Revenge: A Path of Destruction
Chapter 62: The Final Clash (2)

Chapter 62: The Final Clash (2)

Mankhaura gritted his teeth, his jaw tight as his once-proud domain shrank around him. What had once been a seamless web of control—a fortress of rock, stone, and will—was unraveling.

The perfect equilibrium he had sculpted with painstaking precision was no more. The invisible tide of Thutmose’s will pressed down like a suffocating wave, reshaping the terrain with terrifying ease. The arena—the ground that should have answered to Mankhaura alone—was betraying him.

His floating boulders trembled in the air, their smooth orbit disrupted as if they, too, were unsure of who they now belonged to. Once honed to lethal perfection, his stone spears wavered under the pressure of Thutmose’s superior domain. It wasn’t just being pushed—it was being devoured.

He had no choice.

If the ground would no longer serve him, then he would rise above it.

With a guttural roar, Mankhaura unleashed a burst of mana through his soles. The boulder beneath his feet responded instantly, launching skyward with the full momentum of his will. The rest followed, swirling upward in formation, reshaping into a new aerial battlefield. Here, in the sky, he could breathe again. He could maneuver, adapt, and control. He was Earthborn—no one understood terrain like he did.

But when he looked down—his breath caught.

The full magnitude of Thutmose’s domain came into terrifying clarity from the air.

It was as though the arena had been absorbed into Thutmose’s being. Every inch of stone, every crack and groove, now pulsed with his rhythm. The ground below twisted, shifted, and molded itself to his desire like wet clay to a sculptor. The symmetry, the harmony—it was beautiful. And it was horrifying.

This wasn’t mere mastery.

This was absolute domination.

The kind of overwhelming presence Mankhaura had always aspired to—no, dreamed of.

But admiration had no place here.

Not now.

He gritted his teeth, a grim smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

No domain was perfect.

No matter how strong Thutmose’s grip, it came at a price. Such power demanded an enormous outpouring of mana—an impossible level of stamina to maintain indefinitely. That was where Mankhaura saw his opening.

A war of attrition.

If he could stretch this out, and force Thutmose to pour more and more mana into his monstrous hold over the battlefield, there would come a breaking point. Every second longer was a thread unraveling from Thutmose’s cloak of supremacy.

And that was where Mankhaura would strike.

His confidence returned, spine straightening as he adjusted his stance midair. The boulders reformed around him, spiraling in layered patterns—each with a spear embedded like a waiting fang. His mana pulsed through them, refining their integrity.

He would make Thutmose work for every inch of ground.

Then—

Blink.

Mankhaura’s instincts screamed before his senses could catch up.

A flicker. A blur. A moment of nothing.

His vision cleared—and Thutmose was no longer on the ground.

A breath.

That’s all it took.

The golden flash materialized before him in that instant like a divine spear hurled from the heavens. The blur became form—Thutmose, impossibly fast, his golden armor gleaming as if untouched by gravity. His khopesh descended like a judgment handed down from the gods.

Mankhaura didn’t think—he couldn’t.

His body moved on instinct, primal and immediate.

One of the boulders surged between them, drawn by the speed of his reflexes.

BOOOOOOM!

The impact wasn’t a clash—it was a massacre.

The boulder shattered into powder, shards spraying outward like bullets. But it had done its job—barely. Mankhaura’s defense bought him a heartbeat of survival, yet the force behind the blade was not so easily stopped. Even through the makeshift shield, the shockwave blasted him downward, limbs flailing as he plummeted like a meteor from the sky.

CRACK!

He hit the ground with a force that broke the silence and the stone beneath him. The arena floor split like glass, seismic cracks erupting across the battlefield. The defensive barrier flickered with violent light as it absorbed the rippling shockwaves, struggling to contain the blast.

Mankhaura gasped, then choked as blood erupted from his mouth.

Pain stabbed through his ribs like knives, hot and pulsing. His arms buckled, elbows scraping across the fractured stone as he forced himself to stay upright. Every cell in his body howled for rest, for surrender.

But his soul refused.

Above him, Thutmose descended slowly—like a god visiting the mortal plane. There was no rush, no flourish, just control. His golden armor gleamed with divine splendor, unmarred. His khopesh rested at his side, quiet and confident.

Mankhaura spat blood, wiped his mouth with the back of his shaking hand, and rose.

Barely.

But he rose.

"So... you’ve been hiding all this power," he rasped, a defiant smirk crawling across his battered face. "How troublesome."

Thutmose remained silent, but his gaze did not waver.

"...But it won’t be enough to knock me down for good," Mankhaura growled.

His mana surged once more.

The ground quivered in response, as if unwilling to abandon him completely. Stone formations pulled together around him. From the fractured earth rose four massive boulders, and from the debris, four spears formed. They hovered around him like sentinels, steady and sharp.

This wasn’t over.

Not yet.

....

The pain had become Mankhaura companion now. Every breath was a negotiation. Every heartbeat was a test. His lungs burned. His skin was slick with sweat and blood. And his opponent?

Untouched.

The next phase of the battle was a blur of metal and impact. Thutmose pressed the attack with surgical brutality. Every swing of his khopesh screamed with speed and finality. Mankhaura did all he could to survive—parrying, deflecting, retreating.

But it wasn’t enough.

Each successful block rattled his bones. Each failure cost him a piece of his dwindling arsenal. One spear shattered. Then another. Then the third. The fourth snapped in half, flung aside like trash. His boulders splintered and cracked, unable to withstand the oppressive weight of Thutmose’s domain any longer.

The earth itself—his domain, his authority—was slipping from his fingers.

He felt it. The soil, the stone, the very terrain—it no longer answered him. It resisted him.

He was being erased.

"No—" he hissed, dodging a sweeping arc from the khopesh aimed to split him in half. He countered, thrusting desperately—

But Thutmose caught his arm mid-swing.

Time froze.

A heartbeat.

Then—

CRACK!

A knee to the gut.

Mankhaura’s eyes bulged as the air evacuated from his lungs.

Before he could even register the pain—

BOOM!

An elbow crashed down on his back like a falling hammer.

He hit the ground with such force that the stone cratered beneath him. Dust exploded outward in a choking wave. The crowd gasped. The battlefield fell silent save for the ragged, wet gasps of a man who should no longer be standing.

He couldn’t see clearly.

He couldn’t move.

His hands sank into the earth—his earth—but it no longer gave him strength. Only coldness.

Why...

He grits his teeth.

Why can’t I beat him?

He had trained and grown stronger and pushed himself beyond every limit.

’Even after taking the pill—the one described by that message’

He had believed.

He made Thutmose struggle, even if for a moment.

And yet, there he stood.

Still untouched. Still poised. Still perfect.

Mankhaura’s hands curled into fists.

Anger boiled beneath the surface—shame, frustration, and defiance mixing into something unholy.

Then—footsteps.

Slow. Measured.

Each one louder than the last.

Step.

Step.

He raised his head.

And saw that smile.

Thutmose didn’t mock him . He didn’t speak. But that smile—cold, knowing—cut more deeper than any blade.

He had expected this outcome.

He had known Mankhaura would fall.

And that—

That was when it snapped.

His fingers brushed against his molars.

The hidden pill.

The same one he’d been warned never to take twice in succession.

The one they said would cost more than just pain—

because the body needed time, rest, recovery—

before enduring its wrath again.

"Only use this if you still can’t defeat him."

"The repercussions will be severe—but if you must, make sure to finish the battle quickly to minimize the backlash."

His hand trembled.

Then clenched.

CRACK.

He bit down.

The pill shattered.

For a moment, silence.

Then—

BOOOOOOOM!

A detonation of energy erupted from within him. The force hurled chunks of stone into the air. A vortex of wild, unstable mana surged outward in a violent maelstrom. The barrier flickered again, violently distorted by the raw pressure escaping his battered body.

The air warped.

The space trembled.

Spectators gasped. Elders rose from their seats.

Mankhaura’s mother—who had remained silent throughout the battle—felt her blood run cold.

Her lips parted, but no words came out.

Her hands trembled.

Her son’s aura—it was different.

It was wrong.

Not only was it far stronger than before, but it carried an unnatural twist, a corruption that made her skin crawl.

And then she saw it.

His face—pale.

His hands—shaking.

His veins—blackened, pulsing beneath his skin.

Yet despite the obvious toll on his body, Mankhaura rose to his feet once more.

A cruel smirk stretched across his lips.

And in that moment—

The final clash began.

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