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

The battle raged on, the clash between the two Lords of Linemall reaching new and more dangerous heights.

For the first time since their duel began, Lukas found himself wholly on the defensive, forced back inch by inch as the Dragon Lord of the Flames unveiled the full extent of his power.

Rysenth had never fought with these weapons before nor with the armor he had now equipped; he had never appeared so unrelenting and unstoppable. Now, with this sword, that shield and the armor that encased him in bronze, Rysenth was somehow stronger than he had been throughout this fight.

Now, the Dragon Lord of the Flames was truly a force honed to perfection and brought to bear without hesitation.

The bronze armor that encased Rysenth from head to toe gleamed beneath the bright light of the fiery sun. At first glance it might have appeared ceremonial, crafted more for display than for war but it revealed its true nature in motion. Those boots with its feathered wings had granted Rysenth flight while still maintaining that form of his. More than that, the armor seemed to harness momentum itself, allowing him to accelerate to levels of speed the Dragon Lord of the Flames had never been able to achieve thus far in this fight. Every step and every lunge, built upon the one before, propelling him forward in a torrent of speed that Lukas struggled to match. Where before Lukas had been able to keep Rysenth at bay, now his enemy bore down on him relentlessly, each second shrinking the distance between them.

It would not be long until retreat soon became impossible.

Then there was the shield. Lukas had seen shields before, but never one like this.

Its surface shone like crystal, clear as glass yet radiant with an inner hardness that mocked fragility. Strikes, spells, even elemental fury—all were turned aside the moment they touched it. The shield acted like a perfect mirror, sending back whatever force dared strike its face. It was as if the world itself recoiled from it, and in Rysenth's hand it was not merely a defense, but a promise: any who dared to strike the Dragon Lord of the Flames would find their power reflected back upon themselves.

Yet what unsettled Lukas most was not the armor or the shield, but the sword that Rysenth gripped tightly in his right hand.

Forged with a precision and intent that only a mind like Rysenth's could devise, it was a weapon unlike any other Lukas had encountered. It did not rend flesh or shatter stone with destructive force, but it carried a subtler and a much more insidious power. The moment Lukas attempted to call upon his magic, the sword negated it. Spells unraveled at its edge, dissolved into nothingness before they could reach the Dragon Lord of the Flames.

The Divinity of the Seas, Lukas' most powerful weapon, faltered when it drew near.

In that sphere of influence surrounding the blade, Lukas' magic simply ceased to exist.

That blade and its magical property reminded Lukas of the Ittriki Clan's dreaded Divinity of Dissection, a technique so absolute that it could carve apart magic itself, severing it as if it were no more than flesh and bone. To face such a power was akin to meeting death head on. Rysenth's sword was not quite the same—it did not slice magic apart—but it achieved something equally terrifying: it rendered magic irrelevant.

Within that space that surrounded Rysenth and the blade he carried, Lukas was stripped bare, denied the very foundation of his strength. And Rysenth wielded the blade with complete mastery. Just moments before just like he had fought with his spear, and now, with equal grace and ferocity, Rysenth turned this sword into an extension of his will. Each strike came with precision, Rysenth's movements fearless and unhesitating, as though his enemy was certain that Lukas could offer no resistance strong enough to break through.

To engage Rysenth in close quarters combat while blind to the full measure of his creations' limits was suicide.

Lukas' instincts screamed caution whenever Rysenth came too close.

But there was always a weakness, always a flaw, no matter how invincible one appeared to be. Lukas knew that and it was that truth that acted as the only thread of hope he could cling to now.

If Lukas could not yet see it, then he would have to probe, test and endure until he discovered the cracks in their perfection.

But the relentless pursuit of Rysenth Ishtar gave him little time. Each passing moment brought Rysenth closer, his momentum building, his blade ever hungering for another spell to unmake.

The battlefield had shifted. The hunt had been reversed. And for the first time during this Rite of Talons, Lukas had become Rysenth's prey.

The crowd strained to follow the battle, their eyes darting from one flash of motion to the next until most could no longer keep track. To the untrained eye, this battle playing out before their eyes was little more than a blur of bronze and blue, steel and scale colliding at speeds beyond their comprehension. Only those seasoned in war—fighters who had lived through battles just as fierce as the one taking place below in the arena, like Erandyl and perhaps a select few of the other Elders—could begin to comprehend the exchange unfolding before them.

For everyone else, it was as though two forces of nature had broken free of the earth and they would just have to wait which was the more dominant force.

Rysenth's speed had become unrelenting, each stride of his winged boots building upon the last, his momentum multiplying until he seemed more a streak of bronze and fire than a man. The Dragon Lord of the Flames pursued Lukas with vengeance, every motion carrying the weight of inevitability.

And yet, Lukas did not stand still to meet him.

Lukas shifted, body stretching and scales glinting, his full draconic form unfurling into the arena air. His wings spread wide, flapping furiously as they caught the currents, every beat answering the relentless chase. The serpentine length of his body coiled and curved through the sky with unnatural fluidity, as though water itself had taken shape in the body of a dragon. Despite his size, Lukas moved with an elegance that defied reason, gliding and weaving, forever just ahead of his pursuer.

All the while, the seas answered his will. Water surged around Lukas in living tides, constructs of liquid and form surging outward in a storm of defenses and counters. They shot toward Rysenth from every angle—walls of crashing waves, serpents of flowing tide, weapons carved from the very essence of the ocean.

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But the Dragon Lord of the Flames pressed forward, shield flashing, sword gleaming.

The water could not touch him no matter how hard Lukas tried.

Round and round they circled the arena, neither yielding, neither resting.

Minutes stretched into eternity as the audience's gasps filled the silence between each thunderous collision.

Lukas could feel the strain now—the burn in his muscles, the ache spreading down his wings with each frantic beat, his heart pounding like a war drum inside his chest.

His eyes, however, remained sharp, locked on his foe.

Lukas was not simply fleeing from Rysenth's grasp, he was not delaying the inevitable.

Lukas was watching, studying and searching. He was searching for the right opportunity to strike.

With each construct of water he sent forth, a pattern began to reveal itself.

The moment a spear of hardened water neared Rysenth, its form faltered. Solidity bled away, as though the water itself forgot its shape, slipping back toward formlessness. And it was only then when Lukas lost control entirely.

Again and again it happened, the power unraveling in precise sequence.

First the firmness, then his tether, until the water simply fell uselessly to the ground.

But he had to be sure.

So Lukas heated his constructs to blistering levels, a scalding tide meant to sear flesh and metal alike. As it neared Rysenth, the heat was the first thing to vanish. The boiling edge dulled instantly, leaving only lukewarm liquid. Then the form of those constructs itself began to dissipate, and finally, his hold eventually slipped away.

To the crowd, it seemed Lukas was wasting his strength, casting futile attacks against an enemy who could not be touched by magic. Whispers rippled through the stands, voices hushed yet heavy with certainty.

It was inevitable, they thought.

The moment Rysenth finally closed the distance between them, the fight would be finished. The Dragon Lord of the Flames would stand triumphant, the victor of the Rite of Talons, like he had so many times before

But Lukas' eyes told a different story.

He had seen it.

At last, Lukas had found it—the flaw in the design, the weakness in the perfect weapon Rysenth wielded. The blade could not unmake everything all at once. Its power followed an order, a sequence, stripping one aspect of his magic at a time.

First the qualities imbued. Then the form. Only at the end did his control falter.

Rysenth's blade was a weapon of terrifying design, imbued with the power to unravel Lukas' magic or any magic that neared its sharp edge. Yet, for all its dread, it was not without its flaw. It did not strip away all spells at once. Rather, there was a rhythm to its undoing—a buffer, a small but crucial pause before it could dispel the next enchantment.

That was why Lukas' water constructs did not collapse instantly. Each time they neared the Dragon Lord of the Flames, their qualities faltered in sequence: heat fading, solidity crumbling and control slipping last of all.

That fraction of a second between each sequence was an opening.

The sword was not alone in its imperfection.

The shield, that flawless mirror which could reflect any attack, bore a similar truth to the blade Rysenth wielded. Though it returned strikes with perfect symmetry, it too required a moment before it could turn aside the next; single heartbeat and no more than that.

The armor, marvelous in its ability to harness momentum, carried with it the greatest weakness of all—it could not stop on a dime. Once Rysenth had built up towards terrifying levels of speed, he was an unstoppable inferno given form, but one that could not simply halt its own fury.

Taken alone, these flaws were negligible, drowned in the overwhelming might of Rysenth's arsenal.

But put together?

It was subtle and it was narrow but that split second was there. And that split second was all Lukas needed.

They offered Lukas a single chance.

It gave him one perfect opportunity to end this duel.

The moment came as Rysenth surged forward, his speed reaching a feverish pitch, bronze boots winged with fire and fury.

Lukas twisted suddenly, his serpentine body coiling through the air before contracting, shrinking, bones reshaping and wings collapsing. In a heartbeat the Dragon Lord of the Seas shed his full draconic form, taking on his humanoid form, halting mid-air to face Rysenth head-on.

Their eyes met.

Both of their eyes burned with certainty and within them came the absolute confidence of victory.

Lukas cast another construct of water.

To the onlookers, it appeared to be another futile gesture, no different from the dozens before it.

To Rysenth, it was nothing more than a last, desperate plea for survival. The Dragon Lord of the Flames did not even slow. Why would he? The construct would unravel before it ever touched him.

In Rysenth's mind, Lukas had made a fatal error.

But Rysenth was wrong.

At the precise instant the water lost its shape, Lukas bent its trajectory, hurling it straight toward the narrow gap in Rysenth's helmet where his eyes gleamed. It was a trick as old as time itself—nothing more than a splash of water to the face—but timing was everything. Only if Rosalia was here to see this now. The liquid struck, blinding and stinging his enemy's eyes. Rysenth's instincts flared, his shield snapping up reflexively even as he thundered forward, momentum carrying him straight into Lukas' waiting strike.

Because Lukas had not stopped in surrender.

He had stopped in preparation.

The seas surged beneath him, propelling him forward with violent force, closing the gap between them instead of widening it.

Lukas drove his fist forward, straight into the glasslike shield that had turned aside every attack thus far.

It was madness. It was suicide! Yet Lukas had been waiting for this moment. Because Rysenth had revealed every card in his deck, he had put everything out onto the table as he should have, for this was a fight with their lives on the line.

But Lukas Drakos had not.

He still had one last card up his sleeve.

The fist struck the shield, and as always, the force reflected back upon him.

But Lukas had been perhaps one of the very few souls to have ever passed the Trials of Kairos Castle.

Lukas bore not only the Robes, but the Mantle of the Lords. It was a blessing that Styx had granted him just before he returned to land of the living. And with that blessing came the power of Single Reflection.The power granted him one chance to turn back what was cast against him.

This was that chance.

The moment the shield's force snapped back, the Mantle answered, sending the attack hurtling outward again—but now doubled, magnified with twice the destructive might. Rysenth had never expected this. The creations the Dragon Lord of the Flames trusted most had become the means of his undoing.

This was...the perfect counter.