Utopian System

Time seemed to slow as the weapon sliced through the space between them. Elio's heart pounded, one beat an eternity.

He had made his choice. There was no turning back.

The spear found its mark with brutal precision, piercing Varen's skull, his half-formed fireball dissipating into harmless sparks. For a moment, he remained frozen, a macabre statue of death, the fifth trophy.

Then, with a soft gurgle, Varen collapsed, his body crumpling beside Lucien. Blood pooled around the spear protruding from his head, its metallic scent filling the air.

A roar of pure rage tore through the atmosphere.

The Patriarch's eyes, burning with an intensity that seemed to scorch the very air, sought Elio.

The killer of his last loyal Summoner.

But Elio was already beside him.

With an explosion of speed born from the deepest hatred, he closed the distance between them. His fist, charged with all the pain and anger of the day, connected solidly with Fathoran's jaw. The impact resonated through the street, a thunderclap of flesh against flesh.

Yet as the sound faded, reality reasserted itself with cruel efficiency. Fathoran was barely affected by the blow. A thin smile, cold and devoid of humor, played on his lips.

The System doesn't allow those of equal level to damage each other so easily. The attack of 5 is negated by the defense of 5.

But Elio was after something else. He spun, his eyes searching for his spear.

Fathoran, however, wasn't stupid.

With a brutal shove, he sent Selene crashing into Elio. They collided with a grunt, momentarily entangled. By the time Elio managed to stand, Fathoran had already reached Varen's body.

With a nauseating yank, Fathoran wrenched the spear from Varen's skull. Blood and worse spattered the ground, a grim testament to the day's violence.

Fathoran, the spear now firmly in his grasp, pivoted with surprising speed for a man his age. The weapon described a wide arc, whistling through the air as it headed directly for Elio's head.

Pure instinct saved him.

Elio's arms shot up, the spear striking his forearms with bone-jarring force. Pain exploded through Elio's body, but his defense held.

The attack's damage was negated, but the sheer physical impact sent him to the ground.

"Elio!" Selene's cry cut through the chaos. Her hand moved in a fluid arc, and suddenly Lucien's sword was sailing through the air towards him.

Elio's hand closed around the hilt just as he hit the ground. He rolled, coming up in a crouch, the unfamiliar weight of the sword in his grip.

Fathoran advanced, twirling the spear with practiced ease. "A sword against a spear, boy? Do you even know how to use it?" he mocked, his voice laced with contempt.

Elio gritted his teeth, tasting blood. It was true, he hadn't practiced much with swords since defeating the level 3 monster. But it was a weapon, and at that moment, that was all that mattered.

He had no other way to harm Fathoran.

He lunged forward, the sword describing a clumsy arc towards Fathoran's neck. The Patriarch easily deflected the blow with the shaft of the spear, countering with a quick thrust that Elio barely managed to dodge.

The whoosh of the spear passing inches from his face made Elio's heart skip a beat.

The difference in experience was painfully apparent.

Where Elio's movements were crude and unrefined, Fathoran fought with the fluid grace of decades of practice. Each of Elio's attacks was met with a perfect parry, every opening ruthlessly exploited.

Sweat beaded on Elio's brow as he struggled to keep up, his lungs burning as he gasped for air, still not recovered from climbing the wall.

Fathoran, on the other hand, barely seemed winded, a small smile playing on his lips as he toyed with his younger opponent. It was an extremely pleasant sensation. The killer of his descendants playing with a sword with the grace of a small child.

He would enjoy this, no doubt.

In a desperate move, Elio feinted left before quickly changing direction, aiming a slash at Fathoran's neck. But at the last second, Fathoran pivoted, bringing the spear around in a vicious backhand stroke.

The blow caught Elio full in the face. Pain exploded as he felt something crack. He staggered back, blood running from his mouth, his vision blurry. The metallic taste of blood filled his mouth, making him want to retch.

Elio: 161 - 5 = 5 Resistance / 151 Armor Resistance

"Elio!" Lucien's voice, weak but filled with concern, reached him through the fog of pain. Selene had managed to help him to his feet, but he was far from battle-ready.

Elio spat blood, his eyes never leaving Fathoran. "Get out of here," he growled, the words causing fresh pain to shoot through his jaw.

"No!" Lucien protested, trying to step forward only to stumble. Selene caught him, bearing his weight. "I won't fail you again!"

A bitter laugh escaped Elio's lips. "I'm sorry," he said, his voice heavy with regret. "For everything. But please, go. Don't let my vengeance cost your lives too."

Fathoran watched the exchange with amusement, casually twirling the spear. "How touching," he mocked. "A little hero, trying to save the traitors... You remind me of someone... But anyway, tell me, who will save you?"

With deliberate slowness, Fathoran began to advance. His eyes gleamed with anticipation, a predator closing in for the kill. "Did you really think you could beat me? Me, who has ruled this city for a century? You're nothing but a child playing with powers you don't understand."

Elio raised the sword, his arms trembling from exhaustion. One more solid hit, and he knew he would be finished. But he wouldn't fall without a fight.

His only chance was to cut off Fathoran's head.

"You know," Fathoran continued, his voice conversational as if they were discussing the weather, "I'm impressed. You've left me speechless by returning from the sea of monsters. It would be a shame to kill you without you telling me what you did to survive."

He paused, a cruel smile spreading across his face. "But if you don't want to, it doesn't matter. If you could do it, sooner or later I'll figure it out myself. And when I've killed you, I'll take those cores from your corpse. I'll surpass level 6, and with that power, I'll reshape this city into what it was always meant to be."

Fathoran stopped just outside the sword's reach, the spear poised for a killing blow. "So, do you want to tell me, my dear subject?" he asked, false courtesy dripping from every syllable.

Elio straightened, meeting Fathoran's gaze with defiance burning in his eyes. Blood dripped from his chin, staining his robe, but he paid it no attention. At that moment, despite everything, he was every inch the warrior his mother believed him to be.

"Only this," Elio said, his voice firm despite the fear clawing at his insides.

"What are you made of, Motherfucker?"

Fathoran's eyes narrowed. He remembered the moment when Elio killed his descendants. Then, with a growl, he raised the spear.

Time seemed to slow as the weapon descended, its point aimed directly at Elio's face.