Vol. 1 / CH 1 - Part 5

In the old, hidden cabin nestled deep within the dark forest, a heavy silence lingered, saturated with an invisible, ancient force. Three mysterious old women, known as "The Three Old Grandmothers, Keepers of Ancient Knowledge," sat around a timeworn wooden table, as old as the forest itself.

The first grandmother, her eyes glowing like embers, moved her hands with deliberate slowness, withdrawing a set of ancient dice from a weathered leather pouch. Her voice, hoarse and whispering like the autumn wind rustling through dry leaves, carried a quiet but undeniable weight. "The time has come... their fates are now bound to nature's will."

The second grandmother, shrouded in a tattered brown robe that dragged across the floor, smiled eerily, her sharp teeth gleaming behind pallid lips. Her voice rumbled, as though it rose from the depths of the darkest abyss. "Ah... the meeting of fire and shadow, of will and death. This battle, my sisters, will carve the long road ahead for that realm."

The third grandmother, her face obscured beneath the folds of a worn brown hood, spoke in a voice soft yet perilously sweet. "Fate is amusing, isn't it? We sit here, awaiting an inevitable outcome... and yet, we cannot predict how this end will be penned." A low, sinister chuckle slipped from beneath her hood, echoing faintly through the dim cottage.

With her gnarled, withered hands, the first grandmother cast the dice upon the table. They spun, bounced, and then settled, glowing faintly with ancient symbols. The laughter died at once, and all three grandmothers stared, their eyes fixed on the dice, now still upon the table.

The second grandmother lifted her hand, her long, skeletal fingers grazing one of the dice. "Look closely... the blazing fire of will. Raoulin... a berserker, consumed by his fury and ambition. And Atherton, the wandering knight... a soul untethered by the lines between life and death. Their battle will be a tale etched in blood."

The first grandmother's smile was faint, barely a whisper of expression. "Raoulin fights for honor. But what is honor in the face of destiny? Atherton, however, emerges from a darkness far beyond. These two souls will clash, yet only one will leave an imprint on this world."

The third grandmother, her face ever hidden beneath the folds of her hood, let out a laugh—melodic, yet undercut with an unspoken threat. "And what if both... are nothing more than the instruments of fate's absolution? This world is already bound by the strings of destiny, and they are mere marionettes, moving at nature's command."

A sinister chorus of laughter reverberated through the room, the sound thick with malice. It was as though they delighted in the unfolding of fate's game, like onlookers in the front row of a grand stage, witnessing a drama written by the hand of destiny itself.

"However," the first grandmother whispered, her voice dropping into a lower register, "this battle will not reach its conclusion easily. Raoulin may wield great strength, but Atherton... he possesses something far greater. Only the dice will determine which one prevails..."

Before they could speak further, a soft knock interrupted the stillness. It was no ordinary knock—it carried a weight, a mystery, as if heralding the arrival of someone bearing secrets of great consequence.

The three grandmothers exchanged knowing glances, wicked smiles slowly creeping across their faces.

"Ah," the second grandmother grinned, her sharp teeth gleaming in the dim light, "our guest has finally arrived."

The first grandmother nodded, her voice a raspy whisper. "Come in... we've been expecting you."

The wooden door creaked open, and a shadowed figure stepped inside, enveloped in darkness. The three ancient women fixed their gazes upon the intruder, their eyes glinting with ancient wisdom.

"So," the third grandmother purred, her voice now dripping with menace, "what do you seek from us, traveler of the night? Have you come to bear witness to fate... or to alter its course?"

The figure stepped forward, but before a word could be spoken, the door slammed shut behind them, sealing the room in heavy, foreboding silence.

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Raoulin and Atherton stood face to face amidst the silence of the battlefield. The fallen remnants of Raoulin's army lay scattered like broken shields at their feet, yet now, every remaining dying soldier's gaze was fixed on the two figures, poised on the precipice of a deadly duel.

Atherton, despite his hand limp, stood resolute. His gaze locked with Raoulin's, as if contemplating the fate that had inexorably drawn them both to this moment. Raoulin, still seething with rage, now looked upon Atherton with a newfound caution—having borne witness to the devastating power the knight had unleashed.

Neither spoke. They stood suspended in the heavy stillness, two shadows waiting for the flicker of a flame, the slightest movement that would ignite the fury of their impending clash.

But within Atherton's heart, a deep and stirring monologue began to unravel—this was the moment to reveal his true self to the enemy that stood before him.

Atherton drew a slow, deliberate breath. His voice, low and resonant, rolled through the valley like the whisper of a storm. "You stand before me, Raoulin, Berserker of Zuvia... a name spoken by many, feared by more. Yet you remain unaware of who I am. Let me make this clear before we dance beneath the looming shadow of death."

With effortless grace, he lifted his greatsword, spinning the massive blade in his hand despite his wounded body. Every eye on the battlefield was drawn to him, their breath caught in anticipation of the words he would speak next.

"I am Atherton," he continued, his voice now rumbling like distant thunder, charged with a quiet but unshakable power. "A wanderer from distant realms, a name carved in blood and fire. In worlds where darkness swallows light, I am known as 'The Vanquisher of the Abyss.'"

The air grew thick with tension, the weight of his words pressing down on all who heard them. Even Raoulin, his fury momentarily stilled, seemed to falter as the gravity of Atherton's proclamation settled in.

"Creatures of the Abyss," Atherton continued, his voice laced with a subtle menace, "those whose names you dare not utter, have fallen beneath my blade. I have traversed dimensions, hunted them, and obliterated them. Yet, I did not come to this world to slay... I came to safeguard it. If you choose to stand against me, then accept the fate that awaits you. I seek not this battle, but if you compel me, you will fall as those before you have."

Raoulin's gaze was fierce, hatred blazing in his eyes. Beneath the surface of his rage, however, a trace of fear began to emerge—though he fought to conceal it. The gravity of Atherton's words weighed heavily upon him, yet his warrior pride was too strong to retreat now.

Raoulin's stare remained locked on Atherton, his anger simmering but unyielding. His grip on the massive axe tightened as though he could crush Atherton with a single strike. Still, Atherton's words—marked by an unshakable certainty—caused a momentary hesitation in Raoulin, even if it was fleeting.

Raoulin sneered, his voice dripping with scorn. "Vanquisher of the Abyss?" he spat, the derision in his tone barely masking his wariness. "I care nothing for your titles or legends, Atherton. To me, you are merely another obstacle to be vanquished. I have felled hundreds, even thousands, of warriors like you. I am Raoulin, Berserker of Zuvia, and none stand in my path without feeling this axe rend their flesh."

Atherton remained silent, his gaze steady and unflinching. Despite the pain of his wounds, he showed no signs of weakness. "I do not question your strength, Raoulin," he said, his voice calm yet filled with quiet resolve. "But strength without wisdom is mere chaos. You are undeniably a formidable warrior, but what drives you? Ambition? Fury? Vengeance? What propels you toward power so blindly that you lose sight of what truly matters?"

Raoulin ground his teeth, his gaze burning with fury. "I fight for honor, for the empire that raised me!" he declared loudly, his eyes blazing with uncontrolled rage. "Do you know what has transpired? Do you know how many lives have been claimed by this injustice? Atherton, you speak of protection, but what do you understand about the suffering and pain that drive a man to fight?"

Atherton held his gaze steady on Raoulin, not flinching before the berserker warrior. "I know more about suffering than you can fathom, Raoulin," he said, his voice deep, as if echoing every battle he had endured. "I have traversed collapsing worlds, witnessed kingdoms fall into darkness, and seen thousands of souls perish at the hands of forces beyond their comprehension. I am not here to destroy or conquer, but to prevent a greater calamity."

"Don't speak as if you know more than I do!" Raoulin snapped, stepping forward slightly, his axe swinging deliberately as if challenging Atherton. "I don't care who you are or where you come from. What matters is that you are an obstacle in my path. You and I… we are enemies. You may have noble intentions behind your words, but don't think that will deter me. I am an instrument of destruction, Atherton. I care not for your cause."

Atherton sighed deeply, the weight of the situation pressing on him. He did not seek this battle, but he knew fate had led him here, to this moment. "Raoulin," he said softly, "I understand that for some, destruction is the only escape. Yet, I still hope you can see beyond your own rage. This is not the fight I desired... but if you choose this path, then we will clash. And I will ensure this is the final battle you will face."

Raoulin laughed cynically, as if Atherton's words were a slight against him. "Final battle? Atherton, do you think I fear the fate you bring? I have danced with death more times than you can count. So, if this is the fight that will determine our destinies... let our blood write the end of this story!"

Atherton lowered his head slightly, a gesture of accepting the inevitable challenge. "Very well," he said quietly but with resolve. "If this is what you wish, then I shall hold nothing back. You will witness the strength I have forged in realms darker than you could ever imagine."

Raoulin growled, his suppressed anger flaring up in his chest once more. Yet beneath that fury, he recognized that Atherton was no ordinary foe. The two stood in silence, eyes locked, fully aware that their fates were intertwined with the impending battle.

Despite their mutual understanding as fighters, Raoulin's hatred for Atherton remained a burning ember. He could not allow this man to win, to shatter his honor and pride as a warrior. On the other hand, Atherton accepted the inevitability of the fight. The darkness he had faced before now haunted him again, manifested in the form of the enraged berserker before him.

In the stillness of the battlefield, they stood poised, waiting for the final moments before a duel that would alter their destinies.

Raoulin stood tall, his gaze fiery with anger yet shadowed by a fleeting hint of respect. Despite the rage simmering within him, honor flowed in his veins as a true warrior. He wiped the sweat from his brow with his powerful arm and, in a voice both raspy and dignified, addressed Atherton.

"So, before we begin... are you ready, Atherton? You seem injured. I don't want to hear any complaints afterward about not being in top form. I may be a berserker, but I'm not a coward who attacks a man at half strength."

Atherton met Raoulin's gaze, and in the brief silence, he felt something odd. A sensation, faint at first, began to creep into his arm. His eyes narrowed as his left hand—once stiff and wounded—started to move, bit by bit. His fingers slowly tightened, reclaiming the control that had been lost. He attempted to move the arm further; though still heavy and not fully recovered, it was sufficient. The cold in his arm gave way to the warm flow of strength returning.

Raoulin observed this closely, his expression shifting to one of curious respect. "So that's your issue," Raoulin muttered, almost to himself. "All this time you've been using only one hand... and it wasn't even your dominant one."

Atherton gave a slight nod and then shifted the greatsword he had been wielding with his right hand to his now-recovering left hand. The motion was natural, as though his left hand had been made for wielding the massive sword. Raoulin chuckled softly, his tone a blend of mockery and admiration.

"Heh... so you still haven't revealed your true power, have you? Now I understand," Raoulin said, his voice rising, a smug grin spreading across his face. "If your left hand has recovered, then this fight will be more equitable. You'll have no excuses when I defeat you."

Atherton did not respond to Raoulin's taunt. Instead, he stared at the overcast sky, as if contemplating something deeper. With a deep breath, he drew strength from within his own shadow. From the encircling darkness, a massive shield—the Greatshield—slowly emerged, as though conjured from his own shadow. With resolve, Atherton grasped the shield and lifted it in his right hand. Now, he stood with the Greatsword in his left hand and the Greatshield in his right.

Raoulin's eyes widened momentarily, disbelief etched clearly on his face. His gaze shifted from the Greatsword to the Greatshield, and then back to Atherton. "What... is this some kind of joke?" he muttered to himself. "Impossible... no human can wield a Greatsword with one hand. It's a massive sword, it should be wielded with both hands. You... are unbelievable."

Cold sweat began to bead on Raoulin's temples. Despite their similar imposing physiques, the physical prowess Atherton displayed seemed beyond normal limits. Raoulin, who typically wielded a Great Axe with both hands, felt that something was fundamentally off about his opponent. It was inconceivable for any human or humanoid being to swing such a massive sword with one hand—let alone balance it with a giant shield in the other.

Atherton, remaining calm amidst the mounting tension, finally spoke in a deep, steady voice, "This is how I truly fight, Raoulin. Greatsword in my left hand... and Greatshield in my right. This is my fighting style, honed in worlds far harsher than you can imagine."

Raoulin fell silent, though his heart seethed with anger, a sliver of admiration crept in. Yet, it was not enough to deter him. "You're inhuman... yes, you must be an Abyssal creature, right? Why should I be surprised? I almost forgot. But that changes nothing. Such power won't spare you from my axe."

Atherton simply nodded, adopting a defensive stance, the Greatsword slightly raised to the side, while the Greatshield readied in front of him, as if preparing for the imminent onslaught.

"You're mistaken, Raoulin," Atherton replied calmly. "There's a flaw in your statement, and I'll show you. But if I were human, then to me... humans are the most stubborn beings. They endure even when everything is against them. So, if you want to fight, let's settle this here and now."

Raoulin gritted his teeth, lowering his stance slightly as he readied himself to strike. "Very well," he growled, his voice low but seething with rage, "let's see if your left hand is strong enough to withstand my axe."

The once-quiet battlefield now thrummed with tension. The wind rustling through the trees seemed like a last, quiet whisper before the storm.

Atherton and Raoulin stood on the edge of a confrontation that would settle everything. Though they now recognized each other as formidable warriors, it was clear that only one outcome was possible: one of them would fall.

The deadly duel was about to begin...

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In the small cabin nestled deep within the dark and mysterious forest, three elderly women sat around a round table, its surface covered with a worn wooden board intricately carved and aged. Silence enveloped them after the enigmatic figure they had briefly hosted had finally departed. None of them spoke, as if the conversation they had just shared was too sacred to be broken by ordinary words. Only the whispering wind caressed the ancient wooden walls, accentuating the mystical aura that pervaded the room.

"What do you think…" one of them finally spoke, her voice raspy and tinged with hesitation, "will he leave as well?"

The elderly woman sitting across from her nodded slowly, her wrinkled eyes blinking in deliberate rhythm. "There is no other choice," she replied. "We can only accept it. Fate has been cast, like these dice."

The third old woman, quieter than the other two, simply gazed out of the small window. "It's time," she murmured softly, almost like the wind itself. "The battle will soon begin."

The three of them exchanged knowing glances, as if sharing a secret understanding known only to them.

After a moment, one of the old women placed the wooden dice back onto the table. "Now, let's see their fate," she said with a faint smile, her gnarled hand beginning to shake the dice with a slow but confident motion. "But first... we must get to know them better."

The three pairs of ancient eyes closed, as if delving into their memories and peering deeply into the battlefield where Atherton and Raoulin faced each other. In their inner vision, the figures of the two warriors began to materialize with striking clarity—described with intricate detail, as if they could discern every scratch on the weapons and every fold in their battle attire.

Atherton first came into their view, towering and cloaked in shadow, like an entity from another realm. His dark armor transcended mere physical protection, not only covering him but melding with the ominous aura emanating from every movement. The deep blue fabric draped around him, once a symbol of nobility, now only whispered of past devastation. His tattered cloak, marred by the Abyss's consuming power, looked almost corrosive, as if it had been ravaged by darkness itself.

The helm on Atherton's head epitomized his enigmatic presence. Shaped like a wolf's head, it exuded a silent menace, concealing secrets darker than any human could imagine. The eyes behind the helm were obscured, yet the very aura of the helmet seemed to pierce into the soul of anyone who dared approach. Adorned with the cryptic symbol of "The Deep of the Abyss" on both his cloak and armor, Atherton was more than a mere warrior—he was the very embodiment of darkness.

In his left hand, the Greatsword of immense proportions seemed nearly impossible to wield with a single hand. Its blade, dark with a faint bluish gleam, reflected the void of a starless night. This weapon was more than a sword—it was a tool of annihilation, wielded only by those who had conquered the Abyss itself. In his right hand, the Greatshield, as dark as the sword, gleamed with an ominous light. Though massive and solid, it seemed almost weightless in Atherton's grip, as if it were no more substantial than air. Every detail of his weaponry spoke of immense power and the buried secrets within him—understood only by those who had faced their deepest fears.

Raoulin, in contrast, was the epitome of raw strength and brutal elegance. His physique resembled a living statue of physical prowess, his muscles taut like steel cables. The golden armor he wore was not just protection but a symbol of the mighty Zuvian Empire. It gleamed under the setting sun's waning light, not because of its brilliance, but due to its sheer weight. Only a warrior of extraordinary strength could bear such armor and still move with grace.

Raoulin's face bore a massive scar, a permanent testament to a battle that had nearly claimed his life. The wound, stretching from his temple to his jaw on the left side of his face, added to his fearsome appearance, carrying a tale that had haunted him for years. This scar was the very reason for Raoulin's stubbornness and unyielding nature. Only the high-ranking officials of the Zuvian Empire knew who had inflicted it, but it never diminished Raoulin's grace as a warrior. His short blonde hair, neatly combed, contrasted sharply with his hardened, battle-scarred visage. Raoulin was more than a mere fighter—he was a man who lived and died for the honor of his empire.

The Great Axe he wielded was no less formidable. Though it wasn't as massive as Atherton's sword, it still required tremendous strength to lift. Gold-plated and imposing, the axe was not merely a weapon of death but a symbol of the honor and power of the Zuvian Empire.

The first old woman slowly opened her eyes, a broad smile spreading across her face. "Two unrivaled warriors," she murmured in a voice heavy with gravity. "One emerging from the darkness, the other from the light. Yet their fates... have already been sealed."

The second old woman cast the dice she held, the clatter of wood across the ancient board echoing softly through the cabin. The three of them watched intently as the dice tumbled, their eyes reflecting a sharp, curious gleam.

"Their conflict," said the third old woman, her voice barely above a whisper, "will signify more than mere victory or defeat. All we can do is observe... and wait."

With eyes brimming with anticipation, the three old women sat in silence, waiting for the revelations that the dice of destiny would bring.

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Raoulin and Atherton faced each other on the silent battlefield, the ground beneath them seemingly holding its breath in anticipation of the imminent clash. The setting sun's elongating shadows cast a golden-orange hue behind them, sharply contrasting with the dark and tense atmosphere surrounding the two mighty warriors. Every detail of their armor gleamed in the dim light, suggesting they were not mere men, but forces prepared to battle to the last drop of blood.

Raoulin stepped forward with unshakable confidence. Each step echoed through the silent trees, as though the earth itself responded to his presence. His sharp gaze locked onto Atherton, who stood resolute, his head held high without a hint of movement. Raoulin raised his Great Axe high, his muscles tensing with each motion, and with a commanding tone, he spoke, his voice resonating with certainty.

"I am Raoulin," he declared, his voice heavy and authoritative, "Warrior of the Zuvia Empire, Berserker of Zuvia, protector of the throne and guardian of honor. I have conquered countless battlefields, fighting beasts and men alike, all of whom have felt my power. Yet you, Atherton, seem different. The aura of darkness surrounding you… makes me question whether you are merely a man who has fallen into the deepest Abyss, or simply another Abyssal creature. But to me, it matters not whether you hail from the Abyss or elsewhere. I will cleave you nonetheless."

With that, Raoulin planted the tip of his Great Axe into the ground, a clear signal of his readiness for combat. His scarred face bore the resolute and arrogant expression of a warrior who had never been defeated.

Atherton, who had remained silent until now, slowly moved. The Greatsword in his left hand pulsed slightly, exuding a mysterious aura that amplified his presence. With a smooth motion, he lifted his head. His voice was deep and resonant, as if emerging from the very depths of darkness.

"I am Atherton… Envoy from the Realm of Modesty, bearer of the Abyssal symbol, and conqueror of darkness. Like you, I have fought many foes. Yet, there is no honor in the blood I have shed… only duty. You will soon understand why I stand before you, Raoulin. This is not a matter of life or death. This is about fate."

Atherton's words were cold, shrouded in mystery, and devoid of emotion. The dark aura surrounding him grew denser, as if the darkness itself danced around his form. His Greatsword glinted in the fading light, while the Greatshield in his right hand formed an impenetrable barrier.

With a single nod, both understood that no more words were needed. Their duel was about to begin.

Raoulin struck first. With a speed that belied his massive frame, he hefted his Great Axe and swung it directly at Atherton. The blow was powerful and brutal, an embodiment of raw force. Yet Atherton, with practiced agility, spun gracefully, raising his Greatshield to intercept the assault. A thunderous clang reverberated through the air as Raoulin's axe collided with the shield, sparks dancing from the impact of the two enormous weapons.

Seizing the opportunity, Atherton swiftly countered. With a seamless motion, he swung his Greatsword towards Raoulin, the enormous blade carving a lethal arc through the air. Despite his bulk, Raoulin displayed remarkable agility, evading the deadly strike with a nimble retreat. The gust from the Greatsword's swing sliced through the air, sharp and foreboding.

The duel escalated with a ferocity and speed that defied belief. Each attack from the two combatants was met with impeccable defense. Raoulin wielded his Great Axe with deadly precision, each swing a testament to his strength and skill. Yet Atherton, wielding his Greatshield and Greatsword with equal mastery, parried or evaded every ferocious strike with unwavering resolve.

Raoulin's strikes were so powerful that the ground beneath them began to crack and tremble with every impact of his axe against the earth or Atherton's shield. Each swing carried such immense force that even the surrounding trees swayed under the pressure of the air displaced by his blows.

Meanwhile, Atherton kept his distance, attacking with his Greatsword with precise, controlled strikes. Yet each blow seemed to narrowly miss Raoulin, who deftly evaded with unpredictable movements. It was evident that the strength of the two warriors was well-matched, each maneuver executed with meticulous care, every attack a blend of strategy and power.

Eventually, Raoulin recognized that the battle would not end unless he took greater risks. With a fierce roar, he leaped toward Atherton, lifting his Great Axe high, and delivered a powerful vertical strike aimed directly at Atherton's helmet. The attack came with overwhelming force, targeting Atherton's helm. Atherton raised his Greatshield swiftly to block the blow, but Raoulin's strike was too forceful. Although the shield absorbed the impact, Atherton was driven back by the sheer power of the assault.

Seizing the opportunity, Raoulin followed with a sweeping motion. His Great Axe arced toward Atherton's side with astonishing speed. This time, despite Atherton's attempt to parry, Raoulin's speed proved overwhelming. The massive axe struck Atherton's armor on the left rib, producing a resounding clang of metal.

Atherton was jolted by the blow but remained steadfast. His Abyssal armor proved too resilient to be easily pierced. Raoulin grinned, confident that he had wounded his opponent, but his expression quickly shifted to one of astonishment as he realized the strike had inflicted no significant damage.

Atherton peered at Raoulin through his wolf-shaped helm, which quivered slightly from the impact. "Do you think that's enough?" Atherton's voice was low, edged with a sharp intensity. "The battle has only just begun."

He raised his head, his eyes behind the helm cold and calculating. He exhaled, not from fatigue but from a newfound respect for his opponent. Despite the brutal blow he had received, Atherton appreciated Raoulin's prowess. In an instant, he began to reassess the entire battle.

"Raoulin," Atherton said, his voice steady and calm, "You are not merely a brute relying on strength. Your power is genuine. You truly deserve the title 'Berserker of Zuvia.' I… I did not expect you to be the first to land a blow. Perhaps I underestimated you."

Raoulin heard the words, and a surge of pride welled up within him. He laughed heartily, his grin full of arrogance. "Ha! Of course! Who do you think I am, Atherton? I'm no ordinary warrior! I am Raoulin, the Berserker of Zuvia, who has severed the heads of thousands of foes! You should have feared me from the start!"

Raoulin's confidence soared with each boastful word. His every movement radiated arrogance, and his pride began to dominate his thoughts. Atherton, despite the taunts, remained silent. His gaze was sharp, his mind calm. Inside, he was already planning his next move.

'I mustn't rush,' Atherton thought silently. 'The recent attack taught me something: Raoulin is indeed powerful. But his strength is rooted in arrogance—that is his weakness. I must exploit it.'

Raoulin continued his taunts, his jeers growing louder. "Atherton! You may be strong, but look at yourself! Even with your massive shield, you can't withstand or evade my axe! You're just wasting time that will soon run out!"

Yet Atherton paid no heed to the taunts. He remained focused, observing every movement Raoulin made, noting the nuances of his breathing and axe swings. Raoulin's aggression was evident, but there was a pattern—one Atherton could exploit. To land a hit, he needed a new strategy. The key was an unconventional attack.

As Raoulin raised his Great Axe again, preparing for his next strike, Atherton saw his moment. He met the attack with agility, sidestepping the predictably swung axe. A loud clang echoed as Raoulin's axe struck the ground, creating a significant crater. Without hesitation, Atherton countered with his Greatsword, but this time, his goal was not to slice Raoulin.

Atherton deliberately swung his sword toward Raoulin's body but, at the last moment, released his grip, letting the massive blade fly briefly, catching Raoulin off guard. Simultaneously, Atherton delivered a powerful punch to Raoulin's face. The impact was immediate and forceful, and Raoulin staggered back a few steps, his face a mask of shock and confusion.

Raoulin wiped his face, feeling blood trickle from his lips. "What…? You… dropped your weapon? For a punch?!" He was bewildered, his respect for Atherton instantly morphing into furious rage. "You could have cleaved me, but you chose to punch? Do you think this is a street fight?!"

Atherton, maintaining his composure despite the heavy rise and fall of his chest, responded coolly, "This is the only way to land a hit. Conventional attacks won't work on you. You're too strong and too clever for standard tactics. This is the only way to catch you off guard."

Atherton's words were a veiled compliment, acknowledging Raoulin's strength. Yet, for Raoulin, who took immense pride in his fighting prowess, seeing his opponent drop his weapon to land a punch was an affront. Fury ignited within Raoulin, his anger reaching a boiling point. "You... you dare mock me!" Raoulin roared, his voice echoing with intensity. "How dare you belittle me?! The Berserker of Zuvia will not be dishonored like this!"

Raoulin surged forward with increasing rage. His grip on the Great Axe tightened, muscles coiled, and his breath came in heavy gasps. He raised his weapon and struck with even greater ferocity than before. But his fury had clouded his judgment. His strikes became erratic, wilder, and less controlled. The once-precise swings of his axe had turned into frenzied blows, driven by rage but devoid of strategy.

Atherton, who had diligently maintained his calm from the start, realized that his secret strategy was beginning to bear fruit. 'As anticipated,' he thought. 'When he loses control of his emotions, he becomes easier to predict. It's not just about strength… it's about control.'

Raoulin attacked once more, swinging his axe in a sweeping horizontal arc, aiming to cleave Atherton at the waist. However, his strike was too hasty, and Atherton deftly leapt backward, evading the blow. With the calm precision of a seasoned warrior, Atherton advanced, exploiting Raoulin's lost balance to mount a counterattack. Instead of drawing his sword, Atherton relied on his speed, dodging each of Raoulin's increasingly erratic strikes.

Raoulin's attacks lost their precision. Each time Atherton evaded a blow, Raoulin's rage intensified, making him more brutal but less precise in his strikes. Raoulin began attacking blindly, his anger unrestrained, while Atherton avoided every strike with graceful, almost dance-like movements on the battlefield.

In every wild swing of Raoulin's axe, Atherton spotted more openings. He refrained from rushing his attack, allowing Raoulin to exhaust himself with his own fury. As Raoulin's movements slowed, his energy waned from the uncontrolled assault. Atherton, meanwhile, kept his breathing steady, remained focused, and awaited the perfect moment.

"Raoulin," Atherton said in a low, measured tone, "Your rage has clouded your vision. This isn't merely about raw power. You cannot defeat me with sheer brute force alone."

Raoulin, his breath growing ragged, glared at Atherton with venomous hatred. "Silence! I will crush you!" he bellowed, but his attacks grew increasingly erratic and predictable.

Atherton sensed that his moment of triumph was drawing near.

As Raoulin lifted his axe once more, the unbridled fury was apparent in every tensed muscle of his form. Yet, his movements had slowed, the precision that once made him formidable now compromised. Each powerful strike Raoulin delivered failed to find its mark. Atherton, agile and composed, continued to evade, allowing Raoulin to be consumed by his own ferocity.

Suddenly, Raoulin unleashed a ferocious swing, his axe arcing menacingly toward Atherton's head. But Atherton, with remarkable reflexes, spun aside, making the axe slam into the ground with a resounding crash, splitting the rocky earth beneath. Raoulin staggered, and Atherton seized the moment.

Without hesitation, Atherton surged forward with remarkable speed and precision, swinging his Greatsword towards Raoulin's side. The clash of metal rang out as the sword struck Raoulin's thick armor, but the armor proved too robust to breach. Raoulin barely flinched from the impact, stepping back with a wild, mocking laugh still on his lips.

"What was that?! A blow like that will never be enough for me!" Raoulin roared, his blood boiling with rage. The legendary Berserker strength—his ability to withstand tremendous pain and damage—was on full display. Even a powerful strike that would incapacitate a normal soldier failed to faze him. Raoulin was truly a beast in human guise—he felt no pain, only an unrelenting fury.

Atherton quickly assessed the situation. "This armor is too thick. Even my strongest attacks can't penetrate it," he thought. The blows he had delivered should have been enough to fell any opponent, yet Raoulin stood resolute, seemingly impervious. "I need to find another approach."

Raoulin attacked again, his axe swinging with the force to shatter stone. Atherton deftly dodged the assault but realized that mere evasion would not suffice. He couldn't afford to remain purely defensive; Raoulin would inevitably find a way to strike if the battle dragged on too long.

"This Berserker is too powerful to be defeated with sheer physical strength alone," Atherton thought, his mind racing to identify a vulnerable spot. In an instant, an idea took shape. "Maybe it's not the armor, but his body itself."

Atherton began to adjust his strategy. Instead of attacking Raoulin head-on, he concentrated on targeting the joints and weak points in the armor—areas typically less protected, like beneath the arms, behind the knees, and around the neck. The strikes weren't always precise, but each attack caused Raoulin's movements to slow imperceptibly, indicating that even though the blows weren't causing direct injury, the pressure on these vulnerable points was starting to take its toll.

Caught up in his fury, Raoulin grew increasingly agitated. "What are you doing?! You coward!" he roared, his frustration mounting with each small yet persistent disruption to his assault.

Atherton remained silent, his focus unwavering. He dodged with agility, allowing Raoulin to unleash a series of brutal but increasingly erratic attacks. Each time Raoulin swung, Atherton nimbly evaded, simultaneously striking at Raoulin's joints, further hampering his opponent's effectiveness.

Finally, after a particularly wild swing, Raoulin stumbled, momentarily losing his balance. It was the opening Atherton had been waiting for. With all his strength, he swung his Greatsword, aiming for the exposed back of Raoulin's knee.

A loud clang reverberated, followed by Raoulin's agonized cry.

Though the attack didn't pierce the armor completely, it was enough to force Raoulin to his knees. The monster within the human shell finally showed signs of exhaustion. Yet, Raoulin, driven by Berserker strength and unyielding resolve, attempted to rise once more, despite his faltering balance.

"How dare you…" Raoulin hissed, his immense frame quivering, but he refused to surrender. "I will… destroy you…"

Atherton knew that time was on his side, but he needed to conclude the fight before Raoulin managed to recover his full strength. Raoulin's rage was both his source of power and his Achilles' heel. If Atherton could exploit this further, he might end the battle without relying solely on brute force.

With deliberate yet swift movements, Atherton prepared for the final assault. He understood that Raoulin was far from finished. The Berserker's fury still burned fiercely, and he would not yield without one last desperate stand.

Atherton took a deep breath, bracing himself for the decisive moment. "Now or never," he thought.

Raoulin remained upright, despite his labored breathing and increasingly sluggish movements. Yet, the seething rage within him showed no sign of abating. Every pulse in his veins was filled with hatred and a burning desire to crush his opponent. Atherton knew he had to act quickly before Raoulin regained enough strength to mount a full-force counterattack.

Then, Atherton made an unexpected move. He stowed his Greatshield back into a shadow that seemed to materialize from nowhere, as if consumed by the encroaching darkness. This action elicited a triumphant laugh from Raoulin, who took it as a sign of his own superiority.

"Hah! Finally, you've stopped playing around and are starting to fight properly," Raoulin taunted, his laughter echoing through the otherwise silent battlefield.

But unbeknownst to Raoulin, this was the beginning of his downfall.

Gripping the hilt of his Greatsword with both hands, Atherton assumed a powerful stance. He had anticipated Raoulin's next move, and sure enough, with a derisive smirk still on his face, Raoulin swung his massive axe toward Atherton. The swing was immensely powerful, capable of splitting the earth, yet Raoulin's reliance on sheer force had now become his weakness.

Atherton moved with swift precision, evading Raoulin's colossal axe swing. In a flash, he pivoted and, channeling all his strength, brought his Greatsword crashing down on Raoulin's exposed arm. A deafening clang of steel was followed by Raoulin's guttural scream. Atherton's strike severed Raoulin's right arm, causing the massive axe to slip from his grip and soar high into the air.

Yet, Raoulin, no matter the state he was in, refused to yield. He roared in a blend of fury and agony. Without a hint of hesitation, he snatched the airborne axe with his left hand and launched a desperate counterattack at Atherton, as though oblivious to his severed arm.

Atherton remained composed, his movements fluid and graceful amid the chaos. With a decisive stroke, he swung his Greatsword again, targeting Raoulin's remaining arm. The blow severed Raoulin's left arm, sending the massive axe spiraling once more, out of reach.

Raoulin, now disarmed and with both arms severed, still stood tall. His colossal frame swayed, but he did not fall. The rage that consumed him drove him to resist surrender, despite his grievous injuries. But Atherton was prepared to end it.

With swift precision, Atherton seized Raoulin's floating axe. The sharp wind cut through the air as he wielded the weapon that had once symbolized Raoulin's strength. The axe cleaved through Raoulin's armor and flesh, blood flowing freely from the deep wound. But the attack was far from over.

Atherton raised his Greatsword with both hands and, with a full-force thrust, drove the massive blade into Raoulin's abdomen. The strike was so powerful that the sword pierced through Raoulin's body and impaled itself into the ground beneath him. Raoulin's form was pinned to the earth by Atherton's enormous weapon.

Strangely, Raoulin showed no sign of surrender. Despite being impaled and pinned, he continued to struggle, attempting to fight back even though both of his arms were gone and his body was riddled with severe wounds. His rage remained unquenched, even as his physical strength ebbed away.

At that moment, a dawning realization began to seep into Raoulin's mind. He finally understood that Atherton, the enigmatic figure before him, was not merely an adversary but perhaps his fate—an angel of death come to claim his life.

Atherton stood tall before Raoulin, his form encased in jet-black armor that radiated a mysterious aura, reflecting the fiery hues of the setting sun. Every movement, every breath from behind his helm exuded an undeniable dominance. Raoulin, known as "The Berserker of Zuvia," now felt something he had never encountered before: fear.

Raoulin's gaze was fixed on Atherton, terror etched across his face. He knew without needing words. He had been defeated. Not only had he lost in combat, but his resolve had also been shattered. Raoulin, the once-unstoppable beast, was finally subdued.

"I... I was wrong," Raoulin said, his voice heavy and punctuated by pain. "You're not human... You are... a monster... an Abyssal being."

Atherton inclined his head slightly, peering down at Raoulin from behind the helm that concealed his face, keeping his expression shrouded in shadow. His voice was deep and resolute as he replied, yet devoid of arrogance.

"I am not an Abyssal being," Atherton said, his tone calm and measured. "Nor am I merely human."

Raoulin looked up at Atherton with a confused expression. That bewilderment only heightened his fear, for he no longer understood what he was confronting.

"I, and those from the Realm of Modesty, we... are different. We are guardians, protectors of a balance you cannot comprehend," Atherton continued. "What you see—this power, this armor—is the culmination of a long and arduous journey."

Atherton glanced momentarily at the sky, as if pondering something far beyond this battle, before refocusing on Raoulin.

"The Abyssal power you speak of, the armor set of The Abyssal Vanquisher, the symbol of the Deep of the Abyss, and the title of The Vanquisher of Abyss… none of it was granted to me because I was born a monster or an Abyssal being," Atherton explained. "Rather, I earned it by overcoming trials beyond your imagination. I succeeded in facing each challenge set by the Abyss itself and emerged victorious. Only those who survive the Abyss's trials are worthy of such power."

Raoulin gritted his teeth, regret evident in his eyes. "Fool… I was a fool to challenge you," he muttered.

Atherton observed the weakening Raoulin, his voice cold and devoid of sympathy. He was an enigma, and despite Raoulin's defeat, questions lingered in his mind. Atherton stepped closer, his voice carrying a subtle menace wrapped in calm, cutting straight into Raoulin's soul.

"Raoulin," Atherton said, "you mentioned something earlier. A mysterious symbol that appeared three days ago… what do you mean by that?"

Raoulin fell silent. His mouth moved slightly, but no words came out. He stared at Atherton, like a trapped beast, aware that any utterance could seal his doom.

Atherton did not wait for an answer. His next question emerged in a deeper, more resonant tone.

"Who is the most powerful being in this realm?"

Raoulin remained mute, his eyes widening, his resistance gone. He could only feel the weight of Atherton's dominance bearing down on him.

"How many monsters have recently begun appearing suddenly without warning?" Atherton continued, his voice rumbling like the approach of a storm.

Raoulin's face turned pale, his lips trembling, but fear had silenced him.

Atherton pressed on with his relentless questioning, his tone calm yet laden with threat. "What does this realm know about 'The Absolute Being'?"

Raoulin turned his face away, but his gaze never truly left Atherton, as if terrified of his own shadow.

And finally, Atherton's last question fell like a hammer shattering Raoulin's last hope. His voice was heavy, almost like an incantation foretelling death.

"Where is the location of 'The Ebon Court'?"