Chapter 115: 2nd Attempt XIV
The first sphere of the Triple Prison Dome shattered outward like fragmented glass under a localized explosion. Shards of polished marble-like earth sprayed in every direction. The blast wave kicked up a choking cloud of dust and pulverized stone, momentarily covered the battlefield in a hazy veil. Through the swirling debris, a flash of cold silver light cleaved upward with surgical precision. The sheer momentum of the enchanted blade threw a crescent wave of displaced air across the room, slicing through the lingering haze like a scythe through fog.
The Ironclad stepped through the smoking wreckage, its gleaming metallic frame entirely unmarked by the suffocating weight of the Cocoon that had tried to entomb it moments earlier. Enchanted-reinforced alloy thrummed visibly with Agatha’s violet mana, pulsing beneath its pristine silver skin in rhythmic waves that rejected the residual earthen pressure like oil repelling water. The construct’s movements were no longer purely mechanical; there was an eerie, organic fluidity to them now, as if the Dungeon Lord’s power had infused the very structure with predatory intent. Its head, featureless yet somehow locked in unerring focus tilted fractionally, violet energy flickering in what passed for its core. Then it simply vanished into a forward blitz, crossing the distance in a heartbeat.
Beaumont’s earth-infused senses picked up the subtle vibration through the bedrock a microsecond before impact. The floor beneath his boots hummed with warning, transmitting the golem’s impossible acceleration like seismic ripples. He crossed his forearms just in time, muscles screaming from accumulated fatigue as the Ironclad arrived. Its forearm blade swept in a brutal horizontal arc, aimed to decapitate him cleanly. The enchanted edge met the abrasive barrier of his Petrifying Rust head-on.
Green and violet sparks erupted at the point of contact in a violent fireworks display, hissing and crackling like live wires in a storm. The corrosive grit of Beaumont’s spell aggressively tore at the blade’s surface, microscopic particles grinding and oxidizing the alloy with relentless hunger. But the golem’s magic reinforcement fought back viciously, emitting a high-pitched metallic shriek that drilled into Beaumont’s ears and set his teeth on edge. Violet mana surged along the blade’s length, reinforcing the metal at a enhanced level, pushing back against the decay even as faint brownish rust spots bloomed and flaked away.
Simultaneously, Tectonic Shock triggered deep within Beaumont’s frame. The geological spring of compressed mana, coiled like tectonic plates under unbearable strain fired outward with a concussive boom that echoed through the chamber like thunder trapped underground. The shockwave slammed into the golem dead-center, raw kinetic force rippling through its reinforced structure. For an ordinary creature, this would have shattered bones into powder and sent limbs flying. Here, the internal alloy groaned audibly under the pressure, joints flexing with metallic protest. The sheer power of the rebound blasted the six-foot construct backward, its metallic feet carving deep, smoking grooves into the jagged floor as it slid ten full meters across the arena. Sparks flew from its heels, and chunks of rubble were pulverized.
Beaumont’s chest heaved, Sweat stung his eyes, mixing with the blood trickling from the shallow cut on his neck. Not enough, he thought grimly, hazel eyes narrowing through the dust. That thing’s not slowing down. That mana had to be her, is making it tougher than anything I’ve seen in this strange dungeon. But I’ve got the home-field advantage here. The earth itself is my weapon.
He didn’t waste the opening. Utilizing the vast pool of mana he had pre-emptively dumped into the bedrock before the domes even formed, Beaumont slammed both palms downward, fingers splayed wide. Amber sigils blazed to life around his wrists, spinning like miniature cyclones of golden light. “Get crushed!” he roared, voice raw and thunderous, carrying the weight of his exhaustion-fueled fury.
The jagged floor responded instantly, alive with his will. Six massive, interlocking stone jaws erupted beneath the golem in a violent upheaval, each one the size of a wagon wheel and edged with crystalline teeth. They snapped shut like a primordial vice, clamping around the Ironclad’s legs with earth-shaking force. The impact sent tremors racing outward, cracking nearby debris and causing loose rubble to tumble from half-collapsed walls. Before the dust could even begin to settle, Beaumont twisted his wrists in a sharp, commanding gesture. The floor behind the pinned golem surged upward in a roaring wave of razor-sharp obsidian spikes, black as midnight and glinting with lethal edges, crashing forward like a breaking tsunami of stone.
The Ironclad stun for a moment then reacted with terrifying fluid precision, its movements a blur of silver and violet. Unable to lift its trapped legs fully, it drove its left forearm blade straight down into the stone jaws pinning it. The enchanted edge sliced through the reinforced rock with contemptuous ease, carving clean blocks away in a shower of sparks and gravel. Fragments exploded outward, pinging off the surrounding wreckage. Freed in that split-second window before the obsidian wave could engulf it, the golem executed a low, horizontal flip that defied its metallic bulk. It planted the flat of its right hand against the rising stone spikes, using the momentum to launch itself skyward and convert the falling energy into a vicious, downward spinning drill aimed directly at Beaumont’s position.
The air whistled with the sound of its rotation, the bladed arm humming at high frequency like a chainsaw blade. Beaumont lunged desperately to the left, his fatigued thigh muscles burning with lactic fire, protesting every strained fiber. The spinning blade missed his shoulder by a razor-thin two inches, burying itself deep into the bedrock where he had stood with a deafening crunch. The impact threw up a blinding shower of stone shrapnel that sliced across Beaumont’s cheek, drawing fresh lines of hot blood. Pain flared, sharp and immediate, but he ignored it, channeling the proximity to his advantage.
He grabbed the golem’s trapped blade-arm with both hands, his grip ironclad despite the slickness of sweat and blood. Amber sigils flared to blinding brilliance around his forearms, so intense they cast long shadows across the ruined floor. He poured his overflowing mana directly into the connection, forcing the Petrifying Rust aura to concentrate entirely on a single focal point along the golem’s blade edge. The corrosive power surged like acid under pressure, eating deeper and faster. “Let’s see your magic protect you from this volume!” Beaumont snarled, teeth bared in a feral grimace.
The sheer density of the earth magic began to win the tug-of-war against the enchantment. The silver sheen at the golem’s wrist dulled rapidly, transforming into a brittle, oxidized brown as micro-fractures spiderwebbed across the joint. Flecks of decayed alloy flaked away, carried on the wind of their struggle. The construct’s internal mechanisms whirred in protest, violet mana pulsing brighter in a desperate bid to stabilize. Sensing the critical damage spreading, the Ironclad didn’t waste energy trying to yank free. Instead, it drove its right metallic knee directly into Beaumont’s exposed ribs with piston-like force. They're reinforcement collide.
The impact was devastating, a heavy metallic thud that lifted Beaumont off his feet and sent him skidding across the uneven, glass-like remnants of the shattered domes. Pain exploded through his torso, white-hot and nauseating, as ribs creaked under the blow. He coughed up a spray of saliva mixed with blood, vision tunneling briefly into darkness before snapping back with raw willpower. His body tumbled twice before he caught himself, boots scraping for purchase amid the debris.
Ten meters away, the Ironclad stood back up with unnatural grace, its left arm-blade now visibly compromised. The structural integrity at the wrist was weakened, micro-fractures glowing faintly with strained violet energy, yet the rest of its frame remained terrifyingly intact. Its organic fluidity stamps with several scratches; The violet light within its core flared brighter, drawing deeper reserves of power from whatever arcane enchantments had bound to it, reinforcing the remaining alloy and accelerating internal repairs.
Beaumont slowly pushed himself up onto one knee, his chest heaving painfully with every ragged breath. The air tasted of ozone, burnt earth, and metallic tang. His body cried for rest, muscles quivering, the cumulative toll of the titan fight and this relentless pursuit weighing like lead chains. Mud, ash, and fresh blood caked his clothes, and the sterile white glare of the overhead electrical lamps cast harsh shadows across his mud-streaked face. Yet his amber sigils continued burning hot, completely saturated with unspent magic that thrummed through his veins like liquid fire. He wiped the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand, leaving a smeared trail across his jaw, and locked eyes with the walking metal nightmare.
This isn’t just a golem anymore, he thought, mind racing even through the haze of pain. It's a vessel controlled by a soul, the same one from the giant golem. Studying me in real time. That feminine voice, the Dungeon Lord; she’s watching somewhere. I need to end this before she learns enough to make something even worse. His hazel eyes hardened with unyielding resolve. The cocky edge that had carried him through the titan’s core was still there, buried under layers of grim calculation. But I’m Beaumont ‘The Earth-born.’ The ground bends to me, not the other way around.
The golem’s damaged blade began to whir with a renewed high-frequency vibration, the edge shimmering as violet mana compensated for the rust damage. It took a single, deliberate step forward, the motion smooth and predatory, preparing for what felt like a final, desperate execution strike. The air between them thickened with tension, the ruined fourth floor silent except for the faint creak of stressed metal and the distant hum of electrical lamps.
Beaumont’s mind sharpened to lethal clarity once more. His palms pressed subtly against the fractured ground, channeling faint threads of mana into the bedrock, preparing contingencies even as exhaustion clawed at the edges of his focus. The battle had only intensified, each exchange stripping away another layer of his defenses while the Ironclad grew more attuned to his rhythms. But he refused to yield. Not here. Not to this silver phantom forged from his own hard-won victory over the titan.
The construct shifted its weight, violet core pulsing in anticipation. Beaumont’s sigils flared brighter in response, amber light pushing back against the sterile white glow. The next clash loomed, heavy with the promise of shattered stone and clashing magics.