Primordial Heir: Nine Stars

The ogre did not wait. It moved, and the air screamed.

The bastard sword came down in an arc that should have split Nero in two. He was not there. Golden lightning carried him sideways, the blade passing so close he felt the wind of it tear at his clothes. He counter-thrusted, his sword aimed at the ogre’s ribs.

The ogre was already moving. The bastard sword swept back, catching Nero’s blade with a clang that sent shockwaves through the field. Nero felt the impact in his bones, his arms shuddering. The ogre’s strength was immense, beyond anything he had faced.

He disengaged, leaping back, his feet barely touching the ground before he was moving again. Lightning crackled around his limbs, his sword, his eyes. He circled the ogre, testing, probing. A thrust to the throat. A slash at the knee. A feint to the chest that became a cut to the arm.

The ogre met every strike. Its sword moved with a speed that belied its size, a wind rising around it, green and howling. The Law of Wind was not crude in its hands. It was focused, controlled, deadly. Each parry sent gusts of cutting air toward Nero, forcing him to dodge, to weave, to burn lightning just to stay ahead.

He was faster. But the ogre was stronger, its reach longer, its blows carrying the weight of mountains.

They clashed again in the center of the field, sword against sword, lightning against wind. The ground beneath them cracked. The air itself seemed to shatter. Nero pushed, his muscles screaming, his lightning flaring. The ogre pushed back, its wind howling, its eyes burning.

They broke apart, both breathing hard. Nero’s arms ached. His knuckles were white around the hilt. He had not used fire. He had not used earth. The tower was recording. The tower would show everything to those who had the right to see. He could not show them everything. Not yet.

But he could show them this.

He gathered lightning into his sword, not the gold of destruction, but something else. Something he had discovered in the second wave, refined in the silence between battles. White lightning. It gathered along the blade, pale and silent, making no sound, giving no warning.

He moved.

The ogre’s eyes widened. It had not heard him coming. The white lightning gave no roar, no crackle, no hum. Nero was simply there, his sword already thrusting, already seeking the ogre’s heart.

The ogre twisted. The blade caught its side instead of its chest, cutting deep, drawing black blood. The ogre roared—not in pain, but in rage. Its wind exploded outward, a hurricane contained in a single blast, hurling Nero backward.

He tumbled across the field, his white lightning dying, his sword digging into the earth to slow himself. He came up bleeding, a gash across his ribs where the wind had cut him. The ogre was already advancing, its wound already closing, its eyes fixed on him with new respect.

It pointed its sword at him. A challenge.

Nero smiled. Blood dripped from his side. His lungs burned. But he was not done.

He gathered lightning again. Not white. Not gold. Blue.

Blue lightning crackled around his body, soft and gentle, nothing like the fury of his other forms. It flowed into his wounds, into his muscles, into his core. He felt his ribs knit, felt the gash close, felt the fire in his lungs cool. The blue lightning hummed beneath his skin, soothing, healing, making him whole.

The ogre watched, its head tilted, its sword lowered for just a moment. Curiosity. Perhaps respect.

Nero rose. The blue lightning faded, replaced by gold. He raised his sword, and the gold lightning blazed, bright and terrible, casting shadows across the field. He did not wait. He charged.

The ogre met him. Wind and lightning crashed together, a storm given form. They were no longer circling, no longer testing. This was the heart of the fight, the moment when both gave everything they had.

Nero’s sword came down. The ogre’s sword came up. The impact flattened the grass for a hundred yards. They broke apart, came together, broke apart again. Each exchange was faster than the last, harder, more desperate.

The ogre’s wind was a weapon now, not just a shield. It cut at Nero’s face, his arms, his legs. It threw him off balance, blinded him, tried to tear the sword from his hands. He fought through it, his lightning burning away the gusts, his will holding firm.

He was learning. The ogre’s wind was powerful, but it had patterns. The gusts came from its sword, followed its movements. If he could get inside its reach, past the wind, past the blade—

He feinted left, drew the ogre’s sword, and dove right. The wind screamed past his ear, tearing a lock of hair. He was inside, close enough to see the ogre’s eyes widen, close enough to feel its breath hot on his face.

His sword rose.

The ogre’s free hand caught his wrist.

Nero’s eyes went wide. The ogre’s grip was iron, crushing. He could not move. The ogre smiled, and its sword came around, slow and deliberate, the wind gathering along its edge for the final blow.

Nero did not have time. He did not have strength. He had only lightning.

He let go of the gold. He let go of the white. He let go of everything he knew, everything he had learned, and reached into the deepest part of his core, where the lightning was not light, not fury, not healing. Where it was something else. Something darker.

Black lightning erupted from his body.

It was not silent like the white. It was not healing like the blue. It was not bright like the gold. It was corrosive, eating into the ogre’s hand, its arm, its chest. The ogre screamed, releasing Nero’s wrist, stumbling back. The black lightning followed, clinging to its flesh, burning through its wind, through its strength.

Nero stood in the center of the storm, his body wreathed in black fire, his eyes red and terrible. He raised his sword, and the black lightning gathered along the blade, making it something more than steel, something more than weapon.

The ogre looked at him, and for the first time, there was fear in its eyes.

It did not run. It raised its sword, its wind gathering one last time, and charged.

Nero met it.

The black lightning struck the green wind, and the wind died. The bastard sword met Nero’s blade, and the steel shattered. The ogre stood before him, weaponless, windless, its chest heaving, its eyes fixed on his.

Nero’s sword rose.

’’Heaven’s Slash!”

The black lightning blazed.

He brought it down.

The ogre fell.

Thud!

’’Huff! Huff!”

Nero stood over it, breathing hard, his body trembling, his sword still raised. The black lightning faded, leaving only the gold, then nothing at all. He looked at the ogre’s body, at the field of shattered earth and broken wind.

He had not used fire. He had not used earth. He had given the tower only lightning to see.

But he had given it enough.

The notification appeared, soft blue against the gray sky.

Third wave cleared.

Trial complete. Proceed to third floor for Stage One reward.

Nero sheathed his sword. His body ached. His lungs burned. However, it was time to move to the 3rd floor, the first stage.