Aurafall: Fragments Of Power-Chapter 46: Mutual Destruction

Leo looked at Sigurd with a frown.

"He’s going to use his Tree."

Leo, meanwhile, had only one thing to rely on: the characteristic of the [Shell of Dread], which was the [Minor Remnant of Dread].

During the exodus of the Great Sea Realm, he had come to understand the true concept of dread after meeting the Spirit of Madness. Dread was, at most, universal and endless in its possibilities. It could be drawn from one’s surroundings, memories, opponents, or oneself.

The Spirit of Madness—or likewise, Shadow—had used the former two and the latter to destroy the Great Sea Realm. He used the environment of the Tide of Seas to trap the inhabitants and Leo. Then, he took the dread they had gained from those surroundings and used it in a psychological battle that drove most of them, including Leo, mad.

He made them beg for life and death at the same time. Then, he used his own personal dread to finish his mission.

Now it was clear to Leo that dread could be stored. Considering the amount of terror he had faced since obtaining the [Shell of Dread], it should have accumulated a huge amount of it. However, that total would be diminished to the amount the armor and he himself could carry, since the characteristic was still ranked as Minor.

’All I have to do is unleash dread, huh?’

Leo wasn’t allowed to finish his thoughts before water flowed from Sigurd’s palm like whips, threatening to tear into his body. 𝙛𝒓𝒆𝙚𝒘𝒆𝓫𝙣𝓸𝙫𝓮𝒍.𝒄𝒐𝓶

Leo somersaulted backward as the water whips hit a nearby Viking soldier, shredding his form and leaving large holes in his torso.

Leo gritted his teeth. "Damn it."

Leo closed his eyes, ignoring the freezing wind that was currently trying to weld his boots to the earth. He reached inward toward his armor. The [Minor Remnant of Dread] was a silent reservoir, a dark battery that had been drinking every ounce of terror Leo had felt since the exodus. Every time his heart had skipped a beat, every time he had felt like he was about to die, the armor had saved a piece of it.

’All I have to do is unleash it,’ Leo thought.

He didn’t scream or chant. He simply unlocked the mental gate he’d been keeping shut.

The effect was instantaneous. There was a sudden, sickening drop in the atmosphere. An oily, translucent black mist began to seep from the cracks and joints of the [Shell of Dread]. It clung to the ground and Leo’s limbs like a living shadow, heavy and cold in a way that had nothing to do with Sigurd’s ice.

Sigurd, seeing this more menacing look from his opponent, smirked and lunged forward without saying a word.

Sigurd moved with a fluid, predatory grace, his boots barely touching the mud as he closed the distance. He swung the blue staff in a wide, horizontal arc. As he swung, he channeled a massive surge of water into the weapon.

Leo didn’t retreat. The oily black mist of the [Minor Remnant of Dread] coiled around his legs like a physical weight, grounded and suffocating. As the staff whistled toward his ribs, Leo stepped into the strike. He took the blow against the reinforced plating of his shoulder, the impact echoing through the clearing like a hammer hitting an anvil.

The moment the staff touched the [Shell of Dread], the two opposing forces shrieked. Sigurd’s water, meant to freeze and shatter, met the concentrated essence of Leo’s accumulated terror. The black mist seemed to swallow the light around the point of impact.

Sigurd’s eyes widened. He felt a jolt of static fear travel up the length of his staff—a mental backwash of every nightmare Leo had stored since the Great Sea. For a split second, Sigurd’s grip faltered, his mind flickering with an image of his own heart turning into a block of black, rotting ice.

"Get out of my head!" Sigurd roared, wrenching the staff back and pivoting for a follow-up.

He lashed out with his free hand, a concentrated stream of water shooting from his palm like a high-pressure bolt. Leo ducked, and the water sliced through the helmet of a fallen soldier behind him as if it were parchment.

Leo countered with a jagged upward slash of the [Yielding Spine]. The crimson segments whirred, cutting through the freezing mist and forcing Sigurd to leap backward.

"You’re shaking, Prince," Leo growled, his voice sounding hollow and distorted through his visor.

The dread was like an infection. Every time Sigurd looked at Leo, the black mist warped his perception, making Leo appear larger, darker, and more monstrous than he actually was.

Sigurd snarled, his face contorting with effort. He slammed the butt of his staff into the ground, sending a ripple of water flow through the earth. Jagged spears of ice erupted around Leo, seeking to impale him from below. Leo danced through the emerging forest of glass; his movements were desperate and raw.

He vaulted over a rising spike and brought the [Yielding Spine] down in a two-handed overhead strike. Sigurd raised his staff to parry, and the collision sent a shockwave of steam and shadow outward.

They were locked in a stalemate, their faces inches apart. Sigurd was pouring every drop of his soul-water into the staff, trying to freeze Leo solid through the contact of their blades. Leo, in turn, opened the floodgates of the [Minor Remnant of Dread], letting the cold, oily weight of his memories pour into Sigurd’s psyche.

"You think... your little tricks... can stop a Capricorn?" Sigurd wheezed, the skin on his face turning a pale, sickly blue from the strain.

"It’s not a trick," Leo hissed, his boots sinking into the slush as he pushed back. "It’s what happens when you don’t have anything left to lose."

Sigurd kicked Leo’s chest-piece, creating a few feet of space, and immediately unleashed three rapid-fire water whips. Leo parried two, the force nearly numbing his arms, while the third grazed his thigh, cutting through the leather and drawing a line of red that froze instantly.

Leo didn’t flinch. He lunged again.

The fight devolved into a brutal, grinding cycle. Sigurd would unleash a torrent of freezing water, and Leo would weather the storm through the sheer, suffocating presence of the dread before counter-attacking with the jagged, mechanical fury of his sword.

Metal rang against wood. Ice shattered against shadow. The forest around them was being reduced to splinters and slush, yet neither boy showed signs of stopping.

Sigurd was bleeding from the nose, the water from his soul struggling to keep up with the physical damage to his body. Leo’s right arm was trembling, the weight of the armor and the psychological toll of the Remnant starting to fray his nerves.

They clashed again in the center of the clearing, their weapons meeting with a violent spray of sparks and black mist. The air between them hummed with a lethal intensity that showed no signs of breaking.

To any observer, it looked like a dance toward a double suicide—a battle that had no end in sight, only a slow, freezing descent into mutual destruction.

But then, Sigurd became distracted and was kicked to a nearby tree bark by Leo. He slammed into the tree but still didn’t realize it. Leo frowned and traced the eyes of Sigurd.

He saw Fang Rui, battered and injured carrying the head of the Viking that had kicked him earlier in his hand, raising it up for the soldiers to see.

"Hafgrim was dead."