Chương 59: Song of the Gods

The blazing fist flew straight at the Swordsman, but as always, he remained perfectly calm. He dodged the blow again with a slight tilt of his head, the heat from the passing fist briefly scorching the air around him, making a few strands of his dark blue hair crackle faintly. The Fire Man had no intention of stopping. He leapt around the Swordsman, landing punches and kicks one after another — fast, furious, leaving blurred streaks of flame in the air behind them, like the tails of falling comets.

Every movement was accompanied by the roar of fire, and the heat radiating off his body made the white void around them shimmer, as though the air itself trembled from the scorching warmth. But it was all in vain. The Swordsman kept dodging, shifting his frame with barely perceptible movements, or simply letting the blows land on his arm — an arm that showed not even a hint of a burn, as if his opponent's fire were no more dangerous than a light draft.

Every failed strike from the Fire Man was accompanied by a sharp hiss of air and a flash of light, and the white void around them kept lighting up with anxious orange glow, then fading again into its former pale stillness. The watching crowd instinctively squinted at each flash — some shielded their eyes, others took another step back, even though the distance was already considerable.

The Fire Man dropped to one knee, gasping greedily for air — his chest heaving, the flames on his shoulders flickering lower, as though his strength were running out, like a bonfire no longer being fed. The sweat on his face evaporated before it could even trickle down, hissing away in tiny wisps of steam.

He glared at the Swordsman with a look full of hatred and desperation, but the man wasn't even looking his way — as if his opponent had long since stopped being worth any interest at all, his eyes drifting lazily over the crowd instead, as though already searching out his next target.

The Fire Man screamed — hoarse, ragged, tinged with a last, desperate resolve — and, straining every muscle in his body, forced his leg to burst into even fiercer, brighter flame, so intense that the heat reached even the spectators standing several meters away, some of them instinctively recoiling, shielding their faces with their arms.

He leapt and spun through the air, leaving a spiraling trail of fire behind him, his burning leg driving straight toward the Swordsman, punctuated by his own wild scream that tore through the tense silence. — Take this, you bastard! The kick struck the Swordsman, and the force of the impact was so immense that it triggered an entire wave of flame, briefly swallowing both figures whole, shooting upward in a towering column of fire.

A blinding orange light flared in Lloyd's eyes, reflected across the white void in dozens of scattered flashes, as if a hall of mirrors had all ignited at once. A single collective gasp rippled through the crowd — whether of amazement or hope, it was hard to tell.

"Did it actually work?" The wave of fire receded as quickly as it had appeared, leaving behind only a trembling shimmer of heated air. At its center stood the Fire Man, balancing on one leg — the other still extended toward the Swordsman, frozen in midair, faint smoke still curling off the sole of his foot.

The Swordsman, for his part, simply held that leg with one hand, as though he'd caught a thrown ball rather than a blazing limb, and not a single scratch marked his body, not a trace of a burn — even the sleeve of his puffer jacket remained perfectly intact. He kept standing there just as unbothered as ever, as though his opponent's fire had been nothing more than a warm breeze brushing past his face on a hot summer day.

Then the Swordsman spoke quietly, almost without inflection, a faint trace of disappointment barely detectable in his voice. — Not a bad attempt. He grabbed the Fire Man by the leg and slammed his body into the invisible floor with a crash, the impact echoing through the white void in a deep, rolling boom that rolled off into infinity. Then he did it again, and again — each impact growing heavier, more merciless, as though he were beating dust out of an old rug rather than a living person.

The Fire Man no longer made a sound, just a faint wheeze, the flames on his body slowly dying out, leaving behind charred, smoldering edges of clothing. When he could no longer resist, going limp in the Swordsman's grip, the man simply hurled the body dozens of meters forward, and it landed with a dull thud right at Lloyd's feet, kicking up invisible dust and making several nearby Players flinch backward. If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

Lloyd looked down at the unconscious body of the Fire Man — at the smoldering, dying flames still flickering faintly across his skin in scattered sparks — then slowly lifted his gaze to the Swordsman. The man was staring straight into Lloyd's soul with a vicious, piercing look that sent a chill down his spine, an unpleasant, clinging sensation spreading across his skin, as though he were being sized up not as a person but as a piece of meat on a butcher's table.

"What does he want from me? I already passed the first stage. Does he think I'm suicidal or something." Suddenly the Swordsman's eyebrows lifted slightly — he was looking at something behind Lloyd. Before Lloyd could even turn around, a light, barely perceptible breeze swept past him, carrying a scent that was fresh, almost floral — a completely foreign smell in this sterile, featureless void — and something appeared beside him that made Lloyd's breath catch in his throat.

The stranger was dressed in expensive white garments, both close-fitting and loose at once, allowing for easy movement in battle — the fabric rippled with every motion, as if woven from air itself, from mist frozen solid in the cold. At his waist hung a sword covered in unfamiliar characters, glowing faintly with a greenish light, like the glow of will-o'-the-wisps over a marsh.

Long green hair cascaded down over the stranger's clothes, reaching almost to his hips, shimmering with every slight movement, as though woven from living leaves. His long, pointed ears and an otherworldly beauty, almost unsettling in its perfection, stood out too sharply, leaving no doubt that this was no human standing before Lloyd. His blue eyes, like a boundless, clear sky, gazed steadily at the Swordsman with a cold composure that held not a trace of fear.

He approached with slow, graceful steps, and each one seemed to make no sound at all, as if he were walking not on an invisible floor but on air itself. Even Lloyd, who had lived in this new world for only a year, knew exactly who stood before him, and the realization left his throat suddenly dry.

"No way, is that..." But then the Swordsman let out a short chuckle, laced with genuine surprise, as though he found the whole situation almost amusing. — As far as I remember, you're not among the eliminated. The impossibly beautiful being spoke those words in the most gentle, most beautiful voice Lloyd had ever heard.

That voice, though it belonged to a man, was enchanting to an almost unnatural degree — like a flute charming snakes, capable of captivating anyone who dared to listen for even a moment, making them forget everything happening around them. — I know. The Swordsman tilted his head in response, clearly signaling that the answer hadn't satisfied him, and that he wanted to hear more. — Then why the hell would an Elf help these weaklings?

The Elf, in turn, began slowly drawing his sword from its sheath — the motion smooth, almost ceremonial, as though performing some ancient ritual honed over centuries. His blade turned out to be the most beautiful thing Lloyd had ever seen in his life: slender, elegant, as though forged not by a blacksmith but by nature itself — its curves bending like the stem of a plant reaching toward the sun.

The blade too was covered in those same unfamiliar characters, which slowly began to glow with green light, filling the air with a faint, barely audible hum, like the whisper of a distant forest. — Injustice. That's what I hate most in this world. For the sake of justice, I'm willing to help even the most contemptible of people. The Swordsman answered with a wide grin, baring teeth far too sharp for an ordinary man, and in that smile flickered something genuinely predatory, full of anticipation. — So be it.

He aimed his sword — sheathed in blue, etched with intricate silver patterns — directly at the Elf, and there was not a trace of his usual lazy carelessness in the gesture. For the first time, his posture straightened, his shoulders squared, as though he had finally met an opponent worthy of his full attention. — Attack.

The Elf drew his sword fully from its sheath, and the blade blazed with brilliant emerald light, sending gentle waves of wind rippling across the white void, stirring the hair of everyone standing nearby, Lloyd included. The Elf settled into a stance — fluid, without a single wasted motion, every muscle in his body flowing into position as though on its own — and his gaze, calm and almost serene a moment before, instantly sharpened into something fierce, as keen as the edge of his own blade.

The emerald glow of the sword reflected in his blue eyes, lending them an inhuman, almost otherworldly gleam. The entire crowd fell silent, holding its breath — even those who had been whispering and murmuring moments before now stood mute, as though sensing they were about to witness something on an entirely different level than anything that had come before.

A light breeze brushed against a strand of Lloyd's hair, and in that same instant the Elf shot forward at blinding speed, crashing into the Swordsman with a force that seemed to make the white void itself shudder for a moment, a nearly tangible wave of pressure rippling across the entire space.