The Outergod's Avatar-Chapter 79: Flavius vs Markis

The battlefield was held at a standstill the moment the Silver Sword Saint unsheathed his blade.

No movement could be made under the mesmerizing beauty of the moonlight reflecting off the weapon’s flawless surface. The very light seemed drawn to it, bending, shimmering, and dancing along the metal as though it, too, had fallen under a spell. Even the sounds of nature—the wind, the rustling leaves, the chirps of distant insects, seemed to hush in reverence or fear.

Only one person managed to remain unfazed, and that was Markis.

Without hesitation, he raised a hand and summoned his power, weaving a blindfold of tree bark over his eyes. It wrapped around his head like it had grown there, slightly cracked yet smooth like the skin of an ancient tree. The silence was finally broken by his voice.

"Izikel," he called, gently placing the unconscious Lyzah beside the stunned boy.

That voice—so steady, so calm—snapped Izikel out of the trance he’d been caught in. His eyes had been locked on the Legion Commander’s blade, his mind slowly melting into a haze as his thoughts drifted further from reality.

"Please look after Lyzah for now," Markis added without turning.

"And try not to look too long at his sword," he said with a faint smile, the bark-covered blindfold making his expression seem even more detached and serene.

Izikel blinked rapidly, struggling to process what he was seeing. Why was Markis wearing something like that over his eyes? It looked... wrong. Yet oddly fitting.

’Was it because of the sword?’

His eyes instinctively fell on the blade again, and almost immediately, he felt his mind slipping back into that strange daze.

"It is indeed very..." he began to mutter, his voice soft, caught in a trance once more—before he caught himself and jerked his head away, cursing under his breath.

’His sword... it has some kind of enchantment. Is that why they call him the Silver Sword Saint?’

’Shit... this is going to be difficult for Markis.’

Then he paused.

’Wait! What the hell am I thinking? I’m supposed to be rooting for the Legion Commander. Markis is the enemy... the evil one!’

But despite himself, it was hard to see Markis as anything other than his usual kind and peaceful self. The way he spoke, the way he moved—even now, he radiated a calm nobility that confused everything Izikel thought he knew.

With his eyes covered, the only expression Markis wore was a quiet confidence. It wasn’t arrogance. It wasn’t false bravado. It was something older... deeper. It made Izikel wonder—how could he possibly fight Flavius without sight?

That was when Flavius moved.

He dashed forward with near-silent steps, the edge of his blade slicing through the moonlight as he aimed to split Markis’s skull in a single, clean stroke.

But he never made contact.

A giant petal of a flower rose between them, soft as a pillow, glowing faintly in the night. The blade struck it—yet instead of tearing through, it bounced off. The petal absorbed the force like a cushion, rippling slightly as if made of living silk. And it wasn’t alone. Three more petals hovered, all connected to a flower that stood behind Markis.

A counterattack came in an instant—a thick vine burst from the ground beneath Flavius, nearly catching his legs before he leapt away.

But Markis didn’t stop there.

From the earth beneath them, a wave of vines erupted, snaking and lashing forward with terrifying speed. Wherever Flavius landed, another swarm of vines crashed into the spot, relentless and wild. Yet somehow—somehow—the Silver Sword Saint continued to dodge each one.

It was obvious now. Markis could sense him.

"I’m sorry to inform you of this, Flavius," Markis said calmly, his voice still level despite the chaos around him, "but your enchanted sword won’t help you in this battle... because I don’t need my eyes to see."

Izikel’s eyes widened. That’s when he noticed it too—the vines and the tiny flowers spread all across the ground, like a living carpet.

"Every time your feet touch the ground... I know where you are."

Markis raised a hand slightly, and the vines responded in kind—lunging faster, and from sharper angles.

’But still... he dodges every single one,’ Izikel thought, his fists clenching.

Markis gritted his teeth.

Flavius Argenthex—the one they called the Untouchable.

A name earned for good reason. Once he unsheathed his sword, it was said no enemy had ever been able to land a strike on him. His title wasn’t just for show—it was a curse upon his enemies.

Everyone knew of his ability. It was part of the legend, part of the fear. The sword was mesmerizing. But this... this was different.

"Now I see it," Markis muttered. "Everyone always talks about your sword, but the real problem is your speed."

He turned his head slightly, as if focusing.

"How are you this fast... is that another blessing?" he questioned aloud.

"But that’s not possible. He’s still in the second stage of Divinity. There’s no way to have two blessings... unless..."

He paused.

"No, if he was in the third stage of Divinity, I would’ve been dead a long time ago. Then how?"

He clenched his fists.

"I guess I’ll just have to increase the pressure."

He raised both hands.

This time, vines burst forth not just from below, but from every direction. Some lashed out like whips, others spiraled like drills. It was a storm of green, a natural maelstrom surging toward Flavius.

But the Silver Sword Saint didn’t run.

He stepped forward.

With one swift motion, his blade cut through the vines—not with brute strength, but precision. His body followed, closing the distance between him and Markis in the blink of an eye.

The diagonal slash that came next was nearly invisible.

Markis barely moved in time, the edge of the blade cutting through the flower shield and slicing across his torso, deep enough to draw blood.

He winced, pulling himself back with a vine to narrowly avoid a second, more lethal strike aimed for his neck.

His breathing grew heavy.

’He cut through the flower shield. That shield was created specifically to absorb attacks. Its texture is soft, yes, but that makes it even more difficult to cut through. And yet he sliced through it like it was paper...’

’So it’s not just speed. His attacks... they carry force. Force beyond what should be possible at his stage.’

Markis knew what he had to do.

He reached out with his mind—not to the vines, but to his followers.

Tree Keepers.

"My children," his voice echoed inside their heads, breaking the trance of the Silver Sword’s spell, "it seems the hour is finally upon us."

Each one turned to face the Old Tree. Without hesitation, they placed a hand upon its bark. Their eyes filled with resolve.

"Yes, Chief," they responded in unison.

Then, silently, they each pulled out a blade.

"May our death carry your will!" 𝚏𝕣𝕖𝚎𝚠𝚎𝚋𝚗𝐨𝐯𝕖𝕝.𝕔𝐨𝕞

And as one, all eight of them stabbed their own throats, offering their lives in sacrifice, blood spilling over the roots of the Old Tree as the night wind carried their final breath into the sky.