Cultist factory 4

Bang!

The gunshot reverberated like a clap of thunder within the confined space, a fiery burst illuminating the barrel as the bullet surged forward. Its trajectory was locked onto its intended target—a zealot clad in dark robes, his dagger poised, eyes alight with murderous intent.

Yet he was swift.

With a last-second pivot, he narrowly dodged, the projectile grazing his side and leaving a thin, crimson streak in its wake. A sharp hiss escaped his lips, more an expression of annoyance than pain.

Belial saw his opportunity.

Without hesitation, he surged forward, his longsword flashing as he executed a precise, sweeping strike, seeking to end the cultist where he stood.

Clang!

A second blade deflected his attack.

Belial's grip tightened as his longsword met resistance, the force of the block reverberating up his arm. His gaze snapped upward, locking onto the interloper who had intervened.

Flint.

For a fleeting moment, the chaos surrounding them faded, reduced to the single point of contact between their weapons, steel grinding against steel.

Then, Flint's expression shifted. His brow furrowed slightly before recognition dawned. A dry chuckle slipped past his lips as he raised a halting hand toward the cultist beside him.

"Well, well…" Flint exhaled, a smirk creeping onto his face. "You're that kid… Belial, wasn't it?"

Belial's weapon remained raised, his grip unwavering as he sneered.

"And you're the spineless traitor who abandoned the guild to grovel at the feet of some lunatic cult."

Flint let out a theatrical sigh, shaking his head in mock disappointment. "So rude. I suppose that's just your nature, isn't it?" He feigned a frown before tilting his head, his eyes glinting with something unreadable. "And here I thought you might make a fine addition to our Pureborn Creed."

Belial scoffed, his laughter sharp and cutting. "Your boss already extended that invitation," he remarked, leaning in slightly, his voice dripping with derision. "And take a wild guess what my answer was."

Flint's smirk didn't falter. "Should've known," he said, rolling his shoulders in a loose shrug. "You always had that defiant streak."

Belial observed him carefully, his expression hardening.

He wasn't taking any of this seriously.

His patience was wearing dangerously thin.

Yet Flint remained composed. Exhaling through his nose, he absentmindedly drummed his fingers against the hilt of his blade, his stance relaxed, his confidence unshaken.

"You know," Flint mused, his eyes narrowing slightly. "There's something I've been meaning to ask."

Belial remained silent, his gaze unreadable.

Flint continued, his tone deceptively casual. "You and Sora—why did you target us? Why attempt to eliminate us in that gate?"

Belial met his stare without hesitation, his amber eyes glinting with something cold, something unyielding. When he finally spoke, his voice was steady, but an unmistakable sharpness lurked beneath the surface.

"Originally, we were supposed to go after Cassidy. He was the only priority. You? You were just collateral."

For the briefest of moments, Belial's smirk faltered, a flicker of something indecipherable crossing his features. But then, just as quickly, his cocky demeanor returned. He rolled his neck, exhaling sharply. "Damn. That's cold," he muttered. "Guess I should be honored I'm still breathing."

The words had scarcely left his lips before Belial sprang into motion, his body a coiled spring unleashed. The dim haze of the factory floor seemed to warp around him as he closed the distance, his longsword gleaming like a sliver of moonlight in the oppressive gloom. The air was thick with the stench of oil and rust, the faint hum of dormant machinery a ghostly backdrop to the violence about to unfold.

Steel rang against steel.

A dagger materialized from the shadows, intercepting Belial's longsword mid-strike with a precision that sent a jolt of surprise through him. Sparks erupted in a cascade of light, illuminating the cultist's face for the briefest of moments—cold, calculating, and utterly devoid of fear. The man's eyes were like shards of obsidian, reflecting nothing but the void.

Belial adjusted his footing instinctively, his boots scraping against the worn concrete. The force of the clash reverberated up his arm, a sharp reminder that this was no ordinary foe. This cultist moved with a fluidity and precision that spoke of years of training, perhaps even decades. His strikes were not the wild, desperate flailings of a fanatic but the measured, surgical movements of a seasoned killer.

The cultist pressed forward, his dagger a blur of deadly intent. Each thrust was aimed with lethal precision: throat, ribs, heart. Belial countered with a dancer's grace, his longsword weaving through the air in precise, economical arcs. The factory echoed with the violent symphony of their duel—the clash of blades, the sharp exhales of exertion, the scrape of boots against the floor.

Then, a feint. A flicker of motion from the cultist's off-hand.

Belial's instincts screamed a warning, but it was too late. Cold steel carved a shallow gash across his breastplate, the impact sending a shudder through his chest. He staggered back, his mind racing. The strike had been chilling in its efficiency—not just fast, not just precise, but controlled. This man was a predator, and Belial was treading dangerously close to becoming prey.

A gunshot roared through the melee, shattering the tension.

The cultist flinched, twisting away as a bullet tore past his arm, missing by a fraction. Belial's gaze flicked upward to where Cerise perched on a catwalk, her rifle steady in her hands. Smoke curled from the barrel, and her sharp eyes were locked onto the battlefield below. She was a ghost in the shadows, her presence a silent reassurance.

Belial seized the opportunity. He advanced in a relentless storm of strikes, forcing the cultist onto the defensive. The rhythm of the battle shifted, and Belial's mind raced as he analyzed his opponent. He watched for the subtle weight shifts, the minute hesitations, the micro-adjustments in stance. There was always a pattern, a rhythm, a tell. And Belial was a master at finding it.

Predict. React. Counter.

But Flint was not a bystander.

Cerise fired again, and this time, Flint's gaze snapped toward her. Belial saw it—the imperceptible shift in posture, the slight realignment of balance. A cold knot of dread formed in his stomach.

He's going after her.

Belial did not hesitate to move. In a blur of motion, he lunged, seizing Flint by the collar and wrenching him away with sheer force. The man's body skidded violently across the floor, but Belial did not stop there. The instant Flint hit the ground, Belial launched forward, his longsword poised for a disabling strike. The objective was clear: neutralize Flint now, then turn his full focus to the cultist.

Yet something was wrong.

Belial should have been upon him already, his longsword an inch from Flint's throat. But something was wrong.

A strange sluggishness weighed him down, as if time itself had come to a grinding halt. His instincts screamed that he should be moving—slashing, striking—but his body refused to obey.

Then he saw it. Flint, the cultist, was still moving. Slowly, unnaturally, yet unmistakably in motion.

Belial tried to lift his blade, to lunge forward, to do anything. But he couldn't. His limbs remained frozen, trapped in some unseen grip. A cold realization clawed at his mind.

He wasn't moving at all.

His eyes widened in shock. His body was primed, every muscle coiled for speed, yet his limbs refused to obey. It was as if the very act of motion had been stripped from him. Three agonizing seconds passed, each one stretching into an eternity. Then, without warning, the invisible force vanished, and Belial stumbled forward, his balance momentarily lost.

His mind whirled. What the hell was that?

A realization clawed at the edges of his thoughts. A paralyzing technique? A time-based ability? What were the mechanics of this interference? He had no time to analyze. The cultist was already upon him, dagger slicing toward his throat.

Clang!

Belial barely raised his longsword in time. The impact sent another shudder up his arms. His reaction—

he's gotten slower.

Not by much. But enough.

This was not fatigue. Not hesitation. It was something else.

Another gunshot shattered the tension.

This time, Cerise's bullet found its mark, embedding deep into the cultist's shoulder. The man staggered, pain twisting his features. Belial capitalized instantly, stepping in and carving his longsword across the cultist's side.

A clean hit.

The cultist gasped, retreating, blood seeping through his robes. It was not a fatal wound, but it was enough to shift the momentum.

Belial exhaled, readying to finish the fight—

Then Flint moved.

With reckless velocity, he launched forward, an unstoppable force tearing across the battlefield. Belial braced himself, his mind calculating the angles, formulating his counter—

Flint did not slow.

Did not falter.

Instead, he crashed into Belial with the full force of a charging beast.

CRASH!

The impact sent both combatants hurtling backward, obliterating the warehouse wall in an explosion of brick and dust. The shockwave sent debris cascading as they hurtled through the wreckage, momentum carrying them beyond.

Another impact.

Another rupture of concrete and steel.

Belial's world spun as they plowed through a second barrier, the force of the collision rattling his bones. He tumbled, breath ripped from his lungs, rolling violently across the fractured ground before skidding to a stop amidst the rubble.

His ribs ached. His vision blurred. But he forced himself to his knees, inhaling sharply to shake off the haze of impact.

Flint was already standing.

Unscathed.

Realization crystallized in Belial's mind.

The unnatural fluidity of Flint's movements. The way he defied conventional physics. The unnatural stoppage of momentum. The sheer absurdity of his raw acceleration.

Then, a voice chimed in his thoughts, cold and analytical.

[Answer: The individual, Flint, appears to manipulate inertia.]

Belial's breath hitched.

Damn it.

Flint was not merely fast. He was severing the fundamental laws of motion.

And worse—

Belial had the distinct, gut-wrenching certainty that Flint had yet to exert his full strength.