Chapter 114 Unthinkable Strategy

The dragon blood was pumped into his veins, but he maintained himself; he didn’t lose himself in blind savagery, but instead reached to his side, unsheathing his precious sword from its scabbard. It was the subconscious restraint he managed to invoke the Dragon Flow in that allowed him to withdraw its repercussions; he opted not to rely on the flames, saving his body from overextension.

As he drew his black-steel sword, the chief immediately invoked a new spell in response: “Spears Of Plantana!”

Alone in the center of the foreign domain, the boy, smaller than even the kneecaps of the great elder, stood with his blade in hand as plants sprouted from all around him. The lethal plants unveiled colossal lances of spiraling, sharpened roots that were reinforced into the strength of steel; they pointed at him, aiming from above and each direction.

“Kill him! Now!” Chief Omana commanded, directing the spears of nature with his catalyst.

As the first few spear-shaped roots were thrust towards him, large enough to make a kebab out of an elephant, he wielded his sword with a single-hand stance.

You’re out of moves, boy! With a sword in hand, you’ll be skewered by the Spears of Plantana! Chief Omana thought.

FWOOSH.

The air hissed; it whistled against the sensitive ears of the chief.

It was a single slash from the boy; his blade didn’t even seem to make contact with the thick body of the weaponized roots, but even so, they were cut apart in a flash. This result wasn’t simply the outcome of his strength, but something else–something the experienced elder recognized.

It was shrouding the blade held in the human boy’s hand; a swirl of wind was enchanting it.

Wind magic…? He’s using it in tandem with his sword swings! Chief Omana realized.

This time, the oversized roots attacked from all angles, stabbing towards him with the emerald spears. He looked around calmly, flipping back and flicking his blade, slicing apart the next spear that came his way as the dozen-meter long root was cut into pieces.

What he had reached was the “Zone.”

[The “Zone” is a state of mind reached by athletes and warriors. It is typically reserved for those who have reached a certain level of mastery. It can’t be obtained willfully and is only achieved through extensive effort and utmost difficulty pressing one into a corner. Within the “Zone”, actions are instinctive, enemy actions are predicted, and greater heights are reached. No other thoughts taint focus; it is the sheer embodiment of striving for victory.]

[Level Up!]

[Level Eight Achieved.]

It was within the “Zone” that he acquired further development through slaying the plants that counted as foes, swinging his blade and moving elegantly.

It was becoming clear what level the boy was at now as he used the sharpness and boundless range of wind to extend his sword strikes, striking down the many roots that came his way. Witnessing this, the chief added another spell into the mix, “Fist of The Golem!–No, Great Flattening of the Golem!”

The invocation caught the sharp eyes of the boy, who was occupied with combatting the roots. He looked up, finding a dozen spaces in the air of the chamber which stone gathered and chiseled into various shapes. All above him, giant fists and feet of stone loomed, beginning to slam down and stomp towards him in addition to the malicious roots.

Flipping back, he avoided the crash of one of the colossal, rock knuckles, using his newfound agility to do so before having to use a double-handed grip to swing his sword with his full-strength. This sword slash was aimed upward at the giant foot of brown stone that tried flattening him from above.

“Hyaah!” He yelled out.

The winds were compressed and sharpened with the swing, managing to cut straight through the thick layer of tall, reinforced stone as the foot was split in half.

More and more, the fear and desperation of the old chief amplified at the sight of the boy who seemed to rise to every obstacle thrown his way.

Even bruised, battered, and bloodied, the boy who should by all means be unconscious or buried in the dirt, was storming towards him like a natural disaster; unavoidable and unstoppable.

“Crush him! Crush him! Crush him!”

The urgency of the chief’s words as he stomped his own feet in desperation was shown through his spells as the disembodied fists and feet of the Golem moved faster, propelling as if amplified by unseen jets. This sudden increase in speed took the boy by surprise amidst his trance within the “zone.”

“–!” His eyes widened.

Before he could properly react to raise his guard, one of the massive fists of tough material slammed into his side, knocking him across the room before he slammed into one of the walls.

Blood fell from his lips; the blunt infliction rang through the marrow of his bones like the chime of a bell.

“Crush him–!!!” The chief roared out, his voice booming through the stadium-sized room built for his giant stature.

This command brought one of the stone fists to fly towards the boy once more, who could barely raise his arms in time before the next impact came.

THUD.

Against the skin of his forearms, the abrasive stone knuckles scraped his flesh, battering it as the force squeezed and fractured the bones of his arms.

“Crush! Crush! Crush!”

With his mortality being felt, the chief didn’t let him, swinging his staff around as he continuously commanded the massive fist to continue pounding against the human.

Even with his heightened constitution with the draconic blood flow, the blunt attacks, carrying power to reduce boulders to mere dust, each collision rippled through his body as he kept his guard raised.

It wasn’t just the Golem fist; as the stone hand withdrew, the foot and other fists began stomping down. He tried raising walls of rigid rock, but the stone magic of the elder was proven to be superior; it was refined and reinforced, allowing the golem appendages to break through and smash the boy.

By the end of the barrage, there was no doubt the boy of blonde-and-black hair was pulverized as the chief stood tall, huffing as he watched from his colossal height.

As the stone appendages moved away, it was true; the boy was lying on the ground with broken bones; his left arm was twisted around and his legs were contorted. Most of his bones had been fractured or shattered completely.

The chief breathed heavily as his silver fur had been ruffled by his frantic castings, “…A boy is just a boy. Remember that in your next life.”

To him, his body was weightless; his mind severed itself from his body as he couldn’t even budge a fingertip. All he could do was look at his own hand that was beside him, noticing the fabric ring that was slid on his finger. The sight of that item, gifted to him and made especially for him, invoked something within.

Next life? That’s right. This is my next life. It’s my second…my last chance to live a proper life. A proper life…Dying at fifteen…I don’t think that’s a proper life. I didn’t abandon him…I didn’t abandon “Ethan” just to fall here. That’s right…I still have people I need to return to. People that care about me…Mother, Father…Irene, Celly, Reno…Shouldn’t I get up, then? He thought.

As the room fell silent; desecrated and disorganized as walls were charred and the furniture had been flung around previous, the chief was about to sit back down on his tall chair before–

“…Healing…”

The word was as quiet as a breath; perhaps even lighter as it was nothing more than a shallow exhale, but the sharp ears of the elder caught it.

The probability of healing magic recovering such wounds seemed like a faraway fantasy for a mage so young, but the chief realized the error of his thinking as quickly as the thought crossed his mind.

Slowly but surely, the small cuts along the bare torso of the boy began to close; this process was witnessed by the cautious eyes of the silver-furred elder.

“Give up and fall!” The chief roared.

As the enraged elder sought to squash the last embers of the boy’s life, guiding the golem appendages once more–they were intercepted.

The entirety of the floor rumbled along with the walls as over a dozen mighty walls of stone rose tall, surrounding the boy. They rose in an instant, propped up as stalwart barriers that caused the chief to be taken aback for a moment.

This human…Even on the brink of death, while tending to his wounds in that state…he can wordlessly cast such intricate spells? A shame. If only such talent was born in this clan, the chief lamented.

Still, these thoughts didn’t dull the cold-hearted brutality of the chief, who slammed the foot and fists of the golems through the walls.

“–It doesn’t matter! Even if you try, your stone magic is inferior–!” The chief shouted.

As the appendages closed in on the paralyzed, shattered human, they were stopped once again; it was the same wild array of natural walls that rose once more, halting the attacks.

“What?!” Chief Omana let out.

It was a simple strategy, though one that could only be possible with a vast reservoir of mana: even if the boy’s stone magic was inferior in durability, he sprouted the defense just as quickly as they were destroyed.