NOVEL NEXT Chapter 56: Weeding Out
Klaus emerged onto the desolate industrial compound like a force of nature, his restored form exuding a regal menace that made even the cold night tremble.
The rebel forces, having holed up in an abandoned warehouse, scarcely had time to register his presence.
Under a sky smeared with ink and punctuated by distant stars, the warehouse's rusted metal and shattered concrete formed a crude arena for the coming retribution.
Murmurs of fear and defiant whispers twisted through the gathered insurgents; they sensed the change, the doom approaching them.
Klaus strode forward with deliberate grace. Every step was measured, each movement precise, as if performing a dance of catastrophic beauty.
He paused at the doorway of the warehouse, silent, surveying the throng of rebels with eyes that burned not only with fury but with a cold, calculating confidence.
Without warning, Klaus advanced. His first target was a rebel standing near a broken pillar, arm raised in a vain gesture of defiance. In one fluid, merciless motion, Klaus delivered a blow that shattered the man's countenance instantly.
The impact was cataclysmic - a single, well-placed strike that splintered bone and burst the skull, scattering shards of flesh and shattered dreams into the chilly night.
The head exploded with a sickening splatter that seemed almost ritualistic, as if his very existence had been erased by fate's unyielding hand.
As if in macabre succession, Klaus moved on. His fists became instruments of finality. With the precision of a master sculptor carving away imperfections, he pummeled the clustered rebels near a toppled support beam.
One rebel staggered forward, his eyes wide with terror, only to be met with a vicious palm strike that compressed his chest inward like the crushing of a brittle container.
Ribs fractured, his heart was snuffed out in a moment of explosive agony, and his vestiges crumbled into a cascade of red, dissipating into the echo of the blow.
Lucien no matter how many times he saw it, could not help but be in awe of Prince Niklaus's technique - the Fist of Death - one created specifically by Vali for himself, but only taught to the Hybrid, as he was the only one save the King who could perform it due to his unique nature.
A technique where Niklaus forces part of his vampiric soul's energy into the body of the victim by touch, it spreading like a disease through their body, encoding his capability to shift his form into a wolf into a deadly weapon, by shifting their bodies wrong.
The moment you were touched, it was the end, you were already dead.
A truly divine technique.
Not giving his victims even a moment's respite, Klaus pressed on.
A middle-ranked fighter surged, intent on rallying his men. With a pitch-perfect lateral kick, Klaus drove his boot into the rebel's flank.
The force was such that the impact obliterated his abdominal cavity; organs burst outward in a display of raw, unadulterated destruction.
The rebel's cries of pain turned to choking silence as his body collapsed, disintegrating into a mass of torn sinew and spilled blood upon the cold concrete floor.
As the melee escalated inside the warehouse, every strike Klaus delivered bore the unstoppable weight. A rebel attempting to flee was intercepted by a swift jab that caused his limbs to splinter with the intensity of the hit.
In one unforgettable moment, a brutal slap sent another insurgent reeling backward; his head seemingly caved in with a violent crunch, leaving a gruesome crater upon impact.
The rebels, who had once been confident in their makeshift defenses, now found themselves crumbling under the onslaught.
Some tried to form ranks, shouting desperate orders, yet even these attempts were silenced as Klaus's strikes began to overlap, leaving no room for reprieve.
A particularly defiant fighter charged with a shattered pipe, but Klaus caught him mid-lunge; one brutal uppercut sent the man soaring, and his head detonated in a burst that scattered bone like autumn leaves across the rain-slick pavement.
With every calculated strike, Klaus not only obliterated his enemy's corporeal form but seemed to erase their very essence.
A rebel's heart was crushed so completely that his blood spurted upwards in a slow-motion arc, a final testament to the wrath poured into that single blow.
Another rebel's chest splintered inward under a forceful punch, the sound of breaking bone mingling with a guttural gasp of finality.
Throughout the carnage, time itself seemed to distort.
Each motion, each impact, reverberated with an almost musical cadence - an eerie symphony composed of destruction and the finality of death.
There was a horrifying beauty in Klaus's movements, a dark artistry in the way he wielded the Fist of Death.
Standing amidst the ruin, Klaus paused - the final reverberation of each strike still audible in the silence of the aftermath.
In that moment, his eyes, dark and inscrutable, swept over the devastated scene with a cold satisfaction, as if proclaiming that no rebel, no force of dissidence, could ever escape the decree of his will.
Lucien's hands clapped sharply in the dim light as he surveyed the ruin. "Magnificent!" he declared, his voice low yet full of awe. "Every strike - an irrevocable sentence."
Klaus paused amid the carnage, his dark eyes glinting with cold satisfaction. "A decree," he replied, "etched by my brother's very will. Let it be known that resistance is futile."
From the shattered remnants of the warehouse came scattered curses and desperate commands of those yet temporarily alive.
"Retreat! Fall back!" a rebel cried, only to be silenced by a previous blow's effect taking place turning his balding head to ash.
Lucien stepped from the shadows, his tone brisk yet reverent: "The Fist of Death - that divine technique the King bestowed upon you - is destiny incarnate. Each strike erases dissent without mercy."
Klaus's lip curled in a wry smile. "What can I say, my very touch gifts death."
A final remnant of defiant resistance attempted to rally his comrades, but his plea dissolved when Klaus's previous poke came into effect and exploded his arm causing his blood to spurt in a silent fountain.
Lucien's voice cut through the oppressive silence, calm yet potent: "They're all the same the lot of them. Fools who defy the King, when it is only his existence that keeps vampire kind alive and not routed to oblivion at the hands of the Guardians."
"Well, there is still me," Klaus retorted with a smirk as he knelt down and took out the Rebel leader's token - one the Rebel alliance bestowed upon each branch leader.
Lucien rolled his eyes, "Always have to give your two cents, Nik?"
"Would I be me, if I did not?" Klaus retorted
"I suppose not. Now, I believe we have weeded out the last known base, it is best we leave for New Orleans soon. We don't wish to be rude by arriving after the King, do we now?"
Niklaus hummed to himself in agreement, and then, after a moment of silence, he activated the token - a relic of communication and sent a message directly to the rebels leaders.
"Rebels, heed my decree. I am Klaus Mikaelson, and know this: resistance is a futile illusion. Our enemies have been culled; your opposition is but noise.
By my eternal will, let every defiant heart learn that our power is absolute and our purpose unyielding.
Stand aside, for the dominion of the King is ordained in blood and stone. Your scattered hopes may crumble, but under my word, unity and destiny prevail.
Prepare for departure to New Orleans. There you will be bestowed your chance to submit.
For if you do not, know this, the King will henceforth directly bring down the lightning and deafen you all with the thunder of his wrath."
After finishing his words, the Hybrid crushed the device in his hands and turned to Lucien with a smug smirk.
"Tell me, how did you find that? It most definitely has stricken their hearts now with ever present fear."
Lucien as he picked up a fallen, yet unbroken bottle of red wine, went to the table and poured them in two clean, unused glasses, said: "A bit dramatic, but fitting enough. I'd give it a 7 out of 10."
"A seven?" Klaus questioned, offended, and then scoffed, "I suppose its my fault to expect better judgement from you. You have no sense of poetry."
"I don't know," Lucien began with a smirk, "Freya would tell you the opposite."
"Well, as the saying goes, love blinds and deafens the sight and hearing."
"Of course you would say that," Lucien stated with a chuckle as he walked towards Klaus and handed him, his glass, "Aurora has been recently critisicing your artistic choices after all."
With a final clink, they both drank, their laughters soon after echoing through the graveyard surrounding them.
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(Author note: Hello everyone! I hope you all enjoyed the chapter! Do tell me how you found it?
What do you think of Klaus's technique?
Though before anything, do understand Elijah also has his own thing, which I won't spoil.
So yeah, I am interested to read your comments and reviews.
I hope to see you all later,
Bye!)