The King Of Warriors novel (Jared Chance) novel Chapter 5570

Far below, Isabel clenched her small fists until her knuckles blanched, whispering over and over, "Ms. Dusko, please, win."

The Celestial Guards behind her stood rigid, necks craned, armor rattling with every shift of the duel above.

Near them, Enaricus watched the prince falter and felt a cold knot tighten in his gut.

His own disciples traded uneasy glances. One muttered, "Is Prince Percival truly up to this? What if he drags us down with him?"

Enaricus shot the speaker a single, storm-dark glare. The disciple fell silent as though his tongue had been cut out.

Esorin frowned faintly. Onneas' prowess had exceeded every private report, and the elder's disappointment in Percival settled like dust on his shoulders.

High above, Percival felt impatience gnaw at his composure. Each failed strike fed the hunger of his fury.

He kicked against empty air—once, twice—and shot forward like artillery. Complex seals flickered through his fingers. Demonic aura erupted from his pores, congealing into snarling dragons that hurtled toward Onneas with open maws.

Onneas' expression never wavered. Her sword danced in a blur, weaving blades of moonlight into a vast lattice. Each phantom dragon met that shimmering net and shattered into ash, one after another, as though salvation had never been an option.

The dragons shattered, dissolving into a swirl of pitch-black vapor. That vapor thickened a heartbeat later, knitting bone, scale, and claw back together before hurling itself at Onneas all over again.

"Hmph. Is that really the best you can muster?" Onneas asked, her voice as cool as dripping frost.

She slipped sideways—nothing more than a ripple in the air—then re-materialized behind Percival. Her blade lunged forward, cold steel arrowing straight for the center of his back.

A chill raced up Percival's spine. He threw himself forward in desperate flight. The sword missed his heart by a whisper, yet the trailing edge of its aura carved an angry crimson line across his shoulders.

"D*mn it!" he roared, hot blood seeping through the rent fabric of his cloak.

Every exchange left him reeling. Against Onneas, he felt like a chained beast—reactive, slow, forever forced onto the defensive.

Panic gnawed at the edges of his mind. If the balance did not tilt soon, this grand plaza would become his grave.

Those cuts multiplied. Blood soaked Percival's robes until the fabric clung dark and heavy against his skin.

"Impossible! How can I be losing to her?" he shouted, voice cracking under the weight of disbelief.

No! I will not fall here! Rage and refusal twisted inside him like barbed wire.

He hurled another flurry of savage blows, yet each one slid past empty air or rang uselessly against Onneas' dancing sword.

Far below, Enaricus watched his secret ally flounder. Sweat glazed his forehead, dread pooling like lead in his gut. Exposure meant ruin.

His fists tightened until nails bit flesh. He did not even feel the blood that welled beneath each crescent wound.

Across the plaza, Celestial Guards and disciples erupted in cheers. Their champion was winning, and pride surged through their ranks like sunrise across a dark sea.