Savage Awakening 343. The Third Planet (III) (Patreon)

Haxorax couldn’t understand where Zane got the will.

He could barely keep himself up, yet he fought like he could still win this.

The Witch-King unleashed its domain, and the situation only grew more dire.

A glimmering insubstantial power blanketed the world—Laws of Stellar Dust, the stuff of dreams themselves. Only its Laws were unlike anything Zane had faced before.

Its Laws were at the great circle of Tier 6. Its domain met Zane’s own and began to wrestle it back, seizing the ground he’d just regained, foot by foot. 

Zane staggered a step, gritting bloodied teeth. Still fighting as hard as ever.

But if this outburst was all he had left…

It was plain to Haxorax it wouldn’t be enough.

The Witch-King raised its scepter, and the gem at its tip shone brighter than anything on the battlefield—malevolent energies, stark purples crackling inside boiling bloody reds; that hundred-thousand-year-old monstrous bone only magnified its presence.

The King let out a banshee screech, jabbed the scepter, and began its onslaught.

It was an onslaught not on the physical plane, but the Astral—in any other circumstance, Haxorax might’ve thought it’d be a relief for Zane. His wrecked body finally got a break…

Except Haxorax knew what was coming.

The Witch-King’s spells raced out. One by one, like ghostly cannon fire.

Moving near the speed of light—they were weightless things, defying notions of space, mass, and speed; they existed almost entirely as Astral forms, and there everything moved differently, strangely. 

Zane might’ve had a chance if his body was up to its usual standard.

But as things were, he could do nothing but brace and take them head-on.

They rammed him one by one.

First an expanding bubble of hellish red; there came a sound like a gong’s chime when it struck. A curse of great lethargy strong enough to down Sacred Bulls.

Zane’s Red Moon Shield flared up bravely, taking the weight of it—but in one blow it was left shuddering, ridden with deep cracks.

The next curse struck, a void-black arc promising blindness.

It struck the same spot on his shield—and shattered it.

The third curse hit Zane head-on, and it was the worst of the bunch. So deep red it was nearly black—the color of the fires of the ninth circle of Hell.

It was the Mindshatter Curse.

So-called because it induced an agony so ferocious it could drive victims to permanent madness—crack their souls inside their bodies.

Most Minor Gods who attempted these Trials were geniuses, with robust souls and soul defenses—and even they, if they were unlucky enough to take it head-on, often spent years shivering in hospital wards, babbling incoherently, before they regained their sanity.

Zane let out a howl. Veins stood out pale purple against his neck, his shredded arms.

But the barrage wasn’t done.

One by one the spells fell over him. Slowness. Blindness. Lethargy. Cracking over his head and his soul like hammer blows, dousing him in a field of ugly, hazy yellows and purples and blacks…

Zane’s body shuddered.

“That’s it, then,” said Haxorax, frowning.

He’d had to train his soul defenses for nearly fifty years. Specially master the heaven-grade soul treasure Shield of the Everlasting Flame just to resist this onslaught.

Taking it head-on, and surviving—it should’ve been unthinkable.

And yet…

Something stopped Haxorax from looking away. Stopped him from writing Zane off, even in his state.

When it came to matters of the soul, and that man, he’d learned it was hard to say what was possible.

He watched those curses playing over Zane, dancing over his body like demented auroras, staggering him with each blow. The runes on his body burned madly, like rivers of rushing blood. Zane’s teeth were gritted so tight Haxorax thought they might shatter. And as he heaved in deep breaths, it was as though he carried an unfathomable weight on his back.

But he didn’t go down.

***

“By the Creator,” swore the Patriarch. “How’s he still standing?”

“It’s his Asura Titanform,” said Noughtfire absently, still watching intently. Almost like the old Sage was waiting for something. “He strongly resists lethargy and paralysis.”

“‘Strongly resists?’ It’s like a bull shrugging off a bad rider! The Vitality he’s got, even now…” The Patriarch chuckled. “What can you even say?”

The Witch-King kept floating closer, and Zane even found it in him to unsheathe his weapons. Two axes rose to either side of him; usually they seemed weightless. But right now he could barely even keep hold of them.

Even the Witch-King was blinking at him. As though baffled the human was still fighting. Could still fight.

Zane stared his foe down, breathing heavily.

Somehow—even after all that psychic damage—his eyes were clear and bright as ever.

Though this place had broken his body, it hadn’t come close to breaking his spirit.

“Shame. Can’t imagine it’ll take much more to put him down for good,” said the Patriarch. “Regardless, a good effort! That’s how a warrior should go out. Though it would’ve been more interesting if he had the essence to back it up. Next time, perhaps—”

He stopped.

Frowned.

There was a shimmer shrouding Zane’s body. A sudden instability in the air…

Noughtfire’s expression quirked—just a little. Satisfaction flickered in the old Sage’s eyes.

“Thought so.”

The light grew, and grew—pouring down his body in a rush—rivers of brilliant gold, lighting up his veins, shining off his skin—Zane gritted his teeth.

“What exactly is that?” said the Patriarch, frowning.

“Essence,” said Noughtfire simply.

Zane roared.

And his domain exploded.

Gold blasted into the world. Slamming against the Witch-King’s domain, a tsunami of rising light. And its Laws could barely match the Witch-King’s; the sheer mass of it, the surge of it, sent the Stellar Dust reeling.

“What?!” roared the Patriarch, leaping to his feet. 

The Witch-King seemed just as surprised. Then it hissed, stabbed its scepter, tried boosting its own domain in answer.

But that field of gold wouldn't stop brightening. More and more surged out of Zane, coming in a mad torrent; his face was tensed in pure concentration, as though it was so much even he was struggling to unleash it all.

“How is he doing that?” whispered Haxorax.

The Patriarch was just quiet. Staring as gold washed up the walls of the canyon, wiped out reams of dreamy domain, sending the Witch-King shrieking, scattering back, raising its arms as though to ward off that relentless light.

The realization seemed to hit the Patriarch and Haxorax at the same time.

The Patriarch let out a booming laugh. “Heavens—I ought to give the kid more credit!”

Zane’s Chains rose high then, and the Axes at their ends were crescents of liquid sunlight. Searing so bright it hurt to look at even over scrying glass, burning voids wherever it passed.

“I was wondering how he ran out of essence so fast,” said the Patriarch, shaking his head. 

“He never ran out at all,” said Haxorax hoarsely. Eyes wide. 

“So all that—soaking all that damage with just his body,” croaked Burnwater. “It was all to conserve his powers?”

“All for this one moment!” laughed the Patriarch.

And in that moment the firepower in his shaking fists would make even True Gods take note.

This time, there was no holding back.

When Zane slashed, he slashed with everything.

The Witch-King shrieked; it must’ve known how dire its predicament was. Its scepter stabbed and spectral shields bloomed in the air. Layers of pale shadowy shields, stacking one atop another, nearly a dozen in all.

Zane’s axes didn’t even slow.

The effect was like enormous panes of glass shattering in the Astral plane.

The Witch-King gave a horrible spasm, spewing black blood.

And the first of Zane’s Axes broke through. Cracked the last of the defenses in a triumph of white and gold.

The second Axe sheared clean through the Final Boss’s throat.

It didn’t stop there. It kept going—drove a new canyon into the belly of the old, a golden canyon sinking deep into the bowels of the planet.

The Witch-King’s body was split by a line of Heavenly Flare, right at the throat.

It rose, vaporizing all it found, blasting through the neck, the jaw, the head—those purple eyes bulged, and the light took them too.

It descended, racing down the lich’s body, wiping it out of existence. Fabric to bone to skin…

Then the smoke drifted away, and the light faded, and there was nothing left but Zane.

Planet 3 cleared!

He was too exhausted to even give a victory roar.

He just keeled over.

***

A long silence stretched through the little cabin.

Then the Patriarch barked a laugh and stood.

“Well!” he said. “That was time well spent. And I know all I need to know about Zane Walker. You've outdone yourself with the boy, Noughtfire.”

Noughtfire shrugged. “What makes him Zane, he had before he came here. I opened a few doors. That was all.”

“Sure,” snorted the Patriarch.

Then he turned to his son. The First Prince of Dragons was still twitching a little.

“Do you understand now what’s coming for you?”

“…I do,” breathed Haxorax.

“Then you know what you have to do.”

Haxorax’s jaw worked in silence.

Then, slowly, he nodded.

The Patriarch’s fierce grin returned. “Then let’s begin.”

He gave Noughtfire a nod. “Noughtfire.” 

“Patriarch.” 

He strode out without another word.

“I will wait for you, Zane Walker,” said Haxorax, staring down the scrying glass. He followed his father.

The following day, Haxorax challenged the second-, third-, and fourth-ranked Core Disciples to a duel—all at once.

He went on to wipe the floor with them in one of the most vicious beatdowns the Eclipse Stadium had ever seen. 

But the First Prince of Dragons was not celebrating even as millions around him chanted his name.

There was a haunted look in his eyes. A man whose shadow he couldn’t seem to shake.

He left the arena muttering, “More.”