(Execution Livestream Continuation, The Pit)
After Dumpy’s arrival shattered the outermost ring of the Chakravyuh into screaming ruin, the war entered a different rhythm entirely, one defined not by resistance, but by inevitability, as Dumpy continued his advance through the collapsing first ring, his twin blades sweeping outward in vast, unrestrained arcs that carved through fleeing formations and shattered what little cohesion the Righteous soldiers still possessed.
"ARGHHH!"
"NOOOO–"
"SAVE ME LORD KAELITH!"
The Righteous Forces screamed in panic, as each swing of Dumpy’s sword erased thousands, not because he chased them, but because there was nowhere left to run.
Stone split underfoot, bodies were flung aside like debris caught in a storm, and wherever Dumpy stepped, the ground cracked and buckled beneath the weight of his presence, acid still steaming faintly from his shoulders as his blades tore open corridors of annihilation through the ring’s remains.
Hundreds of thousands died in minutes.
And then, just as suddenly as he had descended, Dumpy began to change.
The air around him tightened again, though this time not in warning, but in retreat, as his massive form began to contract, his colossal frame folding inward with controlled precision rather than collapse, bones compressing, muscles condensing, sheer mass withdrawing back into itself like a tide being pulled away from shore.
Two hundred feet became one hundred.
One hundred became forty.
Forty became fifteen.
Until at last, Dumpy stood no taller than a massive, broad-shouldered frog, roughly fifteen feet in height, still monstrous by any reasonable standard, but no longer a living mountain blotting out the sky.
It was not weakness.
It was restraint.
Maintaining his giant form was draining an enormous amount of energy, far more than Dumpy could afford to waste this early in a war that was clearly going to drag on, and so remaining at that size any longer would have been reckless rather than impressive.
More than that, the [Mana Nullification] he had activated earlier was finally beginning to weaken, its absolute suppression fading little by little, which meant that before long, enemies would once again be able to attack him from range.
Staying that tall when long-range spells were about to return would have made him an easy target, a massive silhouette begging to be hit.
So he shrank.
Not because the threat was gone, but because the timing demanded it.
The enemy’s ability to strike from afar would soon recover, but by then it would not matter.
The damage to the first ring had already been done, and the battle had already tilted in the Cult’s favor.
More than sixty percent of the Chakravyuh’s first ring had been annihilated, not merely broken or pushed back, but erased as a functional layer, its structure shredded beyond immediate recovery as Cult forces surged forward with renewed momentum.
"Men! Advance in formation, leave no gaps as you chase those bastards down!"
Commander Mickey James said, as he led his unit down the left flank with brutal efficiency.
At this critical juncture of the war, the Cult did not rush just because they had the upper hand, but rather methodically dismantled enemy forces until the last fragments of the first ring fell apart, giving them a clear road to the second ring.
—---------
(Meanwhile, at the center of the Chakravyuh)
Helmuth had long since stopped counting the exchanges, not because the battle lacked speed or intensity, but because numbers lost meaning once rhythm revealed itself, and for wars fought between gods, it was never the tally of blows that mattered, only the patterns they formed.
Soron moved like a storm given intent.
Not wild, not reckless, but deliberate, contained, every motion feeding seamlessly into the next as twin daggers carved arcs of inevitability through the air, his footwork compact, his posture disciplined, his killing intent steady and unbroken despite the ancient wound carved into his chest, origin metal fragments still buried deep within his flesh like a curse that refused to fade.
Helmuth felt it every time their weapons met.
The slightest hitch.
The briefest delay.
’There—’
’I see it now.’
His thoughts remained eerily calm even as his massive frame absorbed another violent clash, muscles tightening, stance rooted, eyes never drifting to the wider war or the spectacle unfolding beyond the formation, because none of that mattered while Soron stood in front of him.
’The wound limits him.’
’Not overtly.’
’Not enough to slow him.’
’But enough to shape his instincts.’
Helmuth watched with ruthless focus as Soron slashed inward, rolled beneath a counterstrike, reversed his grip mid-motion, pivoted off his right foot, and struck again in one fluid sequence, never once committing to a full outward extension that would pull at the damaged side of his chest.
’He avoids full lateral stretches,’ Helmuth noted silently. ’Not because he can’t make them... but because they sting at his chest’
Psychological avoidance.
Not physical incapacity.
And that made it exploitable.
Another exchange detonated between them, godly force rippling outward and warping the air as Helmuth’s lips curled faintly, his attention sharpening rather than dulling.
’And that left foot...’
There it was again.
A delay so small it bordered on theoretical.
Not a limp.
Not weakness.
But caution.
’He compensates,’ Helmuth realized. ’He favors momentum over balance when resetting.’
Soron recovered through motion rather than stability, flowing back into offense instead of planting himself cleanly, which meant that if Helmuth could force him into an awkward extension on the wounded side, the entire rhythm could fracture for just long enough.
’If I force him to stretch outward on the injured side...’
Helmuth’s gaze dipped briefly, tracking Soron’s footwork as he feinted high, dipped low, then rolled into another strike that skimmed across Helmuth’s ribs.
’...I can create an opening to disarm the first dagger.’
The thought formed cleanly.
And was discarded just as fast.
’Not enough.’
Because Helmuth knew Soron.
He knew the follow-up.
’The second dagger comes immediately.’
’Low roll.’
’Rising slash.’
’Straight for my jaw.’
Helmuth adjusted his stance without conscious thought, mapping the angle, the timing, the cost, feeling it play out in his mind as clearly as if it had already happened.
’I trade one weapon for my head.’
’Unacceptable.’
His mind continued to grind forward, layered and relentless even as his body absorbed punishment, because barbarism did not mean stupidity, and overwhelming strength did not preclude precision.
’But what if...’
The thought surfaced slowly.
Deliberately.
’What if I don’t disarm him first?’
Helmuth’s gaze sharpened.
’What if I force him to choose?’
’What if the opening isn’t created through pain... but through obligation?’
He allowed Soron to press him then, permitted shallow cuts to rake across his armor, felt the sting without reacting as his mind assembled the sequence step by step.
’Threaten the center.’
’Not the blades.’
’Force commitment.’
A feint to the chest.
A compelled extension.
A moment where Soron would have to engage with both hands to defend what he could not afford to lose.
’And then—’
Helmuth’s massive fingers flexed.
’I clamp down.’
’No finesse.’
’No flourish.’
’Just force.’
’Both daggers caught.’
’Head exposed.’
’End it.’
His pulse quickened, not with rage, but with anticipation, as the path clarified in his mind, brutal and elegant in equal measure.
Soron surged again, daggers flashing in lethal harmony, unaware that Helmuth’s eyes no longer followed the blades themselves, but the space between them.
The space where a god could die.
And for the first time since their battle had begun, Helmuth smiled.
Not because victory was guaranteed.
But because he had found something better than strength.
A plan.