Veil of Aether

“Verdant Eruption!”

Silvie’s voice rang out as her hand snapped downward, her body arcing gracefully back to avoid Mahoraga’s latest charge. The ground beneath her pulsed once—then erupted into a surge of lush green. Grass shot up from the arena floor at a frightening rate, blades of grass thickening, coiled around Mahoraga’s legs. The growth wasn’t natural—it was force-enhanced, wild and unrelenting, the earth drinking deep of her aether as the field of life expanded outward.

Mahoraga’s movement faltered, his stride snagged by the living bindings. His eyes narrowed just as the whip in Silvie’s hand flared with that same viridian glow. The blades of grass flowing into it elongated unnaturally, the whip growing longer, sharper, its every lash boosted by the blooming field.

It came down on him like the judgment of nature itself.

Mahoraga felt the pressure radiating from the strike even before it reached him. The weight of it was undeniable—had it landed five minutes earlier, it would have left him battered, helpless, maybe even defeated. But now… now his stance was steady. His frame had shifted under the relentless pounding of her martial arts, honed by his Samsara Force into something greater.

With a guttural grunt, Mahoraga flexed. The grass restricting him shredded beneath raw force, his body bristling with golden light.

“Wheel of Rebirth!”

The words reverberated as the samsaric circle beneath him spun to life. Runes etched in divine script whirled clockwise, the wheel’s golden visage flaring brilliantly as it accelerated. Each rotation carried with it the inevitability of cycles—birth, growth, decay, death, rebirth—all condensed into power.

“Life State.”

The declaration cracked like thunder.

Mahoraga slammed his palms together, his body igniting with vitality. His flesh surged with radiant strength, golden veins glowing faintly beneath his skin. The moment Silvie’s whip lashed forward, grass-blades jagging outward to carve at his defenses, he extended his hand and seized it.

The edges of the grass-laden whip dug deep into his skin, slicing through flesh and muscle alike. Blood welled—yet in the same instant, the cuts sealed. Wounds that should have split him open simply vanished, vitality restoring them as quickly as they appeared. It was as though her strikes landed on water, the surface rippling but always returning whole.

Silvie’s brow furrowed, her whip recoiling only to lash out again, faster, sharper, more erratic. But Mahoraga’s stance remained immovable. Every strike that should have torn him apart was devoured by his overflowing vitality, negated before it could accumulate.

“This must be what the Greeks felt when they fought Khenu…” Silvie muttered, irritation creeping into her usually playful tone.

To Mahoraga, however, those words were honey. His chest swelled with an unexpected satisfaction. For so long he had been nothing but her toy, battered around by those deceptively small hands and feet, enduring humiliation strike after strike. Yet now—now he had drawn out her annoyance. He had forced her to acknowledge him, even slightly.

The vindication was almost overwhelming. Every bruise, every cut, every ounce of pain suddenly felt worthwhile. His heart thumped wildly in his chest, and for the briefest moment he nearly wept from the sheer relief of no longer being treated like nothing.

His lips trembled into the faintest smile, a warrior’s pride flickering through the storm. Golden aura flared brighter around him, burning away the despair that had weighed on his shoulders. Beneath his feet, the samsaric wheel spun faster, its radiant light intensifying with each rotation—like the cycle of suffering itself answering his call, promising rebirth through persistence.

As if sensing the flicker of satisfaction blooming in him, Silvie’s eyes narrowed. The whip in her hand snapped like a serpent, curling tight around Mahoraga’s wrist. In one fluid motion, she spun and coiled along the cord, her body whipping forward with terrifying speed. She became a blur, closing the distance like a bullet.

Her fist crashed into his face with a sharp crack.

By now, Mahoraga had adapted. His body had already reinforced itself against her direct strikes; the impact barely rocked his head to the side. The pain was negligible, almost nonexistent. Yet the blow still landed in a way that stung—not in his flesh, but in his pride. It was a reminder. A warning. He had allowed himself a moment of satisfaction, and in doing so, she had punished him instantly for it.

For Silvie, it was cathartic. A release of the annoyance her own slip of words had caused. She wasn’t about to let him savor her frustration as though it were a victory. The punch wasn’t just an attack—it was her way of resetting the balance, of reminding him that even when she faltered, even when she grew irritated, she remained the predator, and he the prey.

Mahoraga steadied himself, forcing his breathing calm again, the golden samsaric wheel at his feet spinning ever faster. He couldn’t afford to get complacent—not even for a heartbeat.

Ready to reengage, Mahoraga’s stance shifted as the golden samsaric wheel beneath his feet spun faster, its glow darkening into something far more sinister. The very air seemed to thicken, and from the wheel seeped an aura that carried the stench of death. It wasn’t the sharp bite of killing intent—no, this was different. This was the quiet, inevitable weight of decay, the whisper of time consuming all things.

Silvie’s instincts screamed at her. Her whip loosened, then snapped back, as she pulled the scarf from her head. It unwound in fluid ribbons, thin threads trailing like veins of light, each looped around her fingers.

Mahoraga’s eyes locked onto hers. There was no malice in his gaze, but there was finality. A declaration.

“Decay State.”

The words alone felt like a death knell.

In an instant, Silvie felt her defenses falter. Not just her body—the aura pressed inward, peeling away everything layer by layer. Her natural vitality seemed to fray, the protections laced into her crafted equipment unraveling as though moths were eating through them. It wasn’t a strike. It wasn’t brute force. It was inevitability. Her resistance was being stripped bare, dissolved piece by piece, until even the scarf-threads at her fingertips quivered under the oppressive aura.

For the first time in the match, the exhilaration in Silvie’s wide eyes sharpened with genuine caution.

Mahoraga pressed forward, his presence swelling with the twin forces of vitality and decay. His massive fist barreled toward Silvie in tandem with his weapon—the great samsaric wheel, its golden surface now rimmed with threads of black corrosion. Each swing carried not only raw strength but the oppressive weight of inevitability, as though every motion dragged the cycle of life and death along with it.

Silvie moved to meet him, her scarf-threads flickering like living lines, weaving her defense with effortless shifts between countless martial forms. Wing Chun intercepts, Judo redirections, Muay Thai guards—every kata she flowed through was perfect in execution. Yet, it wasn’t enough.

Every block, every parry, every guard posture—whittled down. The Decay State unraveled her techniques, bleeding away their integrity as if the very concept of defense could not stand against the wheel’s authority. Her stances felt brittle, every counter cracking under the corrosion.

The whip cracked forward, blades of grass bursting along its length, but Mahoraga met it head-on. His wheel intercepted with a sharp clang, the aura of decay stripping the grass of their vitality before they could constrict. Silvie’s follow-up strike—a palm dripping with liquid aether, capable of draining vitality itself—crashed against his ribs, and for a heartbeat it landed clean. But then… it was gone. The damage mended instantly under his Life State, flesh knitting before her eyes.

He didn’t just recover—he adapted.

The next palm she threw landed weaker, his body shifting instinctively into a position that dispersed the force. The next whip lash caught his arm, but the angle was off—he’d already adjusted to its trajectory. Every successful strike taught him how to nullify the next. The battlefield, once her playground, was slipping through her fingers.

Silvie felt the current of the fight pulling away from her. She wasn’t dictating the flow anymore—Mahoraga was. With his Decay State unraveling her defenses and his Life State erasing her offenses, her endless versatility was being choked into narrower paths.

If she wanted to keep this fight hers, she’d have to push harder. Cycle through new variations. Devise new attacks he hadn’t seen. Create angles, rhythms, and combinations faster than his adaptation could keep up with.

And for Silvie, that realization didn’t spark despair. Her lips curled wide, eyes gleaming with feral delight.

Because Mahoraga was actually playing the game she wanted him to.

With her spark unfurled and equipped, the threads looped from each fingertip to her forearms like veins of light, pulsing in rhythm with her heartbeat. Emerald surges raced along their length, pouring into her limbs—pulses not just of raw aether, but of something deeper, purer. It wasn’t Vine Force anymore. No, this was the vitality of life itself.

The aura thickened until the truth became undeniable. Silvie had touched a second alignment. From her mastery of Vine Force—having pushed it nearly to the halfway mark of progression—she had peeled away a deeper truth, a foundation beneath growth and nature: Life Force.

It flooded her body with such vigor that every step she took shook the ground like the heartbeat of the earth. Her eyes gleamed, her grin sharpened, and her small frame became a vessel overflowing with radiant vitality.

She thundered forward, the arena reverberating with her approach. To the onlookers, it was like watching a miracle bloom. Vibrant, verdant-green aether poured from her like sunlight through a canopy, saturating the space in the raw essence of life.

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Bang!

The collision rang out like a hammer striking a great bell, the sound rolling through the stands, vibrating in the bones of everyone present. Mahoraga’s golden samsaric wheel flared in response, threads of decay lashing outward—it buckled against the overwhelming tide of her vitality.

Her strike wasn’t just an attack. It was the very denial of death itself, carried in her fist.

His Decay State was being outpaced.

The aura that should have unraveled Silvie’s vitality, stripping away her defenses layer by layer, was failing. More than failing—it was being overwhelmed. The vitality he sought to whittle down was instead surging, filling her to the brim from some unknown source he couldn’t grasp. Every breath she took shimmered with renewed life, as though the decay he spread was nothing more than fertilizer feeding her growth.

Mahoraga’s lips pulled taut, his voice ringing with grudging awe.

“First, I thought you had some form of Water Force,” he admitted, his tone sharpened by strain. “But no… your mastery of the intelligence stat is far too high. You stripped fragments of your alignment and wielded them at will— even going so far as to hijack your teammate’s Earth Force to reposition the two of you without him realizing it.”

His eyes narrowed, tracking the viridian whip in her hand before shifting to the vines still sprouting from the ground. “Then came the vines—clearly your true force alignment. Vine Force. Terrifying in your hands. But then…” His gaze dropped to the carpet of grass thickening underfoot. His voice grew tight. “Blades of grass. Fragile. Worthless. And yet you twisted them into weapons that even I struggle to break free from.”

The golden samsaric wheel spun faster beneath him, light flaring, but his words trembled with disbelief.

“But this…” His brow furrowed as his aura pressed harder. “This isn’t Vine. It isn’t Water. It isn’t Earth. Another facet of Nature, perhaps? You’re… already cultivating your second force alignment, aren’t you?”

The weight of his astonishment pressed on the arena, every word cutting deeper than his fists ever could.

“Just who are you? How monstrously talented are you? If the truth of you were known…” His jaw clenched. “…I’d wager you’d qualify to be Crown Princess of Amunar.”

Silvie tilted her head, eyes wide, a smile blooming far too bright for the oppressive clash between them. Her whip recoiled, her scarf threads fluttered at her sides, and she let out a soft, mocking laugh.

“Me?” she chirped, her voice sing-song. “I’m just a humble slave. Worked for years for that guy sitting over there with your Crown Prince.”

She jabbed her thumb in Nekhtem’s direction without even looking, her grin stretching sharper as her aura swelled brighter. “That’s all I am. Just a little slave girl with too much free time.”

The admission stung him almost as much as the sight before his eyes. His Life State, which restored his flesh, barely managed to keep pace with her. But she… her vitality wasn’t merely holding steady—it was rising, growing with every second. His decay still gnawed at her defenses, but the effect was being smothered, nullified, even reversed.

It was humiliating. His Decay State was supposed to unravel all things, to grind down even the sturdiest foe into dust. Yet before her, it looked almost laughable.

All of his adaptations, every inch of progress he forced out of his samsaric wheel, risked falling into irrelevance before the relentless growth Silvie embodied.

“I know this isn’t the limit of the famed Divine General.” Her tone was sweet, almost mocking, but the glint in her eyes carried the promise of certainty. “If you don’t go all out… you won’t be standing in the next five minutes.”

A ripple of unease coursed through Mahoraga’s chest.

As Silvie and Mahoraga’s clash raged on, the arena itself trembled under the weight of their colliding forces. Every exchange sent ripples of aether screaming outward, shockwaves of vitality and decay tearing through the air.

A short distance away, the other supposed participants sat cross-legged, their forms rooted in meditation. Siddhartha led them, his voice a calm, steady rhythm as he guided Nekhtem along the path of enlightenment.

The residual energies often washed toward them—jagged vines laced with viridian vitality, waves of samsaric gold carrying both life and decay. To most, such forces would have been overwhelming, even lethal.

Siddhartha, however, treated them as nothing more than nuisances. A faint flick of his palm, a shift of his breath, and each wave was dispersed harmlessly. At times, he didn’t even acknowledge them, brushing away the violent echoes of the battle with the indifference of swatting a mosquito. His cadence never faltered, his voice unwavering as he recited ancient sutras.

Nekhtem, by contrast, was struggling.

Even while pouring his full strength into defense, the backlash pressed down on him like a storm. Shards of gravel lifted at his command to shield him, yet they cracked under every surge of force. His breathing grew ragged, sweat rolling down his temple. To remain seated, to keep his hands pressed in the posture of meditation, felt like a trial in itself.

He clenched his jaw, forcing himself to endure. But it was far from easy.

Siddhartha’s serene chanting drifted past the noise, unshaken. “To accept the storm without letting it touch your heart—that is the first step.”

Nekhtem’s defenses cracked again, a shard of vine-aether slashing across his barrier, jolting his concentration. His chest tightened, but he pressed his palms harder together, refusing to break the posture.

Compared to Siddhartha’s effortless composure, Nekhtem’s struggle was painfully obvious. Yet, in that struggle, something stirred—faint lines of enlightenment carving themselves deeper across his core, each moment of strain becoming fuel for his awakening.

Though unintentional, the residual clashes crashing into them became a crucible of training for Nekhtem. Each wave of force that should have distracted or crushed him instead became a hammer shaping his resolve. With Siddhartha’s teachings guiding him, what had begun as a match meant to represent his kingdom had already transformed into something far greater.

It was becoming his own path.

Every sutra spoken by Siddhartha seeped deeper into him, his core resonating with each word. The storms of aether battered him, forced him to the brink of breaking again and again, yet every time he endured, the lines of enlightenment carved themselves clearer into his dantian. His progress startled even Siddhartha himself.

The Crown Prince had guided countless cultivators in his kingdom, many who had devoted years of their lives to his teachings. Yet none had advanced as swiftly as this scarred man seated next to him. Nekhtem absorbed each word like dry earth drinking rain, the harsh battlefield around them only accelerating his understanding.

Siddhartha felt himself unexpectedly moved. The sight of Nekhtem absorbing his words as though they were air itself—lit a spark of quiet fervor within him. What began as calm guidance grew into something more. His voice quickened, his sutras deepened, spilling out in richer layers as if he were afraid to hold anything back.

He kept speaking, kept teaching, his tone no longer steady but carrying a subtle urgency. Each phrase was a branch, each verse a river, guiding Nekhtem further along the path of enlightenment. The more Nekhtem grew, the more Siddhartha gave—without pause, without reservation.

And yet, in the midst of it, Siddhartha failed to notice something himself. With every sutra spoken, every lesson expanded, faint ripples of his own enlightenment stirred. The still lake of his core trembled, then deepened, as if reflecting back the very progress Nekhtem was making. Without intending to, Siddhartha too was walking further into his own path, his own understanding broadening.

The Crown Prince of India believed he was leading Nekhtem forward. But in truth, both of them were moving. Both teacher and student rising together, each step unseen by the other.

The arena had become two battlefields in one.

On one side, Silvie and Mahoraga’s clash shook the ground itself, their forces tearing through the arena. On the other, Siddhartha sat cross-legged with Nekhtem, his calm chanting guiding the man deeper into enlightenment—even as the fallout of the duel around them battered their defenses.

After separating from their last head-on collision, Mahoraga’s chest heaved with the weight of Silvie’s words. Her warning had been five minutes. Not a taunt. A limit. She had given him time, room to show his strength before she ended it all. And he knew, beyond doubt, that she could.

His gaze hardened. His samsaric wheel spun faster, golden runes burning in furious rotation. Then, suddenly, it stilled.

Silvie blinked, tilting her head as an odd sensation prickled at her fingers. Invisible threads brushed against her, faint but undeniable.

“Hm?” She glanced down, quirking a brow.

Mahoraga’s grim laugh echoed across the arena. “You sensed them. Of course you did. Threads of karma. You truly are the most powerful cultivator I’ve ever faced. This alone won’t defeat you, but since you asked me to go all out—” his weapon slammed against the wheel with a resonant clang—“I’ll honor your request.”

The karmic threads connecting them snapped taut, pulling on something deeper than flesh.

“Karma?” Silvie muttered, her grin spreading. Her spark wove back into her scarf, coiling around her right arm. “Ahhh, I see… You’re more insane than I am. I like it.”

The threads pulled, binding the two of them together, dragging their fists toward each other with crushing inevitability.

The technique’s function was cruel in its simplicity: Do unto others as you would yourself. In the clash, their attacks would rebound through the karmic link, each combatant forced to weather the consequences of their own strike. Normally, Mahoraga triumphed here. His will, honed through countless fights, outstripped even Specialists.

But now—facing Silvie—he felt it. Her will crushed his as easily as a storm crushes a candle flame. The threads weighed heavily against him, declaring without bias that her will burned brighter, fiercer, and far more unyielding.

Almost embarrassed, Mahoraga barked a laugh. “So be it. Up to you now, Crown Prince.”

Their fists collided.

BANG!

At that exact instant, Siddhartha’s core flared within his dantian. It spun faster and faster, etched with the sutras he had been reciting, glowing with serene brilliance. Lines of enlightenment fully wrapped around it, until—

Crack.

The shell split. Then—BOOM!—it shattered. A wave of divine clarity washed outward.

His eyes opened, glowing reverently, his voice thunderous yet calm.

At that moment, Siddhartha’s core blazed within his dantian. It spun faster and faster, sutras etched into its surface igniting with radiant brilliance until—

Crack.

A hairline fracture split the shell.

BOOM!

The core burst apart in a storm of light, the fragments dissolving into flowing rivers of enlightenment. Waves of divine clarity surged outward, sweeping across the arena like a tide that none could deny.

His closed eyes glowed with a reverent light as he inhaled, his voice resonant, steady, and boundless.

“Amitābhāya.”

Behind him, the air shimmered and a vast tree unfurled from his forming domain. Its trunk stretched skyward, roots burrowed deep into the stone, branches spreading wide and luminous. It was unmistakable—this would later be known as the sacred tree of enlightenment itself.

The arena fell silent. In that instant, Siddhartha had shattered his bounds, rising from the Soldier Class into the Specialist Class.

His eyes opened, glowing with serene authority, and his voice carried over the stunned crowd:

“For I am the Buddha.”

Before him, the dust from Silvie and Mahoraga’s clash swirled thick, obscuring the result. The ground was torn and trembling, the two forces of nature and samsara still crackling in the air.

To his side, however, the aftermath proved too much. Nekhtem, seated in meditation and still wrestling with the storm, finally faltered. The tidal wave of residual force slammed against him, his gravel shields cracking apart. With a grunt, he was hurled from the arena floor, his body tumbling beyond the boundary.

The announcement called it without hesitation. Nekhtem was eliminated.

As dust and debris settled from the clash of Silvie and Mahoraga, Siddhartha rose to his feet, consolidating his newfound domain. Yet his eyes furrowed at what he saw.

From the smoke emerged Mahoraga. His frame was steady, his aura sharper than before. Something in him had shifted, though even he couldn’t explain how.

But then came the laughter.

High, unrestrained, deranged.

Silvie stepped out of the dust, her threads unraveling once more. This time, they weren’t just bound to her. They burrowed into Mahoraga’s form, tethering him like a puppet to her hand.

“You just got stronger,” she sang, eyes glittering with manic joy. “And I just got a new puppet. Let’s see who’s stronger, tree boy.”

Siddhartha’s domain quivered. The branches of the enlightenment tree twisted unnaturally, lashing down toward him. His brow furrowed. Impossible. His own domain was rebelling.

Instinctively, he attacked. A golden arm of aether burst forth—massive, radiant—colliding with the lashing branches and halting their advance. He skidded back across the arena floor, his expression tightening.

His eyes snapped to Silvie. “…That’s you?”

She nodded cheerfully, almost bouncing on her heels.

“Mmhm.”

Siddhartha exhaled slowly, his usually serene composure cracking into something closer to a sulk. “I just got this…” he muttered, staring at the sacred tree behind him. It had been the symbol of his enlightenment, his greatest treasure—and now it danced to her tune.

“You’re just mean, aren’t you?” His tone sounded almost like a child on the verge of tears.

“Yup.”

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