MIGHT AS WELL BE OP

Weeks under the tutelage of Warlord Raelith had honed Spectre's understanding of the katana to an edge sharper than steel.

Each passing day revealed more of the man's genius, a talent forged not by privilege, nor by supernatural aid, but by the sheer force of innate talent.

And yet, as much as Spectre admired him, there was a quiet truth buried in the depths of his mind: his own talent eclipsed even that of his tutor.

He was not yet Raelith's equal, not as Anthony had been, but every lesson, every subtle nuance, every imperceptible movement Raelith imparted had taken root in him, absorbed with an ease that bordered on the unnatural.

Twice was more than enough for him to master what others would toil over for years.

Now, it was time to unveil the harvest of that training.

Lightning cracked in the air, the scent of ozone thickening around him as his presence swelled. He stood poised, an incarnation of storm and wrath, a god draped in thunder.

With slow, deliberate grace, he drew his katana.

Lethal Sword Intent shimmered along its edge, the quiet promise of death radiating from the blade. Threads of lightning coiled and danced along the steel, merging seamlessly with his Sword Intent, the two forces locked in perfect, devastating harmony.

[Spectre Technique: Katana Series: Calm Waver]

Despite its serene name, there was nothing calm about the storm it unleashed.

In the space of a heartbeat, Spectre's hand blurred, then fractured, as though reality itself failed to keep pace with his movement.

Above, beside, behind, everywhere at once, the sky and space splintered, rending apart to birth a single, perfect line of annihilation, woven from pure lightning and sword intent.

From that solitary stroke, the world fractured further. One became ten. Ten became hundreds. Hundreds became thousands, an unending bloom of sword lines multiplying into a celestial tapestry of death.

This was no mere technique; it was the ascended form of what he had once wielded, now refined into something bordering on the divine.

Below, the cultists and demons froze, eyes wide, hearts seized by the primal terror of prey before an extinction-level predator. For a fleeting instant, disbelief clouded their minds. Had the humans risen overnight to claim the apex of the Blue Planet's races?

Spectre gave no thought to their awe. With a single, fluid swing of his katana, the heavens bent and the desert itself groaned under the pressure. The countless sword lines descended in an unrelenting, apocalyptic deluge, waves of slicing light, each one carrying the promise of oblivion.

Lightning burst outward, snapping and leaping from foe to foe, searing flesh and turning life to ash in its embrace.

The desert convulsed under the onslaught; thousands of deep trenches ripped across the sands, stretching for kilometres without end.

Towers of sand erupted skyward in violent plumes, swirling into a choking storm as dust and thunder merged into a single, earth-shattering chorus of devastation.

From within the swirling haze of dust, a violent crack of lightning split the air. Out of it surged a human form, so fast he seemed to blur against the horizon, his speed brushing the edge of light itself.

To the demons and cultists, there was no man, no face, only the fleeting gleam of a katana. And then, the cold embrace of the Grim Reaper.

Spectre moved like a tempest given flesh, every technique, every skill, every ounce of training he had ever mastered bleeding seamlessly into one another.

This was the crucible he had waited for, a chance to unleash the sum of all he had learned, for who could say when such an opportunity would return?

He dropped into a perfect stance, the kind honed through countless hours of discipline, then pivoted into a full 360-degree swing.

Lightning roared to life, bursting from his body in a searing ring of destruction. In an instant, every towering stone pillar in sight crumbled into dust, as though the earth itself bowed to his blade.

His senses flared, razor-sharp, unerring. Without warning, the desert below shifted.

Spectre's foot rose from the sands, poised to strike. Then it fell, slamming into the ground with colossal force.

But it was too late.

A violent surge of sword intent erupted downward, lancing through the earth like divine judgment.

From beneath came strangled screams, abruptly silenced, those who had sought to strike from the shadows perished before their ambush could even begin.

On another side of the battlefield, Clement sat atop a towering stone pillar as though the chaos below had nothing to do with him. His presence was silent, his form almost indistinguishable from the shifting shadows of war.

As the bearer of the Death Physique, he thrived in places where blood flowed freely and the stench of mortality thickened the air. And yet, to him, this particular conflict felt dull, monotonous even. His expression betrayed only mild boredom.

His ability, Death Touch, allowed him to end the life of anyone, even those a mana rank above him, with nothing more than a casual brush of his hand. Not that he required it, his physical skills alone could carve through opponents without effort.

Sitting idle didn't mean inaction. All around the battlefield, the souls he had claimed, now bound to his will, fought tirelessly as his spectral minions.

When one fell, the soul would simply return to him, to be sent back once again into the fray. For Clement, death was not an ending, it was a renewable resource.

A quiet sigh slipped past his lips as he observed the carnage.

Then, a ripple brushed against his senses, a presence approaching from behind. He didn't move. Didn't even turn his head.

The figure's dagger arced toward the back of his skull with lethal intensity, only to pass harmlessly through his form as though striking smoke.

'An afterimage… such speed.' The thought flashed through the assailant's mind.

Clement had moved the instant the intruder had set foot on the pillar, leaving behind nothing more than an illusion born of sheer, unnatural speed.

"A sneak attack on an assassin?" he murmured, his voice a calm drawl. "That's a little naive, don't you think?"

His gaze remained disinterested as he continued, "Sensing you was hardly difficult, though I suppose you weren't even trying to hide."

Before the last word left his lips, the attacker was already in motion again, daggers slicing toward his throat, the air itself shrieking under their velocity.

Clement stepped aside with effortless ease, lowering himself into a squat in the same movement. His leg shot out like a coiled serpent, sweeping across the cultist's ankles with bone-crushing force.

The woman crumpled instantly, her body smashing into the stone with a brutal crack.

She barely had time to register the pain before Clement's hand pressed lightly to her forehead. In that instant, her life was extinguished, her soul torn from her body, vanishing into his grasp.

Rising without haste, Clement returned to his seat as though nothing had happened. Around him, the souls of the freshly dead streaked toward his form, drawn irresistibly into his collection.

This war was nothing more than a harvest, and he intended to gather enough to force his breakthrough into the next mana rank.