Blood blade awakens

"You're getting too full of yourself, you blind bitch. I got a surprise for you," Belial spat through bloodied teeth.

He raised his weapon, voice low and resonant with power not entirely his own.

"By fang and by blood, I call forth the might of the fallen. I drink from my own, and rise anew. With each drop spilled, my power grows, thriving in death's wake."

The blade in his hand ignited, glowing with a sickly red hue. Ancient runes blazed along its surface like open wounds, hungry for carnage. With a sudden motion, Belial cut, the weapon cleaving downward through the putrid air. Steel met flesh.

A shriek like splintered bone echoed across the corrupted clearing as the blade severed the Witness's groping hand—and then its twitching tail. Black ichor sprayed across Belial's face. The thing recoiled, flailing like a wounded god.

Belial staggered, his balance failing him for a moment. Blood streamed from a fresh gash on his temple. He reached up instinctively to wipe it away, but paused.

Something was wrong.

His left eye—he couldn't see from it. Nothing but a curtain of absolute blackness. It wasn't blurred, nor dimmed. Just… gone.

He froze. That wasn't just blindness. He could still think clearly, still feel the thrum of ether running through his limbs. His brain was fine.

So why—?

He looked at the twitching, severed hand of the Witness, and that's when he saw it—something pale dangling from a splintered nerve. It swung, twitching, as if mocking him.

A cord.

No. A thread of nerve.

His optic nerve.

Belial's knees buckled. A scream tore from his throat, guttural and raw. The kind that didn't come from pain alone—but violation.

He stumbled backward, heel catching a root as his breathing grew erratic. "No... no, no—"

He clutched his head as his mind reeled, as if it were trying to catch up to the trauma his body had just been dealt. He turned, just enough to glimpse the grotesque silhouette of the Witness… and realized it had eaten his eye.

A sick gurgling echoed from its mangled face as it chewed, devouring part of him like a delicacy.

"It ate my damned eye!" he roared, the words shaking loose spittle and blood.

Was that its goal? To strip him, not just of flesh, but of sanity—piece by piece?

The thought clawed at him, threatening to drown him in the abyss of fear and helplessness.

Insanity…

But even as the thought threatened to take root, something else surged up inside him. Hotter. Wilder. Hungrier.

Like hell…

The pain no longer crippled—it galvanized. His rage ignited, latching onto his wounds like fire to dry kindling. His breath grew heavier, each exhale a growl. The fury didn't just simmer—it seared.

The Witness had made a mistake.

Belial's lips peeled back in a snarl.

The pain turned into more searing anger.

Belial's breath hitched. His chest rose and fell like the tide before a storm. His left eye—gone, devoured. His sword arm—trembling. The scent of blood, sweat, and something fouler hung thick in the air. But even in pain, in panic, he found rhythm. Amid the chaos, his instincts took the reins.

Death Dance: Rebirth.

He raised his blade, slow and deliberate, into an upper stance. One breath in. One breath out. Heartbeat steady, gaze narrow. The wind stilled with him. He was the calm eye of the storm.

Then—motion.

A single, clean slash burst from him like a sprout piercing winter soil. There was nothing frantic in it. No desperation. It was pure, elegant—almost inevitable. The blow streaked toward the looming creature, trailing red ether behind it like blood-ink.

The monster—a statue of muscle and twitching nerves—reacted fast. Its massive arm deflected the arc with a crushing backhand, but even its impervious shell recoiled. It took a step back, its feet thudding heavily into the cracked forest earth. A hiss escaped its malformed maw.

Belial slid back as well, not retreating, just repositioning. He wasn't done.

Death Dance: Silent Passing.

The stance dissolved. His body lowered. Shoulders relaxed. He exhaled the last of his panic. He became the hush before a blade sinks in, the breathless moment before death arrives.

Then—silence.

No footsteps. No motion.

Belial disappeared.

The monster twitched, scanning with senses not tied to sight—but too late.

Belial reappeared above its shoulder, upside down in mid-flip, spinning through the air like a leaf caught in a sudden updraft. There was no ground beneath him. Only gravity threatening to pull him into the beast's grasp.

But he was ready.

Death Dance: Death's Reversal.

His momentum inverted. Gravity became meaningless. His descending strike twisted unnaturally upward, his blade cleaving in a reverse arc across the creature's shoulder and chest. Ether erupted from the edge as it cut across toughened hide. But somehow—somehow—the creature absorbed the hit. It reeled, but instead of falling, it twisted. The unnatural joint in its mid-torso rotated, its arm lashing out to disrupt the blow mid-arc.

Belial flipped again mid-air, barely dodging the retaliatory swipe. His foot found bark—he landed sideways against a towering tree, legs bent, body pressed flush. Ether surged to his legs, stabilizing him like an insect gripping vertical glass.

Then he moved again.

Death Dance: Sanctuary of Death.

He launched.

From tree to tree, he ricocheted like a pinball from hell. Each strike carved a thin scratch across the creature's armor-like flesh. He became a blur—bladed lightning. A storm unleashed.

Every time his foot touched wood, he launched again. Every time his blade met flesh, it left a mark.

The monster roared, stumbling, its massive limbs clawing the air. It twitched spasmodically, its grotesque form struggling to track him. Belial didn't give it time to adjust.

He slashed from behind—then from above—then below.

Then suddenly—

CRUNCH.

The creature's maw snapped shut—on the blade.

Belial felt it before he heard it. The crack.

The edge of his sword—caught between teeth like boulders—buckled.

"No—!"

His heart dropped as a jarring vibration shot through the hilt. A spiderweb of cracks spread along the core of the blade.

The beast growled, its bite tightening, threatening to shear the weapon in two. Belial's hand shook. He panicked, instinct screaming to let go—but he didn't.

Instead, he twisted the blade vertical, using both hands, and wrenched it free with a burst of force and ether. Sparks flew. The blade screamed in protest.

He tumbled back, landing in a slide across the dirt. When he stood and looked—he saw it.

The blade was still whole… but barely.

A deep fissure ran through it. The core had been compromised. One more strong blow and it would likely shatter.

He stared at it, stunned. Frozen. His thoughts raced, a maelstrom in his skull.

Should I keep using it?

What if the enchantment fails?

What if it shatters mid-strike?

Every thought was chaos. Every doubt, louder than the last.

His grip trembled. His breath came in sharp, shallow bursts. Even the wind seemed to wait for his choice.

Then—he looked at his hands.

Scarred. Burned. Calloused. His hands.

He clenched the sword tighter, then slowly lowered it. He sheathed the blade.

"To hell with it," he muttered.

He closed his eyes. Breathed in.

The chaos receded.

Winter flowed in.

In his mind, he stood once again atop the snow-bitten peaks of the Aetherian Mountains, where he had trained for years. The cold on his face. The thin air. The silence.

And then—his master's voice.

Calm. Steady. Final.

"A swordsman's blade can only be as sharp as the swordsman."

He'd heard it a thousand times.

But now—he understood it.

The sword was a tool. He was the weapon.

The wind moved again. The monster twitched, watching, waiting, salivating for another taste of flesh.

Belial exhaled, steam rising from his lips. He spread his feet. Bent his knees. He fell into the Kaiju stance—legs wide, arms low, center grounded, body coiled like a spring.

Breath misted through clenched teeth. Muscles tensed.

A heartbeat passed.

Then—

A smile crept across his bloodied face.

"Round 2,"