Solo Cultivating in Superhero Academy
Chapter 125: Battle 4

Chapter 125: Battle 4

Elius’s five floating swords hovered like watchful predators around him, each one catching the glint of broken sunlight that pierced through the fractured skyline. But then, he raised his right hand slowly, and the others stilled.

Only one sword remained active.

He pointed to it.

And it moved.

At first, it began to circle lazily in the air, a slow, steady orbit as though dancing around an invisible axis.

The air trembled subtly. Then, the speed increased.

Once... twice... thrice its previous velocity.

The sword spun faster. Its orbit narrowed. And it began to hum.

And then—it roared.

The spinning blade became a silver blur, drawing wind into its vortex. Dirt rose. Loose papers scattered. Nearby gravel shook and started to rise from the sheer force of suction. Elius didn’t move. He simply watched.

The sword spiraled faster.

And faster.

And faster.

A circle no bigger than a man’s chest turned into a blurring vortex, an ever-tightening spiral that compressed the air around it until a pressure wave began to rumble.

VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVMMMMMMMMMMMMM!!!

The wind turned feral. It howled like a beast freed from centuries of confinement. Cars nearby shifted slightly. Dust clouds erupted. Loose metal groaned and began to levitate. The surrounding battlefield trembled. A nearby lamp post was ripped from its foundation and sent spiraling into the air—sacrificed to the vacuum of power the sword was creating.

And still, it spun.

The very air screamed, forming rings of distortion like shockwaves as the sword morphed into a drill of air and steel. The street beneath it cracked. Chunks of asphalt rose. Lightning sparked spontaneously in the air from raw friction.

Across the battlefield, Fraven’s eyes widened.

"No, no, no—" he hissed, hands out, sweat already forming on his brow.

He screamed.

And in an instant, every piece of debris around him jumped.

Trash bins. Park benches. Concrete chunks. Pillars of stone. Shattered cars. Wall remnants. Pipes. Beams. Telephone poles. Fire hydrants. Manhole covers. Wrecked motorcycles. Torn signage. Giant slabs of road. Crates. Rusted rebar. Steel wire. Screws. Nails. Windows. Office chairs. Stoves. Cupboard doors. Tiles. Corrugated iron. A gas pump. A vending machine. A twisted bicycle rack. Filing cabinets. A refrigerator. Toilets from destroyed buildings. Chunks of elevator shaft. A section of a bus stop. Even the statue of an old superhero memorialized in bronze.

All of it—lifted.

All of it—reformed.

Fraven’s power howled in his veins as he crafted a wall of shields, a fortress of floating debris, layer upon layer of flying matter forming a telekinetic barrier so thick it could block a missile. He gritted his teeth. Veins bulged in his arms and temples. Blood began to trickle from his nose.

And yet, Elius didn’t look impressed.

He simply flicked his finger.

SWOOOOSH!!!

The spinning blade launched forward.

BOOOOM!!!

The drill hit the wall.

And everything shook.

SKRAAAAAA!!!

The first line of objects—the outermost layer of Fraven’s barricade—disintegrated on impact. Smashed, pierced, flung apart. The rotating sword didn’t slow down—it got faster. Like a burrowing beast, it began drilling through the layers.

SHRAK!!

Steel beams exploded into spirals.

CRUNCH!!!

Concrete shattered like sand.

WHOOOOM!!

A wrecked van screamed and was sliced in half.

The barricade shrieked as it was destroyed piece by piece.

And Fraven—eyes wide, hands shaking—poured every ounce of his will to rebuild, reform, reinforce. But he couldn’t. He was running out of junk. Out of stamina. Out of strength.

The sword spun, unstoppable.

A muffled roar erupted from its center, the air pressure spinning around it creating a miniature tornado now spiraling outward. Glass exploded from windows. Light poles bent. A massive nearby slab of pavement was ripped clean from the earth.

Fraven screamed.

"STOOOOOOOOP!!!"

And then—

CRACK!!!

The last of his wall broke.

Fraven threw up a metal locker as a desperate final shield, but it was drilled clean through.

CLANG!

The blade stopped—an inch from his throat.

It hovered there, wind still spiraling from its tip.

Elius narrowed his eyes, he could feel something pulling his sword so he called it and his sword snapped back into orbit beside him.

The winds fell.

Dust settled.

The battlefield was wrecked.

The area around Fraven looked like a meteor had carved a path through it.

Fraven dropped to one knee, panting, blood leaking from his nose, arms trembling. His breaths came in short, sharp bursts like he was drowning on land.

Elius looked at him, utterly still.

Why is he so weak? Elius thought, eyes calm. Just a single sword... one attack... was enough to bring him to his knees.

Suddenly, a deep, rumbling sound.

Stone crumbled. Dust shifted.

And the sand tomb, the massive hardened coffin where Zhark had been sealed, moved.

It didn’t just wiggle—it rose.

With a furious grunt, Fraven raised a hand and directed a thick pipe of steel straight into the coffin’s center. A loud KRRRNNCH! echoed as the pipe smashed through the tomb, cracking it open like an eggshell.

Sand poured out.

And inside, lightning flickered weakly in the broken shadows.

A charred fist pushed the fragments aside.

Then the other.

And with a growl, Zhark emerged—his body bruised, covered in ash and cracked lightning armor, but eyes burning with fury. His hair flared with static. Lightning arced between his teeth when he grinned.

Fraven staggered back and knelt beside him.

"...Hey bastard," he gasped, arms limp. "I’ve done all I can."

Zhark rolled his neck with an audible CRACK on the left side.

CRACK on the right.

He stood fully, letting his power surge around him.

Electricity climbed his body like a second skin.

He grinned.

"Finally... I’m out."

He cracked his knuckles slowly—left hand first.

Then right.

Each pop echoed like thunder in a silent world.

Lightning hissed around Zhark’s shoulders as he stood tall, power rising with every breath. His fists were clenched tight, sparks crawling across his knuckles like living things.

The air around him vibrated from the sheer energy he was radiating.

Fraven still knelt beside him, panting and bloodied, one arm shaking, the other pressed to the ground as if the earth could offer him strength.

His head hung low, sweat dripping down his chin and onto the shattered pavement. But his eyes glared sideways—defiant, bitter.

"You shouldn’t have helped me," Zhark growled.

Fraven’s lips twitched. "I didn’t help you, I saved you."

Zhark’s body sparked with fury. "I didn’t ask for that."

"You were trapped like a dog in a cage," Fraven snapped back, coughing between his words. "He was playing with you—with us. That wasn’t a fight. That was a puppet show, and we were the puppets."

Zhark’s eyes glowed brighter, and his teeth bared like a cornered predator. "And you think that makes it better?! I had him! I just needed one more second!"

"One more second and you’d have been a statue of ash," Fraven barked. "You think you’re invincible? You couldn’t even move in there."

"You underestimate me," Zhark snarled, stepping closer, each footstep scorching the broken street beneath. "You always have."

"And you overestimate yourself!" Fraven roared, standing abruptly, swaying on his feet. "You were sealed in sand! You were drowning in your own lightning!"

"I was rising!" Zhark screamed.

"You were drowning!" Fraven repeated, voice cracking. "We are nothing to him! Don’t you see it, Zhark? He hasn’t even broken a sweat. We’ve thrown everything, and he hasn’t even taken a step forward. We’re not fighting a hero—we’re fighting a monster!"

Zhark’s breath came in quick bursts, his arms trembling from tension rather than fatigue. He looked at Fraven as if seeing him for the first time—as if that truth had carved its way past his pride.

Then he turned to Elius.

Elius, who still stood there, silent, arms folded behind his back, the wind gently pushing his coat.

"I’ll handle this now," Zhark muttered.