he was forced to face such a thing—the second time the Mandate of the Heavens had deemed it to be the arbitrator of his life—to appear because of its rules, its own will...

But what about his?

How nice would it be to stop this rain for his own comfort? How great would it be to wave a hand and dismiss those clouds because of his own rules, because of his own will?

It was such a cage. Such an unnecessary, meaningless cage. And for what?

So that people who didn’t deserve the strength they had could grow stronger? So people could play the games of this world of cultivation to reach some arbitrary peak they set for themselves?

What was the point? Just to make people suffer?

’I’ll crush you... one day...’