The Art of Combat

As the energy dissipated, the Armored Monster, Zahir, and the Flaming Fist Elite lay scattered or curled upon the ground, motionless. Their shells and armor plates had flaked away, leaving their skin a dark, bruised purple, wreathed in wisps of black smoke.

The surrounding crowd stood in horror, their bodies rigid; not a soul dared to step forward. The fall of two such pillars of strength was a devastating blow to morale.

Elite professionals like Zahir were so rare that one could not count them on the fingers of one hand across the entire battlefield.

The Kuo-Toa High Priest leaned heavily on his staff, his body hunched, blood streaming from his facial features; he was in a dire state.

Clearly, the turbulence of the Weave had taken a heavy toll on him. Even if his spell-like abilities did not rely on the Weave, he could not entirely escape the interference of the chaotic magical environment.

Anse tightened his jaw, hesitating time and again, but ultimately held back. He admitted to himself that he was afraid; if the Kuo-Toa High Priest still had strength in reserve, wouldn't attacking be a death wish?

He needed to wait for the right moment.

"Ah—!"

Land charged over like a madman, knocking aside countless monsters along his path.

At this moment, his heart was filled with remorse. He had clearly had the opportunity to come and help, but seeing the battle situation stabilize, he had gone to support others elsewhere instead of arriving at the first moment.

The Kuo-Toa High Priest grinned wide, revealing a mouthful of sharp teeth. His voice was strange and hoarse, filled with a sense of madness.

He, too, had been waiting for an opportunity, though he had only managed to lure two into his trap.

Seeing Land charging toward him, he shook the barbels on his chin, leaped off the Armored Monster, and began to scuttle toward the river on his short legs, clearly intending to flee.

As an amphibious creature, jumping into the Chongsa River was like returning home; he had been in an invincible position from the very start.

A Kuo-Toa Overseer riding a giant crab scurried up to guard him, baring its fangs at the oncoming Land.

Kuo-Toa Overseer, Kuo-Toa, Challenge Rating 3

"Go save them." Anse tossed his own Healing Potion to Brat.

He then took a deep breath and activated his "Innate Spellcasting." Mana surged around him, his cloak billowing and snapping in the wind.

His focus was absolute. He locked onto the small, purple-skinned priest from afar, constantly calculating Land's position.

"Vey-ki-gan!"

"Innate Spellcasting" + "Metamagic: Twinned Spell" + "Hold Person"!

The impassioned Draconic language echoed through the air. His staff felt heavy as a mountain, and as he swung it, two imperceptible flickers of Mana Aura descended from thin air onto the heads of the Kuo-Toa High Priest and the Kuo-Toa Overseer.

Both fish-men stiffened, their muscles paralyzed; even their dead, glassy eyes could not move.

At that exact moment, Land arrived. His violent charge kicked up standing water and tore through the cold wind and drizzle, trailing a long dragon of mist behind him.

The next instant, the Kuo-Toa High Priest's eyelids twitched, and his limbs began to slowly extend as the paralysis faded. Even in his poor state, "Hold Person" could only affect him for less than a second.

But one second was all it took!

A sturdy Longsword descended with a blinding, radiant light. The Kuo-Toa High Priest instinctively raised his staff to block his neck, a shimmering energy field flickering over his body, but he was facing a Paladin's pride—a Divine Smite!

"Bang—!"

The energy field shattered. The sound of metal clashing and blades slicing through flesh rang out simultaneously. The High Priest's severed arm and staff flew from his body, his small frame was sent spinning through the air, and his neck was slashed halfway through, spraying a magnificent mist of blue-green blood.

A glow of a Healing Spell flickered over the Kuo-Toa High Priest; he was not dead yet!

"Haa—!"

Land tensed his body, swinging his arm in a full arc. The Longsword in his hand transformed into a white rainbow, catching up to the falling fish-man in mid-air with a sharp whistle. It pierced through his abdomen and exited his neck, twisting the ugly fish-head and exposing bloody tissue and windpipes.

Target dead, gained 385 Combat Experience

"Is this what an elite professional is?"

Anse was deeply shaken. This art-like combat technique, so fluid and seamless—only by seeing it with one's own eyes could one feel its charm. Cold numerical levels could never express this kind of suffocating pressure.

"Well, I'm not bad either!"

As the Kuo-Toa High Priest hit the ground, Land caught up in a few strides, pulled out his Longsword, and decapitated the fish-head with a few swift strikes before stopping.

With his death, the noisy battlefield suddenly grew much quieter. Then, all the fish-men abandoned their opponents and fled in a panic, leaping into the water one by one until they vanished without a trace.

Only a few dozen Goblins and Gray Dwarves remained, looking in despair at the hundreds of humans surrounding them.

The paralyzed Kuo-Toa Overseer was also carried away by the giant crab, which leaped into the Chongsa River, breaking free from control.

"It's over!" Anse sighed and ran quickly toward Zahir.

The result was not perfect, but at least they had won.

A crowd had already gathered in front; seeing Anse and Land approach, they parted ways.

The Flaming Fist Barbarian and Zahir remained motionless, their skin covered in dark purple traces of corruption, carrying a faint, foul stench that was unbearable to look at.

The Flaming Fist Barbarian was surrounded by several Flaming Fist Soldiers; his breathing was steady, so he should be savable.

Zahir's chest no longer rose or fell. There were two gouges in the flesh of his chin—finger marks left by Brat when he had tried to force the potion down.

At this moment, Brat held the Healing Potion upside down, his thumb blocking the mouth of the bottle, sprinkling the liquid delicately over Zahir's skin, but there was no sign of improvement.

Zahir was dead. Preservation spells and Healing Potions were only effective on the living.

An old Cleric with graying hair and beard knelt beside Zahir, a "Journey in the Sunrise" emblem embroidered on his chest; he was clearly a Cleric of Lothander.

He placed one hand gently on Zahir's chest while gripping his Holy Symbol tightly with the other, surrounding them both with divine magic imbued with the power of a blessing.

Accompanied by a chant, the divine magic descended, only to quietly dissipate halfway, failing to produce any effect.

"Lord of Dawn, why? Why!"

The old Cleric collapsed instantly, cradling his Holy Symbol in his hands as he curled his body inward, tears streaming down his face like a child who had made a mistake—helpless and alone.

"That is the third-level divine spell, Revivify." Anse understood the incantation and could feel the old Cleric's despair.

He was grieving not only the death of the Paladin but also lamenting the abandonment of his God.

Land did not give up; he knelt to the side, the power of his Lay on Hands flowing bit by bit into Zahir's body, but this energy soon cut off.

His internal pool of healing energy was empty.

Anse turned his head away, a suffocating tightness in his chest.

"Cleric Moody, you still have one third-level Spell Slot, don't you? You still have one more chance!" Land gripped the old man's hands, his eyes bloodshot.

The old Cleric looked up at the man, swallowing the words that reached his lips, and could only nod heavily. Yet, only he knew that since the Weave had been damaged, he had never successfully cast a third-level divine spell.

He calmed his heart slightly, gripped his Holy Symbol, and prepared to cast the spell again.

Anse felt a stir in his heart; he leaned in and knelt on the ground right beside the old Cleric. "I will help you stabilize the magic."

He closed his eyes, and a faint glow shimmered over his Soft Scales. The chaotic magic settled, becoming docile and obedient, forming gentle vortices of magic that circled and swirled around them.

The essence of the Weave was magic itself, only it wove and utilized raw, difficult-to-control magic in a specific way. A damaged Weave could not contain raw magic, and in turn, the raw magic made the Weave even harder to perceive and manipulate.

He did not know if this would work, but they had to try.

The old Cleric felt the magical environment around him stabilize, and a glimmer of hope rose in his heart once more.

He held his Holy Symbol, sensing and guiding the divine magic with a focus far beyond his usual capacity. It was still difficult, but far smoother than before.

Seconds later, a chant like a song resonated quietly with the divine magic, and the gathered Holy Light descended from the void, like the gaze of the Gods, enveloping Zahir completely.

Everyone held their breath, eyes fixed on the scene without blinking.

Until, at a certain moment, a faint, barely audible exhale sounded, and Zahir's chest began to rise and fall gently, the movement growing stronger with each breath.

"He's alive, he's alive!"

"I have half a bottle of Greater Healing Potion here..."

"..."