Episode-929
Chapter : 1857
"Divided or together," Ben said, gripping his lance tight until the metal groaned under the pressure of his Steel Blood density. "The mission hasn't changed. We find Rubel. We end this."
"Exactly," Lloyd said. He checked the charge on his Nova Cannon one last time. "Just remember, Rook: if you see something weird in there, don't overthink it. Stab it. If it bleeds, it's real. If it shatters, it's a mirror. Don't let your mind play tricks on you."
"My mind is a fortress," Ben scoffed. "And my lance is the key. I'll see you on the other side, General."
"Let's hope so," Lloyd muttered.
They stood side by side at the threshold of the Inner District. The darkness ahead seemed to ripple like water, waiting to swallow them. Lloyd took the first step, his boot hitting the polished stone with a resounding echo.
"Here we go," Lloyd whispered.
They walked forward, crossing the line from the silent city into the waiting distortion, ready for the world to twist and for the final duel to begin.
The transition from the physical world to the trap was not violent. It was disorienting. One moment, Ben was walking beside Lloyd, his metal boots clicking rhythmically on the obsidian floor. He could see the reflection of his own battered armor in the black walls. He could hear Lloyd’s steady breathing and the faint hum of the Aegis Suit. They were a team, moving in perfect synchronization toward the heart of the enemy’s territory.
Then, Ben blinked.
In the fraction of a second it took for his eyelids to close and open, the world inverted.
There was no sound of an explosion. There was no flash of light. It felt as though the floor had simply dissolved into liquid, and gravity had decided to pull him sideways instead of down. Ben reacted instantly, his combat reflexes firing. He spun, swinging his lance to cover his flank, expecting an attack.
There was no attack. There was only silence.
"Lloyd?" Ben snapped, his voice sharp.
The sound of his own voice didn't echo. It was swallowed by a sudden, oppressive silence. Ben stumbled, his equilibrium shattered. He felt like he was falling through a kaleidoscope. Images flashed past his eyes—shards of the city, twisted reflections of his own face, and glimpses of a red sky that seemed to be bleeding. The polished hallway was gone. The ceiling was gone.
He hit the ground hard.
It wasn't the smooth stone of the palace. It was dirt. Gritty, dry, ancient dirt mixed with ash. The impact rattled his teeth and sent a shockwave of pain through his prosthetic shoulder connection. Ben rolled instantly, his combat instincts taking over before his conscious mind could catch up. He scrambled to his feet, bringing his heavy lance up into a defensive guard position, his eyes scanning for threats.
He froze.
He was no longer in the narrow, claustrophobic streets of Gator City. He was standing in the center of a ruin.
It looked like a coliseum, ancient and crumbling. Massive stone arches rose into the bruised purple sky, surrounding a circular arena floor covered in grey dust and scattered bones. The stands, where spectators would have sat centuries ago, were filled with silent, motionless figures. At first glance, Ben thought they were demons watching him, but as he focused his prosthetic eye, he realized they were statues. Hundreds of petrified demons sat in eternal silence, their stone eyes fixed on the center of the arena where Ben stood alone.
"A spatial displacement trap," Ben muttered to himself, his breath creating a small cloud of fog in the chill air. "A Mirror Fold. Just like Lloyd predicted. Predictable."
He spun in a slow circle, checking every angle. He didn't call out for Lloyd again. Panic was for amateurs. If Lloyd wasn't here, it meant the trap had worked as intended. They were separated.
"Fine," Ben growled, dusting off his pauldrons. "Isolation tactics. Divide and conquer. It’s basic strategy, Rubel. I expected more creativity from a man who sold his soul."
He checked his equipment. His armor was scorched from the battle in the garden. His prosthetic limbs were running on the reserve power Lloyd had transferred, but they were holding. He flexed his mechanical fingers. They responded instantly. The heavy steel felt good. It felt reliable.
"Focus, Ben," he told himself, tightening his grip on the lance. "You are the Ironwood Sovereign. You are not some lost squire. If Lloyd is gone, he can take care of himself. My objective hasn't changed. Find the exit. Find Rubel. Kill him."
Chapter : 1858
"Welcome to the show," a voice whispered.
It didn't come from a specific direction. It seemed to bleed out of the stones themselves.
Ben snapped his head to the left. In the shadows of a large, crumbled archway, the darkness seemed to thicken. It swirled like ink in water. Slowly, a figure detached itself from the gloom.
It was a knight, but not like any Ben had seen in the human kingdoms. This warrior was encased in armor made of matte-black metal that seemed to absorb the dim light of the arena. The armor was spiked and jagged, designed to inflict pain just by touching it. The knight wore a full helmet with a T-shaped visor. Inside the visor, two green eyes glowed with a sickly, radioactive light.
Then, another figure stepped out from behind a pillar to the right. Then another from the tunnel entrance behind Ben.
Ben counted them as they emerged. One. Four. Seven. Twelve.
Twelve Shadow Knights completely surrounded him. They didn't make a sound. Their armor didn't clank. Their footsteps didn't crunch on the gravel. They moved like ghosts, floating over the ground with terrifying grace. They carried massive greatswords, jagged spears, and heavy axes that dripped with a dark, oily substance.
Ben didn't step back. He let out a short, arrogant laugh. "Twelve? Is that it? I conquered a planet in my last life, and you send me a dozen rusting tin cans?"
He analyzed the enemies. He could feel the pressure radiating from them. These weren't mindless zombies or low-level goblins. Each of these knights possessed a "Refined Spirit Core." They were elite warriors who had likely been corrupted and enhanced by Beelzebub’s dark mana. They were stronger than humans, faster than beasts, and they had the numbers.
The leader of the Shadow Knights, a massive figure wielding a two-handed executioner’s sword, stepped forward. He didn't speak. He simply raised his blade and pointed it at Ben’s chest.
It was a silent command: Die.
Ben took a deep breath, centering himself. He channeled his mana—not into fire, but into weight. He called upon his Spirit: Sloth. A faint, grey haze began to shimmer around his battered armor. The air around him grew heavy and thick.
"Come on, then," Ben growled, dropping into a low stance. "Let's see if you fight as scary as you look. I have a schedule to keep."
The attack began instantly.
There was no battle cry. The Shadow Knights simply blurred. They moved with a speed that defied their heavy appearance. The leader lunged forward, his massive sword swinging in a horizontal arc aimed at Ben’s neck.
Ben brought his lance up to block.
CLANG!
The impact was like being hit by a falling building. The force of the blow traveled down the shaft of the lance and slammed into Ben’s prosthetic arms. His hydraulic servos screamed in protest. The ground beneath his boots cracked, and he slid backward three feet, digging furrows in the grey dust.
"Heavy," Ben grunted, his eyes narrowing. "But not heavy enough."
He tried to push back, but before he could reset his stance, two more knights attacked from his flanks. Spears thrust toward his ribs. Ben twisted his body, abandoning the block to dodge. The spears missed his flesh by inches, scratching deep grooves into his breastplate.
He spun his lance, using the backend to strike the helmet of the spear-wielder. Thud. It felt like hitting a solid rock. The knight stumbled but didn't fall.
Ben realized with a cold, tactical clarity that this wasn't just a skirmish. This was an execution squad. They were perfectly coordinated. When one attacked, the others covered the blind spots. They were a pack of wolves dissecting a lone prey.
He parried a downward axe chop, ducked under a sword swing, and jumped back to create distance. But his left prosthetic leg lagged. The servo jammed for a microsecond—a lingering effect of the drain from earlier.
That tiny delay cost him.
A Shadow Knight saw the hesitation. He lunged, his sword tip catching Ben in the shoulder. The blade sliced through the gaps in Ben’s armor and cut into his flesh.
"Ngh!" Ben grunted, stumbling back.
He expected pain, but what he felt was worse. A cold, burning sensation spread from the wound. He looked down and saw the wound steaming. The "Vile Edge"—the oily substance on their weapons—was a cursed poison designed to prevent healing and amplify pain.
"Poison," Ben realized, his vision swimming for a moment as the toxin hit his bloodstream. "Cowards. Can't win a fair fight, so you cheat."