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The defenses of the city had been built, the most basic at least, which meant Akhenamen could now leave it to Ascylla to oversee the construction of Oleron’s defensive matrix. Cygislax would last against any assault.
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Now, Oleron needed to become the trap in which any enemies of the Cygilites would fall. Everything had been planned carefully with the greatest of the Cygilites' minds; even those that had yet to be given a body were granted one specifically for this mission.
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Even if Akhenamen were to disappear for the next five years, the construction would keep going unbothered. 10 Legions had been successfully brought back. The Cygilites were very quickly rising toward becoming powerful enough to once more challenge all of Zenthia, and even if he knew that he personally had no interest in fighting against Zenthia, many rulers couldn’t help but be worried.
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It was like having one of the most powerful dragons settle next to a simple farmer’s house. No matter how much the dragon would say he came in peace and wanted no trouble, the farmer would still be scared.
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He wore no clothes, not even his Cygitek coat, and had only a very simple and humble robe on him, covering most of his body, allowing only his glowing green eye to be seen from under the hood. He had his glaive tight within one of his hands.
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He had decided to walk this way despite being able to “fly” there. Not that jumping from platform to platform or shattering distance itself could be compared to flying. Akhenamen, despite all his power, still couldn’t truly fly.
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Today would be his last day in Oleron before leaving to explore Zenthia. And there was one single thing that remained for him to accomplish before he met with Valencia. A duel he had to win fairly.
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Finally, in the middle of the desert, another figure appeared, Okeron. The drunk, homeless-looking old man was nowhere to be seen; in his place was a warrior who had survived since the days of the Forgotten Wars.
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A powerful carved oriental armor covering his lower body in a thick robe, covering his legs fully, armored plates on the robe showed it was clearly far tougher than it looked. He wore sandals, simple, made from an unknown leather. His chest was bare, exposing powerful muscles and too many scars to count, his forearms covered in old looking bracers.
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His hairs once long and draped over his shoulders were now decorated with many jewels and shaped like what seemed to be a traditional haircut. His beard, once shaggy and long were now cut short.
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He looked like a rather good-looking old veteran, his glaive held tightly in one hand. There were no words exchanged. Both took a fight stance, their glaives held tightly in front of them.
Akhenamen could easily win that fight with his stats; he could slay Orikon in a single second based on his stats alone, but…
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“What kind of warrior would that make me?”
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No, if Akhenamen were to win this fight, it would be based on his skills alone. He would fight and win fairly. He would prove that even without his Aspect’s powers, he could win.
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A barely noticeable twitch on Orikon started this battle, a burst of speed, a flickering silhouette appearing in front of Akhenamen, a twirling glaive slashing through the air, eager to dice Akhenamen.
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His own glaive moved, its blade meeting Orikon’s at every strike. Their strikes would look so fast and blurry to everyone else that no one would be able to guess what was even happening, other than other authorities and beyond.
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Akhenamen, in six months, had turned from a beginner to a master of the glaive, to the point he had even unlocked a passive skill showing his mastery. But he might as well be fighting the greatest glaive wielder ever born.
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Orikon’s strikes were beyond mastery and beauty. His mastery over the glaive so great it seemed almost ephemeral, twirls, spins, thrusts, all blended in a single dance of death. Akhenamen answered with his own style.
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If Orikon was a dancing god, then Akhenamen was a god of war, each strike seemingly multiplying, summoned green spectral arms and glaives following behind his glaive. Like a phantom strike. Wielding the Gauss energy natural to Cygilites, he seemed to slice the air itself.
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Yet already the difference between Akhenamen and Orikon had been shown clearly. Orikon had yet to go all out and hadn’t even infused his strikes with his Law, but his skills seemed more than great enough to match Akhenamen’s overwhelming attacks.
“You have me bested, old man…”
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“The first lesson I taught you was to shut up during a fight. So shut it and fight.”
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Orikon’s glaive started to glow; the old-looking weapon suddenly started to crack. But Akhenamen knew he hadn’t broken that weapon. Definitely not.
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[Gale-Maker] [Artifact] [Unique]: The first glaive to have ever been created. [Remaining information has been blocked by Gale-Maker’s persona].
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Yes, that was Orikon’s glaive. Akhenamen genuinely didn't know how Orikon ever came in contact with such a weapon. But the weapon was so old and powerful that it had long since gained consciousness. A weapon which had once been wielded by Singularities had decided to belong to a simple Authority.
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The cracks spread until they reached the blade’s tip. An immense amount of powerful green wind started to concentrate at the tip of his glaive. A technique he had taught to Akhenamen, who was doing the same. Multiple phantomatic green glaives seemed to all overlap with his own glaive.
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BANG!
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A shockwave pushed, which created a powerful sand tsunami to rise around the fighters, exploding throughout most of Oleron. On one side, a seemingly endless number of glaives slammed toward Orikon while Gale-Maker’s simple rusted blade, now cracked, was vibrating, carrying the full might of Orikon’s Divine Law of Wind.
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A single blade that carried the might of the thousands of summoned Cygilites glaive.
Number against skill. And as Akhenamen had proved many times, numbers meant nothing in front of true skill and power.
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Orikon’s glaive was pushing him back. Akhenamen would lose this exchange; he suddenly let go of his glaive, lowering himself to allow Orikon’s glaive to pass above his body, and just as Orikon started to angle his strike to slice Akhenamen from head to feet.
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Akhenamen gripped the very tip of his glaive’s staff, which had been flung away without Akhenamen’s strength, and back the strike and used it like a baseball bat, smacking Orikon away in a fluid move that lasted no more than a few milliseconds.
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That move was impressive enough to make even Orikon smirk a bit, slightly rubbing the open wound on his cheek from the immense impact of Akhenamen’s strike. He grinned and rushed toward Akhenamen, his strikes even faster and even more fluid as if the dozens of attacks he threw every second were all just one single strike.
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Akhenamen followed with his own slashes and thrusts, all until Orikon’s glaive twisted like a snake around Akhenamen’s arm, pushing himself forward in another thrust and slamming into Akhenamen’s highest shoulder, the one holding the glaive, the hand linked to the glaive let go.
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The falling glaive was once more gripped by Akhenamen’s lower hand and, with a burst of speed, sliced Orikon’s arm off, the flesh being carved effortlessly, making Orikon stare at the injury as if he was looking at an annoying itch. The glaive, which should have fallen, was instead still striking Akhenamen.
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This was Orikon’s wind law that had turned into an arm of wind holding to the glaive and continuing to strike again and again. It had actually become a bit harder to fight, as once Orikon would parry or dodge to protect a strike to his arm, but now his wind arm was just wind, making it harder to block his advances and attacks.
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Then one single mistake was committed, a strike only slightly to the left, and Akhenamen believed it to be faint. He stopped his attack and instead sent a strike toward Orikon’s leg to incapacitate him…
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Orikon’s face, which had stayed in this silent grin, just lifted his leg, staying on a single foot to thrust his glaive straight into Akhenamen’s chest. Would have been a killing blow if Akhenamen were human; he was not, and his glaive continued and slashed through Orikon’s leg, cutting it off.
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And as Orikon tried to move his glaive up to slice Akhenemen in two, Akhenamen’s law suddenly summoned a spectral Cygilite arm, thrusting through Orikon’s own chest, who did nothing to avoid that blow.
There wasn’t even a drop of blood as the Gauss glaive erased even the blood.
“Why didn’t you dodge? You barely used your wind law… You were lying when you said you killed all your previous disciples… You’ve always been looking for death, haven’t you…”
Orikon just smiled at Akhenamen, his grin showing peace and relief. His hand was resting on the pole of the glaive, piercing his chest. Staring into Akhenamen’s glowing eye. He didn’t answer; he didn’t need to. Akhenamen could recognise those eyes. So much emptiness. A single trace of hope remained, and it wasn’t hope for a future.
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Then Akhenamen understood that since he sliced Orikon’s cheek, proving his worth, Orikon had decided his death would be today. During this duel. He now knew what he had to do, pulling out the blade from his chest, he sliced Orikon’s head off. Swift. Fast. No pain.
Akhenamen could have asked many questions… his story, how he obtained the Gale-Maker. But he now understood that some people had lived too long and given up for so long that killing them was a mercy.
“Today I lost our duel. If I weren’t a Cygilites… I would have died before him. He was a better glaive wielder without a doubt.”
Akhenamen honestly did not know what he should do with Orikon’s body, but… he did not have to decide because Orikon’s entire body started to disappear… turning into a bright green wind.
Leaving only Gale-Maker behind.
“Orikon… who were you, truly?”
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