Pestilence: Rise Of The Pure Undead

Chapter 410 First Clash

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Whistling through the air, launched with dire precision and power, splitting the air air and winds, a javelin exploded into a cloud shrapnel and splinters, striking a hole right through the side of the halberd wielding undead knight, shielding himself, the southern knight glanced back, Aramap still in position, his right arm held forth, the greenish decorations upon his great helm shimmered under the sunshine, the white cloak pulled upward as the first knight leapt from the very top of the ramparts, a quiver of javelins on his back, a great spear held in hand.

The south's second in command reached for another javelin, the knights and soldiers on the battlefield feeling a clear wave of strength washing over them, motivation coursing through their veins, inspiring each and every one of them to fight even harder.

Aramap stopped, his gaze landing on Ourlst, pushing on the pommel of his greatsword, embedding it alongside the sheath into the ground, reaching with his left hand, sliding the blade out of its scabbard, as dark as the armour he wore, bringing it in front of his helm, the left hand bent both knees, and leapt.

The living knight leader almost launched a javelin at the undead mid-air, but there was not enough time, with a boom, rousing dirt and dust, Ourlst had jumped this great distance like it was nothing, landing a bit more than ten meters in front of Aramap, the two knights facing one another, apart from his greatsword, the undead carried only a misericorde dagger on the back of his waist, its slender design perfect to get through any gap in any protective gear.

"So, you would be Ourlst, I presume?" directing the tip of his spear forward, the living had a definitive reach advantage when it came to their weaponry, but he had seen the other undead puke corrosive acid, as well as other demonstrating different special capabilities, assuming the worst, he assumed that Ourlst would be capable of using all tricks his subordinates could.

"That would be me" taking a combat stance, feet firmly grounded, a slight, flame-like shine visible in between the bars of his visor, it was common for greater undeads to have coloured flames nestling in their hollow sockets, but it could even be the case for those that still had eyes, no matter how putrefied and warped they may be.

'General Loimos was right, the southern forces utilise natural battle arts without even realising it, like a beast's roar...' Ourlst recognised the fierceness of the enemy, no islanders had been capable of even comparing to the rank and file, but the warriors of the Southern Shores were, to put it simply, different, what could be achieved by being forged by war was certainly impressive.

"Minor Rot Marsh" in a small radius, the ground turned swampy, sacrificing the lesser corrosion to actually have a chance at slowing Aramap movements, the undead's one speed was increased, the living was certainly surprised by the ground giving in, but as a veteran of the battlefield, it would only take an instant for him to understand and adapt, in this case, Ourlst had to give him something else to think about.

Moving quickly, he raised his blade aloft, going for an overhead slash, an action he went through with, but not of its own, kicking up some of the rotten substance at the living, Aramap naturally preferred to block the sword strike instead of trying to evade the swampy matter, judging that his movements would be insufficient and would only expose him to getting hit right over the head on top of being splashed.

Although non-acidic, the rot had to have served a purpose, all it did is harden and then nothing, pushing the undead back, ripping one foot free from the marsh, Aramap brutally stomped down, the swamp parting in a circle, not only this, but also completely disappearing, leaving only a slight indentation in the earth.

Ourlst's rot marsh was one that did not linger on for too long.

Rising his index and middle finger together, Ourlst used another art, this one, he had had the honour of being guided in its learning by Loimos himself.

"Transmutation..." defining the thing that should be changed into something else, this seemingly simple concept was one that had been incredibly difficult to get a hold of, even with his leader's guidance and through the usage of external means.

The hardened rot exploded into a cloud miasmic smoke, nothing that was very harmful, it would soon be broken apart by the life in the air, but Ourlst only sought to use it as a smoke screen, once again driving his greatsword into the ground, this time running it through into an upward slash, the necessary action required to send a wave of Loimosfire, and also shroud his blade into its embrace at the same occasion.

The left hand wished to see what the most trusted man of a warlord could truly do.