Timeless Assassin

Chapter 904: Helmuth Vs Soron (2)

(Execution Livestream Continuation, ’The Pit’)

The clash did not pause.

It simply shifted shape.

Helmuth did not give Soron time to reset, to breathe, or to reframe the exchange that had just slipped through his fingers, as the Berserker God twisted his grip and surged forward again with renewed violence, his aura tightening instead of flaring, heat drawn inward rather than expelled, as this time, he did not swing, but rather thrust.

*JAB*

The axe came forward like a spear, the blade angled to hook and tear, as Helmuth dipped his shoulders and committed his entire mass behind the weapon, turning himself into a living projectile as he drove the edge toward Soron’s chest with the intent to pin him to stone and split him open in a single decisive motion.

To which, Soron’s daggers rose in a cross, with the intent not being to block, but rather to redirect.

*CHING*

Soron caught the axe head between the two blades without letting metal truly touch, divine pressure compressing between them like a locked jaw, as he twisted his wrists and slid the weapon aside by a fraction that should not have mattered, yet in a fight at this level, that fraction rewrote the outcome entirely.

*SWOOSH*

Helmuth’s thrust missed.

Not by inches.

By a decision.

The axe passed Soron’s ribs close enough that the heat peeled fabric away, yet Soron moved with the weapon rather than away from it, staying attached to its line as though he had been dragged, and in that same motion he stepped behind Helmuth’s shoulder.

*GASP*

*SCREAM*

The crowd collectively screamed again, because to them Soron had vanished and reappeared in the wrong place, the motion looking like something that spelled an assured death for Helmuth.

Yet Helmuth did not die.

Helmuth laughed.

"HAHAHAHA!"

The sound punched through the confusion, raw and delighted, as the Berserker God bent backward at an angle that should have snapped his spine, his body folding just enough to ruin Soron’s line, while his free hand reached back and closed around empty air..... Except it wasn’t empty.

*Clutch*

His hand snapped shut around Soron’s wrist, as for the first time, contact was made.

Not flesh on flesh.

Aura on aura.

As Soron found himself caught in a vice made of heat and will.

"I’ve got you now, Cult Master."

Helmuth taunted, however, Soron did not panic at all, his hand hovering a single hair away from Helmuth’s throat, as the blade trembled faintly under pressure.

*PUSHHHH*

Both Gods pushed against one another with all their strength, as the platform seemed to freeze.

A single locked wrist.

A single halted dagger.

A single breath where one God had prevented another from completing an action.

Soron’s gaze sharpened.

Helmuth’s grin widened.

Then Soron let go of the dagger.

Not by dropping it, but rather by rotating his fingers in a way that made the weapon spin through Helmuth’s grip line without moving through space, as the dagger flipped end over end, allowing his hand to escape from Helmuth’s hold, as he re-caught the hilt from a new angle, while Helmuth’s grasp snapped shut on nothing again, as he moved a tad bit too late.

*Clap*

*Clap*

Mauriss began clapping.

Slow.

Mocking.

As though applauding a performance.

While Helmuth snapped his head to the side and spat a breath of heat, irritation flickering across his expression, yet his attention never truly left Soron, because the berserker God could feel it now, the razor-thin line separating dominance from humiliation.

He surged forward again.

No cleverness.

No restraint.

Just raw combat.

The axe rose and fell in brutal rhythm, each swing faster than the last, as Helmuth tried to drown Soron in inevitability, as he tried to make the field of motion so dense that no amount of precision could slip through.

However, Soron answered by becoming smaller.

Not physically.

Tactically.

As he reduced his movement to minimal shifts, conserving distance like it was oxygen, while his daggers traced thin lines through the air that were not attacks yet, but calibrations, as he measured Helmuth’s timing, tested his reach, and mapped the microscopic delays between his intent and execution.

To most viewers, it looked like Soron was barely moving.

To those who could truly see, it looked like Soron was moving too much to be real.

There were moments where Helmuth’s axe passed through Soron’s space, and Soron was still there afterward, unchanged.

And moments where Soron’s daggers flickered toward Helmuth’s throat, and Helmuth remained whole, untouched, as though the universe itself refused to grant either of them the satisfaction of a first true wound inside this cage.

Then Helmuth changed again.

He stopped chasing.

He started waiting.

He planted his feet, axe held low and ready, heat simmering instead of exploding, his eyes tracking Soron with a predator’s calm that looked wrong on a berserker, as though rage had learned patience for the sake of killing.

Soron noticed.

His shoulders lowered a fraction.

His steps slowed.

His daggers tilted inward.

The first phase ended without a decisive strike, yet the air felt heavier than before, because now both Gods were reading each other properly, and the next exchange would not be chaotic.

It would be clean.

It would be intentional.

Across the universe, trillions held their breath again, not because a blow had landed, but because none had, as even the most distant viewers could feel that the fight was finally beginning to make sense to the combatants, even while remaining incomprehensible to everyone else.

And as Helmuth lifted his axe once more, and Soron adjusted his grip without taking a step, Soron muttered a phrase that made sense to no-one but Leo, who he knew would be watching from back on Ixtal.

"Why don’t you try this on for size?"

Soron said, as back on Ixtal, Leo felt goosebumps arise on his skin the second he heard those words, as he instantly jumped to his feet and gave a nod to his Commanders that it was time to march.