The Oracle Paths

1208  The Definition Of Game-Breaking

It was fascinating to watch how, the instant their prestige and image were on the line, those who'd been only half-heartedly involved suddenly became fully committed.

All the high-ranking officers and commanders of the Dusken Throne—leading divisions, legions, and special forces qualified to participate in this third round but who'd been upstaged by the Myrtharian Nerds—stood with brows knitted in silent frustration, their internal monologues far less composed than their outward calm suggested. They were the ones who should be fighting in the arena right now! Not these outsiders!

Regrettably, the new Soulmancer King had decided otherwise, and the other candidate hadn't opposed him, against all expectations. Though they desired victory for their people, many secretly harbored the twisted wish to see these newcomers get annihilated by the opposing team.

All to soothe their egos and absolve themselves of any blame in case of defeat. Not once did these natives consider that Jake hadn't chosen them because they were actually inferior.

Either way, the upcoming battle would quickly show them just how clueless they were.

At the heart of the arena, a Myrmidian stepped forward from his tightly knit platoon, calmly unsheathing his sword and pointing it at the enemy. Gone was the colorful horsehair crest atop his old helmet from his days serving the Myrmid Empire, but his comrades still treated him as their Primus Pilus—the highest-ranking centurion, also known as First Pillar Ventorius.

The 1,345 Myrmidians once brought back by Lucia and Gerulf were the sole survivors of a world obliterated by the Digestors. They'd survived the apocalypse, and natural selection among the survivors had been the bloodiest imaginable. For his former rank of Primus Pilus to still be recognized and respected by the other Myrmidians, even today, he had to possess skills beyond exceptional.

This was especially true considering that the platoon arranged for the duel included a high proportion of former centurions, tribunes, and prefects. The few legates, gladiators, and ex-praetorian guards forming the elite of the defunct empire were currently on missions elsewhere, leaving only this group of Myrmidians. Not that it mattered—they were more than enough.

From the moment he leveled his gladius at the enemy, their fate was sealed.

"Put them in wheelchairs," he ordered flatly, his voice as casual as discussing the weather.

"Ahooo!"

A hundred swords were raised skyward before being aimed at the enemy ahead, their blood-red reflections glinting in the dawn sun—a harbinger of what was to come. The next second, the hundred-man platoon moved, vanishing in a super-fast blur that resembled teleportation.

The few hundred meters separating them from the hundred solemn-faced Radiant Lords were covered in a heartbeat, the Myrmidian block crashing into their formation like a meteor.

CLANG!

Even from the stands, the lightning clash of blade against blade and blade against shield unleashed a deafening shockwave. The Radiant Lords had drawn and parried in time, showing they weren't there to mess around either, holding their ground.

Morale on the Lustra Plains' side surged upon seeing their participants withstand the horrifying charge without issue, but Jake and his companions smirked at their reactions. This was just the opening act. The Myrmidians were born killers.

"One opponent each," Ventorius commanded stoically, conjuring a cataclysmic tornado with a mere flick of his gladius-wielding wrist.

His chosen target, who'd been overseeing the battle from the backline, was instantly swept into the air, spiraling into the clouds without a chance to stabilize. With a leap that cratered the ground beneath him, Ventorius launched himself in pursuit, sprinting through the air as if it were solid ground.

His strategy might have seemed ill-suited for close combat, but the Myrmidians accepted it as if it were the norm. If they were outnumbered, it'd be different, but this was an evenly matched fight for glory. One-on-one duels were the best way for them to divvy up the honor without stirring up tension among themselves.

"I got this one."

"Leave that blondie in the back to me; I can't stand his face."

"What's a dandy like that doing in an arena? Let me teach him the reality of the battlefield!"

"Chill out, there's plenty to go around. HEY! I said I was taking that one, dammit!"

In less time than it takes to catch a breath, the dignified and organized battle for the continent's future devolved into fishmongers' squabbles and crude jokes as they picked their targets. Spectators from both camps were dumbfounded, but especially those from the Radiant Conclave, who trembled with rage and humiliation.

Because not only did this duel not resemble an epic battle, but moreover... their team was getting their asses handed to them! It was like these Myrmidians were at a fish market. As soon as they'd chosen their 'catch,' they hurried to 'cook' them on the spot, each in their own way.

Some had a delicate touch, poking their opponents' flesh with precision to tenderize them. Accidentally, joints got dislocated, tendons torn, teeth knocked out—but hey, you had to ensure there were no bones left. With the formidable lifeforce of these Lifemancers, there was no risk of them kicking the bucket during the process.

Others were more crafty, enjoying taking their time and letting their prey struggle, treating the duel more like a public showcase of their prowess. One such victim—a mountain of muscle in white plate armor the size of a two-story house—was furiously swinging his heavy sword in all directions, each whoosh generating impressive gusts of air.

His opponent, a lean Myrmidian with a close-shaved head, danced effortlessly around the blade, dodging lethal slashes without batting an eye. His blazing golden eyes locked onto the colossus only taunted him further, driving him insane.

"By the Celestial, will you stop dodging?!" the old Radiant Lord roared in fury.

Before this battle, he was a renowned legion general, and though better known for his tactical genius than combat prowess, he'd climbed the ranks by spilling rivers of blood. All the teammates selected for this duel were of the same caliber.

When was the last time he'd suffered such humiliation? In his memory, never!

The halo of white light enveloping him suddenly blazed intensely, his enormous blade glowing like white-hot iron. The old general was finally getting serious. The rest of his colleagues also shifted into high gear to put an end to their beatdown.

"DIE!"

With a downward slash, the blinding blade cleaved through the air, much faster than before, but his opponent dodged yet again without breaking a sweat. The unleashed luminous energy continued on, producing a radiant crescent that split the arena for several hundred meters, leaving a deep trench in its wake.

It was just one attack, but all the provoked Radiant Lords were unleashing similar assaults. Given their superhuman physical abilities, this was just the beginning.

A hundred godlike slashes like this were already terrifying, but when, in mere seconds, these strikes were repeated dozens, then hundreds of times, the battlefield quickly became a chaotic blur—dust screens, shockwaves, and blinding explosions overlapping and amplifying each other.

The few clouds in the morning sky had long since evaporated, but if you looked up, you could see the beginnings of a tornado gaining exponential power. First Pillar Ventorius and his adversary had continued their aerial duel, and the initial tornado that had lifted him off had only grown stronger.

On the ground, the arena's destruction only intensified, now giving rise to violent tremors and scorching, blinding dust gusts that forced the audience to retreat several kilometers. Even since the war began, such a destructive melee had rarely been witnessed.

From their vantage point in the stands, Jake and his companions were relaxed, as if this outcome was inevitable. But the shapeshifter and the other generals wore strained expressions, at a loss for words to describe the nightmarish scene unfolding before them.

If war were like this every day, they'd have changed careers long ago. Even the highwayman Sheanu, who thought he'd seen it all, found himself considering a future as a farmer once this war was over.

That feeling only intensified when the two Kintharians and the Eltarian, who'd been twiddling their thumbs until now, decided to join the fray. No choice—the other Myrmidians had left them one opponent each, and these fools were too suicidal to realize how lucky they were.

With a bellow from the first Kintharian, a kilometer-wide radius of cracked earth around them began to overheat, instantly liquefying into a lake of lava. The second had already clapped his hands, generating a hypersonic lava tsunami that swept the battlefield in all directions. Their Myrmidian comrades, who'd been having a blast, immediately started hurling colorful insults at them.

"You fucking idiots! Get the hell out if you're gonna pull that crap!"

"Context! Think about the context, you rock-eating morons!"

The Eltarian was more restrained, but his method of attack was even more chilling. The Radiant Lord, a war hero revered across the Lustra Plains, barely managed a few steps before collapsing, his consciousness snuffed out as if by an invisible hand. The next moment, the innocent-looking attacker casually waved his hand, giving a telekinetic second wind to the omnidirectional lava blast threatening to obliterate everything.

The very definition of game-breaking.