(Execution Livestream Continuation, The Pit, Soron’s POV)
As soon as Soron finished speaking, the three Gods moved at once, their trajectories aimed straight for his vitals, as pressure slammed into his perception from three distinct directions.
*BOOM*
*SHUA*
Helmuth came first, exactly as Soron expected, the axe descending with reckless commitment and overwhelming force, as Soron twisted his torso and crossed his daggers instinctively, absorbing only part of the impact while letting the rest tear past him, boots skidding across fractured stone as shock ripped through his shoulder.
*SPLAT*
The blade bit deep, as he felt flesh split and muscle crush, however, it was a calculated trade off on his part, as while he could recover from wounds inflicted from Helmuth’s blade, he could not do the same with Kaelith.
*BLOCK*
*PARRY*
Blocking Kaelith’s first dagger with his left blade, Soron rotated his wrist and parried the second aside in the same continuous motion, as he denied the Eternal Sovereign the satisfaction of taking his head clean off.
*WHAM*
Mauriss followed immediately after, his chosen weapon for this exchange nothing more than a raw slab of origin metal wielded as a blunt force instrument, as he brought it down with crushing intent aimed squarely at Soron’s upper body.
However, as the slab descended, Soron simply let his knees fold and rolled through the narrowing space beneath the strike, his shoulder brushing past the falling mass as displaced air thundered overhead and stone shattered behind him.
*CRASH*
By evading the blow so cleanly, Soron threw Mauriss off balance, as the Deceiver’s momentum carried him forward and straight into Helmuth’s path, disrupting the Berserker God’s charge and ruining the timing of his follow-up attack.
*Thud*
The two Gods collided briefly, as Helmuth shoved Mauriss aside without hesitation, his expression darkening as he shot the Deceiver a sharp warning glare.
"Next time you do that, I’ll have your head," Helmuth warned, as Mauriss lifted his hands in a casual, unapologetic gesture, unfazed by the threat.
Meanwhile, Kaelith never relented, continuing to drive Soron backward step by step, the Eternal Sovereign fully locked into the fight as he pressed the assault with lethal focus, intent on ending his younger brother’s life without distraction.
*CLANG*
*Block*
*CLANG*
The two countered one another in seamless succession, movements overlapping before the eye could fully register them, as despite not having crossed blades in over two millennia, their bodies still reacted with instinctive familiarity, each anticipating the other’s intent as though no time had passed at all.
"So many years and your fighting style hasn’t changed even slightly, brother...."
Soron jibed, as Kaelith ducked under his attack, before launching a counter.
*Block*
*SWOOSH*
*Block*
"Neither has yours. Cult Master."
Kaelith replied, as he countered with a set of jabs of his own that were all either dodged or blocked by Soron.
—------
(Meanwhile, The Monarch Commanders In The Fourth Ring)
At the same time as the Gods clashed within the core of the Chakravyuh, Raymond and the Demi-Gods began bleeding away a portion of the unbearable strain pressing down on their souls, the redistribution occurring quietly yet relentlessly as the excess burden flowed outward and settled upon those stationed beyond the inner ring.
*GASP*
*Clench*
The Monarch Commanders positioned near the back were the first to feel it take hold, their footing shifting almost imperceptibly as the pressure anchored itself into their bodies, their breathing growing heavier as an unfamiliar weight settled across their limbs and spine.
’W-what is this sudden heaviness?’
They wondered, as at first the pressure manifested itself only as subtle resistance, causing arms that had once moved without conscious effort to now demand deliberate intention, and for muscles that responded instantly to mental commands to now show delay, if only slightly.
However, as the seconds passed, the air itself seemed to grow denser, as each breath expanded the lungs only partially before meeting invisible compression, forcing adjustments in breathing rhythm as unease spread through the warriors of the Fourth Ring.
"Something’s wrong. I feel nauseous all of a sudden."
"Is the battlefield ahead of us still straight? Why does the ground look like it’s tilting to the left?"
"Is this some sort of mental illusion? Did the enemy manage to trap us inside a runic deception field?"
"My armor suddenly feels like it’s a couple thousand pounds heavier.... I’m really struggling to breathe."
They wondered aloud, as even their thought processes began to slow, instinctive sharpness dulling in real time while focus became harder to maintain, as though a fog had begun creeping to their minds.
*Step* *Step*
To their growing unease, they remained perfectly aware of the Cult Army’s advance, and of Leo’s presence at its forefront.
However, with the sensation of peak readiness slipping further away with every passing second, they no longer felt prepared to face him or the army advancing behind him, as the confidence they had carried moments earlier eroded into something far more fragile.
"What’s going on here? It feels like the runes beneath our feet are the ones putting this pressure on us.
But we personally oversaw the construction of those runes.
They were made by our men, not the enemy...."
"If not for the explicit orders by the Gods to not step outside this runic circle, I’d be rushing out already.
This ring feels like it’s pressing on my very soul..... "
"Could this pressure be generated by Leo Skyshard?
Or are we absolutely certain it’s coming from beneath our feet?
Because the latter would mean the higher ups might be trying to screw us over..."
The Monarch Tier soldiers talked amongst one another, as at this critical juncture of the war where all their focus was meant to be locked on the enemy, they could not help but wonder whether the Righteous Faction higher ups were deliberately setting them up for slaughter, as their formation tightened instinctively, shields angling closer together as unspoken suspicion crept between ranks, not toward the enemy ahead, but upward, toward the unseen hands shaping the battlefield.