Jinn BLADE
Chapter 121 | Prelude To Gale

Chapter 121: Chapter 121 | Prelude To Gale

Zendrell walked forward with slow, steady steps, each one carrying weight that made the very ground beneath him ripple.

Cracks began to spread lightly under his boots, the pressure of his crimson eidra making the earth tremble as if the land itself feared what was coming.

The air grew heavier with each movement, and the crimson light swirling around his massive blade pulsed stronger with every step.

"Come at me, weaklings," Zendrell said, his voice serious now, deeper, full of intensity.

But even with the weight of his tone, the smirk never left his face.

It clung there, sharp and confident, like someone who knew the outcome before the battle even began.

"Let’s finish this... once and for all."

"That’s my line!" Jirael shouted from the other side of the arena, her voice fierce as she raised her staff and pointed it straight at Zendrell.

This time, her staff didn’t just hum—it roared.

The power coming from it was different, deeper, almost spiritual.

It wasn’t just eidra, it was something else.

As the staff began to spin and glow with a dark yet ghostly aura, two shapes started to form beside her.

They weren’t physical, but they weren’t illusions either.

Ghost-like figures, flickering and faint, appeared slowly into existence.

The moment they took shape, Zendrell’s entire body froze for a second.

His eyes widened, his smirk faltered.

And deep within his chest, something sharp twisted.

He knew them.

He knew their faces well.

The crimson light around his body flared violently as anger suddenly rose from within him, boiling fast.

He took a shaky breath, but his voice came out like a thunderclap.

"You... You dare defile their deaths!?"

His words shook the space around them, and with a burst of fury, he released a surge of raw eidra that exploded from his body.

*BANG!!!

A wide shockwave raced outward, fast and heavy, aimed straight at Jirael and Verkaryon.

Verkaryon, still hovering in the air, instinctively flinched as the wave of crimson energy roared toward him.

And there they were.

The apparitions, now fully visible.

Berkolex—the wise and aged mentor who had taught Zendrell everything about war, discipline, and control.

His expression was calm, just as Zendrell remembered, even in spectral form.

And beside him...

Vendrael.

Zendrell’s closest battle partner.

His brother in arms.

The one who had always stood at his side.

And more than that—Jirael’s own blood brother.

The sight of them twisted Zendrell’s heart in a way that pain and weapons never could.

The ghosts didn’t move, didn’t speak.

They only stood there... watching.

But their presence alone was enough to shake the warrior who had once thought he’d buried his past long ago.

The misty dark figures of Berkolex and Vendrael slowly settled onto the ground, their feet touching the surface without sound.

As they stood still for only a moment, their forms shimmered, and from within them, their own eidra began to surge—powerful, focused, and violent.

The air around them trembled slightly, reacting to their presence, their ghostly figures no longer still but now pulsing with deadly purpose.

Jirael scoffed, her voice sharp and full of twisted emotion.

"I’ll do everything and anything I can for Malgareth," she spat, her grip tightening around her staff.

"Defiling my own brother’s corpse no less!"

She didn’t wait another second.

She aimed her staff directly at Zendrell, and the moment she did, the two apparitions lunged forward, moving with unnatural speed.

Their weapons, formed from spectral eidra, glowed faintly as they clashed against Zendrell’s massive blade.

Sparks flew as the battle began, their strikes fast and calculated, not wild like mindless copies.

These ghosts fought with memory... with skill... with fury.

Meanwhile, Verkaryon stepped slightly to the side, his expression tense as he turned to Jirael.

"My lady," he said, his voice more unsure than before, "the soldiers outside... I can no longer feel them. It’s as if they were all snuffed out."

He raised his hands slowly, his fingers trembling slightly as dark, corrupted eidra flickered across them.

He stared at it with a puzzled expression.

"And I cannot extract their essences to replicate them," he continued.

"Their very eidra has been eliminated... no, more like cleansed by something."

"Tch!" Jirael clicked her tongue, frustration clear in her voice.

"Then confront him outside!" she barked.

"I’ll handle this beast on my own!"

"My lady, but I cannot seem to pierce the buffoon’s barri—" Verkaryon tried to explain, but his words were cut short as Jirael raised one hand.

Without even turning toward him, she summoned a surge of corrupted eidra that shot upwards like a lance, piercing straight through the ceiling above.

*Crack!

A hole formed, the swirling dark magic clearing a path upward, past the arena’s dome of crimson light.

"There," she said coldly, her eyes still fixed on Zendrell. "Now go."

Her staff then began to whirr violently once more, dark spiraling lances of corrupted eidra forming from the weapon’s tip.

They snapped through the air like spears, each one crackling with destructive energy as she hurled them toward Zendrell, who was now locked in a fast-paced clash with the very ghosts she had summoned.

Verkaryon didn’t argue anymore.

With one final look at Jirael, he flapped his wings hard and ascended quickly,

*Flap! *Flap! *Flap! *Flap!

his body slicing through the hole she had made.

Within seconds, he exited the crimson barrier, leaving behind the chaos below as Jirael focused all her fury toward the warrior she still could not break.

Yet what Verkaryon saw outside shook him.

As he hovered into the open sky and shifted his gaze across the battlefield, he was met with an unsettling silence.

The once vast army of undead—thousands strong—was no longer there.

Not a single one remained.

The field below was empty, void of bodies, void of movement.

No lingering corruption.

No signs of battle.

Their eidra wasn’t just destroyed.

It was gone.

Expunged completely, as if they never existed to begin with.

And at the center of that emptiness stood Jinn.

The young warrior stood tall, his posture relaxed yet powerful.

His sword hung at his side, glowing brightly—an eerie and fierce mix of crimson and gold.

The crimson was familiar, wild and untamed like Venedix’s, but the golden glow that pulsed alongside it was something else... something older... something purer.

It was prime eidra, though Jinn himself may not yet have fully understood what it truly was.

Jinn’s eyes met Verkaryon’s.

Sharp.

Cold.

Ready.

Verkaryon flapped slowly, easing down in the air to hover just above Jinn, close enough to speak, but far enough to remain cautious.

He looked around once more, still unable to comprehend the complete destruction that had unfolded during his time inside the arena.

The energy in the air felt different now.

Cleaner. Too clean.

Finally, he spoke.

"A good struggle you made, child," Verkaryon said, his voice still carrying that same pride and arrogance, the usual smugness wrapped beneath his words.

He prepared to continue, perhaps to taunt or warn—but he never got the chance.

"Struggle?" Jinn replied promptly, cutting him off.

He raised his sword without hesitation, pointing the glowing blade toward Verkaryon, his eyes narrowing. "Hardly. Now—face me, bird brain."

Verkaryon paused.

His wings stopped beating for a brief second as he stared down at the boy—or rather, the man—standing below.

His eyes scanned Jinn carefully, observing every detail.

The way he stood.

The way he breathed.

The sheer force of eidra circling around his body like a storm barely contained.

There was no fear in him.

No doubt.

Just cold, sharp purpose.

And Verkaryon saw it.

Jinn had changed.

He had grown stronger.

Not just in physical ability, but in power—true power.

Far beyond what he remembered from their earlier encounters.

Even more than when Jinn first boarded the dreadnought en route to Juggernot XII, when Verkaryon had kept a careful eye on him in the shadows.

It was abnormal.

Rapid.

And yet... it made sense.

Verkaryon understood now.

Jinn carried a fragment of Muradryn within him.

A spark of something ancient and terrifying.

And layered on top of that was his inherited crimson eidra, passed down from Venedix herself.

The pieces were fitting together.

And now, the storm was standing right beneath him, sword raised, waiting.

"Very well," Verkaryon said, his voice low but steady, just before his body exploded with an overwhelming surge of corrupted eidra.

*BANG!!!

The air around him shifted instantly, warping and pulsing like a storm had been summoned into existence.

The ground trembled, and the skies above began to darken as his power poured out, thick and suffocating.

Waves of dark energy radiated from his form, distorting the wind, making it howl louder with every second.

His wings cracked violently, bones reshaping beneath the feathers, and something new began to emerge from both sides of his back.

Another pair of wings.

Dark, jagged, and twice the size of the first, they unfolded slowly, stretching outward with an unnatural sound, like ripping flesh and tearing fabric.

All four wings writhed, moving like they had a life of their own.

They grew longer, larger, spreading wider than ever before.

Each feather glistened with a thick coating of corrupted eidra, dripping like black oil in the air.

"Let me show you," Verkaryon growled, his voice growing deeper, "how the Shiren fight."

Dark eidra began to coil around his arms, slowly at first, like serpents wrapping tightly around his muscles.

Then, with a loud snap, both of his hands burst forward.

The energy exploded at his fingertips, forming two massive spears of blackened eidra—long, sharp, and humming with deadly intent.

He held both weapons with ease, spinning them once as the wind picked up around him.

"Show me," he said again, his wings beating once, shaking the air, "the power of Muradryn."

The wind responded, no longer gentle—it howled like a beast, wild and violent.

Dirt and ash scattered across the battlefield, rising into the air and spiraling around him like a cyclone.

The sky above twisted with heavy clouds, and the storm was no longer just metaphorical.

It was real, and it came with Verkaryon’s presence.

The duel was now set.

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