Storm King's Ire (Part Two)

They gathered together, all as one, for one final meeting. 

The Blade pulled the spear from his spirit, and for the first time in seven years, felt the power of a magi joined alongside his own. He closed his eyes for a moment, exalting in it, and then snapped them open. 

“I will wield the spear,” he said firmly. “My Title incorporates blades, and I have mastered spear forms as well as sword forms.” 

Neither of the others argued. Had this been any other mission, they would have jockeyed for glory and position, wanting to be the one to see the Storm King dead. But this was not any other mission. And for this, they could put aside thoughts of position and power. Even if both Moonlit Snow and the Weaver knew that, should they succeed, they had all but signed themselves over to the service of the Blade, to leaving their home to join beneath another Magi, or else to go and found their own lands. 

After all, once the Storm King was dead, Central Daocheng and the surrounding territories would need a new ruler. The Blade would have an artifact that gave him the strength of a Magi and Occultist working in concert. Even should the Weaver and Moonlit Snow work together to try and kill him, they would fail. 

That was fine with both, so long as it meant the Storm King was dead. 

“Get us there,” the Blade said, channeling his Title into the spear. 

Moonlit Snow and the Weaver both flexed their Titles and magic together. The palace had wards against spatial magic, and doubtless against shadow teleportation as well, and to prevent attacks from dreams. 

But the realm of dreams was ever-shifting, and guarding a static location against all possible entry points was nearly impossible. When working alongside shadows, it was made twice as difficult, an intangible slipperiness combining with the labyrinthian nature of dreams. 

The trio appeared in the golden palace, in the shadow of one of the throne room’s columns, and they launched into action. 

With the power of his Title, the magic of the spear, and a technique of his own that infused his body with a fraction of the impossible speed that light held, the Blade moved. Of course, he used other techniques as well, foundational techniques to improve himself in a dozen minor ways, and the speed of the Lightheart Body Cultivation Technique. He moved across the room and stabbed at the heart of the elderly Storm King. 

The Moonlit Snow opened her arctic realm of shadows and channeled her own might into it, a single snowflake condensed with the power of a score of winter nights under the light of the full moon, infused with a dozen spells of her own. The ice in the technique was cold enough to freeze even members of the Embersoul sect to death with a touch, despite their Inner Flame Body Cultivation.

The Weaver of Nightmares unleashed their power too, a psychic assault. Unlike the other two, their technique was simple, and in that simplicity was its power. Five gates of their magic all worked to empower their first and fifth, and the psionic hammer carried the might of all of that, a nightmarish dream of undead bloodshed and violence that would destroy the mind of anyone beyond repair. 

The entire thing took less than a thousandth of a second. Even a Magi with command over time itself would struggle to react to one of the three attacks in such a span, let alone all three of them.

The tip of the spear froze a finger’s width from the Storm King’s chest. The Blade tried to push forward, but every muscle in his body was locked. Except, no, that wasn’t right. His body responded fine, straining and flexing. It was a wind that kept him trapped in place. A wind so fierce that it was able to overpower all of his spells, even augmented by the Magi level spear.

The Blade’s eyes flicked over to his companions, and they couldn’t help but widen. Moonlit Snow’s single fleck of ice had been blown back into her realm and exploded, and wind was now scouring through the realm with such intensity that the entire thousand acre realm was being ripped to nothingness. Moonlit Shadow herself was locked in place, just as he was. 

She must have tried to teleport away, but the wards of the palace prevented anyone from being able to teleport out, as well as in. Had she been able to work with the Weaver, or if she had hours to let shadows shift, she could have escaped. But alone, without time? 

The Weaver of Nightmares was also held in place by wind. The spirit’s body was made solely of dreamstuff, and shouldn’t have been able to be trapped by any physical force, but the Storm King’s infamous Winds of Hell technique was more than just wind. It carried spiritual energy from across a hundred miles, binding it into a geomantic array that kept the Weaver locked in place.

“I am impressed,” the Storm King said, his voice calm, but with the authority and power of the oldest man on the continent. “As far as assassination attempts go, yours was nearly perfect. You managed to evade my sight, senses, and the loyalty spark flawlessly.” 

“How?” Moonlit Shadow managed to get out between clenched teeth. 

“How did I know? I didn’t,” the Storm King admitted. “You simply failed to account for one tiny detail.”

The air in the room seemed to swell and shake, and in the distance they could hear thunder begin to rumble. 

“Me.” 

The Storm King stood from his chair, slipping aside from the point of the Magi level artifact. The Blade strained, focusing his power and its to try and break through the winds keeping him held in place. 

“You are not faster than me. You are not able to see further than me. You are not more skilled than me. And above all, you will never, ever be stronger than me.”

With each pronouncement, wind began to intensify in the room. Golden painted tiles on the floor began to crack under the pressure of the wind. One of the massive stone pillars, a block of solid white jade covered with reinforcement spells and wards, snapped like a pine tree under the force. 

With a scream of protest, the roof of the place was ripped off by the gale, floating up into the air. An instant later they rose as well, and then more of the palace began to rise. 

The Blade watched in horror as the Golden Palace, a city with more than a hundred thousand living in it, was torn from the mountainside and rose into the air. And then the mountain was torn up from the earth to join it.

It was impossible. There was no way any one mage could lift that much. Maybe if it had been a naturally floating mountain range, like the flightgeodes in the broken continent, or the floating range in Crysite, a magi could have moved it. Maybe if the mountain had been enchanted to channel his power, then it could have been lifted. But the Storm King shouldn’t – couldn’t – have this much raw power.

The Storm King walked through the air towards the Blade as if it were solid ground, before plucking the spear from his hands and examining it. 

“Fine work,” the Storm King observed. “Truly. You have my compliments. This would be a spear worthy of a place in my personal collection, if its power was not so bent against me.” 

He ran his finger along the spearhead, pricking himself with it, and the Blade felt the magic settle around him. The isolationthread stopped him from accessing any external power, the shaft wiped away an ocean of his own power, and the full assault of a magi’s personal vengeance unleashed itself into the Storm King’s face. 

For half a second, the mountain began to fall. And then it rose back up as the Storm King smiled at it, a perverse amusement on his face. 

The spear’s shaft began to wither and crack as the negation magic was fed so much raw power that it simply could not wipe it all out. It was like using a towel to try and soak up an entire lake. 

The spear’s head began to oxidize and flake away as the magic of the long-dead Magi broke against the might of the Storm King, like a barreling cart slamming into a city’s ancient stone wall. 

The thread binding the two together lasted for a moment, holding out for the few seconds it was meant to, then it dissolved into nothing more than motes of purple light. 

“There is a reason that I was the only one to survive the Apocalypse of Seventeen!" the Storm King said. “I conquered a dozen kingdoms before the world's mathmaticians concieved of the decimal system! Yet fools like you always seem to think a paltry trick like that will be enough to kill me."

The tide of winds and power flowing from the Storm King seemed almost endless as his anger bore down on them. His eyes landed on Moonlit Shadow. 

“You are trying to run. It won’t work. But I’ll let each of you try. I won’t even use my Loyalty-Spark.”

He clicked his fingers, and she was released. Shadow warped and she vanished, using every bit of her magic. With her shadows, she could move five hundred miles in a single second. She flexed her power over and over, burning Shen to try and sever her connection to the Storm King, to start anew.

She stumbled out onto a mountaintop in Tianzhu and paused, panting. Her seventh gate was empty. 

She spun around, looking for any hint of an unnatural breeze, but found none. She was free. His confidence would let her live. 

“Is that all? I’m disappointed, little rabbit.” 

The voice seemed to come from everywhere at once as a shadow fell over her. She looked up to see a typhoon in the shape of a man towering over everything. He was taller than the mountains, and drew back a single palm. His single open handed strike broke apart the mountain she stood on, and she was caught in its path.

But it did not kill her. No, the pressure bound her up, until she felt a snap, and pain flared in her left pinkie. Then another in her left ring finger. Slowly, but surely, over two hundred snaps rang out over the broken mountain. Back in the palace, the Storm King turned to look at the Weaver.

“Your turn.”

The Weaver dove into the world of dreams. Here, they were sure, that monster would be unable to follow. Here, they would be able to plot a course our and escape. 

They dashed from dream to dream, following the odd bridges and shifting landscape. A minute ticked by. Then two. Then a force encompassed him, the spiritual senses of the Storm King crushing down with overwhelming weight. 

“Not bad,” the Storm King said, his voice coming from all atound. “It was much harder to find you here. There isn’t much wind in the land of dreams, and my formations don’t work at all. But a spirit such as yourself, I’m certain you noticed your Dominion, Authority, and Title are all much stronger here.”

The Storm King’s voice lowered to a whisper, as if to tell them a secret.

“My own Title is also much stronger. Now, you gain more of a benefit than I, being of dreams yourself. But shall we see if that’s enough to let you escape?”

Then the Storm King’s Title began to crush the Weaver. The Weaver had far too much of a home field advantage to make this fast or merciful. But while it was not fast, it was inevitable. Slowly, painfully slowly, the Weaver’s soul began to crack. And once the soul was broken, the dreamstuff making up their body faded away. 

The Storm King turned to the Blade. 

“And now only you remain. Run.” 

The Blade squared his shoulders and drew his domain weapon. 

“I will not. I came to kill you. I may fail, no, I have failed. But I am not a coward.” 

The Storm King’s sadistic smile softened slightly, and he gave an almost respectful bow, of the sort a grandfather might give a child who had made a good point. 

“For that, I will grant you the mercy of a swift and painless death.”

The Storm King raised his hand, and an ancient, chipped, pitted iron sword appeared. He made a single cut, the air twitched, and the Blade died.