The Primal Hunter Chapter 1285 - A Seasoned Swordsman

Miyamoto shut his eyes momentarily, offering a knowing smile to the world he had inhabited for over a millennium. As he opened them, he rose to his feet, stretching his limbs for the first time in what felt like an eternity, that faint, enigmatic smile still gracing his features.

Bringing his hands together, he offered a respectful bow to the land, expressing gratitude for its hospitality before finally speaking. “It is finished.”

With that, he vanished from the unassuming little planet, leaving behind no trace that a C-grade individual had ever stepped foot there. He reappeared within the familiar white chamber, where only a single worktable waited, Aeon sitting patiently nearby.

The god observed the Sword Saint for a few seconds before giving a nod. “Then, present your proof of success.”

Without delay, Miyamoto was sent elsewhere, prepared to face whatever challenge lay in wait. Upon feeling solid ground again, he stood atop a towering pillar of rock in the center of a valley; immediately, multiple hostile presences locked onto him.

Glancing downward, he spotted three familiar creatures. While the version he encountered in Nevermore had been slightly smaller and weaker, these were undeniably B-grade. A quick use of Identify confirmed his suspicion: they were the same type of monster.

[Meteorborn Beast Lord - ???]

Each dominated the landscape, appearing as a fusion between a rock elemental, a scorpion, and a lizard. The scorpion characteristics were particularly prominent, noted by their eight legs and lethal stingers. Furthermore, their metallic, stone-hard exteriors radiated a palpable menace.

These were newly evolved creatures, undoubtedly placed by the Sword Saint’s Patron. Miyamoto had slain numerous B-grade foes before, but these variants were significantly more fearsome, capable of easily dispatching typical newly evolved B-grades. Navigating a single one would be a monumental task for a C-grade, let alone facing three simultaneously. Many might conclude that Aeon was attempting to eliminate the old swordsman.

In the past, the Sword Saint would have struggled; he likely wouldn't have survived a duel with even one of them. But things had changed.

Over a thousand cycles, he had lived through the seasons, observing their transition and internalizing them until they became part of his very essence. Miyamoto didn't view himself as a transcendent genius, though he possessed enough talent to grasp concepts that eluded others. Even though he was young by the standards of the multiverse, he saw himself as an old man, perhaps explaining his deep spiritual resonance with the natural cycle.

He believed this resonance was the key to accomplishing something others would find nearly impossible:

He had successfully upgraded his Transcendent skill.

The three Meteorborn Beasts lunged in unison. As they mobilized their inner energy, the ground beneath him trembled, and gravity magic rippled across the valley.

Miyamoto began to float as the gravity took hold. Resisting it head-on would be futile, so he initiated his demonstration—the proof of his growth, under the watchful gaze of Aeon.

Drawing his blade, he held it to the side and invoked a season he had previously only glimpsed in concept.

“Scorching Summer.”

His sword began to shimmer, radiating intense waves of heat. Within moments, the energy enveloped his entire body. The suppressing weight of the gravity was incinerated, unable to restrict him, allowing the swordsman to move freely just as the beasts launched their primary assault.

The valley imploded as a sphere of earth the size of a city condensed into a massive boulder, trapping the Sword Saint inside. Yet, before the compression was complete, a dozen slashes carved through the structure, and the swordsman emerged, darting toward the nearest Meteorborn Beast.

Retaliating instantly, the creature roared, manipulating its metallic stone hide into spears that launched at the old man. Miyamoto moved with unprecedented speed, dodging every projectile and closing the distance before the other monsters could react.

As he neared, the Beast coated its stinger in gravity magic, attempting to pull the sword user into a lethal strike. Unfortunately, the concept of gravity was purged by the heat before it could take effect, allowing the Transcendent swordsman to pass through and deliver his opening blow.

The blade struck the beast’s natural armor. The monster, confident in its defensive might, remained stoic—right until the sword sheared through its hide with minimal resistance.

The monster screeched in agony, yet not a drop of blood fell; the immense heat of the blade had instantly cauterized the wound. The beast exploded with heavy gravity magic, pushing Miyamoto back only for a second, but he returned instantly with relentless slashes.

He sheared away plates of armor and eviscerated the beast’s face, finally delivering a vertical strike that cut through the monster entirely, nearly cleaving it in twain. Even then, as the beast hit the ground, no blood stained the earth.

Breathing raggedly, the Sword Saint stumbled, his body reaching its limit. Scorching Summer allowed him to channel the ferocity of the season, making his blade unstoppable and his speed unmatched, yet the cost was high; he could not maintain such intensity for long.

After seeing their comrade fall, one might expect the remaining beasts to flee; instead, they lunged forward without hesitation.

Observing the torrent of compressed stone spears hurtling toward him, the Sword Saint allowed his body to shed the heat. As the season shifted and the temperature plummeted, summer faded.

“Decaying Fall.”

With a single swing, the incoming spears lost their momentum and missed, their internal mana dispelled by his strike. Moving with deliberate, flowing grace, the Sword Saint retreated, leaving behind the ghostly image of brown leaves fluttering through the air.

Moments later, one of the beasts made contact with a leaf, which sank into its hide seemingly without effect. The beast roared, triggering an eruption of stone pillars that forced the Sword Saint into the air as the landscape swelled under the monster's control.

The second beast propelled itself with gravity magic, attempting to crush the old man. Pressured, the Sword Saint danced backward, unleashing crescent wind blades laced with dying leaves. The beast ignored these seemingly weak attacks, pressing its advantage until minor wounds began to accumulate on the old man.

When he was cut, his blood transformed into scattering leaves, which were swept into his subsequent attacks or left to hover in the air during his retreat. The melee beast sustained more and more leaves, still oblivious to the danger.

Miyamoto, however, knew his work was nearly complete. He shifted into a purely defensive stance, inviting the decay of autumn to settle over the crater. His blade was the catalyst, a slow, patient wind of change. The process was drawn out, but that was the nature of the season.

Leaves overwhelmed the battlefield as the B-grades kept up their relentless assault. The ranged attacks were easiest to manage; the moment the monster’s energy touched his leaves, the attacks fell apart, their essence sapped by decay.

But the melee monster remained fast and lethal, and the old man’s skin began to tear under the strain. He attempted to parry the stinger, diverting the force as if guiding water, but the vast difference in power still caused him harm.

Eventually, a hyper-condensed rock bullet pierced his abdomen, causing him to stumble. A wave of gravity sent him spiraling toward the ground, a whirlwind of leaves pouring from his wound as he fell.

The season of fall felt endless, and the Sword Saint only seemed to grow weaker. His injuries multiplied, his vitality draining under the combined assault of the two B-grade monsters.

Yet, despite the weakness consuming him, Miyamoto’s eyes remained sharp. The leaves multiplied, painting the battlefield in shades of gold and brown, a testament to his mounting wounds. Beneath every drifting remnant, an invisible rot worked its way into the beasts' souls.

Gaining confidence from his frailty, the beasts attacked with wild abandon. Every charge and every wound inflicted simply fed more leaves into their systems. As minutes passed and the valley grew thick with the haze of rot, the Sword Saint neared his final stand. The end of the season had arrived, where the last leaf fell and only stillness persisted.

The Sword Saint stood haggard, his body shattered, his off-hand severed and transformed into a swarm of leaves. To an observer, the fight was over. He had performed admirably, using Scorching Summer for a brief burst of power, but against two B-grades, his situation was dire.

Yet, the old man remained serene, his senses numbing as a freezing cold took hold. With the beasts closing in and his energy nearly spent, his end seemed certain. His aura flickered, death calling to him... then, the final leaf dissolved, and fall ended.

“Silent Winter.”

His voice rippled through the air, and the world froze. The thunderous roar of the Meteorborn Beasts vanished, replaced by an absolute, suffocating silence. Colors desaturated into a ghostly white, and the movements of the beasts slowed to a crawl. In this winter, the world had settled into a standstill.

The two powerful beast lords became sluggish, their magic failed to ignite, and a chilling aura of death permeated the air, not just a simple affinity, but the absolute concept of ending—a fate that claimed everything, even the immortal.

Signs of rot broke out across the monsters as they drifted quietly in the air. Miyamoto sensed their confusion and dread, but it was too late. Their demise was decreed; he only needed to fulfill his role as the reaper.

The eternal silence was broken only by the steady rhythm of his footsteps. The Sword Saint walked forward, his form frail. The B-grades remained frozen, far too many leaves of decay having taken root within their souls before winter arrived, overwhelming them.

They could do nothing as the one-armed man swung his blade through the first monster, extinguishing its life effortlessly. A second swing concluded the destiny of the other. Both drifted there, eyes wide and bodies unmarred, but their spirits had been severed. They were dead.

Winter. The conclusion of the cycle, and the finality of existence. A period of stillness before the wheel turned once more.

With sluggish movements, the Sword Saint sheathed his blade and collapsed. His body was cold, projecting the aura of death, yet deep within him, a single seed of life clung to existence, waiting for the spring.

Slowly, the stillness broke as the world began to stir. The two fallen B-grades crashed to the dirt near the motionless man, who lay there, no longer drawing breath. He appeared deceased, yet that one small seed remained. It held on until spring.

As time resumed its natural flow, the Sword Saint took one ragged, gasping breath. Life flickered back into him. After a long minute, he pushed himself up, staring at the space where his arm had been. Healing would take longer than usual due to the forces he had invoked, but he accepted the cost.

Transcendent Skills, after all, were never free.

He downed a healing potion, gaining enough strength to struggle to his feet. He looked at his fallen foes with satisfaction. The execution was rough, but as his first use of this aspect of his Transcendent Skill, it was sufficient. Besides, he had balanced the move for B-grade foes; being restricted to a lower, mortal grade made perfect consistency impossible.

“Good,” a voice suddenly remarked from beside him, a presence he had failed to detect. He didn’t panic, recognizing the voice of his Patron.

Aeon inspected the corpses with genuine curiosity, nodding. “Very good.”

“I am relieved I did not disappoint,” the Sword Saint chuckled, though the sound turned into a cough as he spat out black blood. He was clearly in a precarious state.

“You did not disappoint,” Aeon said, shaking his head. “I shall honor my promise. The timeline might be accelerated, but there is no point in delay. Should you accept, from this day forward, you are my Chosen. This should aid your evolution to B-grade significantly, as my expectations for you during the Seat of the Exalted Prima event are exceptionally high.”