Eldritch Assassin: Reincarnated With An SSS-Rank Devouring System
Chapter 98: Trial Of Martial Dao (IV)

Chapter 98: Trial Of Martial Dao (IV)

Kael didn’t resist the redirection—he leaned into it, flowing with the arc, his body twisting as the dagger spiraled out and back again, rebounding from the sword’s momentum. He stepped inside the older Kael’s guard, his heart pounding with the thrill of discovery.

But the sword turned with him, always a breath ahead, its edge grazing his ribs in a fresh gash. Kael winced, pain flaring, but his eyes burned brighter. ’He’s not trying to kill me. He’s showing me how the sword dances.’

The dagger was swift, a weapon of endings, striking first and finishing fast. But the sword—it didn’t just end battles. It shaped them, carving the flow of combat with a grace that bent space and time to its will.

Kael exhaled, deep and calm, his spirit steadying. He stepped in again, and a flurry of movements followed. Dagger slashed, sword circled, their blades whispering secrets to each other in a dance of steel and intent.

Kael began to adjust, his strikes folding into arcs rather than straight lines, his dodges pivoting on his heel to let blows pass harmlessly by. His movements grew slower but smoother, each action a step toward harmony with the sword’s rhythm.

The older Kael responded, his strikes faster, sharper, yet Kael could read them now—not fully, but in glimpses. A twitch of the elbow before a thrust, a shift in stance before a vertical slash. He met one strike directly, blade to blade, the steel ringing like a bell across the wasteland.

He didn’t retreat, his feet rooted like ancient trees, his left arm absorbing the shock as Abyssal Fang parried downward. Twisting under the sword’s arc, he drove his elbow forward, the impact landing with a crack that staggered the clone.

Kael didn’t press the advantage. He stepped back, chest heaving, arm throbbing, but alive—more alive than he’d ever felt. The older Kael paused, his gaze steady, and then raised his sword—not to strike, but to salute, the motion graceful and simple, a passing of understanding between warriors.

Kael inhaled deeply, the air tasting of ash and possibility. He stepped forward with one final strike, not with the dagger’s desperation, but with purpose. Abyssal Fang flicked once, twice, and stopped, its edge hovering in the air. Kael stood behind the clone, his stance loose, shoulders relaxed, and his spirit aligned with the moment.

The older Kael froze, then burst into motes of silver light, scattering like stars across the wasteland. A soft wind returned, brushing past Kael’s face like the sigh of an old friend, carrying away the weight of the trial.

The ground trembled beneath him, a deep vibration resonating through his core. The System’s voice broke the silence, calm yet resonant as if the wasteland itself spoke.

[Martial Step Achieved: Sword Path – Early Comprehension Formed.

+10 Dexterity. +5 Aura Sensitivity. +3 Mental Cognition.

[Sword Intent has entered the Budding Phase.

Path Style: Crescent Requiem (User-defined).]

[You have stepped onto the Way of Harmonized Conflict. The sword is not to destroy—but to guide all battles to their final verse.]

The barren world shifted, the ash fading as life returned to the landscape. The skeletal trees bloomed with vibrant leaves, their branches swaying gently as sunlight pierced the churning clouds above.

The cracked earth mended, cracks sealing as if time itself reversed to heal the scars of the wasteland. The world acknowledged Kael’s growth, its transformation a mirror of his own.

Within Kael, a new weight settled—not of steel, but of understanding. The sword whispered to him, not in words but in truth. It wasn’t about cutting faster or striking harder.

It wasn’t about victory. It was about shaping the battle, guiding it to its natural end with a grace that sought balance over bloodshed.

He looked down at his hand. Abyssal Fang remained, its dark edge glinting with a quiet promise. But within him, the sword’s rhythm lingered, a counterpoint to the dagger’s precision.

Kael now walked two paths: the Silent Eclipse of the dagger, ending battles before they began, and the Crescent Requiem of the sword, guiding them to their inevitable conclusion.

A golden light arched before him, woven with swirling mist, a doorway to the next trial. Kael stepped forward, his breath steady, his spirit unshaken despite the ache of his wounds.

The trials hadn’t finished yet, their challenges looming like shadows on the horizon. But Kael was ready. The end was within reach, and he would meet it not as a survivor, but as a warrior forged in the crucible of harmony and precision.

The path called, and Kael answered, stepping into the light with Abyssal Fang at his side, its whisper now joined by the song of the sword.

The tunnel of light enveloped Kael, its radiance swallowing him whole, a silent tide that carried him from one trial to the next. He stepped onto the next realm, and the world that greeted him was unlike any he had faced before.

No ash-choked wastelands or blood-soaked battlefields awaited him. No storm clouds churned with menace, and no shifting ground or distorted gravity challenged his footing.

No enemies stood with blades drawn, poised to strike. Instead, there was only quiet—a stillness so profound it felt like the universe itself had paused to watch.

A vast field stretched in all directions, endless and flat, cloaked in a pale silver fog that shimmered like liquid moonlight. The grass beneath his boots glowed faintly, each blade catching the ethereal light as if kissed by a distant moon.

The air was cool, brushing against his skin like a whisper, carrying no scent, no wind—only the steady rhythm of his heartbeat and the faint, resonant pulse of Abyssal Fang at his side.

The dagger felt different now; its weight was no longer just physical. It was still the same weapon, dark and curved like a fang torn from the maw of a primal beast, but it had become something more—a limb, an extension of his very being. Kael’s fingers tightened around its hilt, the sensation grounding him in the surreal calm.

"So this is what the Budding Phase feels like..." he thought, his mind tracing the edges of the Sword Intent he had begun to grasp, a path that was both new and ancient, carved into his soul by the trials behind him.

The fog thickened, curling around him like a living thing, its tendrils weaving shapes in the distance. Figures emerged—dozens of them, their forms indistinct at first, then sharpening into clarity.

Some wielded blades, their edges glinting in the silver mist. Others stood with bare hands, their stances radiating quiet strength. Some were clad in armor, heavy and scarred, while others wore flowing robes that danced with the fog’s currents.

Their heads turned as one, tilting toward Kael like puppets drawn by an unseen hand, their eyes hidden in shadow but piercing with intent.

A whisper curled through the mist, soft yet resonant, as if the field itself spoke. "Show us your path."

Kael’s pulse slowed, his breath steadying. He lowered his stance, knees bending slightly, one foot sliding back, Abyssal Fang resting at his side—not raised, not aggressive, but ready.

His aura didn’t surge with defiance or flare with killing intent. Instead, he listened, his senses attuned to the subtle rhythm of the field, the faint hum of the dagger, and the deeper song of the sword that lingered within him.

The figures surged forward, their charge a silent storm across the glowing grass. Dozens of enemies moved as one, their weapons gleaming, their steps eerily soundless.

Kael met them, not with the desperate rush of the dagger or the wild fury of past battles, but with a measured grace. His movements were clean and deliberate, each step a note in a silent melody only he could hear.

One cut. Step back. Circle around. Pivot. Slide.

He didn’t need to strike deep. Abyssal Fang brushed past one attacker’s ribs, the barest touch of its edge enough to stagger them, their form flickering in the mist.

Another enemy slashed high, their blade a streak of silver. Kael dipped beneath it, twisting on his heel, his dagger tracing a crescent arc upward. Two fell, their bodies dissolving into the fog like whispers in the wind.

The rest didn’t slow, their assault relentless. Kael stepped again—not retreating, not advancing, but moving diagonally, using their own momentum to unbalance them.

A spear thrust came from the side, its tip gleaming with intent. Kael turned, not to block but to guide, his dagger flicking at the attacker’s wrist. The spear dropped, clattering soundlessly to the grass, and the figure vanished before it could recover.

More came, their forms a blur of steel and shadow. Kael’s breath grew heavier, sweat beading on his brow, but his eyes remained sharp, his focus unyielding.

This wasn’t brute combat—it was control, a dance of guidance rather than destruction. His strikes weren’t aimed to kill but to disrupt, to redirect, to unravel the intent of his enemies before they could reach him.