Cleaver Of Sin

Chapter 246: Doris

Asher’s eyes tore wide open as the wind shrieked in his ears, his Omni Perception barely tracing the trajectory of the incoming katana. His Instinctive Adaptation flared instantly, a primal surge of instinct coursing through his mind as his speed peaked to its very limit. In the same heartbeat, his rapier, Virelass, rose in a blur of silver, tearing through the air with a streak that seemed to outpace sight itself.

The moment their blades met, a sundering shockwave exploded outward. The atmosphere itself felt as though it had bloated and ruptured under the pressure of their clash. The roof beneath Asher’s feet shattered with maddening force, wood splintering apart as shards of zinc and debris blasted outward like a storm of shrapnel. Sparks erupted into the air in bursts of radiant brilliance, scattering like confetti in macabre celebration of violence.

With their foothold demolished, both combatants plummeted toward the earth, landing with thunderous impact. Yet neither staggered. Asher’s face was carved with grim determination, his arms trembling slightly from the sheer, monstrous force transmitted through the clash. His body screamed of the impact, but his will remained undeterred, unbroken.

In the next instant, the world blurred. Both of them vanished into blinding streaks of motion, their feet carving deep prints into the battlefield as they tore forward, every step a statement of motion.

Clang. Clang. Clang. Clang. Clang.

The endless cadence of steel striking steel reverberated through the air, each collision echoing like thunderclaps across the ruined landscape. The wind barrier around them shattered with every blow, unable to withstand the force. Sound itself struggled to keep pace; by the time echoes rang out, Asher and Doris were already clashing anew, their weapons a blur of silver and shadow.

Their duel was a spectacle, blades colliding like storm waves breaking against jagged stone, ringing out with a resonance that felt eternal. Each strike, each parry, each movement, stitched together a tapestry of battle: a weaving of light and shadow, of precision and chaos. They were no longer merely fighters; they were natural disasters given form, their weapons moving with inevitability, as certain and as unstoppable as the turning of the seasons.

The air itself quivered, humming with tension, as their blows split the silence into fragments. Their movements were honed to impossible sharpness, every strike refined like the edge of their swords. To the ordinary eye, their duel was incomprehensible, a storm of flashes and collisions. Only warriors forged in blood and sharpened by death could glimpse the language they spoke, the sacred tongue of steel, the silent dialect of battle.

Asher’s frown deepened as he moved. His purple eyes, sharpened by perception, saw the uncanny calm etched into Doris’s face. Her composure was unbroken, her motions effortless. The way she wielded her katana was not desperate or strained; it was art, precise and deliberate. Every arc she carved into the air carried inevitability, every stroke calculated to perfection.

And yet, more troubling than her calmness was her increasing speed. Asher could see it, the gradual yet continuous escalation of her movements. While his own pace plateaued, hers only climbed higher. Slowly, inexorably, Doris was overwhelming him, not through strength, but sheer speed. His survival thus far was owed only to the perfect synchronization of Omni Perception and Instinctive Adaptation, which worked in unison to block and deflect her strikes at the very brink of disaster.

But Asher was not resigned to defense.

Astra pulsed through his Astra veins like wildfire, flowing toward the soles of his feet. His body shivered as his speed surged, steady but undeniable, allowing him to continue matching her accelerating strikes.

Their blades met again, fury against fury, unleashing sparks as though the air itself rebelled against their duel.

Steel sang in the battlefield’s chaos, every impact a thunderclap that resonated through the earth like the heartbeat of war. They danced, not as mortals, but as incarnations of destruction, their swords flashing like bolts torn from the wrath of some forgotten storm god. Their weapons blurred, weaving arcs of silver flame as though the air itself caught alight from their intensity.

Every swing was a symphony of lethal grace, notes written in blood and death. Every clash struck with the finality of a judge’s gavel, ringing with the weight of fate.

Asher’s gaze locked on her just as Doris’s katana streaked for his eyes. The blade split the air, the wind shrieking at its speed. Without hesitation, without even the space of a heartbeat, his head snapped aside, the strike narrowly missing, the air detonating where his skull had been.

But Asher was no cornered prey. He was not here to cower beneath the storm.

Virelass lashed outward, a silver thunderbolt tearing across the night sky. Its tip mirrored Doris’s earlier thrust, a motion for motion response, except his rapier aimed directly for her heart.

Doris’s reaction was immediate, seamless. Her body shifted as though it had anticipated his intent long before. Her center of gravity flowed, her shoulders pivoting, her arms recalibrating. With supernatural fluidity, she slipped aside, her calmness unshaken.

Her katana, already extended, blurred in motion. It descended like a guillotine, aiming to cleave Asher from crown to waist in one merciless stroke.

Asher’s instincts screamed. His purple eyes widened at the impossibility of dodging such a point-blank strike. His body did not possess the speed. But he did not need it.

Astra, once more it pulsed, bending the fabric of space around him. Reality twisted, and Asher vanished in a streak of motion. Doris’s katana struck nothing but emptiness, the air collapsing where he had stood.

An instant later, Asher reappeared behind her. Virelass slashed forward with deadly intent, its edge glinting in anticipation of blood. But Doris did not hesitate. Her battle-hardened instincts flowed like a tide, unshaken by the sudden teleportation. If anything, it seemed as though she had foreseen it.

She spun gracefully, a dancer in death’s ballet. Their weapons clashed once more with cataclysmic force, shockwaves rippling outward, sparks scattering like falling stars. Sword marks carved into the battlefield, gouging the earth with seismic intensity.

Doris deflected Virelass aside with a serene motion, her katana already redirecting toward his throat, her eyes colder than moonlight. Her gaze betrayed no hesitation, no conflict, as if the tender confession she had spoken to him mere moments ago had never existed.

Asher’s response was instantaneous. His feet danced across the scarred earth, his body darting to the side with all the speed he could muster. His rapier slashed downward, aimed directly for her kneecap, intent on crippling her in one decisive strike.

But Doris did not retract her blade. She did not defend in the conventional sense. Instead, her body moved with effortless confidence. Her leg blurred upward, her foot catching Asher’s wrist mid-motion. With sheer strength, she pressed down, pinning his hand and Virelass against the ground as though restraining him was the simplest thing in the world.

And still, Asher did not pause. He did not recoil in shock. Instead, he flowed seamlessly into the next motion, as though this, too, had been foreseen.

Virelass vanished in a blur of silver from his pinned right hand, only to reappear instantly in his left. Without hesitation, without pause, he thrust upward, the rapier’s tip streaking toward Doris’s underjaw. His precision was absolute, his strike efficient and merciless. It was as if he had anticipated her maneuver all along, crafting a counter in advance for the inevitability of her defense.