Eldritch Assassin: Reincarnated With An SSS-Rank Devouring System
Chapter 95: Trial Of Martial Dao (I)

Chapter 95: Trial Of Martial Dao (I)

Clad in black, its form was featureless—no face, no voice, yet achingly familiar. It was Kael’s silhouette, a perfect replica of himself, but distilled to its essence.

Its aura swirled with condensed bloodlust, each step sending tremors through the cracked earth. The air grew thick and oppressive as if the battlefield itself bowed to its presence.

[Final Phase Initiated.

Battle Manifestation – Self Conflict Form.]

Kael squared his stance, blood dripping from his knuckles, his spine straightening despite the weight of the moment. This wasn’t an enemy. It was a question, etched in the form of his own shadow: What does it mean to walk the path of battle?

The replica struck first, faster than thought. Kael barely blocked, his arm shuddering under the force. The doppelgänger flowed forward, relentless, its movements a mirror of Kael’s own—yet more.

It wielded techniques he’d forgotten, strikes he’d buried in the haze of survival. It adapted instantly, evolving with each clash, countering his every move with eerie precision.

They were equal, blow for blow, step for step. Fists collided, knees struck ribs, elbows met jaws in a brutal dance that shook the battlefield.

The replica anticipated Kael’s feint, moving to intercept—but Kael didn’t feint. He let the punch land, the impact snapping his head back, pain exploding across his jaw.

And then he grinned, blood trickling from his split lip.

This was the path.

Not technique. Not perfection. Will.

Kael gripped the replica’s shoulder, his fingers digging into its unyielding form. He drove his knee into its side with a crack, twisting to slam them both into the ground.

The earth shuddered beneath them. His fist rose, trembling not with weakness but with conviction, and came down like thunder, shattering the replica’s faceless visage.

The battlefield trembled. A pulse erupted from Kael’s chest, a shockwave of raw intent that rippled across the bloodstained plains.

The memory-enemies dissolved into smoke, their forms scattering like ash on the wind. The banners burned, their embers spiraling into the sky. The distant thunder stilled as if the storm itself had bowed to his resolve.

[Martial Step Achieved: Battle Embodiment.

You have taken your first step toward Martial Dao.

Battle Intent – Stable Foundation Formed.

+10 Strength.

+5 Dexterity.

All future martial techniques may evolve under the Path of Battle]

Kael opened his eyes, the mountaintop rushing back to meet him. The cold breeze brushed his skin, the pale sunlight warming his blood-streaked face.

The world felt different now—sharper, clearer as if the sky itself acknowledged his transformation. His hands, once trembling, were steady. His soul, once frayed, was anchored.

He was no longer just a fighter, scrabbling for survival. He was a warrior, a cultivator forging a path through the crucible of war.

The System’s voice echoed softly, a whisper on the wind.

[First Phase cleared.

You may proceed.]

Kael rose slowly, his body still a wreck of wounds and exhaustion, but his spirit unbowed. Abyssal Fang gleamed in his grip, its chipped edge a testament to the battles behind him—and a promise of those to come.

But for the first time, Kael felt ready. The Martial Dao was not just a path—it was his calling. And war, his crucible, had only just begun.

Kael took a step forward, his boots grinding against the cracked summit of the battlefield. The void howled around him, a wind that wasn’t wind, rustling the shadows like restless spirits whispering secrets of forgotten wars.

One moment, he stood amidst the wreckage of his past trials, bloodied and battered, Abyssal Fang heavy in his trembling grip. The next, the world dissolved into a swirling torrent of white mist, as if reality itself had exhaled and scattered.

The ground beneath him shifted, flattening into a weightless plane, like stepping onto a frozen lake that refused to yield. The air was devoid of sound, scent, or warmth—just an oppressive pressure that pressed against his skin, seeped into his bones, and tugged at the edges of his soul. It was as if the void sought to unravel him, to strip away the layers of his being and expose what lay beneath.

Then, the System’s voice pierced the silence, cold and resonant, as if it spoke from the heart of existence itself.

[Phase Two Initiated: Spear Intent – Foundation Required.

Trial Requirement: Perceive, Realize, or Manifest your Path of the Spear]

Kael blinked, his vision adjusting to the shifting mist. The fog parted like a curtain, revealing a figure standing ahead, cloaked in shimmering silver. Its face was obscured, a void beneath a hood, but it carried a long spear slung across its back.

The weapon gleamed faintly, its presence radiating a calm so profound it felt like a storm held in check. There was no killing intent, no bloodlust—just an unshakable stillness that made Kael’s chest tighten with recognition.

He knew that spear. Not its form, not its aura, but the feeling it evoked. It was the fierce calm he’d glimpsed in the heat of battle, the fleeting clarity that descended at the moment before a strike when the world slowed, and the path to the kill became clear.

This was the essence of the spear—a weapon not of chaos but of precision, of purpose,, distilled into a single, perfect point.

Without warning, Kael found himself kneeling. His body moved of its own accord, sinking into a posture deeper than meditation as if drawn by an ancient instinct. His breath slowed, each inhale steady and deliberate, resonating with a rhythm that felt older than himself.

Blood still streaked his tattered robes, cuts crisscrossing his arms, legs, and ribs, but the pain was distant, irrelevant. The moment was quiet, sacred, a stillness his body craved like a parched man seeking water.

His hand tightened around Abyssal Fang, the familiar weight grounding him. Then, before his eyes, the dagger changed. It dissolved into motes of dark light, shimmering like stars in a midnight sky, before coalescing into a new form.

No longer the curved blade of shadow, it was now a slender spear of midnight steel, elegant and balanced, its surface etched with faint, pulsing runes. It wasn’t a weapon he’d ever wielded, yet it felt like an extension of his soul as if it had always been his, waiting for him to claim it.

The silver-cloaked figure drew its own spear, the motion fluid and deliberate. No words passed between them—none were needed. Two warriors stood, their paths converging in a moment of silent understanding. This was not a battle of survival, but a dialogue of intent, a clash to uncover the truth of the spear.

Kael stepped forward.

The figure mirrored him.

Their spears met with a clash that echoed like thunder rolling across distant peaks. Sparks erupted, illuminating the mist in fleeting bursts of light. The impact didn’t drive them apart—it bound them closer, their weapons locked in a contest of will.

Kael’s feet dug into the weightless ground, his muscles straining as he twisted, sweeping his spear low like a viper striking. The figure parried with effortless precision, its own spear snapping out in a thrust aimed at Kael’s ribs.

He shifted, the blow grazing his side, pain blooming sharp and clean. But it wasn’t a wound—it was a tether, grounding him in the rhythm of the fight.

Kael struck again, and again, each thrust and sweep more fluid than the last. This was no chaotic brawl, no desperate struggle against constructs or beasts. This was a dance, a conversation between two paths seeking the same truth.

With every clash, Kael felt his movements refine. His hands adjusted mid-strike, not from training but from an instinct buried deep within his blood. His feet planted not where he willed, but where they needed to be, as if the spear itself guided him.

Each missed strike wasn’t a failure—it was a lesson, a step toward understanding. The figure’s movements were elegant, flowing like water shaped by thought, while Kael’s were rougher, forged in desperation and instinct.

Yet, with each exchange, the roughness smoothed, his strikes gaining a clarity he hadn’t known he possessed.

One clash became a hundred, then a thousand. Time lost meaning, the mist a timeless arena where only the dance mattered. Kael didn’t tire—his body moved not with force but with flow, not to win but to comprehend. And in that comprehension, something shifted within him.

A thrust he hadn’t planned landed—clean, precise, the tip of his spear pressing against the figure’s chest. The silver-cloaked warrior froze its form still as stone.

Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, it bowed, its silhouette dissolving into motes of silver dust that drifted into the mist.

Kael stood alone, his spear humming faintly in his grip. The fog stilled the pressure of the void lifting like a held breath released. Above him, a shape took form—a phantom of himself, clad in shadow, holding a spear identical to his own.

But this wasn’t a mere reflection. It was a vision of what he could become, a glimpse of a path stretching far beyond the horizon, its end shrouded in mystery.

The phantom stepped forward, then knelt, as if in reverence to the choice Kael had made. The world erupted in light, a radiant pulse that washed over him, through him, binding him to the spear in a way he couldn’t yet fathom.

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