Chaosbound: Elarith Chronicles

The vibrant cacophony of Laros's market square had abruptly fallen silent, its energy sucked away by the palpable tension that radiated from Malgrin and the emerging Shadowblades. Malgrin's perverse grin faded, replaced by an unsettling gravity as he felt the chilling shift in the Eclipseborne's aura. His attention snapped back to Phantomblade, who now stood fully revealed, accompanied by Ripclaw and Darktide.

"We come to purge," Phantomblade's voice rasped, a dry whisper that somehow amplified the dead serious aura around him.

Malgrin let out a low, guttural growl, but then the sinister smile returned, wider, more predatory. "You haven't learned your lesson yet, Phantomblade," he sneered, his tone dripping with chilling confidence. "You should have savored your life when I allowed you to live." His eyes, however, subtly narrowed. He had felt it—the new, unsettling depth to their power. They've... changed.

Then, his gaze swept over the bustling marketplace, the terrified faces of the humans, the scattered wares. He saw, in his mind's eye, Seron's fastidious ledgers, the pride his brother took in this intricate web of commerce. Malgrin, the strongest Abyssal, a creature born for destruction, had a rare soft spot for his siblings, and that included protecting their interests. He wouldn't allow Laros to be reduced to rubble.

"I'm sure you don't want innocents caught in our fight," Malgrin proposed, his voice surprisingly calm despite the raging power coiled within him. "Why don't we find a better place to fight?" He welcomed the confrontation; he was born for it. He lived for the thrill of the clash, but not at the expense of his family's peace.

Phantomblade's shadowed gaze was unreadable. He made a subtle hand gesture, a barely perceptible flicker, towards an unseen point above. Miles above them, perched on a distant spire, Arkan received the silent signal. His analytical mind, already calculating tactical advantages, had prepared for this. Coordinates instantly materialized within Phantomblade's mind, detailing a remote, desolate mountain range to the east.

"Today, one of us will die," Phantomblade stated, his voice a chilling, poetic promise as his form shimmered, preparing to move.

Malgrin threw back his head and laughed, a harsh, joyful sound. "Let's see what kind of power-up you have this time, Shadowblade. I hope you won't disappoint." With a burst of speed that warped the air, Phantomblade shot upwards, a dark streak against the midday sky, swiftly followed by Ripclaw and Darktide. Malgrin, with a confident, effortless leap, matched his ascent, his own chaotic energy flaring like a dark comet's tail.

The Mountainside Arena

The chosen battlefield was a desolate expanse of jagged peaks and deep ravines, miles from any civilian settlement. The only spectators were the silent mountains themselves, and the distant, shadowy figures of Arkan, who had teleported to a strategic vantage point, and Aqua, who blended perfectly with the shifting patterns of light and shadow among the lower peaks, her presence undetectable to even Abyssal senses.

Phantomblade floated calmly above a plateau, his katana-like sword held loosely at his side, its dark blade seeming to absorb the light. Malgrin hovered opposite him, a cruel smile etched on his face, his form already subtly shifting, his skin rippling as nascent chaos energy stirred beneath.

Neither struck first. Instead, the air began to thicken, heavy with oppressive power as both combatants began to buff their forms. Malgrin's human features distorted, becoming sharper, more angular, his eyes burning with a deep violet luminescence. Chaos energy, like thick, dark smoke, began to coil around him, forming rudimentary, prehensile tentacles and sharpening his nails into wicked claws. The very ground below them groaned, and the sky above began to darken, not from clouds, but from the combined, overwhelming aura of two beings reshaping reality around them. It was as if day had abruptly succumbed to an unnatural, suffocating night.

Phantomblade, calm amidst the rising storm, raised his sword. Shadow energy, deeper than night itself, flowed from him, sheathing his blade in a lethal, shimmering darkness. "Shadow Domain," he intoned, and the world around him became his domain. The mountainside, the sky, the very air itself twisted, enveloped in a suffocating shroud of impenetrable darkness. Within this void, Phantomblade's speed, power, and perception were dramatically enhanced.

Malgrin chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that seemed to mock the newly formed darkness. "Not bad, Shadowblade. Your Shadow Domain has improved compared to the last time we fought." The surrounding chaos energy that enveloped Malgrin refused to be absorbed or diminished; he stood as an immovable, living void within Phantomblade's shadowy realm, immune to its oppressive influence.

The First Dance: Precision vs. Fury

The true battle began. Both combatants exploded forward, two blurs of opposing energy converging. They moved so fast that the human eye would see nothing but a sudden void where they once stood. Even for the hyper-perceptive Shadowblades, watching from afar, their movements were almost too quick to follow, a lightning-fast dance of death where every strike caused the very air to crackle and boom like thunder.

Malgrin, a tempest of raw power, unleashed a barrage of high-might chaos claws, each strike capable of tearing through solid rock. Phantomblade, an expert swordsman of unparalleled precision, parried and dodged with impossible grace, his katana weaving a web of deadly counters. With a surge of shadow, Phantomblade began to multiply. Dozens of perfect clones of himself shimmered into existence, each wielding an identical katana, each as substantial and deadly as the original. They weren't mere illusions; they were fully embodied extensions of his shadow magic, each demanding Malgrin's full attention.

Malgrin found himself fighting a hundred Phantomblades at once. The clones didn't merely strike; they flowed around Malgrin like a dark current, each feint and parry designed to funnel him into increasingly constricted spaces, anticipating his brute-force counters and forcing him to exhaust more energy with every wild swing. Phantomblade imbued each clone's sword with his own shadow magic, making their blades lethally sharp and corrupting. Some blades managed to cut through Malgrin's demonic skin, eliciting a faint hiss from the Abyssal. Malgrin felt the bites, the stinging nicks, but they did little to truly wound him. Instead, each shallow cut served only to fuel his boundless rage, making him faster, fiercer. A flicker of frustration, not just for the missed blow but for the lingering reminder of the bustling city he'd left behind, crossed Malgrin's distorted face. But it was immediately eclipsed by the pure, unadulterated joy of the fight. He was not one to evade; he met every strike head-on, delivering immediate, crushing counter-blows that shattered one clone after another.

"Good!" Malgrin roared, a primal satisfaction in his voice as he smashed through yet another clone. His form twisted, taking on another, more grotesque transformation. His eyes darkened further, glowing with an intensified violet chaos luminescence. Spindly tentacles, made of crackling chaos, sprouted from his back, writhing like venomous snakes. His arms lengthened, ending in truly monstrous claws, and his speed visibly doubled, becoming a blur even to Phantomblade's enhanced vision.

Phantomblade noticed the surge in power, his tactical mind already adapting. He, too, buffed his remaining clones, imbuing them with even more shadow magic, consolidating their strength within his Shadow Domain. But Malgrin's enhanced perception was equally sharp. His glowing eyes locked onto a subtle ripple in the shadowy distortion—the tell-tale sign of the true Phantomblade.

Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.

"There you are," Malgrin snarled, his voice a low, terrifying rumble. He lunged, a living projectile of pure destructive force. All of Phantomblade's remaining shadow clones immediately converged, forming a living barrier around their true body, sacrificing themselves to absorb the blow. One by one, they vanished in bursts of shadow as Malgrin tore through them.

Only one clone remained, standing directly in Malgrin's path. As Malgrin raised his monstrous claw for the final strike, Phantomblade's voice rang out, a resonant chant of power. "Blessing of Shadow!" A powerful, pulsing wave of shadow energy emanated from Phantomblade, and above him, a titanic, shadowy avatar coalesced, its form shifting and hardening. Phantomblade's body became coated in a living, shadowy armor, his helmet forming into the terrifying, horned visage of an Oni warrior.

Malgrin, for the first time in the fight, recoiled, halting his charge mid-air. He watched, a wide, appreciative smile spreading across his demonic face as Phantomblade finished his awe-inspiring transformation. "Now," he boomed, a challenge ringing through the ravaged landscape, "you are worthy to face me!" Malgrin, not to be outdone, underwent his final transformation, truly leveling up. His form swelled, becoming a grotesque titan of pure chaos, no longer merely semi-human but a true demon. Spikes erupted from his back and limbs, his eyes burned with an infernal light, and the very air around him seemed to warp and consume itself in the sheer density of his chaotic power.

The True Purge

The second phase of the battle began, a monstrous clash of titans. Strategy was abandoned; it was pure, unadulterated brawling. A master swordsman in demonic armor against an embodiment of chaos. They fought with a ferocity that defied reason, neither retreating, facing every earth-shattering blow head-on. The very mountains quaked, rock splintering and dust plumes erupting with every impact. The air became a palpable current of raw force, thick with the acrid ozone of spent magic and the faint tang of scorched earth. Every impact sent a jarring thrum through the ground, vibrating up Malgrin's bones, even as Phantomblade's movements created faint whispers of displaced air, like unseen predators circling.

But even with his formidable new form, Phantomblade was clearly outmatched. Malgrin, in his true demonic state, was simply stronger, faster, and fiercer. Slow but sure, Malgrin's relentless assault chipped away at Phantomblade's shadowy armor, each blow leaving spiderweb cracks in the ethereal plating. Phantomblade's shadow-imbued katana, once pristine, began to show hairline fractures, struggling to withstand the sheer brute force. Malgrin's power wasn't just raw; it was growing, each savage strike fueling his unholy momentum.

Phantomblade knew it. He was weaker. He was losing. But as Malgrin lunged for what might have been a decisive blow, a memory flashed in Phantomblade's mind – the words of his mentor, Haruk, during his second awakening: "A shadow needn't shine too much. It only needs to shine where it matters."

A subtle, knowing smirk touched Phantomblade's lips, almost imperceptible beneath his Oni helmet. "Got Yah!" he breathed, his voice laced with a sudden, chilling confidence that even Malgrin, for all his monstrous power, seemed to notice. The Abyssal hesitated, a flicker of confusion in his demon eyes.

It was the opening.

Beneath Malgrin, the ground itself began to writhe. A pulsating, shadowy "lava" erupted, boiling and seething with oppressive heat and darkness, trying to engulf his legs. "Look down, Abyssal," Phantomblade's voice echoed with cold triumph.

From the swirling depths of the shadow-lava, myriad daggers materialized, shimmering with arcane energy. They weren't just weapons; they formed shimmering chains of pure shadow, twisting and coiling, slowly trying to wrap around Malgrin's colossal form. Ripclaw, a dark blur, darted through the air, throwing shadow daggers that phased through rock and flesh alike. These weren't mere projectiles; they were lingering blades, causing searing internal damage as they pierced and then expanded, or detonating with blinding bursts of shadow if Ripclaw willed it. He even utilized his whirling blades technique, a vortex of lethal shadow traveling with him, corrupting the very air as he phased through the battlefield, ensuring no escape.

High above them, Arkan floated, his hands weaving complex gestures, chanting in a low, resonant language of shadow. As he spoke, dozens of shadowy figures coalesced around him, not clones, but true shades visible to the naked eye. Each shade carried a glowing talisman, attaching themselves to the daggers that now constricted Malgrin.

Behind Malgrin, previously unseen amidst the chaotic energies, Aqua emerged from a ripple in the air. Her voice joined Arkan's, chanting a rapid, liquid shadow incantation. Water, black as pitch, erupted from the very air, swirling around Malgrin, encircling him in a crushing vortex that intensified the daggers' binding.

Below Malgrin, Darktide appeared, his colossal broadsword plunged into the shadowy ground. He was a pillar of pure gravity manipulation, his enhanced shadow abilities creating an invisible, crushing force that pressed down on Malgrin, making it impossible for the demon to move, to even twitch. It was as if a giant, invisible version of Darktide himself was compressing the Abyssal. His usual shockwaves and shadow spikes were amplified, further pinning the struggling Abyssal.

Malgrin roared, thrashing against the burgeoning forces, but it was useless. Each element of the trap clicked into place with horrifying precision. Ripclaw's chains tightened with searing pain, Arkan's shades whispered arcane truths that disoriented his very being, Aqua's shadow-water choked his every breath, and Darktide's gravitational pull rooted him to the spot. He understood then: this wasn't just a powerful attack; it was a perfectly synchronized, unbreakable execution.

Phantomblade's voice, now amplified by his shadow armor, boomed across the desolate peaks. "The Shadowblades do not work solo, Malgrin. This is not just my fight!" All of his remaining shadow clones, which had been holding back, coalesced into a single, massive, serrated sword. "This is our fight!"

Then, Phantomblade moved. He teleported from sword to sword, each flicker of his Oni-armored form accompanied by a devastating strike. "Thousand Shadow Slash!" he roared. It was a rain of a thousand blades, a whirlwind of death cutting through Malgrin. The Abyssal couldn't move, couldn't react. He was caught, utterly helpless, as each strike blew up on impact, tearing vast chunks from his demonic form. The shadow magic seared, burned, and shattered. This was the first time Malgrin had ever felt truly, utterly losing. The strongest Abyssal could do nothing but receive the unending barrage, the immense, agonizing pain.

The relentless assault continued until all the chaotic energy that defined Malgrin began to dissipate. His monstrous form shrunk, collapsing inwards, until only a small, terrified boy remained, devoid of any chaotic aura, staring up with wide, uncomprehending eyes.

Without mercy, the shadowy water from Aqua entered his nostrils, drowning him. He was stabbed by countless daggers, and then a great broadsword, wielded by an unseen force, descended, cutting him in half. Each dagger then exploded, tearing his diminished form apart. Finally, Phantomblade, a living phantom of destruction, phased through him with a final, devastating thousand-slash attack, chopping Malgrin into smithereens, leaving nothing.

Malgrin had no time to react, no time for a final thought of defiance. All he had were fleeting, precious memories of his brothers and sisters, his hand reaching out, clinging to the fading image of his past, his abyssal siblings' faces etched in his mind. "Forgive me... I can't protect you anymore..."

And with that, Malgrin's presence utterly disappeared, his chaos core shattered into non-existence. The very air, once heavy with his power, felt suddenly empty.

The five Shadowblades gathered on the desolate plateau, watching the last vestiges of Malgrin's immense chaos dissipate into nothingness, leaving only scorched earth and a lingering chill. Phantomblade's Oni helmet receded, his face still grim, but his gaze held a quiet, chilling satisfaction.

"Where chaos writhed, a hydra unbound,

Our unified shadows, its cold end found.

No singular blow could pierce the heart of night,

But forged as one, we brought the purging light.

The shadow rose, and evil's reign did cease,

In unity, we claimed the darkened peace."

Ripclaw stared at Phantomblade, his usual intensity replaced by genuine awe. He slowly began to clap, a soft, deliberate sound in the sudden silence. "Whoa," he breathed, "that... that was a good one, boss."

Phantomblade merely turned, his serious gaze sweeping across the vast, empty landscape. "One down," he stated, his voice flat, devoid of emotion beyond grim resolve, "and more to go. We won't stop until all of them are destroyed. Just you wait, Thyranthe."

Miles away, within the opulent yet now somber walls of their hidden stronghold, a collective gasp rippled through the gathered Abyssals. A profound, piercing agony, not physical but of the soul, struck them all simultaneously. Seron, his face paling to an ashen grey, clutched his chest, his eyes widening in disbelief and dawning horror. Lyra, her delicate features twisting in anguish, collapsed to her knees, a silent sob wracking her frame. Every Abyssal present felt the abrupt, brutal severing of a fundamental connection, a psychic link that had pulsed with power and kinship for centuries. Malgrin, the strongest among them, their protector and beloved brother, was gone. The void he left behind was a cold, desolate ache that echoed in the very core of their beings. Their grief, sharp and sudden, mingled with a rising tide of fury.