(Execution Livestream Continuation, The Pit)
*CLANG*
*CLANG*
*Parry*
Steel met steel once more as Helmuth stepped forward without hesitation, the momentary impasse dissolving the instant his axe swung back into motion, the Berserker God re-entering the rhythm of battle as though it had never been interrupted, power rolling off him in heavy waves as he pressed Soron immediately, intent clear in every step and every cut.
Soron retreated with purpose.
His movement carried no panic, no disarray, as his daggers shifted into a tighter pattern, their arcs shortening and drawing closer to his body, abandoning aggression entirely in favor of layered defense, each incoming strike from Helmuth met with precise redirection, controlled absorption, or calculated deflection that bled force away instead of answering it.
Helmuth felt the change within the first few exchanges.
Something was missing.
The pressure.
The response.
He brought his axe down in a crushing diagonal strike, expecting the familiar contest of force, only for Soron to slide aside and catch the haft between crossed daggers, guiding the momentum past his shoulder as his feet shifted just enough to preserve distance without surrendering control.
No counter came.
No attempt to punish the opening.
Only space.
Only time.
Helmuth’s brow tightened as he pressed forward, chaining blows together with relentless intent, each swing designed to force Soron into error, to draw out the hesitation he had already exposed earlier, yet Soron offered nothing in return, his movements stripped down to necessity, posture lowered, stance compact, every action focused on continuity rather than domination.
The realization settled slowly.
’He’s stalling.’
The irritation followed close behind as Helmuth widened his swings, power surging heavier through each arc as he attempted to drown Soron beneath volume alone, yet the Cult God refused to engage on those terms, giving ground by inches, never steps, his breathing measured, expression closed, his defense holding like a dam under rising water.
Helmuth drove him backward, stone fracturing beneath their feet as pressure mounted and the battlefield shifted, yet despite the aggression and the force behind it, the sense of inevitability Helmuth had felt earlier failed to return.
Soron was no longer contesting exchanges.
He was enduring them.
Helmuth’s eyes narrowed as he forced Soron toward the edge of the Chakravyuh barrier, watching him yield space with unsettling patience, every movement deliberate, every retreat measured.
’What are you waiting for?’
The thought lingered, unwelcome.
Because Helmuth understood this much.
A warrior did not abandon offense without reason.
And Soron was not a warrior that would give up on the hope of victory so fast.
Which meant that this restraint carried purpose. Calculation. A possible plan.
And Helmuth did not like the idea that he was probably now playing this game on Soron’s terms.
—-------------
(Meanwhile, The Cult Army)
To say that the Cult Army moved as a singular, disciplined unit was an understatement, as what surged forward toward the second ring of the Chakravyuh resembled less an army of individuals and more a living organism, each formation flowing into the next with seamless intent, ranks advancing and adjusting in perfect synchrony as though guided by a shared pulse rather than shouted commands.
The second ring awaited them in silence and steel.
Unlike the outer layer that had broken under shock and momentum, this ring stood firm, composed entirely of Grandmaster-tier warriors of the Righteous Faction, veterans whose presence alone warped the battlefield with pressure, whose stances carried confidence earned through decades of survival and slaughter, and whose coordination transformed the ring into a grinding wall of lethal precision.
The moment the Cult forces collided with it, the difference was immediate.
Progress slowed to a crawl.
Every step forward demanded blood.
Every exchange carried weight.
Blades no longer passed through panicked ranks but met hardened defenses, techniques colliding with techniques, formations locking together as Grandmaster warriors countered each advance with ruthless efficiency, forcing the Cult Army to abandon speed in favor of endurance.
Yet the Cult did not buckle.
They absorbed the pressure and held.
For the soldiers pushing into the second ring, this was no longer merely an operation or a strategic advance, but a reckoning, a battle carved into their bones long before they had ever stepped onto this battlefield, fought for the pride stolen from them across generations, for ancestors erased from history, for names that had been silenced and banners that had been burned.
And so they fought like men who had already decided the cost.
Each inch was contested.
Each fallen comrade hardened the resolve of those behind him.
No one retreated.
No one yielded ground.
Blades dulled, armor cracked, formations bent, yet the Cult Army continued to press forward, discipline holding even as casualties mounted, soldiers stepping into gaps without hesitation, ranks closing with tactical precision as if loss itself had been accounted for long ago.
Years of preparation revealed themselves here.
Training that had seemed excessive, drills that had been repeated until they stripped men of ego and fear alike, now bore fruit as Legion Commanders barked orders across the chaos, their voices cutting clean through the roar of battle.
"Third cohort, wedge left!"
The command rippled instantly.
Shields shifted.
Spear lines angled.
What had been a flat advance twisted into a spearhead mid-charge, the formation tightening as it slammed into the flank of a Grandmaster unit that had overextended, the sudden pressure forcing the Righteous warriors backward as their line fractured under the unexpected angle.
"Rotate rear line forward, compress!"
The Cult soldiers responded as one, fresh fighters surging into the breach while wounded units peeled back without disrupting momentum, the rotation so clean that the enemy barely had time to register the change before they were being driven back step by step.
The tide shifted, slowly, painfully, but undeniably.
The second ring did not collapse under the initial assault, but slowly it began to bend.
And as steel rang against steel and the battlefield churned beneath their feet, the Cult Army proved what years of preparation had forged them into, an army that did not rely on miracles or singular heroes, but on cohesion, adaptation, and an unyielding will to advance.
This was their redemption war.
And they intended to carve their way through every ring that stood between them and the end.