Chapter 342: Dance of Flame and Shadow
Date: August 21, 542 After the Fall of Zanra the Dishonorable
Wrath attacked first.
He did not run—he simply appeared in the center of the mass of spirits, his enormous body shaking the earth with every step. The greatsword in his hand swung upward, and from the blade erupted a wave of lava—searing, liquid, it spread across the waste, annihilating everything in its path. The spirits caught in it evaporated with mournful, drawn-out wails, their spectral bodies flaring up and dying out like candles in the wind. Those who managed to retreat scattered, losing their last shreds of coordination.
Wrath gave them no time to regroup. He charged into the thick of them, and his greatsword, huge and heavy, traced a wide arc, cleaving three spirits with a single blow. Jets of lava burst from the blade, burning through enemy ranks, leaving behind scorched earth and clouds of ash. Every swing, every thrust was lethal, and the spirits trying to surround him crumbled to dust the moment they drew near.
Wrath used no complex techniques. He was the embodiment of raw, unbridled power. His strikes were heavy, devastating, each one making the ground shudder. From his mouth, when he opened it, spewed streams of lava that burned through enemy lines, leaving charred furrows behind. He did not defend—he annihilated.
Kazai stood on a small rise, on a pile of rubble, watching. His face was calm, but inside, energy churned—he felt every movement of his spirits, every blow, every flash. His Vessel, expanded and fortified by years of training and battle, pulsed in time with his heart, and energy flowed through his channels, fueling Wrath and Pride.
But Wrath was dangerous. His might required control, and if Kazai lost concentration, Wrath could burn everything around him, indiscriminately. Kazai did not lose concentration. He stood motionless, and his eyes, pale and almost transparent, tracked every move.
Pride operated differently. He did not throw himself into the fray—he hovered above the battlefield, his cloak billowing behind him, his paired blades moving with an unnerving lightness, almost invisible to the eye. Every swing, every thrust found its mark, and the spirits he touched did not crumble to dust—they froze. And then, obeying his will, they turned and began attacking their former brethren.
This was Pride's ability—"Dominion over the Dead." Kazai felt how his strength spread across the battlefield, how he found the weak, the vulnerable, those who could not resist. One Warrior-spirit, two, three—their ranks grew with every moment. Pride did not waste energy on destruction—he subdued, turning enemies into his own weapon.
"Don't get carried away," Kazai said quietly, addressing Pride. "We need to destroy them, not raise an army. We don't know what lies ahead. Don't waste energy on those who won't be of use."
Pride didn't answer—he never answered. But he obeyed. His subjugated spirits surged into the attack, and the battlefield descended into chaos.
Wrath crushed enemies in the center. His greatsword sang its bloody song, and waves of lava erupted from the blade, burning through the spirit ranks, leaving scorched furrows in their wake. He did not dodge, did not defend—he simply destroyed, and his fury seemed to know no bounds.
Pride hovered above the field, his blades, two silvery edges, never missing their mark. Where he passed, enemies froze, then began fighting one another. He was cold, calculating, and deadly—the perfect opposite of Wrath.
Kazai watched this dance of flame and shadow, and in his chest stirred a strange, almost forgotten feeling. Satisfaction. His Spirits of Sin were working in perfect balance, complementing each other, and together they were a force capable of crushing any army.
But there were so many spirits. So very many. They crawled out of the ruins, out of the fissures, out of the mist itself, and their ranks did not thin. Every time Wrath incinerated a dozen, two more took their place. Every time Pride subdued one, three others attacked him from behind.
Kazai frowned. This couldn't go on forever. His energy reserves were vast, but not infinite. If the spirits didn't end, he would be the first to exhaust himself. A change of tactics was needed.
"Wrath!" he shouted, and his voice carried over the battlefield, drowning out the moans and wails of the spirits. "To the center! Burn them all! Spare no strength!"
Wrath let out a roar—low, guttural—and his body blazed brighter. His greatsword rose overhead, and from the blade burst a wave of lava that spread across the waste, destroying everything in its path. The spirits caught in it evaporated before they could even scream. Kazai felt his energy beginning to drain rapidly, but he did not stop Wrath.
Pride, seeing the main threat eliminated, withdrew. He had subjugated the strongest spirits, those who could be of use, and left the rest to Wrath. A dozen Pillars under his control fought the enemies, and their strength, though not comparable to what it had been in life, was still dangerous.
The battle lasted another hour or so. When the last spirit crumbled to dust, the waste was scorched bare. The earth lay covered in a layer of ash, the air reeked of soot and sulfur, and only the rare wisps of fog reminded one that this had once been a place of power.
Wrath, exhausted, dissolved into the air, returning to Kazai's Vessel. His crimson glow faded, and only a faint warmth radiated for a few more seconds from the scorched ground. Pride followed him, cutting down the handful of remaining subjugated spirits.
Behind them, only ash, scorched earth, and silence remained. Kazai walked forward, his steps firm and confident. In the ruins visible ahead, what he had set out on this journey for awaited him. Or death. Or power. Or the answers he had sought his entire life.
He didn't know. But he knew he had to keep moving.