Momon's power is rooted in his scimitar, which creates an active 'Earth Connection' with every step he takes on the ground. Upon reaching 100 stacks, this connection unlocks a skill-selection ability, activated by executing a specific series of sword styles."
Best of all was that he could choose whether he wanted to execute a sword style or store it up for later use. Although every 100 stacks granted him a skill-selection ability, the skills were divided into three types—common, rare, and epic—and more stacks were needed to unlock rare and epic skills. It was also rumored that there was a legendary skill, but neither Momon nor any of the Lights of God had unlocked it.
Momon knew walking directly into the soul beings' camp was a trap, yet he was fully prepared. He understood that without the Earth Connection from his scimitar, he would be vulnerable—and supremely outmatched—in the air or underwater so he more or less had no other choice.
With every stride, his Earth Connection grew stronger. He relied on just five runes embedded along the central ridge of his blade; however, these were no ordinary marks. They stored a potent array of rare and epic skills, each one a testament to his expertise.
As the enemies closed in, he triggered the power of a skill-bound rune. The scenery shifted in a heartbeat; through the raging inferno, monolithic boulders materialized to entomb the liches. A trio of stones crushed the Argenvantis, obliterating the skeletal structure of the great bird. The wings were torn from their sockets and the central ribcage collapsed, reducing the creature to a debris field of bone and ash.
Massive boulders rose to entomb the giant centipede—the transformed shape of one lich—while the last of them, the one controlling the raging inferno, deftly evaded the stones as they sprang from the floor.
However, she didn't attack Momon. Instead, she controlled the flames to heat the stone of the lich puppeteering the dead Argenvantis. Momon didn't want to give her a moment of respite; however, his body was becoming tired, so he rested for a moment while trying to account for each skeleton official.
Momon marvelled at his performance when countering the six skeleton officials, he took down the first two skeleton knights quite easily with his skill, the three liches were a bit of a problem but one epic skill changed the tides of battle.
Two skeleton knights and three liches. Any adventurer would boast for years about surviving such an encounter, but Momon had just swept through them. Two plus three, he calculated, a cold realization hitting him. That's only five officials. Where is the sixth? He turned back to the wreckage—a knight with a broken skull,while the other one was still reeling from the boulders, the fire-lich, the stone-covered centipede, and the impaled puppeteer. One was missing. So, where was the last one?
Still preoccupied with his thoughts, Momon barely noticed the fluid sliding down his calf. He brushed at it, assuming a slime had attached itself, but he froze at the touch. There, carved into his leg, was a stiff, dark wound. The realization hit him before the sensation did; as his face drained of color, the phantom silence of the injury finally gave way to a roar of pain.
Pain flared in Momon's leg, worsened by the stress of movement. He gritted his teeth against it, baffled by his own lack of awareness. The blow had been completely silent, a sudden, blinding shock that only registered when the damage was already done.
Momon resolved to deflect the next dark strike before it could be carved into his flesh. He pushed his senses to their absolute limit, scanning the clearing with his full field of vision while his ears tracked the howling wind. He felt the strange, lukewarm air where the raging inferno met the forest's chill. He inhaled the scent of smoke and tasted the bitter soot falling from the sky.
Yet, despite this total awareness, the mysterious source struck again. A grim expression settled on his face—not because of the pain of the dark wound, but because of exactly where he had been hit.
The first wound opened his calf, just inches below the knee. The second slammed into his chest piece; the leather held, but only barely, leaving a jagged silver slice in the hide; though the armor was now compromised, it had turned a lethal blow into a shallow graze. It wasn't the damage that worried Momon, however—it was the proximity to his throat. He doubted an enemy this fast suffered from "bad aim".
It felt more like the work of a sadist, a predator who preferred the slow red drip of a bleed-out to a clean kill. Realizing he was being toyed with, Momon dropped his sword's point to the ground, grounding himself to activate a skill.
Through years of wielding his scimitar and holding the blade close to his heart, Momon gradually mastered its hidden depths. He discovered that the sword granted him a unique gift derived from a connection to the earth. While not as precise as an earthbender's seismic sense, it provided a faint, intuitive awareness of any enemy within his line of sight.
However, this mastery came with a fatal compromise. The skill could only be activated by planting the hilt of the scimitar firmly on the ground. This left Momon's body entirely exposed, unable to parry strikes or counter incoming sword styles. Yet, whether driven by reckless bravado or an absolute, unwavering trust in his steel, Momon resolved to ground his blade and face the consequences.
"Most heroes perish despite meticulous planning and resourcefulness, yet some fools survive even when charging blindly through a hail of projectiles". Momon's survival relied on that same erratic logic.
Just as the sadist closed the distance, Momon sensed the movement and triggered a rune etched into the center of his blade. As soon as that happened, a large projectile locked on the skeleton Momon sensed wielding a dark cleaver.
***
Diego sighed as he watched Momon's latest move. He had placed his bets on Momon's victory, a gamble that was clearly paying off. However, anyone watching him praise Momon for trampling his minions might have misunderstood his intentions—at least, until they heard his next few words.
Diego had a satisfactory smile as he said:
[It's a shame all good things must come to an end.]
Diego was there in an instant. A flicker of shock and horror crossed Momon's face, but it was the last thing he would ever feel. In one fluid movement, Diego reached out and ripped away the very face that wore that terrified expression.