The dragon's harem

After just a little over a minute, the fight seemed to calm down a bit. Arad was the first to move, taking a step toward the dancing Mathilde. His void has never stopped assailing her harrowing true self, but still, he didn’t feel like he was making any progress.

Mathilde was larger, faster, had better control, and what’s more, seemed to have a far larger martial experience under her belt than Arad.

Arad lunged forward, throwing his fist straight at Mathilde’s face. She immediately shifted her moves, lifting her right foot up and blocking Arad’s fist with her sole right in front of her face.

With one swift move, she pushed Arad’s fist aside and slid forward, sending a drop kick straight at his chest. He was too tall for her to aim at his head.

Arad, of course, lifted his arms to block her kick. But Mathilde jumped at that moment, her foot flying above his guard and dropping straight at his skull, sending his face flying to the ground.

Arad landed with his hands first, pushing him self right back up. But he didn’t go far. Mathilde had jumped earlier, and she just happened to have timed her fall right and landed right on the back of his head, drilling his head into the ground.

Mathilde wasn’t just any angel; she had fought the elvish goddess many times. And those fights didn’t just end in losses and draws, but in reality, Mathilde won more than she had lost. The reason was simple: the elvish goddess Sylph is powerful, but she doesn’t embody any fighting concept, while Mathilde is a violent kicker.

Mathilde and Diana were the angels that were sent to deal with powerful abominations equal to prime Vorvadoss, the ones that come to deal with whatever the great wyrm void dragons can’t handle.

The moment Arad compared Mathilde to Diana, he knew he couldn’t win. It was already too obvious. Those two aren’t any powerful angels, they are war veterans who lived and breathed blood.

Even though Arad had many great feats, all of them always had a catch, something to give him the edge. For example, poor Alexander was already weakened by his eons of imprisonment, and even then, Arad had Gojo’s help. Even Dendron’s fight. She had been doing nothing for a long time and was rusting, losing her edge.

As Mathilde slowly lifted her foot from Arad’s head, she looked around, seeing the other three incarnations surrounding her.

“You should use a weapon. You already know you’re not my opponent, not in your current exhausted self.” She said in a calm tone, her face betraying no emotions.

Arad, the one who was on the ground, stood up. “I won’t use a weapon if you don’t use one.” He looked at her for a moment, “What kind of weapon do you even use?”

Mathilde looked down at her feet, “My feet, I can kick. But, I sometimes wear high heels to use as a stabbing weapon.” She looked at Arad, “But, you’re too soft for me to need that.”

Arad rubbed the back of his head. She did indeed crack his skull with that kick, and he knew she was holding back. Even in his void form, her attacks seemed to touch and harm him, because the real fight was the bloody massacre happening between his void and her true body.

At this rate, he’ll be the one falling down, and it’ll happen soon.

“So? Will you use a weapon? Don’t worry about me.” Mathilde slowly lifted her foot up, ready to throw a kick, “Not even a full power strike from the elvish goddess Sylph could be lethal to me. Your best won’t do anything.”

Arad smiled, “I won’t be using any weapon. I, too, don’t need them.” He waved his hands, opening his palms. For some reason, Mathilde felt threatened looking at him for that moment.

“You’re a kicker, and I just happened to know a slapper.” He took a stance, “She was weak, the weakest among her peers. For that, she created an art used to kill the strong, one that’ll help her face those stronger, faster, and deadlier than her.”

Taking on Dalla’s stance, Arad was bringing something new to the table. A martial art created by a mere mortal was now challenging the thousands of years of accumulated wisdom and experience of a divine angel.

“The art of Cerilla’s maid? You think the creation of a mere mortal can hold its own in the heavens?” She asked with a passive face.

“Why? Do you think it’s unfit? Inherently weak?”

Mathilde shook her head, “No, I’ve seen Dalla’s fights. But I never grasped anything significant about her fighting style. That only means I was blind.” She took a different stance with both her feet planted firmly on the ground.

“Lord Arad, would you mind showing me what makes her art so great?”

He jumped at her, swinging his palm at the same time as his void rushed to engulf her true body, throwing a slap in both instances.

“Your kicking style focuses on power, crushing everything.” Mathilde dodged Arad’s first two slaps and kicked him on the knee, tearing his leg apart. But he swung without care, and the second attack connected.

“Your art optimises your own body and fighting style to perform at its best. But Dalla’s art is focused solely on fighting those far stronger than her.”

It was the first time in thousands of years that Mathilde felt pain. The slaps connected both on her face and real body at the same time, jolting her with enough pain to be a pleasant surprise.

“Your art is made to step on those equal to you. You will never challenge someone absolutely stronger than you. It doesn’t make sense for an ant to face an elephant.” Arad smiled.

“But Dalla’s art swears that the ant’s sting would at least make the elephant wail in agony even if it caused its death. It’s an art for the weak to challenge the strong.”

One of Arad’s clones grabbed Mathilde from the back while another slapped her across the face, one blocked her deadly kick, and the other ate her toes in the throat, his head flying away as if slashed by a sword.

Just like Dalla, Arad wasn’t a stranger to fighting against opponents stronger than him. And even at such a high-level fight, numbers still meant a lot. Four of them still have a chance.