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墨書 Inktalez
In the endless bloodshed of the Spire, each layer presents different enemies and challenges awaiting Ironclad. As he steps onto a new level, old foes reappear before him. The bird-masked Cultists stand in his way once again, their eyes revealing madness and cunning, as if they seek to extract something from Ironclad.
A fierce anger ignites within Ironclad once more, his gaze sharp as a blade, piercing through the bodies of the Cultists. He grips the hilt of his sword tightly, the cold blade reflecting the shadows of the Spire. His breathing becomes steady and rhythmic, each breath fueling the fire of his rage, and the strength within his body surges dramatically.
His footsteps were firm and swift, each step causing the ground to tremble. In his eyes, the Cultists were merely obstacles on the path to liberation. His sword danced, the glint of the blade carving a melody of death in the dim light of the spire.
The first Cultist charged forward, but his attack was easily deflected by Ironclad. The blade swiftly cut across his throat, blood spraying forth as life faded into the shadows of the spire. There was no sympathy or hesitation in Ironclad's eyes; only a frenzy of battle and slaughter filled his heart.
The Cultists screamed wildly, their attacks frantic and chaotic, but they seemed so fragile in the face of Ironclad's swordsmanship. His technique was skilled and lethal, each dance of his sword claiming one life after another.
His swordplay grew faster, his figure darting through the shadows of the spire. The flesh of the Cultists splattered under his blade, blood staining both his sword and battle robe. There was no mercy in his technique; every strike hit its mark, each blow taking a life.
Cultists' screams echoed in the spire, but there was no hesitation or wavering in his heart. All he felt was a desire for release and endless battle. His swordsmanship was fierce and efficient, the blade weaving through the bodies of the Cultists, taking their lives and hope with it.
His attacks were wild and decisive, each strike hitting its mark, each strike making the Cultists feel the arrival of the grim reaper. His sword dance did not cease until the last Cultist fell, and the bodies in the pool of blood told him that this level of battle had finally come to an end.
As the bloodstains on the blade slid away, Ironclad's thoughts drifted through past battles. Each fight seemed to bring him closer to the cursed truth that lay shrouded in darkness. With every awakened memory of combat, his swordsmanship became sharper and more lethal. He could distinctly feel his strength gradually increasing; every muscle and sinew seemed to harden and grow stronger through the baptism of battle.
He recalled his previous fights, where each dance of the sword was a release of power, and every strike was a clash of strength. His swordsmanship was filled with wildness and might, each slash capable of cutting through the air and breaching his enemies' defenses. Yet, he also recognized his shortcomings in defense. In battles against the Cultist and Lagavulin, his sword could both attack and defend, but when facing more formidable foes, his defense appeared somewhat lacking.
He recalled the Orichalcum he had found on the shell of Lagavulin. That metal could provide a layer of protection, but he knew it was far from enough. He needed stronger defensive skills, a power that could protect him when facing formidable enemies. His thoughts swirled between memories of battle and plans for the future; he understood that with each ascent, new challenges awaited him. He needed to continually grow and strengthen himself if he hoped to break the curse of the Spire and find a way to liberation.
Ironclad lifted his sword, and several motes of light floated up from the corpse of the recently defeated Cultist. These motes slowly drifted toward him, merging into his mind. Immediately, a surge of new memories flooded in, as if a door had been opened, revealing a sealed past before his eyes.
He saw himself on a battlefield shrouded in countless smoke and wearing heavy armor, wielding a heavy sword, bravely fighting the enemy. Every time the enemy attacked, he could accurately block with his sword. No matter how fierce the enemy's attack, he stood firm in place, without flinching.
Every time the enemy's blade struck his sword, it would spark, illuminating the surrounding darkness. His blocks were not just resistance to the enemy's attacks, but also a defiance of fate and an unyielding stance against life and death. He saw his sword becoming stronger with each clash, and each resistance made him feel a newfound strength and confidence.
That feeling is like he has found the true meaning of battle, found the hope of survival. He gave this technique a name - toughing it out. Although every toughing it out would shake his body, every impact would make him feel the coldness of the blade piercing through the gloves, but he knew that only in this way could he protect himself in that fatal moment, and find the opportunity to counterattack in the face of the enemy's fierce offensive.
He didn't know how many times he had toughed it out, or how many enemies he had resisted. He only knew that with each toughing it out and resistance, his swordsmanship became more proficient, and his will became firmer. He felt a kind of unprecedented strength and confidence, a feeling that made him feel the hope of life and the motivation to move forward.
As the memories faded, Ironclad slowly opened his eyes. He saw the road ahead, witnessing the grandeur and mystery of the Spire. He knew that his journey was not over, and his battle was far from finished. Gripping the hilt of his sword, he felt the warmth and strength in his palm. He understood that this new memory would become an important resource and support for his future battles.
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