Atticus's Odyssey: Reincarnated Into A Playground

Chapter 911  Fourth Art

In a darkened space, an extraordinary scene unfolded.

The obsidian floor stretched infinitely, smooth as glass, shimmering faintly under a sky scattered with countless stars. n/ô/vel/b//in dot c//om

Each star burned brightly, their light cascading down like shards of silver, reflecting off the mirrored surface below. The expanse blurred the line between heaven and earth, creating an otherworldly realm of endless depth.

At the center of this timeless void stood two figures, locked in a moment of violent perfection.

The first, a feral being mid-swing, his right arm frozen in motion. Claws ripped through the still air, reaching toward his opponent. His expression was twisted with a predatory glint, eyes burning with a primal, deadly gleam.

Opposite him stood Atticus, his eyes closed, his body perfectly still. Though his aura radiated an unnatural peace, only he knew the fierce battle raging within.

The world held its breath.

Utter silence consumed the space, no sound, no flicker of movement, just the serene reflection of stars above and below.

Yet, within this stillness, the feral figure's crimson eyes remained awake, fixed on Atticus with an intensity that seemed capable of piercing steel.

'What is this?'

The figure's thoughts raced, his mind clouded with something unfamiliar: confusion.

His consciousness was active, his awareness sharp, but his body was immobilized. Time had been frozen.

'How…?'

To this being, the situation was inconceivable. Time-stopping abilities of this magnitude were unheard of outside the intervention of powerful entities from a mid-world or higher.

And yet, here he was, frozen by a mere child.

It wasn't because to his suppressed power. He could feel it, no matter what he tried, he couldn't move.

As the figure's gaze darted across the void, his mind sped with disbelief. Then, he saw it.

The gleaming katana in Atticus's hand.

It reflected silver, catching the star's light, but then began radiating an intense blue glow.

His crimson eyes widened.

'A life weapon.'

The realization struck him like a bolt. Even as a being of great power, differentiating a life weapon from an ordinary blade was nearly impossible without being told. But in this moment, everything pointed to it.

The feral figure's thoughts spiraled. He had seen Atticus's prowess firsthand but never imagined him wielding a life weapon.

How did it get to Eldoralth?

The implications were staggering. A kin of the fallen star wielding a life weapon? There could only be devastation.

Before he could process the ramifications, a ripple in the stillness caught his attention.

Atticus's body began to tremble.

At first, it was subtle, a slight disturbance in the void.

Then, his eyes snapped open.

An overwhelming, radiant blue light swirled within his gaze, illuminating the dark expanse with an intensity that consumed everything in its path.

Blinding azure light met feral crimson.

In that instant, nothing else existed.

Atticus held the figure's gaze, his body rigid, his mind spinning. His senses struggled to adjust, grappling with the chaotic, surreal reality. Moments ago, he had stood atop the mountain's peak, claiming vengeance against his guide. Now, he was here.

The Eldest Veil.

This darkened world carried an eerie stillness, pressing down on everything like a suffocating weight.

The calm quelled the storm raging within him, forcing his mind into clarity.

Reality crashed into him.

He was fighting for his life.

His life.

The realization hit like a hammer, and with it, the floodgates opened.

He felt it.

The space domain he'd activated to rank up and step into the katana's realm.

The overwhelming surge of mana coursing through him, reshaping his very existence.

The Grandmaster rank.

His body had ascended, shattering its former limits.

A torrent of enlightenment surged into his mind. The Fourth Art etched itself into his soul, the knowledge slamming into him like a tidal wave.

Then came the memories.

Dorander's memories.

His triumphs. His losses. His mastery. His unrelenting will. It all poured into Atticus, overwhelming and razor-sharp.

For a brief moment, Atticus felt it, power.

Overwhelming. Crushing. Absolute.

The injuries that had marred his body vanished, gone without a trace. The fatigue that had gripped him during the battle dissipated like smoke in the wind.

His doubts. His hesitation. His fear.

Gone.

The mana, the enlightenment, the experiences, all of it collided, reshaping his being at a speed that defied reason.

Atticus's gaze narrowed, the blinding blue light in his eyes intensifying until it was nearly unbearable.

"Katana series: Fourth Art;…"

The First Art of the katana focused on precision and speed. It was an unnerving single slash so swift that even the sharpest eyes struggled to trace its path.

It struck with such velocity and exactness that the moment it landed, it felt as though it had never happened, until the world split apart in its wake. The art embodied simplicity, and yet its power was absolute. One cut. One end.

The Second Art took that concept and shattered it into countless fragments. It was chaos incarnate, an unrelenting barrage of slashes so numerous they seemed infinite.

Each cut tore through the air, erratic and sharp. It was a movement of blades, overwhelming and all-consuming, leaving no room for escape.

The Third Art refined this chaos into a singular arc of devastation. Every slash from the Second Art converged into one colossal strike, a blow so immense it carved through the battlefield like the scythe of a god. It was the embodiment of overwhelming force, a culmination of every ounce of power directed into a single, unyielding attack.

But the Fourth Art…

It was something else entirely. No longer confined to a single slash or even a sequence, it became a force of nature.

The Fourth Art was a storm.

Slashes swirled together like a cyclone, unending, unstoppable, shredding everything caught within its fury.

The winds carried a deathly sharpness, each blade capable of tearing through steel, stone, and flesh alike. The storm itself heeded its master's will, capable of being summoned, controlled, and unleashed in any form its owner desired.

Atticus could guide it like a roaring tempest, carving paths of destruction, or let it rise to an unimaginable crescendo, a storm so immense it tore apart everything in its path.

At its peak, the storm could explode, spreading its devastation across the battlefield in a chaotic, all-consuming blast.

It was destruction itself.

In this darkened world, Atticus's lips parted, his voice echoing like the rumble of a war drum.

"…Sundering Storm."

Time resumed.

The world shattered.