Chapter 64: Mordred VS Kalderaan (Part 2)
Mordred had never felt so frustrated. He’d faced gigantic monsters, mighty warriors and savage beasts... But what he was experiencing now was beyond anything he’d ever imagined. Every attack, every desperate attempt to hurt Kalderan, simply passed through his intangible body, as if he were trying to slice through the wind.
Kalderan, meanwhile, grinned like a predator, playing mercilessly with his opponent, openly enjoying Mordred’s distress. Every blow avoided increased his arrogance, every attack dodged fed his cruel confidence. Mordred struck relentlessly, but nothing helped.
- You’re tiring yourself out for nothing, slave!" taunted Kalderan, once again dodging a diagonal strike, letting the black blade pass through his transparent body. Immediately, Kalderan was solid again, striking Mordred in the chest with a powerful knee strike.
Breathless, Mordred was propelled backwards and collided violently with the sandy arena floor. Droplets of warm blood trickled down his chin as he struggled to his feet, fighting off dizziness. The pain was becoming intense, with each blow Kalderan landed pushing him a little closer to his physical limits.
Again and again, he lunged forward in a desperate attempt, but each missed strike opened a fatal breach in his defense.
And every time, Kalderan took cruel advantage, delivering punches, kicks and elbows with frightening precision. Mordred could feel his ribs cracking, his body covered with burning bruises.
Amidst the cheers of the audience exalted by the spectacle, Mordred vaguely heard the commentator’s voice echoing through the arena:
- Look at this massacre! The Obscure Blade is no match for the intangibility of the Butcher of Twilight! Is it already over for our favorite slave?
In the royal gallery above the arena, King Drakeor watched attentively, seated on a huge throne adorned with dragon fangs. His cold, unruffled face betrayed no emotion whatsoever about the battle in progress. Beside him, Prince Varyos wore a satisfied smile, savoring the brutality of the spectacle in his honor.
But behind them, in the background, a young silver-haired princess stood tensely. Lysiria was staring intently at the scene, her fingers gripping the armrest of her seat so tightly they were turning white. Beneath her mask of royal indifference, her heart was racing dangerously, her face betraying a discreet but real anxiety.
- Come on, get up, you idiot... she murmured in a very low voice, her golden eyes fixed on Mordred with a burning intensity of worry that she carefully concealed from the other members of her family.