Chapter 1757 Summit 2
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Julian's demeanor toward the attendees, while outwardly courteous, hid a deeper sentiment. His patience for their ignorance and inability to grasp the gravity of the world's situation was wearing thin. Every word he spoke, every gesture he made, was a call to action.
Yet, many of the so-called leaders of Earth seemed oblivious to the peril looming over them. Instead of rising to the challenge, they squandered the opportunity to be part of the solution. Julian's disappointment was palpable, and there was a growing realization among the attendees: Julian had probably considered a more aggressive stance, perhaps even an outright conquest of their kingdoms to ensure Rome's leadership in this global crisis.
Among the audience, a distinct split had emerged. Eighty figures remained seated, sensing the gravity of the moment. These were not just nominal allies but Rome's staunch supporters. They were the ones who, like Rome itself, recognized the paramount importance of collaboration and unity in the face of existential threats. Among them, Fjolnir and the Abbot group were particularly notable.
Then there were the Britannian knights. Their reactions ranged from stoic silence to subtle unease. However, Emery's keen eyes were drawn to King Arthur. His lack of visible shock intrigued Emery. Could Arthur have already been privy to the sinister workings of the Abyss? Emery pondered, drawing connections in his mind. Perhaps, he mused, this knowledge was the unseen force that had driven the once indomitable Britannia to bow to Rome.
Shaking the assembly from their reverie, Julian's voice resonated with authority and urgency.
"The true Summit begins now." His declaration had an undeniable finality to it, hinting at a more urgent phase of their gathering, to find the Earth's greatest warrior to prepare for such calamity.
As if on cue, four praetorian guards strode confidently into the center of the chamber. Their presence was an unnerving reminder of their recent confrontation with the Abyss creature, a testament to their prowess.
Julian's piercing gaze swept across the room, challenging and gauging each leader. "Those who can defeat four of them, are worthy to be a candidate"
The entire temple was thick with anticipation. Whispers spread through the attendees like wildfire, each person casting glances at the praetorians and then to their own allies, weighing the odds. The praetorians' recent display against the abyss creature was a testament to their prowess.
The fact that Julian, the mighty Kaesar of Rome, had many more of these guards in his arsenal was a fact not lost on anyone. If only four of them could present such a formidable challenge, how could the attendees hope to stand against the full might of Rome's elite?
The first to step forward was a Dane, a towering figure, every inch the legendary Viking warrior. His fierce reputation was further cemented by the fact that he had long been considered a formidable rival to Thorfin. He advanced with a bold stride, his muscular frame shimmering with sweat under the torchlight. Taking a deep breath, he bellowed a warcry that echoed through the chamber, a vocal manifestation of his confidence and strength.
But as he swung his ax with deadly precision, aiming to cleave a praetorian in two, the unthinkable happened. The guard, with a display of unmatched reflex and strength, grabbed the descending axe by its haft, stopping it dead in its tracks. Before the Dane could react, a devastating punch sent him sprawling, consciousness abandoning him as he hit the floor.
Murmurs of disbelief swept the room. Warriors who once bore expressions of mild interest now looked on with pale faces, the gravity of the situation sinking in. Even Julian, ever the stoic leader, refrained from commenting, letting the scene's impact speak for itself. With a simple gesture, he beckoned for the next challenger to come forth.
"Who's willing to go next?"
The silence was broken by soft, deliberate footsteps. A figure draped in dark garments, face obscured by a gleaming silver mask, stepped into the arena. It was Behei, the assassin whose feats during the Holy Harvest festival still remained the stuff of legends. Now standing as a rank 8 high sky realm warrior, his power was palpable, an electric charge in the air.
When Behei invoked his shadow magic, gasps of awe filled the chamber. As if mirroring his evolution as a warrior, he could now split himself into eight identical clones, each moving with the same deadly grace. For a while, it seemed he had the upper hand. One, then two praetorians found themselves hard-pressed to defend against his relentless assault.
But the tables turned when a third praetorian joined the fray. The guards showcased a level of teamwork and synchronization that was uncanny, each covering the other's blind spots, turning their trio into an impenetrable fortress. Behei's clones, despite their numbers, found themselves trapped in a whirlwind of blades and strategy. In a climactic moment, they breached his defenses, delivering a counter so swift and fierce that the legendary assassin was defeated.
The room's energy shifted, a mix of awe, fear, and anticipation.
As the dust settled and Behei made his exit, the air was thick with tension. The crowd was on edge, whispers of uncertainty fluttering like the wings of caged birds. Would there be any amongst them capable of besting these powerful praetorians?
Then, as if answering that unspoken query, two figures stepped forward, capturing the attention of the room. They were none other than the renowned swordsmen from Han, masters of the dual sword technique. Broken Sword and Flying Snow.
Julian, recognizing their reputation, gave a nod of acknowledgment, allowing both to enter the arena simultaneously. The two moved as one, their synchronized strikes and parries a dance of steel and skill. The air rang with the sound of clashing blades, and for a moment, it seemed as though they might achieve the impossible.
But the praetorians, well-versed in teamwork and strategy, soon exploited a weakness. Despite their impressive skill, the swordsmen found themselves outmatched, the gap in power palpable. When the duelists finally admitted defeat, a cloud of despondency seemed to settle over the room.
From the shadows, Emery watched, a heavy sigh escaping his lips. To him, these two master swordsmen had once represented the pinnacle of martial prowess. Yet, their defeat now laid bare the grim truth: the chasm separating those with access to the magus world from those without was vast.
One by one, Earth's warriors faced the challenge, but none seemed able to defeat the mere four figures crafted from clay. Could no one truly overcome this challenge?
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