Behemoth [Primordial Titan Cultivation/LitRPG]

Prince Cyril took note of his energy reserves. His core was around half full, and with every passing moment Behemoth steadily refilled it.

Magic was his only real advantage in this confrontation. The Half-Ascended Wyrm was his antithesis: likely weak in qi manipulation, since it hadn't successfully bonded with a spirit, but it had achieved the apex of its physical potential. Not only was it the equivalent of Peak Condensation Stage; as an evolved monster, the upper limit for its body far surpassed that of a human. The discrepancy usually accounted for a difference of at least a couple realms, putting the Wyrm on the level of an average Middle Foundation Stage human. Without a spiritual core to empower its techniques and the sapience to guide it, it could hardly be considered a true equal to a cultivator, but it meant the Wyrm was one tough bastard.

Cyril, on the other hand, was still in the Early Condensation Stage. Such a gulf between man and monster would be insurmountable for most, but it wasn't like he lacked his own advantages. No prince of the Wandering Phoenix Tribe could be considered lacking, after all.

Fusing with Behemoth had also refined him into a living natural treasure. His former self would have been crushed, devoured, or splattered several times over during his previous encounters. All of the injuries he had sustained were little more than superficial annoyances. Yet, as impressive as his newfound durability was, he lacked the speed or offensive output to contest with such a monster. It had reached the bottleneck of its existence, while he had only just begun to take the first steps of his Destined path.

Only one of them could survive in the end. Either he would become the catalyst for it to surpass its limitations, or its essence would become the foundation of his own budding power.

Bracing himself, Cyril fired off a burst of Pressure like an arrow. It battered uselessly against the Wyrm's hide; the scales even shredded the qi apart. Some sort of antimagic effect. He frowned. So much for that advantage.

The Wyrm surged forward. Cyril managed to erect a quick stone barrier in its path and scrambled out of the way. The barricade shattered as if it was made of glass, countless shards whistling through the air and drawing nicks from his skin. The shield had served as little more than a distraction, masking his flight towards the temple, but it was enough to grant him some breathing room.

He came to a stop well short of the ruined entrance. The battlefield had settled enough that the Wyrm would be able to sense his movement if he took another step. The Flicker Cantrip hovered close to the Wyrm, illuminating its whereabouts; for now, Cyril chose not to infuse the flame with warmth and potentially reveal its presence.

The abomination remained completely still, like the statue of a corrupted naga king. Cyril likewise refused to move, limiting the rise and fall of his chest as much as possible.

Every second that passed refilled his core. Gave him options. His mind raced furiously, attempting to come up with a plan to defeat this thing. It was by no means invulnerable, though the gap in their physical capabilities was more like a chasm.

After several minutes of a frozen standstill, Cyril detected movement. The Wyrm disappeared, and for a bated breath he expected it to kill him before he even realized it. Instead, the Flicker Cantrip rushed a hundred paces across the floor, tracking its mark.

The pallid light revealed the Ascended abomination grasping a wyrmling in all three of its arms. It tore that section of the lesser monster into chunks and began shoveling them into its mouth. When the rest of the wyrmling's body attempted to escape, the abomination wrapped it up in its own manifold coils, constricting it into submission.

Cyril forced himself to watch the gruesome sight. All of his focus remained on the Wyrm. Even if it seemed to have lost track of it, it could cross the distance between them in the blink of an eye. Relaxing for a moment could spell the difference between life and death.

He took a deep breath and began working on the first step of his plan. Earth qi surged through his body. He focused on externalizing it just enough to form a layer of armor over his skin, taking more inspiration than he wanted to admit from the hide of sandwyrms.

Interlocking plates of stone settled over his body. He gritted his teeth against the agony of the armor sealing over wounds. After a few seconds, the pain receded into an uncomfortable pressure. It had the advantage of stopping most of the bleeding as well, though crimson rivulets still pooled in the armor's crevices.

Another movement in the corner of his eyes alerted him that the Half-Ascended Wyrm had finished with its meal. It returned to the same exact spot as before and once more became still.

The armor alone wouldn't make much of a difference. He resumed pouring Mass into his Reinforcement Cantrip. After a moment of hesitation, he extended the energy into the plates of his Stone Shell, certain that the conflicting types of energy would react and at the very least expose his position.

To his relief, the Shell greedily lapped up the Mass qi. His sense of fragility abated slightly, some of Behemoth's lofty nonchalance returning to his attitude. He could do this as long as he bided his time and constructed the ultimate defense. He ignored the fact he still had to find a way to defeat the Half-Ascended Wyrm afterwards.

Minutes passed as he flooded more qi into himself. He halfway expected the floor to crack beneath him, but it held without complaint. The entire area around the ruined temple seemed more solid, more impenetrable, than the surrounding earth, as if it was constructed from higher-quality materials.

Another flash of movement. A slight tremor. The Half-Ascended monster snatched another wyrmling from the ground. The lesser monsters kept returning to the location after not sensing any movement for a while, too stupid to harbor much in the way of memories or long-term survival instincts.

Perhaps it wouldn't be too hard to kill a thousand of them after all, as long as one picked their battles. The abomination had probably reached its level by acting more like a fisherman than a shark.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

Another tremor caught Cyril's attention while the Wyrm was still halfway through its feast. He split off a chunk of pale flame and sent it to investigate the source. The head of an adult wyrm had breached the surface of the softer ground in the distance. Cyril stopped reinforcing himself long enough to cast a second Flicker Cantrip.

While the strain on his core was not too significant overall, splitting his attention between maintaining the various Cantrips stressed his focus. He was holding it together for now, but he would collapse under the strain at some point. Especially if he kept adding more into the mix.

The second Flicker erupted into existence right on top of the new wyrm, blazing with the full fury of its divine heat. His Dominion of the Sun was well into the Second Sphere, granting it a superior destructive power compared to his other affinities.

The wyrm attempted to reverse its course down the tunnel it had carved for itself, desperate to escape the blistering flame. Too slow, too awkward. An incinerating orb burrowed through the monster, boiling it from the inside.

Cyril dismissed the oversaturated Flicker after the wyrm's death essence flowed into his soul. He couldn't help but calculate how close he would be to the Second Sphere of Gravity if he invested everything into it. With a twinge of regret, he brought Earth up to 70/100, while his former favorite languished at 20/100.

As much as he would have loved to sneak in kills and turn himself into a fortress all day, the Half-Ascended Wyrm caught on quickly. It slithered towards the glowing area of heat that marked where the wyrm had been thoroughly roasted. It stood there for a while, its disturbing arms twitching about in a senseless dance.

Eventually satisfied or simply bored, the monster returned to its favorite spot. Most of its body remained frozen in place, but its arms continued weaving about in a mad, frantic dance. Whatever it was doing, Cyril didn't like it. Some kind of ritual? Maybe he was imagining it, but as the arms continued to dance, they seemed to gradually start pointing in his direction more and more.

I definitely can't let it finish whatever it's up to. It may very well be a trap, but Cyril couldn't stand around second-guessing himself until he died.

He rotated his hands, channeling Pressure. The Wyrm surged forward in his direction as soon as he began moving. The grotesque humanoid body dangling from the front thrashed in excitement. It halted a moment later once Pressure crashed into the ground a hundred paces away, leaving a deep indentation in the softer earth.

With unnatural litheness the Wyrm changed direction, looping back in on itself and outward like a slipknot unraveling. It pounced upon the small crater, seizing at it with its arms.

Cyril took advantage of the distraction to flee closer toward the temple. He fired off another Pressure to steer it away as soon as the abomination began to focus his way. After the third attempt at misdirection, the Wyrm saw through the ruse and charged directly at Cyril.

He didn't feel ready to take it on in a straightforward engagement. He no longer had a choice. The Wyrm crashed into him and once more tore him off his feet, but this time he managed to hug onto the torso, dragging it along with him. They sailed through the air together. Its arms battered and tore into him, cracking his stone scales. The concussive force rattled his internal organs, shocking him for a moment.

He gritted his teeth together through the pain. Their short flight ended near the base of the ruined temple. Cyril landed on top, driving his considerable Mass down onto the Wyrm.

Bone cracked beneath him, and the entire monster shuddered. Cyril coughed up blood.

Unlike its brethren, the Half-Ascended Wyrm had not been flattened beneath his weight. Its toughness was no surprise, but he had hoped such a nuisance had some sort of gap in its defense. Antimagic scales, monstrous strength, resilience. If this thing managed to bond with so much as an imp, it may have been able to conquer a corner of the desert for itself.

He recovered from the shock of their impact a moment sooner. A wide lance of Pressure, hastily stuffed full of qi, collided with the Wyrm's torso. It retreated, flinging itself backwards and undulating to redistribute the force along its entire length.

The blow appeared to cause no lasting damage, but the Wyrm did not advance. It bobbed in place, the mouth set in the center of the humanoid's chest snarling.

Scared of me all the sudden? Cyril glanced over his shoulder, toward the entrance of the temple. The building radiated an ancient dread. His skin prickled even though he was not the target of its projected influence. The Wyrm writhed in anger and kept its distance.

Cyril slowly retreated backward, step by step, until he slid beneath the cracked arch leading to the front of the temple. He took it as a good sign that nothing changed once he passed the threshold.

Some presence or enchantment rebuffed the sandwyrms from entering the desecrated temple grounds. Not even a Half-Ascended monster dared step foot this far.

The fight was not over just because he had discovered a safe zone. He continued channeling Mass into himself, somewhat curious what his current limits were. The entire metaphysical existence of a Titan had been stuffed into him, so he imagined it was probably quite high.

Fortunately, the intent lingering within the ancient temple didn't view his active use of qi as a threat. Could he stay here until he stuffed himself with so much energy he exploded? He settled onto the first step of a flight of stairs leading up into the temple. Curiosity about the building pulled at his attention, but he was unwilling to take his eyes off the Wyrm.

Now that Cyril was beyond its grasp, the monster focused on him at the exclusion of all else. He sensed a couple sandwyrms moving along the ground in their direction. Grinning, he pulverized them with judicious applications of Pressure and accepted their gracious contributions of death essence.

The Half-Ascended Wyrm did not budge despite the destruction. It stood there unerringly.

After the last pair of eager sacrifices, other monsters avoided the area, likely warned off by the miasma of death scents suffusing the cavern. Cyril meditated as best as he could while keeping his eyes on his nemesis.

Five more minutes passed, feeling like an eternity. The Reinforcement Cantrip showed no signs of slowing down its absorption of his qi. The compressed power thrumming inside his body had reached a point Cyril thought he may tear himself apart with a single movement if he wasn't careful.

He stood up, every inch of his body controlled, focused.

The Wyrm drew back, perhaps sensing that its formerly-easy prey had tilted the balance of power far enough in his favor to pose a threat. Cyril smirked. Before the monster could escape, he channeled Pressure.

There was a moment's delay as his mind adjusted for the unfamiliar vector. Instead of crushing something directly or against the ground, a wave of uncontrolled force struck the Wyrm from behind. The unexpected angle of attack caught it off guard and it was unable to secure itself against the ground.

It twisted in the air, helpless for one weightless moment, before landing in front of Cyril. After traveling through the entrance of the ruined temple.

Let's see what you were afraid of.