Chapter 18: Bloodsteel Clash!
As Josh Aratat and his followers surged forward like a battering ram of divine wrath, three level-four Ocean Opening Realm warriors from the enemy ranks launched themselves into the sky, their auras crackling with raw martial energy, desperate to halt his charge.
But Josh was a tempest incarnate.
With a thunderous roar, he swung his rod—a titan's weapon in a mortal's hand. The first enemy barely had time to register the blur of steel before it collided with his torso. The sound was like a drum exploding in a thunderstorm. He detonated mid-air, his body bursting open like an overripe watermelon hurled from a rooftop. Blood, bone, and sinew rained down in a gruesome display that splashed horror across the battlefield.
The second opponent faltered, eyes wide at the carnage. Fear gripped his spine like frost—but hesitation cost him dearly. Josh's rod followed through, faster than thunder chasing lightning. It struck the warrior's chest like a freight train, caving in his ribcage with a gut-wrenching crunch. What remained was a mangled mass of flesh, indistinguishable from meat left too long beneath a butcher's axe.
The last man didn't wait to become art for the battlefield. He turned and fled without a word, his footsteps an anthem of terror.
Beside Josh, Lola danced into the fray like a phantom draped in silk and steel. Her dual assassin's knives gleamed under the blood-lit sky. Four level-four warriors rushed at her, hungry to end her mesmerizing assault.
She smiled.
With a graceful twirl and a predator's precision, she released one knife mid-spin. It whistled through the air and embedded itself into the throat of the first attacker. He dropped instantly—his soul leaving before his body touched the earth.
Before his comrades could react, Lola was already in motion. She darted in, retrieved her blade, and spun away—but not unscathed. One enemy grazed her side, tearing her cloth and revealing a flash of her upper thigh. The slight pain only deepened her focus.
Her gaze locked onto the one who'd touched her. With a flash of rage, she launched herself forward, her left leg whipping upward in a vicious arc that cracked against his temple. Disoriented, he staggered—and she capitalized, plunging her knife into his throat with surgical finality.
Two remained.
One lunged, a savage grin on his lips, aiming straight for her chest. But Lola was quicker—she slashed across his armpit, then his upper arm, before driving her blade into his eye socket, pushing deep into his skull. His body shuddered once, then fell still.
The final warrior saw death in her beauty, and it paralyzed him. He turned, bolting away—but too late. Her knives struck him mid-step—one slicing through the side of his head, the other finding the vein in his neck. He dropped like a felled tree, a pool of crimson marking the end of his arrogance.
Across the field, Conrad Stan charged at Uzziah Bilu with a saber that shimmered like a dragon's fang. The weapon—rare and revered—had once lain in the sacred weapon storehouse, protected by the regional leader himself. Now, it belonged to Conrad. The regional leader felt like he was give up part of his soul as he parted with it, but he had no other option.
Uzziah Bilu met him head-on. Both warriors collided with a force that cracked the earth beneath them. But only one stood firm. Uzziah was sent flying, tumbling like a runaway wheel before he skidded to a halt, fury blazing in his eyes.
He charged again, unrelenting.
Steel met steel.
Pah! Splshhhh!
Blades clashed in an orchestra of violence, sparks dancing in the air like fireflies caught in a storm. Neither gave ground. Their weapons hissed, their breaths came in bursts, and the world shrank to the fury between them.
Elsewhere, Amiel Racta watched as Josh and Naze advanced toward him.
"Is this how you bully the weak?" he sneered, his voice tinged with mockery.
Josh bristled. "You dare speak of weakness? You razed the last city to ash and now preach morality? Cowardly trash."
Amiel smiled thinly. He was buying time.
Before Josh could act, Amiel crushed a teleportation talisman in his palm. In a flash of light and wind, he vanished—leaving his forces behind to rot.
Josh blinked—then laughed, a deep, booming sound that echoed across the battlefield.
"Your coward leader has run with his tail tucked tightly between his legs! What about you? Will you surrender? Or shall we turn this land into your grave?"
At those words, morale in the enemy ranks shattered.
Back at the duel, Conrad's saber twirled. In a split-second feint, he shifted the weapon from left to right, confounding Uzziah. The enemy commander faltered, just long enough. Conrad's strike came swift, clean, and merciless.
Uzziah Bilu's head rolled from his shoulders.
Silence.
Then came the screams of surrender. The battle was over.
But the war was only just beginning.
Out of the over six thousand opposition warriors, only twenty-six hundred remained alive.
The battlefield was soaked in blood and strewn with the broken remains of armour and weaponry. The clash had lasted six grueling hours—an inferno of blades, screams, and desperation. Amiel Racta had disappeared without a trace, and Uzziah Bilu lay dead, his head decapitated and his body found trampled beneath the boots of the retreating enemy.
Josh Aratat's forces had suffered too. Over a thousand of his men had fallen, leaving only 1,310 standing—but these survivors were not ordinary soldiers. They were the elite—each one at least at Level 4 of the Ocean Opening Realm or higher. Bloodied, exhausted, and scarred, but unbroken.
Josh stood tall amid the ruins of the battlefield, his cloak fluttering in the breeze. He raised his staff high, its metallic tip catching the pale light of the dying sun. A thunderous cheer erupted from his men, a sound full of pain and pride.
He turned to face them, voice firm yet heavy with the weight of what was to come.
"Though we've won this battle," he said, "the war is far from over. Put the surviving captives to work—have them build traps, fortify the perimeter, and devise new tactics. Let our wounded rest and our dead be honoured… before the second wave arrives."
"Sir, yes sir!" his soldiers bellowed, and scattered like ants with purpose, tending to tasks with grim efficiency.
Josh retreated to a quiet ridge with Lola and Conrad Stan. Together, they began cataloguing the spoils of war—swords, staffs, relics, herbs, even a few rare cultivation cores. Lola wrapped a gash on her forearm with a strip of cloth, while Conrad muttered names of the fallen, scribbling them into a torn scroll. The wounded groaned nearby. The dead, meanwhile, were being wrapped in linen, rows upon rows of them prepared for burial.
Josh said nothing. It wasn't time to mourn. Not yet. Not while more blood loomed on the horizon.