The abomination leapt with impossible force, its warped limbs cracking the air like splintered whips. In its many hands the bone-sword gleamed, wet and pulsing as if alive, and with one downward swing it cleaved the sky itself. The two generals met it mid-air, steel flashing, their own strikes converging in a desperate cross. But the grotesque blade carved through them as though they were brittle clay, the sound sharp and wet, and hurled their armoured bodies like broken dolls into the fortress wall. The impact rang like a funeral bell, stone cracked, ribs shattered, dust poured down like falling ash.

Then the night was torn apart by a sudden arc of searing blue. A light so sharp it stung the eyes screamed across the battlefield, striking the creature's warped body head-on. The demon, now a twisted fusion of human, spider, and mask, braced itself on two malformed legs while 12 grotesque spider-limbs drove into the earth like blackened stakes. The clash detonated with a howl—flame, dust, bone fragments flying. The ground boiled, leaving the battlefield stinking of burnt marrow and scorched hair.

And then—

A roar.

From the rooftops, the man strode down, each step splitting the stone beneath him as though the world were nothing but parchment. His every steps ,as if they could be called paws and struck the ground in measured cadence, each thunderous step carrying him further than the last, as though distance itself bent to his will.

By the seventh step, the man stood before the broken wall, his form backlit by moonlight fractured through smoke. He paused. His voice was a low murmur, but it carried like a curse through the carnage:

"Still… I can't do it."

"Check the inside. Surround them," he commanded.

The two generals, coughing blood, dragged themselves from the shattered wall and bowed. "Yes… sir." Their voices shook but they obeyed and vanishing into the smoke.

The man walked on, the battlefield parting before him. The lesser monsters rushed him like starving vermin, their screeches piercing and metallic, saliva hissing as it struck the heated ground. Yet before they could reach him, their bodies burst apart, sliced open by unseen seals that blazed across the air by seal masters. Each shriek cut short was replaced by the wet splatter of melted organs and the acrid stench of charred blood.

But the swarm did not thin. For every monster obliterated, ten more crawled from the shadows. Their hunger was endless.

Then came the laughter.

That same jester's mask, the one that waited beside the river, appeared again, many of them this time, all grinning with teeth too sharp, too human. Their mouths opened wide but the sound was not laughter, not entirely, it was shrill, metallic, almost insectile, a saw rasping against bone. From their masks erupted the Kṛtimamāṁsajanmā, shadow-born monstrosities. One became two. Two became four. Four became sixteen. And then countless—a writhing tide of black bodies, dripping and shrieking, rushing toward him as though eager to devour not flesh but the very soul.

The jokers stood behind them, heads jerking unnaturally, smiles stretching until the skin around their lips tore.

That man placed one hand on his sword, lowering his body into a stance. His eyes glowed faintly in the dark haze.

"Heavenly Tiger… Claw Slash."

The words were a growl, and the world seemed to hold its breath. His sword slid free with the whisper of tearing silk. His other hand clawed the air, and spectral talons manifested, four burning arcs etched across the night. He thrust forward.

The strike split the swarm. Not just cut—it shredded. The monsters burst open, black ichor raining down like molten tar. Limbs twisted in the air, bodies split and contorted mid-scream, some still alive even as their halves slithered apart, burning in fire that clung like oil. The stench was unbearable: singed hair, boiling bile, charred skin peeling like paper. The sounds were worse, wet cracks, bubbling screams, whispers echoing unnaturally from the shadows as though the swarm itself was mocking its own death.

Behind the waves, the jesters still smiled. And with each slash, the battlefield began to resemble her. Burned, torn, nothing but fragments, scorched to the marrow, a vision of endless ruin repeating itself.

The swarm thickened once more.

From the fog of shrill laughter and warped footsteps, more than fifty jesters slithered into sight. Their faces were smeared with cracked porcelain grins, each mouth a gaping wound that stretched too far, teeth like shattered glass. They encircled him, bodies twitching in unison, heads jerking as if tugged by invisible strings. The air grew rancid, heavy with the stench of spoiled meat and charred leather.

But he did not flinch.

Gripping his sword with both hands, he stabbed it into the soil. The steel pierced deep with a dull metallic groan, and from that wound in the earth burst a storm. Blue-white lightning cracked upward, coiling and snapping like rabid serpents. A thunderous dome of energy erupted outward, vaporizing the jesters nearest to him. Their screams splintered into shrieks of bone grinding against bone as their flesh blistered and peeled, blackening to ash. The dome hummed with a sound like grinding teeth, and what remained of those creatures dripped away in cinders, sucked toward the looming beast that towered beyond.

That monster stretched out its dozen legs, grotesque appendages pulsating like wet roots torn from soil. Its torso rippled unnaturally, bulging with stolen limbs and faces of devoured soldiers pressing against its skin, mouths still silently screaming. It sucked the burning remains of its jesters into its core, bloating further. The stench was unbearable, copper and bile mixing into a nauseating perfume. Then it charged.

It slammed against the dome, twelve limbs hammering down with insectile precision. The impact cracked the air itself, but the dome held fast, lightning flickering madly across its surface. The beast roared, a sound like tearing fabric and gushing blood combined, and opened the eye engraved into its torso. From that eye blasted a beam of molten red light, hissing as it collided against the barrier. Still no fracture—only the stuttered convulsions of the monster's body as arcs of electricity sank into it, making its flesh bubble and split.

The man lifted his sword, muscles coiled like iron cables. His voice, cold and thunderous, spilled into the air:

"Heavenly Tiger: Chapter Six—Annihilation Beam."

The swing cracked reality itself. A torrent of blue energy surged forth, widening into a colossal lance that tore clean through the demon's body. The blast carved a hollow tunnel, shredding muscle and bone in its wake. The hole sealed shut with horrifying speed as it gorged on nearby corpses, dragging them into itself, bones snapping, heads rolling, flesh merging like wax.

Then, impossibly, the abomination leapt skyward. Its limbs folded grotesquely, then shot out like a spider's legs, propelling it upward. Wings unfurled from its back—if they could be called wings. They were membranes stretched too thin, veins glowing red like molten wires. The sky split as it soared, shrieking, before crashing down with a force that rattled every bone in the field.

He followed with his eyes closed, silent, unbending.

And when he opened them, the colour was gone. His irises were drowned in pale, unnatural blue, like the eyes of something not human. He gripped the sword once more, voice like a curse carved into stone.

"Heavenly Tiger: Chapter Seven—Emergence of the Heavenly Tiger."

The blade howled. Energy spun wildly along its edge, whirling into a hurricane of azure flames. Each rotation expanded, devouring space itself, until it loomed like a storm-god's weapon. He swung—and three forces collided in one instant: his slash, the monster's downward strike, and the sky-born dragon's crimson descent.

The world detonated.

Dust blasted outward, thick as coagulated blood. The earth split open with a shriek, fountains of soil and flesh rising into the storm. Within that miasma, a shape tore free—vast, burning, unholy. A tiger of blue fire ad thunder, born from the clash, roared with a voice that shredded nerves, shaking marrow loose from bone. Its claws raked across the demon's body, tearing through limbs and wings, each strike searing wounds that refused to close. The monster's shrieks turned into choking bellows, its body unravelling, burning to nothingness.

But then—agony.

A roar, not of triumph but of torment, came from both the beast and the man. The tiger's flames sputtered, and blood poured from that man's mouth in a hot, metallic stream. Their voices overlapped into one grotesque cry, man and phantom sharing the same pain. The sky itself seemed to recoil.

He staggered, sword trembling, throat ripping raw with curse:

"You… bastard!"

...................

Why did both of them scream? What truly happened in that split second? And why did she take it—what purpose does it serve?

The answers lie ahead… in Nirbindra.

To be Continued…