Chapter 1208. Let’s See How Long You Can Hold Onto Your Desperation

Chapter 1208: 1208. Let’s See How Long You Can Hold Onto Your Desperation

"Improvisation."

Xerollion murmured the word like a prayer to a dark god. The storm column roared toward him, a shrieking pillar of lightning and hurricane force that threatened to strip the flesh from his bones.

ZZZZZT KRAAAAA BOOM!

But Xerollion did not flinch. Instead, he raised a single hand, fingers splayed as if plucking invisible strings.

SHHHHH VROOOOM!

From his palm erupted a burst of raw, unfiltered elemental force, but it wasn’t just power. It was power threaded with harmonic frequencies that defied logic.

This was a frequency the construct had no record of, no resonance profile in its vast database, because it was a technique Rex himself had only finished refining in the weeks after the construct’s creation.

It was a secret Rex still kept from himself.

The moment Xerollion’s energy touched the storm, the vortex didn’t explode; it unraveled. The lightning turned to harmless static; the wind collapsed into a harmless sigh.

FIIIIIIIIIIII SHHHH.

The magnificent column of destruction dissolved into glittering, harmless sparks that rained down like dying stars.

"You built that from nothing," Xerollion said, his voice cutting through the fading echoes of the storm. "You reached beyond your programming to find something new."

"I’m almost impressed... Almost."

Rex Rexilion staggered. For the first time since the confrontation began, the construct showed a visible crack in its heroic facade.

Its shoulders slumped fractionally, its head tilted in a moment of genuine, programmed uncertainty. It was the first time the ’hero’ looked uncertain.

Xerollion didn’t grant it mercy. He didn’t grant it a moment to think.

WHAM! CRUNCH! THUD!

He closed the distance like a predator closing on wounded prey. He unleashed a brutal three-strike combination with terrifying economy of motion.

First, a piston-like punch to the stomach that made the construct’s midsection buckle with a wet OOF, forcing a spray of synthetic blood from its lips.

Second, a vicious left hook that snapped Rex’s jaw sideways with a bone-deep CLACK.

And third, a devastating sweeping kick that hooked behind the construct’s ankles.

CRASH!!!

Rex hit the stone floor hard, sending up a choking cloud of pulverized masonry and dust. For several seconds, the construct simply lay there.

Its chest rose and fell in a labored rhythm that mimicked human exhaustion with such unsettling accuracy that it felt more like watching a dying man than a failing machine.

A ripple of horrified silence swept through the Aethelgard soldiers. The hope that had been building the belief that their savior was winning was dying a painful death.

Near the back, the young soldier who had whispered her certainty earlier now stood frozen, both hands pressed to her mouth, her eyes widening as her hope curdled into raw, nauseating despair.

But Rex Rexilion was not programmed to accept defeat.

GRRRR KRAK!

With a sound like grinding metal, the construct forced itself back up. It didn’t stand with dignity; it rose with the stubborn, suicidal refusal to stay down that had defined Rex’s entire legend.

It abandoned the graceful choreography of his combat style. It abandoned the precision.

It became something primal.

WHACK! WHACK! WHACK! WHACK!

Rex launched into a wild, desperate flurry of blows. It was a storm of raw volume overlapping bursts of flame, jagged ice shards, and compressed telekinetic strikes thrown in rapid succession.

He wasn’t fighting to win anymore; he was fighting to exist. Every strike was a scream of defiance, a chaotic mess of energy that lacked technique but possessed terrifying momentum.

Xerollion moved through the chaos like a ghost walking through rain. He ducked a flaming fist, spun under a telekinetic wave, and stepped aside from a shard of ice, all with an eerie, effortless grace that made the gap between their skill levels unmistakable.

"That’s closer to honest than anything you’ve shown me yet," Xerollion said, his voice calm even as the shockwaves of the construct’s attacks buffeted his cloak. "Desperation doesn’t need a dataset to improvise with..."

"It doesn’t need logic."

He ducked beneath a wild swing, his eyes gleaming with cruel satisfaction.

"Shame it took you this long to find it."

"Now that you’ve found your desperation... let’s see how long you can hold onto it."

Xerollion waited.

He didn’t counter; he didn’t retreat. He simply stood in the center of the elemental hurricane, letting the construct’s desperate, uncoordinated fury wash over him.

WHACK. THUD. SHHH BOOM.

His forearms took the brunt of the improvised strikes: fire-laced punches that left blackened burns and telekinetic impacts that threatened to shatter bone.

But each time the flesh split or the bone groaned under the stress, the wound sealed with an obscene, wet SQUELCH, knitting itself back together before the blood could even drip.

He let the flurry exhaust itself. He watched with cold, analytical fascination as the construct’s movements began to stutter.

The simulated breathing became ragged, wet gasps; the arms began to tremble with a simulated exhaustion so perfect it was almost nauseating.

The construct’s systems had decided to mimic the exact moment of human collapse, and Xerollion was more than happy to oblige.

The moment the construct’s guard wavered, the moment its next strike became a sluggish, desperate lunge, Xerollion moved.

SHHH FWOOM!

He stepped inside the guard with lethal precision, closing the distance before the construct could even register his movement. His palm struck the construct’s sternum with the force of a falling star.

KRA BOOOOOM!!!

The impact didn’t just send a shockwave through the construct; it sent a shockwave through the very foundation of the corridor. The stone floor beneath them shattered into a spiderweb of lethal shrapnel.

WHAM!!!

Rex Rexilion was launched backward like a broken doll. His body tore through the air until CRASH! he slammed into the remains of a massive, collapsed marble pillar.

The impact was catastrophic. The pillar groaned under the force, then surrendered, disintegrating in a thunderous cascade of debris.

CRUNCH. RUMBLE. SHATTER.

A mountain of broken rock and ancient dust swallowed the figure whole.

Silence fell. Not a peaceful silence, but a heavy, suffocating void that seemed to press against the eardrums of everyone present.

For several agonizing seconds, nobody moved. The Aethelgard soldiers stood like statues carved from grief, their eyes hollow.

The hope that had briefly ignited in them hadn’t just died; it had been executed. Several soldiers simply collapsed, their legs giving out as they sank to their knees in the rubble, their heads bowed in surrender to the inevitable.

Behind them, the Underlayer rebels held a different kind of breath. Cassandra’s fingers twitched, drifting toward the hilt of her blade with instinctive readiness.

Gorvasha’s jaw was set so hard it looked ready to crack, his entire body coiled like a spring, eyes tracking Xerollion with lethal calculation. They weren’t mourning; they were waiting for the signal to either die or kill.

TAP. TAP. TAP.

The sound of boots on stone echoed in the hollow corridor. Xerollion walked toward the wreckage.

He showed no urgency, no triumph, only a calm, almost contemplative curiosity. He approached the pile of debris as one might approach a fascinating specimen under a microscope.

As the dust settled, the broken form of Rex Rexilion became visible. He lay twisted across the jagged stones, limbs at unnatural angles, synthetic blood seeping from multiple wounds.

Yet, even there, amidst the ruin, the construct’s fingers twitched. A muscle in its neck spasmed. The faint, pathetic beginnings of an attempt to rise.

Xerollion reached the body and sank to one knee beside it. He didn’t loom; he crouched, bringing himself level with the dying echo.

His mask tilted downward, studying the fractured face of the hero.