The Lord of the Seas - An Isekai Progression Fantasy [ Currently on Volume 2 ]

Rysenth's assault showed no signs of slowing. The spear in his hands, with its wicked hooked blade, cut through the air as if it were a natural extension of his body. Every strike carried lethal intent, every movement flowed with practiced precision.

Unlike the Divine Knight of the Church, whose overwhelming might came from her Divinity of Life, Rysenth's mastery had been forged through skill alone. There was no magic guiding the spear's arc, no divine blessing strengthening his hand—only the relentless honing of talent and discipline. Lukas could see it in every flick of Rysenth's wrist, the torque in his shoulders as he channeled raw force into the weapon, the way he blended motion and momentum into a seamless rhythm.

Paired with the devastating grenades he hurled, capable of imploding with catastrophic force, Rysenth was unlike any foe Lukas had faced in the living realm.

And yet, the further the battle stretched, the clearer the truth became.

For all Rysenth's strength, for all his skill, the gap between them only widened when their Divinities came into play.

With the Divinity of the Seas at his command, Lukas moved on a level far beyond Rysenth's reach. Not a single strike landed, not a single explosion came close. Every thrust of the spear was redirected or blunted, every grenade swallowed by the fluid constructs Lukas conjured into being.

The arena shook beneath the implosions, but the Earthborn reinforced it tirelessly, mending stone and steel with unyielding diligence. The battlefield refused to collapse, no matter how Rysenth and Lukas sought to tear it apart.

Still, what unsettled Lukas was not the danger before him but the thought gnawing at the edges of his mind.

Each grenade, strange and terrible in its design, hinted at a deeper truth. They were proof—perhaps undeniable—that it was the Dragon Lord of the Flames who had been behind that attack. And if that was true, Lukas could never forgive Rysenth for trying to hurt two of the people he loved most in all of Hiraeth.

But why did it feel so wrong? Why did every piece of evidence fail to fit as neatly as it should?

No.

The real question was why did every piece of evidence fit so well?

His unease deepened even as the waves swept aside another barrage.

Rysenth lunged suddenly, the spear twisting through the currents with sudden ferocity. For the first time, it slipped past Lukas' defenses. The hooked blade swept around his form, cutting through what would have been his body had he not transformed into water itself.

In that fleeting brush with danger, clarity struck Lukas like a blow. Erandyl had been right. The doubts and fears clawing at his thoughts, the threads of conspiracy Lukas tried to weave together, had no place here. If Lukas allowed his mind to wander into the world beyond this arena, if he let the weight of unanswered questions dictate his focus, Rysenth would find the opening he sought.

This was the truth of the battle: it was not merely about strength, nor about Divinities, but about presence.

And Lukas could not afford to be anywhere else but here.

Rysenth's eyes widened as the body of water that was Lukas Drakos surged forward through the air.

Never before had the Dragon Lord of Flames encountered a power like this.

The Divinity of the Seas was unlike any other—vast, unrelenting, and untouchable. Every attack Rysenth threw at the watery mass slipped uselessly through it, each strike failing to connect, each explosive grenade swallowed or swept aside.

And then, before Rysenth himself could fully react, the water condensed, reforming into flesh and bone and Lukas was standing right before him. The fist came quick, a brutal right hook from Lukas crashed against Rysenth's jaw, the force behind it enough to knock the spear from his grip. The impact rattled Rysenth through his frame, sending his opponent staggering backward despite his larger size and natural strength.

Lukas pressed forward mercilessly, he would not allow this opportunity to slip out his grasp.

A construct of water solidified behind Rysenth, shaped like a powerful leg and it struck with precision. The kick smashed into his back, driving him forward into the path of another strike. Lukas' left hook followed, hammering against Rysenth's face and sending the Dragon Lord of the Flames tumbling to the ground.

For a fleeting heartbeat, silence hung over the arena.

This was the end.

Lukas could finish it now.

The seas gathered at his command, swirling with frightening speed and condensing into the shape of a massive blade. Its surface gleamed under the light, the weapon a towering executioner's sword of living water.

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Lukas raised it high, intent on piercing Rysenth where he lay.

Victory was within reach.

But Rysenth was not finished.

Desperation fueled the Dragon Lord of the Flames as Rysenth lunged, reaching into the strange portal that had followed him since the fight began—a dark, swirling presence that seemed almost alive. His hand disappeared into it, and in the instant before the water blade fell, he pulled free a shield.

The strike landed.

Instead of flesh and blood, the colossal water blade crashed against the gleaming surface of the shield. For a moment it seemed to shatter the defense—but then something impossible happened. A phantom echo of the blade erupted from the shield itself, as though the weapon's very essence had been mirrored and reflected back.

Lukas' construct dissolved, splintering apart and breaking up into mist.

When Rysenth rose, what he held in his hands glowed strangely in the light.

It was beautiful, but unsettling—a shield made of what looked like glass, fragile yet unyielding.

Lukas' eyes narrowed as realization dawned.

It was glass. And not just glass, but something more.

The shield was a mirror, in both form and function, reflecting not the light but the force of the very attack it endured. It had turned Lukas' strike back upon itself.

For the first time, the onlookers of this Rite of Talons understood the truth of this battle. Titles and reputation meant little here. Rysenth Ishtar was not the predator in this battle. For the first time, the Dragon Lord of the Flames was prey and Lukas Drakos was the one hunting him down. And if Rysenth had any hope of surviving, he would need to unleash every last weapon and every last secret at his disposal.

But Lukas would not relent.

If one blade could be reflected by that shield of Rysenth's, then Lukas would summon a hundred. The air around them churned, water rising into countless razor-sharp forms, each blade pointed directly at the Dragon Lord of Flames. It was a spectacle of pure, unrestrained power—a storm of blade and sea, magic and might—unlike anything Linemall had witnessed since Rodan Drakos, someone who had been Rysenth's only rival when it came to the title as the strongest.

Despite the storm of blades Lukas had conjured and hurled toward the Dragon Lord of the Flames, there was no fear in his opponent's eyes. Rysenth's face bore no trace of desperation, not like the moment when he had pulled the glass-like shield from the swirling portal that followed him. That had been desperation borne out of the need to survive. But now, there was something different about Rysenth as the sea of swords flowed towards him.

There was a calmness. A certainty. And only after Rysenth's hand had reached once more into that purple portal of his, Lukas understood why.

The weapon Rysenth drew from his gallery did not glitter with divine radiance, nor did it exude the overwhelming pressure of ancient relics.

It looked, at first glance, like a simple sword. it was still forged with the same masterful craftsmanship as every weapon Rysenth had wielded thus far but its true purpose revealed itself the instant Lukas' water constructs closed in. As the countless blades of water descended, their edges shimmered—then dissolved. The sharp constructs unraveled mid-flight, collapsing into formless waves that crashed uselessly against Rysenth's frame.

Lukas took in a sharp breath.

The sword had undone his magic. The water itself still fell, but its shape, its solidity, its spellbound sharpness—all had been stripped away as though his will meant nothing within that radius.

A bitter realization cut through Lukas' thoughts.

The Divinity of the Seas and his mastery over it was unmatched, but even so, this blade had severed his control the moment Lukas' constructs came near that blade. It had unraveled the spells that he had cast. And water alone could not harm Rysenth. Just as flames could never scorch Lukas, so too was Rysenth immune to all forms of elemental magic. Rysenth was a Lord of Linemall, armored in his heritage, clothed in the Robes that he had inherited. Against such a foundation, the raw nature of Lukas' Divinity was meaningless.

Lukas had to summon his magic anew, drawing his Divinity back to him and pulling the loose waves away from his opponent's proximity. But even as he did, Rysenth's eyes were locked on him with blazing intent.

The time for hesitation was gone.

Rysenth planted the unraveling sword into the arena's stone floor with a deliberate motion, and once more extended his open hand toward the portal that trailed him. It pulsed in response, as if alive and obedient, and from its depths shot forth pieces of bronze armor. They wrapped around Rysenth's body with a fluid grace, locking into place as though they had always belonged to him. Piece by piece, he was transformed: helm, gauntlets, breastplate, greaves.

The armor shone bright beneath the sun, radiant with a both a blacksmith's and a warrior's pride.

At his boots, feathered wings unfurled. They beat once, then again, and in a rush of air, Rysenth lifted from the ground.

Now armored, armed with shield and blade, and carried aloft by wings of bronze, the Dragon Lord of Flames truly resembled the legend his title carried.

Lukas steadied himself, his own Divinity churning within him. He could feel the swell of the seas at his command, answering his call as the arena trembled with the weight of their power.

Both combatants knew it.

The Rite of Talons had reached its climax.

The victor would be decided not by reputation or legacy, but by this final clash and the moments that followed it.

Rysenth raised his shield, gripping the sword tighter than ever, wings carrying him higher into the sky.

Lukas summoned the storm within, waters coiling and raging around him. And then, with a roar that shook the very air on both sides, they hurled themselves at one another—Dragon Lord against Dragon Lord, sword and shield against the living embodiment of the Seas itself, to decide who would emerge as the true victor of the Rite of Talons.