Chapter 170 Charles Dareth Nocturne (2)
Charles took a deep breath, then released it slowly—like a monk preparing for a sacred rite before a holy massacre. Instantly, the atmosphere around them shifted. The gentle breeze stilled, and the vibrant songs of the birds that typically thrummed in the lush, green trees of Cerza fell into an eerie silence. It was as if the very fabric of reality held its breath, witnessing a true executioner stepping beyond the limits of his humanity.
"Fitran..." Charles's voice emerged low and resonant, almost like the whisper of an ancient spirit surfacing from the depths of a forgotten world. "I have not come to warn you. I have come... to end this."
A thick, swirling black aura began to envelop Charles, radiating not magic—but rather, the chilling absence of magic. Every ounce of magic in the air seemed to dissolve and drift downward, like dry leaves caught in a mournful autumn wind. The vibrant colors of their surroundings drained away, leaving the world ensconced in a stark and haunting grey spectrum. The ground beneath his feet cracked and splintered, not from violent force, but because the laws of reality rebelled against his presence, a being who did not belong to this world.
He tore off his outer cloak with a decisive motion, casting it to the ground like a fallen banner. Underneath, his body was a mosaic of scars and ancient markings, each telling tales of old wounds and rituals long forgotten. The symbols of magic suppression were etched deeply into his skin—like a curse embraced proudly as a medal of honor, each mark a testament to the struggles and sacrifices he had endured on his path.
"Charles Dareth Nocturne, Executor of Silence," murmured Fitran, bowing slightly as if paying homage to the shadows of a forgotten past. "You remain unchanged—the devil clad in uniform."
Charles lifted his sword—Nullfang—with resolute strength, the sunlight from Cerza striking its obsidian blade and casting shimmering reflections like a dark star. "Enough words, Fitran. Let's bring this to a close. The sun of Cerza won't regret illuminating our confrontation."
With a fluid motion, Charles surged forward, gliding through the air like a specter, so silent he scarcely disturbed the atmosphere around him. Yet, Fitran felt the undeniable force of his advance: this was more than just a strike; it was the embodiment of an executor's unwavering resolve, each exalted movement declaring his formidable presence.
In an instant, Excalibur and Nullfang collided with a deafening crash that reverberated through the ground, releasing a cacophony of sound reminiscent of shattering glass. Fitran was propelled backwards five meters, blood trickling from his mouth, the injury splitting his lips wide open. A wave of trepidation washed over him—not from the raw power of his adversary—but from the engulfing void that rushed in, dragging him into a sea of uncertainty.
With blood coursing from his wounds and his body trembling with the strain, Fitran raised his right hand, fiercely clinging to his determination despite his gravely wounded state. "This is not over yet!" he declared, igniting a fierce resolve to continue battling, as he reached into the fractured air around him, sending pulsations of energy rippling through the surroundings. His eyes blazed with a bluish-gray hue, unleashing dark waves that undulated throughout the distorted world.
"Spectrum... Quantum," he murmured, his voice a blend of softness and intensity, signaling the awakening of the immense power dormant within him.
The words escaped his lips slowly, like a long-suppressed prayer finally given voice, and in that moment, the atmosphere around them underwent a dramatic transformation. Light ceased to merely reflect off the surface of the ground; instead, it shattered into countless floating shards, resembling delicate fragments of glass suspended in an infinite expanse above. Time seemed to halt, the world holding its breath in a pregnant silence.