Cultist factory 5

Belial's vision swam, his body aching from the devastating blow. He barely had time to register the pain before a familiar sensation coursed through him.

[Talent: Tenacity Activated]

The agony dulled in an instant, fading into the background like an echo lost in the wind. His body still bore the impact, but the pain was numbed. His breath, however, came in ragged gasps—his lungs refusing to fully expand. The force of the last attack had knocked the wind out of him, and he struggled to draw in air as his instincts screamed for him to move.

Above him, silhouetted against the swirling dust, Flint loomed. His foot hovered midair, a brief moment of stillness before he brought it down in a brutal stomp. The impact was monstrous—earth-shattering. The ground beneath them trembled as a ten-meter-wide crater exploded into existence, sending dirt and debris high into the air.

Belial rolled just in time, the shockwave of the attack brushing against him as he flipped to his feet, his muscles tensed for another assault. He wiped a trail of blood from his lip, feeling the sting of the wound but knowing it was minor in comparison to what Flint could truly do.

His eyes flicked to his wrist, where his bracelet remained half-hidden beneath his gauntlet. Still intact. That was one less thing to worry about, though he doubted it would offer him much solace if this battle dragged on.

Then his gaze darted toward Cerise.

But she was gone.

Instead, a cultist approached, dagger in hand, eyes filled with malicious intent. A sigh of relief left Belial's lips—Cerise must have escaped to a safer area. That was good. The last thing he needed was a hostage to complicate things further. Still, he made a mental note to keep an eye on the cultist; he couldn't afford any surprises.

With that settled, he turned his focus back to Flint, his stance shifting as the dust began to clear. His longsword gleamed under the dim light, and he pointed it directly at the man before him. A silent declaration. A challenge.

Flint did not react immediately. He stood at the center of his own destruction, his expression unreadable, the air around him thick with power. Belial tightened his grip on his weapon, his mind racing.

He had never truly seen Flint fight before. Their previous missions had forced them to separate—when Belial, Xin, Kyle, and Sora had fought the chimera. Troxil, Kyle alone had gone to face the ogre. The memory of that towering monstrosity resurfaced, its grotesque form easily over six meters tall, its presence commanding and monstrous more than that fat chimera.

Yet it took just Flint and troxil to defeated it.

Faster than it had taken Belial's group to bring down Troxil.

That alone spoke volumes about the level of strength Belial was up against now.

He exhaled sharply, steadying himself.

_How does he expect me to take down this lunatic without killing him?_

Flint was not an enemy in the conventional sense. There was no intent to kill behind his attacks—not yet, at least—but his strength was overwhelming, a force that could not be reasoned with mid-combat. The sheer power behind his movements was unnatural, a stark reminder of how dangerous he truly was.

And now, Belial had to stop him.

The cultist lunged. Belial barely needed to react; a swift, effortless sidestep took him out of range before his longsword flicked through the air. A single, clean motion. The cultist's weapon shattered against the force of the strike, shards of metal scattering as his opponent stumbled backward in shock. Belial wasted no more time on him—Flint was the true threat.

The moment of distraction cost him.

A blur of motion—then impact.

A fist slammed into his side with bone-crushing force, launching him backward. His body crashed through jagged terrain, his gauntlet barely absorbing the worst of the damage before he hit the ground, rolling to break his momentum. Still, the force of the strike left him disoriented, his vision doubling for a split second before he forced it into focus.

Flint was on him in an instant. There was no delay, no hesitation. He moved like a force of nature, an unstoppable storm tearing through the battlefield with relentless precision. Another strike—this time, Belial barely managed to bring his longsword up in time. The weapon took the brunt of the impact, but the sheer power behind it still sent him skidding backward, his boots carving trenches into the dirt.

Belial knew he couldn't keep this up.

Flint was faster. Stronger. More durable. Every exchange left Belial at a disadvantage, his body accumulating damage while his opponent remained unscathed. If this continued, it was only a matter of time before he made a critical mistake.

He needed a plan.

Flint came again, and this time, Belial didn't block. Instead, he moved _with_ the attack, redirecting the force just enough to slip beneath Flint's guard. His longsword lashed out, striking toward an exposed gap in Flint's stance. The blade met resistance—a glancing blow, not nearly enough to cause real damage, but it was something.

Flint barely reacted. Instead, his arm shot out like a coiled spring, seizing Belial by the forearm. The world tilted. A heartbeat later, Belial was airborne, his body wrenched from the ground before being slammed back down with a thunderous crash. The impact stole what little breath he had left, pain radiating through his limbs as he fought to regain control.

The moment his vision cleared, Flint was already standing over him again, his foot lifting for another devastating stomp.

Belial twisted, rolling clear of the impact zone just in time. Dirt exploded around him as he rose, every muscle in his body screaming in protest. He couldn't afford to take another direct hit. He needed to shift the flow of battle, turn the tides before Flint overwhelmed him entirely.

His mind raced. There had to be a weakness—a pattern, an opening, _something_ he could exploit.

Then it hit him.

Kyle had defeated the ogre.

And Kyle was the fastest among them.

Speed.

Belial exhaled slowly, steadying himself. If he couldn't match Flint's strength, he would have to outmaneuver him. Wear him down. Make him overcommit, force mistakes. It wouldn't be easy, but it was his best chance.

As Flint charged again, Belial shifted his stance, his longsword held low, ready.

This fight wasn't over yet.

Belial tightened his grip on his longsword, his muscles straining under the growing pressure of his opponents. Flint's relentless assaults drove him back step by step, each strike reverberating through his bones. Now, with the cultist in the fray, the battle had shifted drastically. 

The synergy between the two was uncanny—Flint's blade danced like a storm, precise and unyielding, while the cultist's unpredictable movements added chaos to the mix.

Belial observed the battle carefully, his mind working at a frantic pace. He noticed something peculiar—every time Flint's blade even grazed the cultist, the latter moved with heightened speed and precision. Oracle's voice echoed in his mind, relaying vital information: _Flint can grant anyone control over their inertia for three seconds._ A frightening ability in the hands of a skilled fighter.

The cultist moved unnaturally fast, flickering in and out of range like a phantom. His crimson robes whipped around him as he lunged, his curved dagger aiming for Belial's throat. Belial barely evaded the strike, feeling the sting of air displaced by the razor-sharp edge. Flint was already capitalizing on the moment, thrusting forward with deadly intent.

Belial twisted his body, pivoting away from the stab, and retaliated with a sweeping arc of his longsword. Sparks flew as Flint parried, the force of the impact rippling through both their arms. The cultist took advantage of the exchange, shifting his momentum instantaneously. One moment, he was staggering back from the clash—the next, he was right beside Belial, his dagger flashing in a downward strike.

Belial barely had time to react. He angled his longsword in a desperate block, steel scraping against steel, before kicking out viciously. His boot connected with the cultist's ribcage, sending him skidding backward. But even as the cultist tumbled, he twisted unnaturally in the air, his movement smooth and uninterrupted—as if inertia itself obeyed his will.

_Three seconds…_

Belial clenched his teeth. That was all it took for them to reposition, to recover from anything he threw at them. If he didn't find a way to break their rhythm, this battle would only end one way.

Flint lunged again, his longsword crackling with an eerie, dark energy. Belial met him head-on, their blades clashing in a frenzied exchange. The cultist darted around them, waiting for an opening, waiting for Flint's blade to grant him another burst of impossible speed. Belial couldn't allow that.

He adjusted his stance, feinting left before pivoting sharply. Flint reacted, his reflexes sharp, but the cultist—mid-motion—had already committed to an angle of attack. In that split second, Belial reversed his grip and drove his longsword forward, his blade catching the cultist's shoulder. The moment steel met flesh, the cultist's body stiffened.

Instead of accelerating, he faltered. The ability had not activated.

The effect only applied when any part of flints body touches another!.

Understanding dawned in that instant.

Without hesitation, Belial seized the opportunity. He spun, bringing his longsword down in a brutal diagonal slash. The cultist barely had time to react before the blade cleaved through fabric and flesh alike. A choked gasp escaped him as he crumpled to the ground, blood pooling beneath his trembling form.

Flint's eyes widened. For the first time in the fight, hesitation flickered across his face. He had relied on the cultist's unnatural speed to maintain control over the battle. Now, that advantage was gone.

Belial steadied his longsword, exhaling through clenched teeth. The runes along its edge pulsed faintly, whispering secrets long forgotten, their meaning etching themselves into his mind.

But Flint was not finished.

With a growl, Flint adjusted his stance, shifting his longsword to his off-hand. His eyes burned with renewed determination. He muttered something under his breath, and the air around him shimmered as if bending to his will. The darkness in his longsword coiled like living smoke, thickening, growing denser with every passing second.

Belial narrowed his gaze, feeling the shift in energy. This was no ordinary technique. Flint was preparing something devastating.

The ground beneath them trembled. The cultist, still alive but barely breathing, let out a weak, raspy laugh. "Too late," he wheezed. "You think you've won? You haven't seen anything yet."

Belial didn't wait. He surged forward, his longsword igniting with a brilliant, crackling energy of its own. Flint met him halfway, their blades colliding in a furious explosion of force. Each strike sent shockwaves rippling outward, their footwork a deadly dance between steel and willpower.

Oracle's voice returned, more urgent than before. _Warning. Energy levels rising. longsword properties fluctuating._

Belial pushed harder, his strikes growing more aggressive. Flint matched him, their movements blurring with sheer speed. But then, something changed. The runes on Belial's longsword flared, their inscriptions shifting in real-time, revealing a new set of words.

The moment their blades clashed again, Belial felt a surge of energy unlike anything before. His mind flooded with forgotten knowledge, with an ancient power that had lain dormant for ages. His muscles felt lighter, his movements sharper. The runes were speaking to him, guiding his actions with a newfound clarity.

Oracle's ethereal blue text appeared in front of his eyes, pulsing with meaning.

[Saber runes translated]