Death Cultivator 2 by eden Hudson (top 10 best books of all time txt) 📕

leg pulled up like a crane’s, his weaponless hands in unnatural positions in front and overhead.

Rali, no! the Death cultivator screamed. My agreement to protect the Death cultivator’s friends at all costs bound me to this body for as long as it held together. I couldn’t break our covenant and kill them without giving it up, but I could do so much more.

The Selken’s lace-patterned eyes glared into the green orbs I now watched the world through. The black had thickened with the Selken’s fury until it was the only color in his eyes.

“I don’t know if you’re an evil ghost, a soul-eating demon, or the end result of Devil Corruption,” he said, flicking his shaggy black hair out of his face, “but you are not Hake, and you can’t have him.”

Buried Alive

I STRUCK OUT WITH MY palm, using the Death cultivator’s recently developed Rigor Mortis. It hit the Selken, but didn’t freeze him. Before I could follow this attack, a wave of Warm Heart Spirit burst off the Selken’s body like a solar flare. The bright orange of the flare drove out the turquoise cold of the Rigor Mortis.

The Selken leapt at me, empty hand outstretched and glowing with Warm Heart Spirit.

I lunged, swinging the Lunar Scythe.

The Selken sprang easily aside, barely touching his Spirit reserves to avoid my attack. Other than myself, he was the most cultivated being in the building. A Spirit battle with him would be a challenge.

We danced across the arena floor, stretching, missing, narrowly escaping. The Selken was always just out of reach of my blade, but always close enough to invite another attack. He threw walls of orange Spirit at me, I leapt over them easily and blasted deadly attacks at him. He slipped them by fractions of an inch each time, always darting back in with an outstretched hand. I dodged his attempts to strike me by hairs’ breadths and always returned with another onslaught.

A surprisingly even match. The only advantage I had was the extra reach of the scythe, and that was quickly discovered.

“Oi, Rali!” the Burning Hatred cultivator yelled.

The Selken spared a glance in his direction.

The redhead lobbed the broken pole of a spear to the Selken, hoping to nullify my advantage over his friend, but instead creating the perfect distraction.

While the Selken’s eyes were turned away, I dashed in, slicing the gleaming black blade of the scythe upward. He leapt backward, but too late. The scythe scored a deep gash across his gut. Blood soaked his shirt through the tear, and fat and entrails bulged through the wound.

The pole hit the dirt on end and bounced.

I whipped my leg through the air, kicking the weapon into the stands, well away from either of the Death cultivator’s friends, and spun to face the wounded Selken.

He was on his knees, hands clutching at his organs, holding them in.

I grinned. According to the restrictions on his kishotenketsu, he couldn’t heal himself without destroying his Spirit sea.

I poured strength to my tissues and leapt.

Miasma flooded the Spirit rivers in my arms and legs—far more than I had commanded. The nerves and muscles burned and blackened with frostbite and still more poured in. The Death cultivator was directing the flow of the Spirit from within, destroying the body I’d taken from him. I swung the scythe at the Selken, close enough to chop him in half, but the motion was too slow. He ducked the attack and threw a palm strike of his own.

With a twist of my shoulders, I evaded the burst of Warm Heart hurtling at my chest. My legs were locking up, ice freezing the joints solid. Somehow, the Death cultivator had taken control of my endless well of Miasma, and he was filling this body with it.

You stupid child! I roared. You destroy your own body!

What, he sneered, were you going to give it back in good condition?

A shoulder slammed into my spine. Flaming arms wrapped around my body as the Burning Hatred cultivator drove me to the dirt. I hit the arena floor on my side, still tangled with the fool. Frozen muscles groaned and icy skin cracked as I smashed the scythe’s handle into the top of his skull.

The solid crack didn’t daze him as it should have. Years of harsh body conditioning had made the Burning Hatred cultivator too resilient to be disposed of so easily. He locked his legs around mine and crashed burning fists into the weakened side where the Death cultivator had been stabbed and made such a mess of the repairs.

Too close to swing the scythe, I slammed the black bone handle down onto the top of the Burning Hatred cultivator’s head and face over and over again. A gash split his hairline. His nose broke, showering me with blood.

He ignored the pain, throwing punches like fiery war clubs. My ribs splintered, and strength went out of my left arm.

With my right, I pulled the blade of the scythe to the side of his neck. He grabbed it by the blade and handle to hold it off, slicing open several fingers. His teeth bared in a snarl as he attempted to keep Death at bay. His arms shook, still flesh and muscle, unlike the ones I now owned, and blood dripped from his shredded fingers, making his grip slippery, but the flesh didn’t melt from his bones.

An infuriating realization washed over me: if this Burning Hatred cultivator defeated me and gained the Lunar Scythe, he wouldn’t take Devil Corruption from it. He would have all of its power, with none of its drawbacks.

Through gritted teeth, I bellowed my rage, slamming the scythe at him. His grip slipped, but he didn’t lose hold of the handle or fall on the blade.

Hang on, Warcry, the Death cultivator begged, concentrating gales of necrotizing Miasma into my arms. Ice crackled along the exposed bone.

From the dirt, a wide hand grasped the redhead’s ankle. The Selken had dragged himself across the arena floor to us. Warm