Chapter 145: A Saint's Groove
Tom Lee hung suspended in the air for a fraction of a second, a puppet with its strings cut. Before he could even process the telekinetic assault, an invisible, vice-like pressure clamped around his throat. Then, with a deafening DHAM!, he was violently yanked from the sky and slammed into the ground with the force of a meteor strike.
The impact didn't just create a crater; it annihilated the entire mountainside. The earth roared in protest, fracturing into a spiderweb of chasms as a massive section of the mountain range shattered into a cloud of pulverized rock and dust, the debris hanging in the air like a funeral shroud.
Tom, however, was on his feet in less than a heartbeat. He didn't even need to take a breath; his body moved on pure, enraged instinct. His first, frantic glance was towards the secure chamber where he'd left Yuseong. A wave of relief, cold and sharp, washed over him. That single room, a testament to his own powerful wards, stood completely untouched and pristine amidst the absolute devastation.
Rivan, still standing calmly on a lone, precarious pillar of rock, opened his mouth, likely to offer a condescending, "Sorry about the—"
He never got to finish.
Tom didn't roar. He didn't telegraph his move. He simply vanished from his position and reappeared directly in front of Rivan. His right hand, fingers splayed like five steel daggers, shot forward with the intent to crush. He didn't aim to punch, but to grab Rivan's entire skull and drive it down through the pillar and into the earth below.
The sound was sickening. Tom's fingers sank deep into Rivan's head with a wet, crushing noise. A triumphant snarl began to form on Tom's lips, but it died instantly. The smile never left Rivan's face. It was still there, plastered unnervingly below Tom's crushing grip.
What?
Before Tom could comprehend the impossibility, Rivan's own hands shot up with impossible speed. They weren't trying to pry Tom's hand off; they latched onto Tom's wrist and fingers in a flawless jiu-jitsu lock, applying leverage at a perfect, bone-breaking angle.
A searing, white-hot pressure shot up Tom's arm. His grip, which could crush things thousand times harder than diamonds, was forced open against his will. As his fingers were pried loose, a series of loud, distinct SNAPS and CRACKS echoed—the sound of his own fingers and wrist shattering from the counter-pressure.
Tom barely registered the pain; his body's healing element was already flaring to life, knitting bone and sinew back together. But his mind was reeling. He stared, dumbfounded, at Rivan's head. The five deep, grotesque holes his fingers had made were… healing. The flesh writhed and sealed itself shut, smooth and unblemished, in the time it took Tom to blink.
"You've got to be—" Tom began, but Rivan cut him off with a move that was more dance than combat. Pivoting on the ball of his foot, he spun a full 360 degrees, building momentum, and unleashed a devastating rotational kick that caught Tom square on the jaw.
BOOM.
Tom was launched sideways, tumbling through the air like a discarded ragdoll. As he flew, he saw Rivan below, not standing still, but gliding. He was performing the iconic Moonwalk, his feet sliding backward in perfect, smooth motions, yet he was keeping pace with Tom's trajectory as if he were on a moving sidewalk. The sheer, mocking absurdity of it burned hotter than any injury.
He's toying with me. In a death battle, he's dancing!
Tom's body hit the ground and skidded, his healing factor sealing his jaw shut with an audible click. Fury overriding strategy, he launched himself at Rivan again, his fist pulled back to deliver a blow that could level a continent.
Rivan's response was to strike a pose straight from a concert stage. He placed one hand on his hat, the other on his crotch, legs bent, and let out a playful, "Hee-hee!" As Tom's world-ending punch descended, Rivan simply brought his free hand up in a graceful, almost lazy arc. His palm connected with Tom's fist, and with a subtle redirection of force, he effortlessly swept the attack aside, the energy dissipating harmlessly into the air.
Before Tom could reset, Rivan unleashed a barrage of kicks—sharp, precise, and rhythmic, like a drummer's solo. Tap. Tap. Tap-tap-tap. They connected with Tom's face in a staccato beat of humiliation.
Enraged, Tom finally managed to grab Rivan's ankle mid-kick. "Got you!" he snarled, and with a tremendous heave, he hurled Rivan high into the air.
What happened next defied all logic and physics. High above, Rivan calmly adjusted his hat. From the collar of his suit, a small radio materialized, blaring the infectious beat of Smooth Criminal. And there, suspended in mid-air, Rivan began to dance. He popped, he locked, he glided through nothingness as if gravity were his personal choreographer. He landed with a gentle thud,
But Tom was already upon him, his right arm now transformed into solid, grey stone. "Petrifying Strike!" he roared, driving the petrified fist down toward Rivan's head with the weight of a mountain.
The punch never connected. In a move that was pure illusion, Rivan seemed to phase, and Tom's fist smashed into the empty ground where he had just been standing. A split second later, Tom felt a gentle pressure on the back of his own head. He looked up, his eyes wide with disbelief.
Rivan was standing on his head. Balanced perfectly on Tom's own skull, one foot planted firmly, he began to Moonwalk again, his white loafers sliding gracefully on Tom's hair.
BOOM.
The mocking weight and the sheer psychic shock of the act drove Tom face-first into the dirt, leaving him buried in the crater of his own making, with a dancing saint moonwalking on his head.
All of this—the telekinetic slam, the shattered fingers, the dance-fueled kicks, and the final, humiliating moonwalk on his head—had happened in a span of less than seconds. So fast was their exchange that the colossal chunks of the mountain range Tom had initially destroyed were still hanging in the air, suspended in a chaotic, slow-motion ballet of debris, not yet having fallen back to earth.
Suddenly, Rivan sprang into motion again. He leaped nimbly from one floating piece of rubble to another, using them as stepping stones across the sky. He moved with the playful, unpredictable energy of a parkour artist, his white suit a stark contrast against the grey rock and dust.
Tom, shaking off the dirt and his pride, gave chase with a furious roar. He bulldozed through the floating debris, shattering the smaller rocks that got in his way. Yet, despite his rage, a low, guttural laugh rumbled in his chest. It was the laugh of a warrior who, even in his humiliation, was enjoying the challenge of a truly bizarre and powerful opponent.
Seeing Tom's relentless pursuit, Rivan pretended to look bored. He yawned theatrically, yet he effortlessly maintained his distance, his speed still demonstrably greater. This fact burned Tom more than any fire element could. Pushing his limits, Tom poured every ounce of his energy into his legs, his speed exploding as he closed the gap, his hand nearly grasping the tail of Rivan's jacket.
Just as his fingers brushed the fabric, the air was filled with a rapid-fire sound.
Tadak! Tadak! Tadak!
A flurry of sharp, precise kicks rained down on Tom's chest and face, not with the force to crush, but with the stinging impact of a master showing off his superior technique, forcing him back a step.
"How was my moonwalk, Tom?" Rivan asked, landing gracefully on another floating boulder. "You know, I dedicated a full two weeks to master that. I hope you appreciated the artistry."
Tom completely ignored the question, his face a stony mask of fury as he continued his advance.
Rivan pouted playfully. "Why are you so angry, babes? Did I do something wrong?" His entire strategy was a masterclass in rage-baiting, designed to make Tom emotionally reckless and, therefore, easier to humiliate and defeat.
This time, Tom spoke, his voice a low growl of pure frustration. "What is your innate talent? Telekinesis? Teleportation? Or that accelerated healing? There's no way you possess a tertiary element. It's impossible."
As they spoke, their high-speed chase continued, Rivan gliding backward, Tom lunging forward.
Rivan's eyes sparkled with mischief. "Ooh, my little Saint is so confused! Here, let me clear it up for you."
He held out a hand, and from his palm, several thick, woody branches erupted, shooting through the air like spears and wrapping tightly around Tom's limbs, binding him in a vice-like grip.
Tom's eyes widened in utter shock. "A fourth element?! Vegetation? Impossible!"
But his shock turned to panic as the very branches holding him suddenly ignited with fierce, hungry flames, setting his clothes and skin alight. The combination of binding and burning was devastating.
With a roar of pain and fury, Tom violently tore himself free, the burning branches snapping. He scrambled backward, putting distance between them. For the first time, Rivan seemed not just an opponent, but a ghost—an incomprehensible, multi-faceted phantom of power.
Five elements? Could he have even more? The thought was terrifying.
Rivan gave him no time to think. He closed the distance in an instant and, with a casual flick of his wrist, erected a massive wall of solid earth to block Tom's path.
But Tom was a Saint of Stone. He responded in kind, not with a wall, but by summoning an entire, jagged mountain range from the ground to encircle them. He leaped onto the highest peak, his eyes frantically scanning the arena he had created, trying to track Rivan's movements.
But Rivan was now a blur, a white streak of lightning zipping around the stone peaks at impossible speeds, coming from every direction at once. For the first time in the fight, Tom found it difficult to keep up, his head on a swivel, trying and failing to lock onto the dancing, multi-elemental phantom.
To be continued…