Chapter 43
Versus Malacoda II (Limit)
Mags surged forward, her heart a hammer in her chest, each beat timed with the thunder of her feet against the ground. Aether poured through her veins, a river of power that pulsed with the rhythm of her desperation and resolve. She flared her [Void Cloak], letting the shroud of silver aura thicken around her like an armor of roiling energy, trailing in smoky tendrils that flickered with each stride.
The fish came at her, a flurry of glimmering silver-blue projectiles, but this time, she didn’t slow or dodge. She forced herself forward, leaning into the onslaught, pouring more aura into the [Void Cloak] until it blazed around her. The fish struck the shroud of aura with the force of a hundred thrown knives, their aether-formed scales bright and sharp, but each one shattered as it collided with the [Void Cloak]. Tiny explosions of bright blue aura scattered in her wake, crackling like bursts of starlight in the dim glow of the afternoon sun.
She gritted her teeth and kept running, feeling the burn of her mana reserves thinning with each impact. Her shroud absorbed each strike, dispersing the force in rippling waves, but the strain was mounting. She gritted her teeth and pushed through, pumping more aura into [Void Cloak]. The [Void Cloak] was hungry, devouring her aura as quickly as she could produce it by burning mana, and she could feel the chill of its hunger biting into her flesh. She hoped it could withstand a few more blows as she barreled towards Malacoda.
Malacoda remained a an unyielding figure amidst the chaos, his silhouette framed by the silver-white halo of the fish swirling in a tight, protective formation around him. His grin was infuriatingly calm, his posture relaxed, as if he was watching a child playing a game he knew they couldn’t win.
Not this time, Mags thought, anger and determination blending into a single sharp point of focus. Her gaze locked onto Malacoda’s, her target clear. Her muscles coiled, tension building in her legs, and with a burst of speed, she leaped into the air.
The school of fish swarmed to meet her, the shimmering barrier between them tightening, each aether-construct’s eyes glowing with an ephemeral light. For a heartbeat, she hung in the air above him, the world narrowing to the sound of her own breath and the cold, rhythmic thrumming of her [Void Cloak]. Her instincts, honed by months of training, flared to life. Every sense sharpened, and the moment stretched to infinity.
Now!
The aether within her churned, roared, and Mags felt a quake deep within her soul—a shift as she reached for her ability, mentally commanding Yggdrasil to activate her new Spell. In that instant, she triggered [Devouring Pulse].
A stillness fell over the world, freezing everything in a breathless instant. The light dimmed, and colors drained away, leaving the clearing washed in shades of black and white. The fish, suspended mid-dive, hung like frozen shadows around her, and Malacoda’s face was caught between surprise and anticipation. A twinkle still in the corners of his eyes.
Then the pulse hit.
It was as if her body had become the center of a star’s collapse, the [Void Cloak] snapping outward in a concentric wave of silver wind. The aura she’d accumulated burst from her like an expanding shockwave, consuming everything in its path. The pulse surged through the school of fish, and the constructs erupted, their forms disintegrating into a swirling vortex of shadow and light. Aether splintered, shimmering fragments scattering into the air like shattered glass, leaving nothing but a hazy afterimage where the fish had once been. The dark pool beneath Malacoda’s feet shuddered and then vanished.
For a fraction of a second, the world was silent, frozen in the wake of her unleashed power. Malacoda’s eyes widened, twin suns of molten crimson, but his smile never wavered. Instead, it deepened, stretching into a grin of fierce delight, as if he had been waiting—expecting—for this very moment.
The pulse ebbed, and color bled back into the world. The shattered remnants of the fish faded into dust on an invisible breeze, leaving Mags alone in the air, descending upon her target. She’d broken through his defenses. Malacoda was no longer protected by his Spell, and in that very moment was open to an attack. The rush of adrenaline was fading, and the backlash from the mana drain on casting [Devouring Pulse] racked her body.
I have to press the attack! Despite the heaviness leaking into her muscles, she didn’t hesitate. With a swift, practiced thought, she mentally accessed her Pocket—a space that existed somewhere between reality and thought, a small demi-space that could only be accessed through the Soulsinger attuned to the Artifact. The familiar weight of her inventory settled into her mind in a fraction of a second, like the pages of a book being flipped open. She already knew exactly what she needed and drew it forth with a mental tug.
In an instant, Mithra, the broad and short Ivaldi blade, appeared in her outstretched hand, materializing from nothingness. The jet black surface of the blade shimmered as it took shape, a wide, flat weapon with a sturdy edge that gleamed in the light of the clearing.
Arm already in motion, Mags brought Mithra down with all the force she could muster, letting the momentum of her fall carry her. The blade cut through the air, a heavy arc of inevitability aimed directly at Malacoda. His smile didn’t falter, didn’t waver, and even as she bore down on him with the weapon that had appeared as if from thin air, he spoke.
“Clever girl,” he said, and his voice was calm and amused, as if they were exchanging pleasantries over a cup of tea.
Mithra slammed down, the weight of her desperation and fury behind the strike. But instead of meeting flesh, the blade bit into the earth with a muted thunk. Dirt and grass exploded upwards as the heavy weapon dug deep into the ground, missing Malacoda by the smallest fraction and twisting into the earth as it bit down. Mags blinked, bewildered—she’d been sure her aim was perfect—only to realize that Malacoda was standing on the flat of her blade, hands still casually in his pockets, and one boot firmly planted on the steel as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
Her eyes widened in shock, but before she could react, Malacoda’s foot shot out with brutal speed. She barely registered the movement before his boot connected with her face. Pain lanced through her skull, a blinding white flash as the force of the kick sent her head snapping back. She felt the crunch of cartilage as her nose broke, blood spurting from her nostrils. Her vision swam, stars dancing at the edges, and she was thrown backward, landing hard on her backside.
Her breath hitched, the coppery taste of blood filling her mouth as she gasped for air, shock and pain radiating through her skull. She could feel the hot trickle of blood running down her lips, warm and sticky, staining the front of her clothes. She blinked, trying to clear the tears that blurred her sight, and saw Malacoda’s face hovering above her, a bemused look in his fiery eyes.
“You almost had me,” he said, his tone approving, even admiring. “That trick with the Spell was brilliant—a move I didn’t see coming. You shattered my defenses in a single strike.” He paused, leaning back to regard her with a nod. “And summoning your weapon mid-air like that? Smart. Very smart. I’m impressed.”
He stepped off Mithra’s blade, his boot lifting with a soft whisper of steel. Mags pushed herself up, wiping the blood from her nose with the back of her sleeve. Her face throbbed with pain, her vision still blurred from the blow, but she refused to look away from him. There was no anger or mockery in his eyes—only the genuine admiration of a teacher who saw his student rise to a challenge, even if coming up short.
“Get up,” Malacoda said softly, a hint of challenge in his voice. “You’re not done yet.”
Mags’s fingers tightened around the hilt of Mithra, her body screaming in protest, and she forced herself to stand.
Malacoda was within her guard in a flash. His fist slammed into her ribs, and Mags felt the air rush from her lungs in a harsh, ragged gasp. Her feet skidded backward, but she didn’t fall. A storm of blows followed—calculated, relentless, each hit a reminder that her training here had only scratched the surface of what true mastery looked like.
“Don’t hold back,” Malacoda taunted between strikes, his voice calm and somehow detached, as if they were playing friendly game rather than engaged in a battle of raw power. He swung again, and Mags barely managed to parry the blow with a hasty block, her arms screaming with the effort. His fist slammed against the flat of Mithra’s blade, sending shockwaves through her arms. “I know you’ve got more left in you! Show me!”
Her mind raced, adrenaline mingling with the aching burn of mana exhaustion. What do I have left? she thought. The fight had already drained so much from her reserves, but she could feel a faint, dwindling spark within. An Angel Flare Strike. Maybe one . . . if I push it. Deep within her, she could sense barely enough mana for the Spell. She would need to execute the timing perfectly. Just one shot.
She let him get in closer, allowing the punishing blows to force her back step by step. Pain radiated from every strike, each one that broke through her defenses hammering into her ribs, her shoulders, her arms. She gritted her teeth, keeping her eyes locked on him. The impact of every blow jarred her bones, but she watched, waiting, feeling the rhythm of the fight, until she saw it—an opening.
In that instant, she mentally recalled Mithra, pulling it back into her Pocket. Malacoda’s fist went through air as the blade vanished. Mags took the opportunity to step into his reach.
She drove her fist forward, a quick, sharp jab. Malacoda’s eyes narrowed, his arm moving to block—just as she’d hoped. She triggered [Angel Flare Strike]. A ripple of void-infused energy burst from her knuckles, a spear of darkness that surged into his forearm. The void energy twisted like a living thing, writhing around his muscles. Malacoda grunted, his face tightening with discomfort—but it wasn’t enough. It barely slowed him.
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His retaliation was immediate, brutal. The flurry of blows hit her like a drumbeat of iron. She felt her knees buckle, the ground tipping beneath her as she was driven back. Her world became a blur of pain, the edges of her vision spinning. She barely registered the moment she hit the ground, the rough dirt digging into her back as she lay sprawled and gasping for breath.
Through the haze, she saw Malacoda’s face twisted into a frown, disappointment flashing in his eyes. He turned away, his gaze lifting to the balconies above them—the silent witnesses who had come to observe her trial. Frey Sarto—the judge and executioner. For a second, Mags saw a plea in his expression, a question unspoken: Has she done enough?
But whatever answer he received from above made his jaw clench. He turned back to her, his shoulders squared and his expression hardening. “Get up!” he barked, and before she could respond, his fist found her side again. Pain bloomed, electric and fierce, and Mags’s breath came in jagged gasps. He hit her again, relentless. “Dig deeper!”
Mags forced herself to her feet, limbs shaking, muscles burning with every movement. Her reserves were running on fumes. Aether flared in her veins like white fire, pushing her beyond her limits. She wasn’t sure how she even stayed upright—whether it was sheer willpower or some instinctual force within—but she managed it, fists still raised, blocking what blows she could. The rest slammed into her battered frame, each one feeling like it might be the final strike to topple her.
Her body was screaming at her to stop, to give in. The taste of blood was thick in her mouth, her vision a kaleidoscope of blurred shapes and shadows. Malacoda’s strikes had become a merciless rhythm, each one a drumbeat against her failing defenses.
Then, she fell again. The world turned to cold dirt and distant noises, the sound of waves crashing against the cliffs, the eerie stillness of the onlookers watching her struggle. She was on her back, and it felt like she would never get up again. Blood trickled down her chin, her breath a ragged wheeze as she coughed, each convulsion sending fresh agony through her bruised and battered body. Darkness edged her sight, the world spinning away.
I’m going to die here, she thought, feeling the hot press of tears sting her eyes. Whatever it was that Sarto wanted from her, Mags couldn’t deliver.
But even as that thought settled in, she felt it—faint, but unmistakable. A pulse. A second heartbeat thumping beneath her own, like a drum hidden deep within her chest. It thrummed there, vibrating in time with her own, but colder, sharper. It was a presence, like a well of darkness nestled where her reserves usually lay, alien yet familiar. It was power. Dark and dangerous, but power all the same.
What is that? The question shot through her mind, cutting through the pain and panic. It didn’t matter. There was no time to think, no time to doubt. Malacoda was still coming, his shadow looming over her, his eyes gleaming with the intention to strike again.
Desperation clawed at her, and with a final, ragged breath, Mags reached out with her mind. Her consciousness dove inward, plummeting down into that strange well, reaching for the pulsing darkness that echoed within her chest.
She touched it.
A shudder ran through her, electric and chilling, as if she’d plunged her hand into icy water. For a heartbeat, everything froze—her pain, her fear, even the world around her seemed to stop, suspended in that single, aching moment. She could feel it—raw, terrible power surging through her veins, twisting and shifting, an unfamiliar presence coiling around her mind.
Then, the darkness answered.
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Malacoda stood over Mags, watching as her breaths came in shallow, ragged gasps. Slowly, almost mechanically, the girl pulled herself to her feet. Her face was a mess—bruised, bloodied, and covered in dirt—yet she refused to look away, her eyes locked onto him with a fire that hadn’t quite been extinguished. He admired that stubbornness, even if it was utterly foolish.
He glanced back up towards Frey Sarto, still perched on the high tower balcony with that detached, unyielding presence. Sarto’s face was unreadable, her eyes fixed on the battered girl before him. Her golden, ringed eyes flickered briefly to him, just long enough to send a silent command: Keep going. He felt the pull, the invisible leash wrapped around his throat.
“Enough,” he muttered, shaking his head. He would stop. There was no honor in beating up a kid who had nothing left to give. Mags had proven her resilience, if not her strength. But Sarto’s gaze bore into him, and he felt the desire to obey, to give into the freedom of control, tighten around his neck like a noose. Continue. It clawed at him, pulling at his will, a suffocating compulsion. He swallowed it down, forcing his defiance to the surface, but the pull faded as quickly as it came. He knew his duty. And if he didn’t follow through, Sarto would carry out her will herself, which would be a worse fate for Mags. No. He had to keep going.
In that moment he couldn’t help but feel his own pangs of disappointment. Was this really it? He had been promised the opportunity to fight an Angel unlike any other. A force of nature capable of being honed and controlled. He took another look at Mags’ beaten and battered face. This is not what I imagined.
“Sorry, kid,” he muttered softly, preparing for another strike. But then the air shifted.
A faint shiver rolled up his spine, every hair on his arms standing on end. Something was . . . different. His senses flared, instincts roaring to life. He stepped back, his head tilting in confusion as a strange energy flickered around Mags’s barely standing form.
“What’s this now?” he asked aloud, half to himself.
Mags began to move, but not with the sluggish determination she’d shown before. This was something else—her limbs jerked as if an invisible force were pulling them, like a puppet being yanked to its feet by unseen strings. Malacoda’s eyes narrowed, a hint of unease worming its way into his confident facade. The aura around her changed, warping and intensifying. It wasn’t the usual glow of aether being drawn by a Soulsinger’s body—this was something else, something far more unnatural.
Golden light spilled from Mags’s body, twisting and bending until it surrounded her in a blinding halo. It stretched, growing taller, wider, until it formed a shape—humanoid but towering, a full two feet taller than she had been standing a moment before. The figure was a silhouette of pure golden radiance, its edges shifting like flames caught in a breeze. It was featureless, save for two circular eyes that burned like molten metal, piercing and impossibly bright. Its hands were tipped in claw-like fingers. Around its head floated a circlet of starlight.
The pressure in the air grew heavier, pressing down on Malacoda’s shoulders. Even after multiple encounters with the extinction-level threat Maldrath, he still felt an animalistic twist of fear in his stomach. A primal thrill, buried deep in his core, a raw panic that signaled to his uncomprehending brain that what he was seeing was unnatural, maddening and a threat to his very being.
He was in the presence of an Angel.
With calm practice, he stomped out the primal fear. He couldn’t fight the wide smile splitting his face. Finally. He glanced back up towards Sarto’s balcony, and this time he saw the faintest shift in her expression—a pleasant smile curving her lips. Those golden eyes of hers now glinted with satisfaction. So this is what you wanted? Malacoda thought, a wry chuckle bubbling up in his throat. The Angel’s power had awakened, and now it was his job to face it head-on. “Happy to oblige.”
He turned back to Mags—no, not Mags, not anymore. Whatever stood before him was something altogether different, something dangerous and raw and barely contained. The white-hot eyes fixed on him, and he felt his legs twitch with excitement.
“Well,” he said, grinning as he rolled his shoulders and cracked his knuckles. “Look at you. All dressed up and nowhere to go, huh?”
The towering figure didn’t move. It simply watched; the intense glow of those featureless eyes boring into his soul. Malacoda’s grin widened, his vanity and confidence crashing against the tide of dread that rippled in the back of his mind. He had to admit, he loved the thrill of it—the challenge, the feeling of staring down something that shouldn’t be possible. He wanted to take the impossibility and make it succumb to his will.
“Come on, Angel,” he taunted, his voice light and teasing, though his muscles tensed in preparation. “Let’s see if you can hit me this time.”
He braced himself, every fiber of his being alive with anticipation. Finally, something interesting is happening.
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Mags lay on her back, the coldness of stone biting into her scalp. Her body felt heavy and numb, the fight drained from her limbs. For a moment, she thought she had blacked out—until she blinked and realized that the sky above her had vanished. Gone were the drifting clouds, the shimmering glow of aether in the saltwater air, and the white stone towers of Bijel Garden.
Instead, a dim, otherworldly moonlight hung above her, casting strange, wavering shadows across the walls of a familiar room. Her breath hitched as she recognized the chamber—the cold, empty space dominated by the ancient altar and the strange, pulsing egg that seemed to draw the very air around it.
No . . . not here. Not now.
She forced herself to sit up, even as the weight of her own exhaustion pressed down on her. And there, crouched atop the altar like some dark bird of prey, was the shadowy figure—the outline of a young boy, his eyes burning like twin embers in the darkness. Two bat-like wings, made of the same liquid shadow as the rest of his body, extended from his back, casting twisted shadows on the cold stone floor.
“Enoch,” Mags whispered, her voice hoarse and cracked. That’s what the creature had called itself, though Mags couldn’t remember how she knew that.
The boy-like shadow’s eyes met hers, wide and haunted, filled with a strange mixture of anger and longing. He tilted his head, his wings twitching. “Where are we?” he asked, his voice echoing around the chamber. It was surprising gentle, frail. “Why do you keep me here? Why won’t you let us free? What did I do?”
Mags pushed herself up, every movement a struggle. She wanted to respond, to explain, but the words caught in her throat. Her limbs felt heavy, her tongue slow and useless, and a deep, aching fatigue settled in her bones. She opened her mouth to speak, but only a broken whisper escaped.
“I—I don’t know how…”
But Enoch’s expression twisted, his small face of shadowy curves and divots contorting with rage and desperation. He dropped to his knees, his eyes wide and shimmering. “Let me. . .” he whimpered, and his voice was so raw, so full of pain that Mags felt something twist inside her. “Please . . . let me free . . .!”
His wings flared, casting rippling shadows across the chamber. His hands clawed at his chest, his breath hitching in uneven gasps. And then, without warning, he screamed—a sound that shattered the quiet stillness of the room, a scream of pure, unbridled anguish that tore through Mags’s defenses like a knife.
“LET ME GO!”
Before Mags could react, Enoch was on her, his movements a blur of shadow and fury. She barely had time to cry out before his weight pinned her down, his small hands digging into her shoulders with a strength that defied his fragile appearance. The shadows writhed and thickened around them, and Mags’s panic flared as she felt a sick, freezing pressure against her skin.
“Enoch—stop!” she choked, her voice raw with desperation. But the boy’s face was inches from hers now, twisted and wild, his breath hot and ragged against her cheek.
Then it began.
Darkness, thick and suffocating, poured from the smooth, shadowy surface of his face—a torrent of liquid shadow that surged forward and forced itself into Mags’s mouth, her nose, her eyes. She gagged, choking as the cold, oily substance slid down her throat and filled her lungs. She tried to thrash, to scream, to claw him away, but her limbs refused to respond. The feeling of fingers wrapping around her throat. Was he strangling her? She desperately clawed at the cold hands, but her fingers moved through them like cold smoke.
She was drowning, smothering beneath the weight of it, the thick liquid shadows clawing their way inside her. Her vision darkened, narrowing to a pinprick, and every desperate gasp drew more of the shadow inside her, filling her, weighing her down.
No . . . no, no, no . . .
She swung her fists at the creature, her eyes wide and sightless, her entire world collapsing into a cold, endless darkness. The stone beneath her had disappeared, replaced by a void that stretched on forever. Enoch’s face hovered above her, wreathed in shadows, his eyes now glowing a blinding, impossible white. He whispered something—soft, distant, almost tender—before the darkness swallowed everything whole.
And then, just as quickly, there was nothing at all.