As Wolfram of the White ran across the ruined ground, carrying del Sed in his cupped hands, he wept bitter tears. In the end, he hadn’t been able to do anything.
He’d been there for the entire fight between Belias, del Sed and that Charon woman… and all he’d done was watch. He’d thought he was better than that, stronger. He’d thought that he was a grown-up. Belias had been cut to bits, and he’d just stood there shaking in his boots.
“You should stay here, kiddo,” Miss Lily had said, back on Hexkay, before he’d stowed away on their ship. “Grow up a little first, yeah?”
He should have listened. He should have listened. If he wasn’t going to be any help anyway, why had he even bothered coming here?!
Wolfram looked down at del Sed, resting in his palms like a doll. They hadn’t managed to get far after their fight with Charon before collapsing from exhaustion and pain. He knew he had to get them to a doctor soon, or else they might die. Where could he find a doctor? A medic or whatever? Wolfram was sure someone had said, but he hadn’t been listening. Stupid. Stupid!
He’d have to be careful, too. To make moving del Sed easier, he’d used his Guardian Entity -- Byakko -- to shrink them down to the size of an action figure. Wolfram didn’t really get it, but apparently when something tiny turned big all of a sudden, there was a big explosion of force from all the space that suddenly got taken up.
Wolfram had tried using that against Paradise Charon, unshrinking a rock and a glove to hit her with the blast of force, but he hadn’t had the guts to do anything more. He’d just watched while his friend got cut to pieces. He should have done more. He could have done more.
In the distance, Wolfram could see another pod coming down -- the first in a while. He ignored it: he understood now that he wasn’t cut out for this thing called war. In the end, all a coward like him could do was run away.
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The vermin kept crawling up one after another.
As the Hanged Man plunged its fist down, the Baron Lunalette de Fleur leapt backwards, a single pitchfork half-protruding from his back to pull him along. As he skidded to a halt on the ruined ground, the pitchfork retreated back within his spine -- returning its power to him.
He didn't have time to relax.
While his attention was focused on the Hanged Man, the skin-dragon swooped in behind him -- its wings of epidermis sweeping up everything in their path. Lunalette barely had time to fire off a pitchfork up into the sky before he was enveloped by the blood-moistened blanket.
It was an awful sensation. The skin wrapped itself around his body, squeezing tight as a vice, even as it tried to force itself down his throat. For the few seconds he was restrained, it was utterly unbearable.
Damnation Invidia!
The flash of red was barely visible from within the cocoon of skin, but the Baron vanished -- and a second later, reappeared up in the sky, taking the place of the pitchfork he'd shot out. That, too, had been anticipated: the moment he teleported, the Hanged Man threw a titanic punch at him, clearly intending to smear him with a single blow.
As if that could ever happen.
Lunalette writhed in the air, and kicked the incoming fist -- instantly obliterating it, huge chunks of liquid metal flying in every direction. At the same time, he swiped his arm behind him, generating a wave of air pressure that sent the skin-dragon flying away. Breathing room was difficult to come by these days, but so long as the Baron could hit his opponents, he had no doubt he could kill them.
The Hanged Man staggered back, the stump of its arm high in the air -- but then lunged forward again. The arm changed shape as it was thrust towards Lunalette, stump sharpening into a blade, tip pointed towards the glowing hole in the Baron’s chest. That only made sense: it was the closest thing to a weak point he possessed.
Damnation Ira.
An explosion of heat and light burst forth from Lunalette’s body, slowing the incoming blade just a fraction -- and Lunalette used the opportunity well. Landing on the hesitant limb, he began running along its surface, towards the head. Spikes sprouted up from the forearm beneath, trying to impale him, but his speed and maneuverability were such that he was able to weave around them. Even as he did so, though, his mind raced.
Again, it was two enemies. The person piloting the Hanged Man -- one of the Arcana Automatics -- and the man with the skin ability. Lunalette recognised the latter: one of the Oliphant Clan, the criminal simpleton Roy Oliphant-Dawkins. To think even they were involved in this madness.
In the end, though, it didn't matter who they were. They would die. That simple fact had been set in stone since these two had chosen to make the Baron Lunalette de Fleur their enemy.
Three.
Lunalette threw himself to the side right before a branch would have lanced through the hole in his chest. A spear-like tendril of wood had suddenly emerged from the omnipresent fog -- and as Lunalette backed up, he saw three more writhe forth, pulling their master along.
Lunalette's eyes narrowed. This was impossible.
He was absolutely certain he'd taken Morgan Nacht out of the fight.
Four flexible branches cracked and clicked in the air, protruding from Nacht's back where they'd burst free, blood dripping from their roots as they carried him along like spider-legs. At first, Nacht seemed like some kind of puppet, hanging limply with his head low -- until he looked up. If anything, though, that was worse. Some kind of moss had grown over his eyeballs, turning his gaze green and blank, and similarly green veins seemed to be spreading all under the skin of his face.
A horror to behold.
"What devilry is this?" Lunalette snarled.
By way of answer, Nacht did two things. First, he opened his mouth -- and an unearthly, incoherent groan poured forth. Then, he attacked -- branches pummeling at Lunalette with all the speed of a machine gun. The Baron was able to block the blows each and all, of course, but the speed of the bout was such that he had no chance to counterattack.
The metal beneath them shifted, and before Lunalette could react he'd been struck by a punch from the Hanged Man's other fist. The damage was superficial -- cracks across his stone skin -- but he was sent flying all the same, body flipping end over end from gravity's cruel whim.
He didn't go far.
At the moment Lunalette was struck, Nacht thrust one of his branches forward -- and with a spark of green Aether, that branch instantly grew into a mighty tree, engulfing and constraining its target. The Baron's body was held tight between mighty roots, strong as iron, closely packed enough that he couldn't even wiggle his fingers. The only part of him visible was his head, eye glaring from between a parting in the foliage.
No, no no no. This isn't happening. I refuse! This is not happening!
Morgan Nacht's mouth cracked open as he looked up at Lunalette, and -- with an obviously great effort -- he roared out: "NOW!"
Next to him, the Hanged Man moved to crush him between its palms. Above him, the skin-dragon was twisted into an epidermal spear, and hurled down by its rider. All around him, the branches tightened, choking his life away. Death knocked three times…
… and then a miracle occurred.
Behind the Hanged Man, the pyramid at the center of the battle suddenly erupted into flames, an explosion consuming it utterly -- rubble flying in every direction. Lunalette knew not the cause, nor did he care. The only thing that mattered was that the attention of the three killing him was diverted for a single moment.
That single moment was all he needed.
The tree around him was still attached to Nacht, wasn't it? The source of it was still emerging from his back. He was its master, its father, its birthplace. It was a part of his body.
And so it was the simplest thing in the world.
With a click of his tongue, Lunalette released another pitchfork from his body -- and it impaled the tree the second it emerged from his form. Immediately, he saw Nacht freeze, green eyes wide… and at the same time, he felt a new surge of power rush into him, felt new spaces and capacity opening up.
Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.
Aether battery.
The last one he'd needed.
Among the Special Officers of the Supremacy, there were three people said to be closest to the power of the Contenders. Dorothy Eiro, who could Command the world around her with a word. PALATINE, the inhuman leftovers of an Aether Awakening.
And the Baron Lunalette de Fleur, who wielded strength overwhelming.
Crimson Aether screamed.
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Roy Oliphant-Dawkins felt it, a chill running down his spine as he rode the spear down, giving him warning enough to pull back and keep his distance.
Ionir Yggdrassil felt it, but was powerless to react as an alien consciousness took hold of it -- all it could do was watch as the Baron was consumed by flooding red energy.
Scout Oliphant-Dawkins, within the cockpit of the Hanged Man, felt it -- and as that red light surged over everything, he raised the arms of the Arcana Automatic defensively.
Ruth Blaine, next to him, slowly opened her eyes…
…just in time to see a nightmare flood into her brain.
[https://i.imgur.com/YMKMEsC.png]
As soon as the black and red vision cleared, Ruth put a hand to her head, groaning. What was going on? The last thing she remembered was fighting that Special Officer in the forest… and now she was here, in some kind of slimy metal pod, her body screaming with pain. Was this the inside of the Hanged Man?
"What… the hell…?"
It was only when Scout Oliphant-Dawkins spoke that she realized he was next to her. She followed his horrified gaze -- looking at a round monitor that seemed to be displaying a shot of the outside world. Her eyes widened as she saw it too.
A suit of pitch-black armour, titanic as it stretched up into the sky, so huge that the Hanged Man barely reached its waist. All across its body, beatific faces and caressing limbs were carved, as if a cathedral had gotten up and started walking. Jagged spikes protruded from its joints, sharp as knives, and a massive leathery cape flapped in two pieces like bat wings behind it. Great lightning-bolts of red Aether ran along the entirety of its huge body, each large enough to dwarf a human being.
The beast had no head.
Instead, above the termination of the neck, there was a great red star -- all of the crimson light coming together into a single spherical mass. There, floating in the middle of the confluence, was the Baron himself. The raging light made him little more than a silhouette -- the iris of a giant eye.
His face could not be seen, but when he spoke, it was as if he was standing right next to them.
"Begone."
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Muzazi's consciousness faded in and out, memories blurry and distorted -- as if they were being filtered through a layer of water. His head was filled with alternating pain and emptiness. One second, he was slicing away at the last Executioner… and the next, he was being carried through the woods on someone's back.
"You alive?" Marcus Grace asked from beneath him, his voice calm and professional even as they charged through the charred ruins of the forest. "You awake?"
Yes. Muzazi tried to say that, but all he managed was a weak croak.
Even so, Marcus seemed to accept it. "Hang in there. Don't die. We're on our way to a Special Officer with medical specialization. She'll be able to stabilize you. Understand?"
It was difficult to understand with his head so full of fog, but Atoy Muzazi did his best. He ran every word through his head again and again until the noise acquired meaning -- and the second it all became clear, he nodded with another wheeze. It took much longer than it should have.
The world crawled close and withdrew, again and again, like a videograph being turned on and off and on and off. Each image was different, each instant of shattered consciousness presenting a new horror. A hill of charred corpses, mouths frozen in their last screams. Anastasia Darkdancer, impaled on her own hoverboard, nailed to a tree by it. A river of human mincemeat. Men and women hanging from steel nooses. An inhuman monster, all extra limbs and heads, peppered by countless shards of broken glass. The dead, prepared for viewing in every way imaginable.
He knew what he was looking at.
This was war. This was the Supremacy engaging in honorable combat for its pride. This was what legends were written about.
He'd thought this glorious?
It seemed like it took an age, but he was finally laid out on the floor, before a young woman with teal hair and sunglasses. She ran a medical script over him and then inspected the screen, her brow furrowing in concern. When she spoke, it was to Marcus, not the infirm Muzazi.
"He's almost out of the golden hours for his face," she said seriously, with a slight lisp. "Do you have any Panacea?"
My face…? Muzazi vaguely wondered. What does she mean, my face…?
All he could feel from his face was a strange warm wetness, and a sting of pain whenever the wind brushed against it. He couldn't even see out of one eye. He'd have gotten up to look for himself, but the strength escaped him.
Marcus shook his head above Muzazi. "No. Don't you?"
The doctor rubbed the bridge of her nose with her fingers. "There's been goddamn meteors coming down, Mark. People are fucked. In a situation like this, it's first come first served."
Marcus clicked his tongue. "Well, is there anything you can do for him?"
The doctor shrugged her shoulders -- and two thin white tendrils appeared from behind her back, tipped with syringes of strange blue liquid. Before Muzazi could so much as register what he was looking at, the tendrils lunged in, stabbing into his arm and chest as they slowly deposited their payload. Slowly, slowly, he could feel some semblance of strength flowing back into him.
"This'll stabilize him and get him on his feet for a bit," the doctor explained. "Won't do anything for his injuries, though. What will you do?"
Muzazi heard a click as Marcus reloaded his pistol. "I'm going back out there. Gonna check out the situation at the pyramid. Last I heard, the Hellhound was meant to be heading in there."
The doctor scoffed. "The thing blew up, didn't it? If the Hellhound's there, he's buried under all that rubble. Plus, there's no way anyone's getting down to that barrier anymore, right?"
"Sounds like it," Marcus said, holstering his pistol. "Still, gotta check. Look after him."
With that, Marcus ran off into the burnt-up woods again, without so much as a glance backwards. The doctor shook her head ruefully as she watched him go, before looking back down at Muzazi.
"This should take just a minute more," she said reassuringly. "Sorry I can't do more, but --"
"Forcible Ability Deactivation."
The strength pouring into Muzazi's body suddenly stopped, and the doctor's tendrils disintegrated into peach Aether. Surprised, she looked up, reaching for a tiny pistol strapped to her leg.
"Wha --" she said.
She did not have time for anything else.
Bang.
The doctor flew back as a bullet tore through her head, leaving a small hole in her forehead and a much bigger one in the back of her skull. Killed instantly, she crumpled to the ground, Aether sparking weakly around her body before dying off completely.
"You're a hard man to find, Atoy Muzazi," said an unfamiliar voice.
With the meagre strength the doctor had managed to provide him, Muzazi was able to twist his body around to look at the speaker. His vision took a moment to focus. A man was walking towards him, the bells that hung from his wide-brimmed hat jingling with each step. One hand rested leisurely in his pocket, while the other held a purple revolver -- pointed directly at Muzazi.
Muzazi had never met this fellow, but he knew of him. That distinctive dress couldn't be mistaken. Seth Harrowing, Special Officer of the Supremacy.
So another Special Officer wanted him dead. Another supposed ally was angling for his back. Atoy Muzazi couldn't bring himself to be surprised anymore.
"Nothing personal," Seth said, a sleazy grin on his face as he advanced. "But you're real good at making enemies, friend."
With a buzz of white Aether, Muzazi ignited the Radiant on one hand as he rose to one knee. He wouldn't go down without a fight.
Seth just raised an amused eyebrow. "Forcible Ability Deactivation," he said -- and the Radiant sputtered out. "Sorry, but I've heard scary stories. Not givin' you a chance here, champ. That's short for champion."
Muzazi glared, eyes narrowed in utter hatred. You could only kick a man for so long. You could only kick a man for so long.
"I actually got a request this time," Seth grinned. "That's a first. She wanted me to show you this before the end."
The gunslinger closed his eyes, took a deep breath -- and beige Aether began to surge around him, his revolver glowing like a supernova. When he opened his eyes once again, they were shining too, as wide and bright as the headlights of a car.
"Fusion Tool!" he roared, hat flying off from the broiling pressure around him. "Revelation Sixsho --"
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Crack.
The light died. The pressure stopped. The Aether faded.
"Huh?" said Seth -- and as he did so, blood began to pour from his mouth. It took him a second to realise that Muzazi had disappeared from the spot he'd just been looking at. Slowly, he looked down.
Oh. There he was.
Atoy Muzazi had crossed the distance between the two of them in an instant and rammed his fist through Seth's chest, smashing through his ribcage and organs. As Seth watched, held upright only by pain, Muzazi tore his arm free, the limb soaked with blood.
"But…" Seth whispered. "Your ability… I…"
"Get lost," Muzazi growled -- and then his fist came again, shining white, this time aimed for Seth's face.
The last thought that passed Seth Harrowing's mind, as the strike obliterated his brain, was that this job really hadn't been worth the money.
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Two bodies dropped to the ground. One was dead, the other very nearly so. For a good few minutes, Muzazi just stared up at the sky, his breathing laboriously slow.
Atoy Muzazi had already promised himself -- he'd never show his back again.
He rose to his feet and, ignoring the pain, started staggering through the woods. He still had enemies here. He still had things to do.