Revenge: A Path of Destruction
Chapter 64: Collapse

Chapter 64: Collapse

The instant the pill dissolved between Mankhaura’s teeth, the battlefield convulsed.

A shriek—not of voice, but of existence—ripped through the air.

The arena, forged from sacred stone and laced with ancient enchantments, trembled beneath the sudden violation. Mana twisted unnaturally. A detonation of raw force erupted outward, not like thunder, but like the death of a star.

Space bent around Mankhaura’s frame as if the world itself recoiled from what he had done.

The ground beneath him cracked, buckled, and then exploded in shards. The polished stone shattered like glass underfoot, spiraling upward in jagged fragments suspended in the cyclone of his aura. Dust, debris, and raw magic twisted into a vortex that reached toward the heavens, a pillar of chaos ripping through the tranquility of the blue sky.

It was not simply power. It was a desecration.

His silhouette—barely human now—stood at the eye of the storm. Limbs trembling. His back arched unnaturally. Every muscle spasmed under the weight of the energy coursing through him. Flesh and bone protested violently against the foreign force now inhabiting them. His skin cracked in places, hair rising as if the very atoms of his body had forgotten how to be still.

His scream was silent—but the world heard it.

The mana wasn’t his. That much was evident to anyone with eyes.

It writhed around him like a beast unbound. Thick tendrils of corrupted light lashed outward, carving scorched lines into the air. His Domain—once rigid, defined—now pulsated erratically, changing shape and color with each breath.

From the high stands, the elders rose in horror.

"Stop the battle!" one roared, voice hoarse with urgency. "That power isn’t his! If we don’t stop him now he will destroy them both"

Another, a Grandmaster whose beard had turned fully white decades ago, stared with widened eyes and whispered, "He’s violating the sacred rites..."

The sacred rites were no mere rules. They were the foundation of clan order—etched into history. They governed all duels, from sparring matches to battles for possession. Drawing on external forces during these sacred tests was an insult not only to the opponent—but to the legacy of the Earth Clan itself.

And yet Mankhaura... had swallowed that insult willingly.

A younger elder surged forward, aura blazing, intending to bring the match to an end by brute force.

But he hit something.

A dull thud echoed as he was thrown back. He slammed into the spectator wall, rebounding with a grunt of pain.

"What—?!" he gasped.

Before him, the shimmering barrier flickered into full view—an iridescent dome enclosing the arena, veins of runes crawling across its surface like the glowing circuits of a slumbering god. The arcane field pulsed in response as if mocking the elder’s effort.

"Damn it!" another cursed. "We can’t breach it!"

A storm of panic swept through the viewing platform.

Only one among them remained calm: the oldest of the group. Wrinkles like dried riverbeds carved into his skin, and eyes dull from centuries of watching fools repeat history. He leaned forward slightly, pupils sharpening as he murmured:

"Only the Patrician has the authority and strength to bring it down."

The words struck like a hammer.

"And he’s not here," another whispered, as if afraid to say it too loud.

A silence fell—short, brittle, and loaded with implications.

Then someone demanded, "What about the core? Where’s the control node?"

All eyes turned toward the High Wardkeeper.

The man stood frozen, lips pressed into a thin line. Sweat glistened on his brow.

"The location of the core is... classified," he admitted. "On the Patrician’s orders."

A beat of silence.

"WHAT?" roared a former clan head, rising to his full height. "Why would he—?!"

"To prevent sabotage during crucial battles," the Wardkeeper replied, voice strained but unflinching. "And when we questioned him about the risk—if someone inside the barrier broke the rites—he looked at us and said..."

His voice dropped, mimicking the deep resonance of their absent lord:

"’No one will be stupid enough to try that when I am around. They know what awaits them if they do.’"

The room quieted as if the Patrician’s phantom had spoken the words himself.

The Wardkeeper continued, eyes flicking to the chaotic storm below.

"’And if I’m not there... and the ones inside cannot handle it...’"

His voice turned grave.

"’Then they were never worthy.’"

No one dared speak after that.

The truth tasted bitter on their tongues.

....

Back within the arena, the maelstrom expanded.

Cracks snaked out like a spider’s web across the floor. Jagged spikes of mana jutted upward, forming twisted obelisks of corrupted energy. The air shimmered with heat and static. The scent of scorched ozone filled the arena, choking and unnatural.

Mankhaura’s veins had turned black, the color of pitch and death. They bulged beneath his skin like parasites writhing to escape. His eyes—once brown—now flickered between white and red, glowing faintly in the storm. From his back, translucent projections shimmered and pulsed—wraithlike appendages that looked neither human nor divine.

It was no longer a transformation.

It was possession.

Yet—at the storm’s center—Thutmose stood unmoved.

Calm. Silent. Observing.

The contrast between them was stark.

Mankhaura was a hurricane.

Thutmose was the eye.

No fear. No tension. Only calculation.

He could feel it—the wrongness in the air. The mana that raged against Mankhaura’s body was not in harmony with him. It surged and burned, yes—but it did not belong. The energy fought him as much as it empowered him.

"Unstable," Thutmose muttered to himself.

His grip tightened on the hilt of his khopesh. The storm howled—but he took a step forward.

The sound of his footfall was louder than the maelstrom.

He paused again.

A bead of crimson slid from Mankhaura’s nostril, carving a thin line down his upper lip. Then another.

Thutmose narrowed his gaze.

’what.....’

—

For one glorious, maddening moment—Mankhaura felt divine.

He felt as if he could tear the sky in two.

His muscles brimmed with power. The earth beneath him bent to his will. His senses expanded—every pebble, every shift of air, every twitch in Thutmose’s brow appeared vivid and magnified.

"I can do this," he whispered. "With this power... I can crush him."

He stepped forward.

And reality twisted.

The world tilted slightly to the left.

He blinked.

A warmth trickled down his face.

Blood.

His fingers brushed his lips.

He frowned.

Again?

He blinked rapidly, but his vision only blurred further. The colors around him began to bleed into one another—reds too red, shadows too deep. The arena’s edge curved unnaturally as if the world were bending around him.

Another step.

Pain lanced through his skull.

Blood poured from his nostrils.

No longer a trickle—now a stream.

He staggered.

What... is this?

A ringing sound filled his ears. No—not ringing. Screaming.

Then—nothing.

Silence.

His equilibrium collapsed. He barely noticed when blood gushed from his ears. His knees wobbled. His stance—once regal and defiant—now trembled like a drunkard’s.

His arms twitched. His breath came in ragged bursts.

He wanted to scream at his body to hold together.

But no command came.

His mouth opened.

No sound escaped.

His legs gave out.

He hit the ground like a felled tree—knees first, palms and entire frame. The impact sent a cloud of dust into the air.

He tried to rise.

His arms buckled.

He collapsed again, this time onto his side. Blood leaked from his eyes now—tears of crimson painting his cheeks.

He convulsed.

Once.

Twice.

Blood trickled from his eyes like tears, thick and slow, and painted red streaks down his face.

Then—something inside him snapped.

His fingers clawed against the stone, nails screeching across the blood-slicked floor. His chest heaved, breath ragged and broken. The taste of iron filled his mouth, thick and suffocating.

’What’s going on’

’No... it can be’ his thought croaked, as his breath became ragged.

His eyes—blood-filled, blurry—searched the sky above as if the heavens owed him an answer.

’No, this... wasn’t supposed to happen so soon...’

His lips trembled—a broken whisper leaking through the cracks of his soul.

’I did everything... I followed every instruction.’

He pounded a fist against the floor, weakly—again—again. The impact left bloody smears, each strikes softer than the last.

’They said it would work. They said my body could handle it for at least 10 minutes.’

The storm above hissed, but he no longer heard it. The heat in his veins was fading, leaving behind ice—cold, creeping dread that settled in his bones.

He coughed violently, spitting red onto the broken ground beneath him.

His words fell into the dust, unheard.

’I was supposed to win!’

He screamed it—not with strength, but with despair. The cry of a child betrayed by the world.

"I gave everything— EVERYTHING! Why is this happening?!"

The corrupted aura around him pulsed in response—but it wasn’t empathy.

It was mockery.

As if the power he’d stolen had already moved on, uninterested in carrying the weight of a dying vessel.

His limbs twitched violently, then sagged.

He choked on his next breath. His eyes glazed with agony and disbelief, darting wildly as if searching for the lie—the moment it all went wrong.

"was it all a lie..." he murmured, horror dawning as the truth wrapped icy fingers around his fading consciousness.

His rage wilted into silence.

The fear, the helplessness, the betrayal—it all condensed into a final thought, weak and flickering like a candle’s last flame:

’Why...?’

Then—darkness.