Timeless Assassin

Chapter 920: Slipping Slowly

(Execution Livestream Continuation, The Pit, Soron’s POV)

*CLANG* *CLANG*

*PUSH—*

Soron felt it first not as weakness, but as resistance, the kind that did not announce itself through pain or failure, but through a faint hesitation between intention and execution, as though his body had begun asking questions his mind did not have time to answer.

At the start of this battle, that hesitation had not existed.

Every command he issued had been met instantly, muscles responding with perfect obedience, daggers moving where he willed them to move before the thought had even fully formed, his body behaving like a sharpened instrument honed for exactly this kind of prolonged violence.

However, now, almost an hour and a half into the fight, that sharpness was finally beginning to fray.

’It’s happening... my weakened body is starting to revert to its original state.’

The realization did not come with panic, nor with despair, but with a cold, professional clarity, because although the degradation was still subtle, still far from obvious to anyone watching, to a warrior like him it was impossible to miss.

A parry that landed a fraction later than intended, steel scraping instead of meeting cleanly, a pivot that required a corrective step afterward rather than flowing seamlessly into the next motion, a roll that finished just slightly wider than planned, forcing him to compensate with his shoulders instead of his hips.

Nanoseconds, at best.

Meaningless in isolation.

And yet, deadly in accumulation.

*Inhale*

Soron’s breath remained steady as he clashed with Helmuth again, twin daggers flashing upward to intercept a crushing downward blow, the impact sending shockwaves through his arms and into his chest, where the origin-metal wound answered with its familiar, muted burn, a reminder that never truly faded no matter how long he fought.

His body absorbed it.

His will overrode it.

But the cost continued to rise.

Each exchange felt heavier than the last, not in terms of raw force, but in response, as though his muscles were beginning to lag behind his thoughts by the smallest imaginable margin, forcing him to push just a little harder to maintain the same output.

’Focus,’ he told himself, tightening his grip as he slipped beneath Helmuth’s counter and carved a shallow line across his opponent’s flank, the blade biting true even as his left foot planted half a heartbeat later than it should have.

He corrected instantly.

Helmuth noticed nothing.

Yet.

The longer the battle dragged on, the clearer the imbalance became, as Soron felt himself burning through his divine essence faster with every exchange, his reserves draining at a rate that made no allowances for pride or missed execution.

Whereas Helmuth, contrary to his reputation, did not fight like a simple brute.

He fought like a mountain that had learned how to think, every movement grounded, economical, brutally efficient, his massive frame absorbing punishment without panic or haste, eyes cold and calculating even as divine force warped the space around them.

Soron circled, cut, reversed, rolled, struck again, forcing Helmuth to react rather than advance, keeping the battle contained within a narrow pocket of space where neither could fully unleash the kind of destruction that could decisively shift the tide of the battle.

Yet even as he pressed, Soron could feel momentum slipping through his fingers, because while his own responses dulled by imperceptible degrees, Helmuth only seemed to grow sharper, more attuned, more dangerous the longer the fight continued.

’This isn’t good... the brute is feeling me out.’

The thought surfaced without urgency, without panic, but with a quiet, professional concern, as he raised his daggers for another exchange.

*CLANG*

Soron slipped past a sweeping strike and countered with both daggers in a crossing arc aimed at Helmuth’s chest, forcing the larger god to brace rather than pursue, and for a brief, fleeting moment, the rhythm returned, the familiar flow of combat snapping back into place as if his body remembered what it was meant to be.

Then the delay crept back in.

Subtle.

Insidious.

His follow-up strike came a fraction slower, the angle just slightly off, forcing him to roll instead of pivot cleanly, the adjustment costing more energy than it should have.

’Damn it.’

The curse burned through him even as his expression remained impassive, because fighting while making these microscopic mistakes grated against everything he was.

*Glance*

For the briefest instant, Soron let his awareness slip beyond the Chakravyuh’s barrier, and what he saw made him release a slow, measured breath as the Cult army advanced beyond the shattered remains of the first ring, their momentum intact, their formations tightening rather than faltering.

’They’re right on time.’

The thought grounded him, a single concession allowed before he snapped his focus back to Helmuth.

’They’ll make it here at this rate.’

Relief settled into his shoulders, faint but real, as hope burned through his lungs and steadied his core.

The Cult’s advance meant his suffering here had purpose.

That he was buying something tangible with every second he endured.

For if he failed here, they died out there.

’I can’t fail now,’ he told himself, lowering his stance as Helmuth surged again. ’Not now.’

He met the next blow head-on, daggers locking against Helmuth’s weapon as power screamed between them, muscles burning as he redirected force instead of absorbing it, relying on momentum rather than strength, technique rather than brute dominance.

And yet, the delay persisted.

Still microscopic.

Still manageable.

But no longer ignorable.

His body felt less like a blade and more like a machine running without maintenance, each cycle introducing tiny inefficiencies that stacked silently beneath the surface, invisible to anyone who wasn’t living inside the strain.

Soron adjusted.

He shortened his movements.

Tightened his strikes.

Avoided full extensions that tugged too sharply at the wound in his chest, not because he could not endure the pain, but because the reflexive flinch it triggered cost time he could no longer afford to lose.

Helmuth pressed harder.

The pressure increased.

Soron matched it.

Again.

And again.

Yet with every exchange, the distance between thought and motion stretched just enough to be dangerous, a widening gap that threatened to turn discipline into desperation if he ever lost control of it.

What Soron did not realize was that Helmuth was no longer fighting on instinct alone.

He did not see the way Helmuth’s eyes tracked not his blades, but his recovery steps, the way his stance reset after each exchange, the minute compensations he made without realizing he was making them.

He did not sense the moment Helmuth stopped testing strength and began mapping behavior.

Soron fought to endure.

Helmuth fought to understand.

And somewhere within that difference, a sequence was being assembled, piece by piece, not through luck or rage, but through patience sharpened by brutality.

Soron struck again, daggers flashing in disciplined harmony, his will forcing his body to keep pace even as it strained under the effort, because as long as he held Helmuth here, as long as the heart of the Chakravyuh remained contested, his people would continue to advance.

That was enough.

It had to be.

He could not afford to look inward any longer, could not afford to acknowledge how close he was to slipping further, because the moment he did, doubt would follow, and doubt was a luxury he had buried long ago.

So Soron fought on.

Unaware that while he was buying time for the Cult, time itself was being turned against him.

As slowly but surely, Helmuth was reaching closer and closer to the answer he sought.