The beast was upon him.
Avaman did not have a moment to think as that black-clad fist slammed into him, again and again, each impact like a gunshot. Blood and bile was flung out of Avaman's mouth as Wu Ming buried his knee in his stomach. With a roar, he fired a Whirlwind Javelin -- but at such close range, Ming was able to maneuver, and the wind projectile sailed off into the sky.
This was bad. This was very, very bad.
With this Ha-Satan Set, Wu Ming had an edge in strength and speed -- and with him being right in his face like this, Avaman couldn't use the tricks that would allow him to close the distance.
Close the distance?! he asked himself incredulously.
Indeed, the notion itself was absurd. Ordinarily, he wouldn't even be in a situation like this -- he was wise enough not to put himself into a position where an enemy could get so close. The only reason Wu Ming had been able to do this was because Avaman had been distracted by Dragan Hadrien -- and the only reason Dragan Hadrien had been able to distract him was because Avaman had been focused on Wu Ming -- and the only reason that fucking bastard Wu Ming had been able to catch him by surprise was because his attention had been occupied by the Blaine brat!
It was the death of a thousand cuts. Alone, none of these fighters -- not even the Fourth Contender -- would have been able to defeat him. But together, in this situation, with Avaman's temper running hot…
…yes. This was very, very bad. But it was not the worst. Avaman still had options.
These whelps had turned to power in numbers to save themselves from him. That was an option he had as well. Over the communications, he'd heard tell that the pyramid had exploded with that beast inside, but Avaman sincerely doubted it was dead.
That thing was here for the pay, after all. He'd only climb out of the rubble and return to the battle when he was properly compensated.
Avaman jerked his head out of the way of a punch that would have shattered his jaw, and -- with the few seconds freedom afforded to him -- screamed into his communicator:
"Hellhound! Get rid of this bastard! Ten billion stator!"
----------------------------------------
Marcus Grace narrowed his eyes as he looked at the scene of devastation -- the pile of rubble that had once been the pyramid. Smoke still drifted up from the lingering fires, deep in the bowels of the earth. Blood dripped from the crushed corpses.
His nose wrinkled. What a senseless waste of human life. The sun was all but down, and even this horrific sight was dim as light abandoned it.
Getting down to the core to claim the one-thousand points was now out of the question, to be sure. Even if one could somehow dig down through this layer of rubble, any sort of mechanism to take one down into the core itself would surely have been destroyed. By the time someone finally got down there and disabled the barrier, the battle would have long since been over anyway.
Marcus planted one leg on a chunk of rock, sniffing as he looked out over the ruins. He'd hoped to find some survivors, at the very least, but no luck there either. It seemed that explosion had been powerful enough to --
Crack.
He paused. There, in the distance… had that been…?
Crack.
Hurriedly, Marcus moved his foot away. It had been. It had been the sounds of movement, muffled, coming from down below. Had there been survivors, then? Or…?
Bang.
It was a good thing Marcus had moved his foot away. If he hadn't, he surely would have been killed. The second he took a step back, the rubble before him went flying upwards as something erupted out of the ground -- something metallic, the size of a person, with thrusters blazing from its backside.
Before Marcus could even comprehend what he was seeing, the object zoomed off towards the forest, thrusters scorching the ground behind it. He watched it go, eyes wide. What was that? It had been like a missile…
…no, Marcus realized. Not like a missile. Like a dog chasing a stick.
----------------------------------------
When properly motivated, the Hellhound could be fast indeed.
Thirty seconds after Avaman had made his offer, the Hellhound slammed into Wu Ming from the side, right before he could strike the First Contender again. Audio receptors picked up the telltale sounds of cracking ribs. Skin sensors confirmed human blood belonging to Wu Ming had made contact. The Fourth Contender let out the slightest gasp of pain: a rare occasion.
In short, it had been a good hit -- and the Hellhound wasn't done yet.
The explosion in the pyramid had done a number on him, but it had by no means disabled him. Admittedly, his limbs -- made more fragile for ease of movement -- had been destroyed, but he had backups. Mechanical tendrils -- like cables -- slithered out from the sparking stumps of his legs and wrapped around Wu Ming's body, holding him tight.
Ordinarily, they'd have been able to crush Ming's bones easily, but they seemed to be meeting some resistance. Wu Ming was wearing some weird black sheet -- was that the cause? An automatic defense against attacks he saw coming?
The two of them left the battlefield behind quickly as they rose into the sky, wind buffering against their forms. Even as he was clutched, though, and even as he was pushed, Wu Ming's concealed head remained fixed on the Hellhound's. A sense of undeniable malice seemed to radiate from his unseen eyes.
It only made sense, the Hellhound supposed. A fight against the First Contender had been something Wu Ming had wanted for years. By showing up now, the Hellhound had robbed him of that.
Yes, the Hellhound understood the way these battle addicts thought… even if he didn't agree with it. Battle was a thing that should be gotten out of the way as quickly as possible. It was tiring and there was the possibility of injury. In the Hellhound's eyes, fighting was a particularly inefficient means to an end -- better a sudden kill after a leisurely hunt.
"You do realize…" Wu Ming growled, angry for the first time the Hellhound could remember. "...that you just killed yourself, right?"
"...fine," the Hellhound grunted.
----------------------------------------
Avaman allowed himself the slightest sigh of relief. Things were much less hectic when it was only three against one. Finally, he -- and his ability -- could breathe freely.
Whirlwind Greatsword.
As Dragan Hadrien appeared behind Avaman, the attack smashed him out of the air, spiking him into the ground.
Whirlwind Rapier.
Ruth Blaine burst out of the treeline, her armour half-melted into that odd lupine form -- and then the air struck her head on, shattering her chestplate and sending her flying. She rolled to a stop on the grass, wheezing for breath.
Whirlwind Javelin.
"Leave them alone!" del Sed screamed as they charged through the air, creating barriers beneath their feet as a path. When they saw the attack coming, they raised a hand to project another barrier -- but the javelin of wind pierced shield and hand both, leaving them with a circular stigmata. They collapsed to the floor, clutching their bleeding hand, and Avaman looked down at them dispassionately.
Yes… Avaman could have fought Wu Ming on even terms, and he could have trounced these three weaklings by himself. The problem only started when he'd tried to kill them all at the same time. He'd take it as a life lesson: only God was capable of such things.
The undignified heap that was Dragan Hadrien vanished once more, and Avaman smirked ruefully to himself.
This brat might have had a chance while Avaman's attention was otherwise occupied, but now… he could read the air like the surface of his own skin. Even if Hadrien could vanish completely from this world, the moment he reappeared, the flow of air would adjust to accommodate him. All Avaman had to do was wait, and…
…there.
Avaman reached out and -- the instant Hadrien appeared -- seized him by the throat. The Cogitant boy gasped in surprise as Avaman raised him up high, blue Aether sparking around the edges of his body as he no doubt tried to record himself again.
"No," Avaman said simply.
Purple Aether coursed through Hadrien's body and he remained right where he was, fingers clawing uselessly at Avaman's hand, legs kicking uselessly in the air. Avaman was loath to put it in such terms, but he'd taken a page out of Hadrien's book.
Dragan Hadrien had infused the air to stop Avaman from controlling it. Avaman had infused Dragan Hadrien to stop him from recording himself. Once you understood how this Gemini World worked -- and once you got into direct contract with the user -- it was nothing to fear.
Avaman's eyes, retreating back into dispassion, scanned the three defeated rebels.
Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.
"Did you perhaps think you'd become strong?" he smirked mockingly. "Did you think you'd been enhanced by the ordeals you'd faced? Did you think these paltry skills would be enough to face a Contender? Foolishness."
Del Sed, legs shaking, tried to get up -- but another Whirlwind Greatsword sent him right back down. Blaine didn't try to move, but Avaman struck her with a Whirlwind Rapier to the back just to be safe, embedding her into the ground.
"You're nothing," Avaman explained patiently, as one would explain the world to a child. "None of you. Anything any of you have achieved was only through riding the coattails of a suicidal lunatic. We've beaten you -- you understand this, yes? Your tiny army has been decimated. You have no means of escape, no ships. You are an ant, thinking your hatred of the boot would make you it's equal. Naive! Naive, naive, naive. Did you think this could end in victory for you? How could you be so naive?"
As his hands fell limp to his sides, Dragan Hadrien choked out words. "You're… wrong…"
Avaman raised an unimpressed eyebrow. "How am I wrong? Where am I mistaken, boy?"
Beep.
Hadrien grinned. "We do have a ship."
----------------------------------------
If you needed to move your ship, it wasn't always convenient to get in and pilot it yourself -- not if you weren't moving it that far. This had been a problem for quite a while. In most cases, simple pilot automatics had been built to take the vessel where it needed to go, almost like a valet. Even that method ran into problems, though -- unexpected obstacles and changing landscapes causing damage to the ship in the process.
When designing their top-of-the-line starships, the Paradisas had decided to go for an easier method: remote control. A flight path could be generated on the fly based on the destination, allowing the ship to get there all by itself.
Beep.
In short, Dragan Hadrien's finger tapped a button on his script.
In short, Avaman the Announcer's head snapped up to the sky, his eyes wide.
In short, the Slipstream AE smashed down into the First Contender like a huge arrow and, as Dragan used the opportunity to dissipate…
…exploded.
----------------------------------------
Skipper tried to get up. He didn't find much success. That only made sense, though, he supposed. It was hard to walk without any legs.
His remaining leg had been annihilated in the explosion, the stump cauterized so quickly that not even a drop of blood had spilled. His remaining arm was barely hanging on, a miracle of technology allowing him to keep it moving for the time being. His remaining skin was charred and burnt. His remaining eye -- for he could only seem to see out of one -- blurred in and out of vision, huge red spots lingering on the edges of perception.
In short, he was a corpse awaiting acknowledgement of that fact. His back lay against an upturned chunk of rock. At least he had that. That minor comfort.
Smoke swirled around the area like mist -- like Klaus' mist. But it couldn't be. Klaus was dead, after all. Trusting in Skipper's victory, he had given his life. He'd never once doubted.
Damn it.
The smoke shifted -- and the massive form of the man who was like god strode forth. Both his golden wings and his dull sword had vanished. There was no more need of them. His wounds, too, were gone.
His face was cast in shadows as the night began to stretch over Elysian Fields, but the misery radiating from him was obvious.
"I can't believe it…" he muttered sullenly as he stomped towards Skipper. "I just can't believe it, Esmerelda… in the end, you were boring too…"
Skipper forced words up a ruined throat and out of ruined lips. "The name's… Skipper…"
The Supreme didn't blink as he reached Skipper, looking down at him dispassionately. "Whatever…" he sighed. "...let's just finish it."
That huge hand, strong enough to mold the shape of this world, slowly reached down towards Skipper's face. Instinctively, he understood -- the moment that hand touched him, he would die.
Ba… dum.
Skipper's heart thudded weakly in his chest. This was the moment. This was the only opportunity he'd get. He'd tried his hand at defeating the Supreme on his own, and he'd been insufficient.
Ba… dum.
He'd known it from the start, of course, that he could never beat the Supreme. The man was the strongest there was, after all. And yet… he'd had to try. There'd been something he'd wanted to prove to someone. What that had been, and who that had been, escaped him now, but…
Ba… dum.
It wasn't over. He still had the final piece -- the trigger in his pocket. Ragged as his long coat was, he could still feel the weight of the device there. His arm could still move. He could still reach into his pocket, take the trigger to his mouth, and detonate the Lotus.
Ba… dum.
It would take out the Supreme, without a doubt. The Contenders down on the ground too. The shockwave would eliminate the ship in orbit, as well, where the Ascendant-General and other senior staff were. The central apparatus of the Supremacy military, wiped out in an instant. He could still do it.
Ba… dum.
He could still change the shape of this world.
Ba…
Green fields of grass spread out under the night sky. Their rowdy voices, arguing about something stupid -- a videograph or something. The night they'd all spent together before the battle, him and his kids. There'd been lights in the sky for sure, but the real stars had been down on the ground.
Dragan had looked at him. Dragan had asked him something, hadn't he?
"Do you think we can make it out of this…?"
And he’d said -- he’d promised…
“I do.”
…dum.
Skipper raised his hand up…
Ah, screw it.
…and let it fall. The Aether that had been infusing it -- keeping it barely intact -- fled, and the prosthetic collapsed into a pile of scrap at Skipper's side. He made quite the sight. No arms, no legs, death reaching towards him… and a smile on his face.
The hand was inches away, a second from contact, but before it could cross that final threshold…
"You said something to me a little while ago," Skipper rasped, green Aether flicking around his lips. "Now I'm gonna say it right back to you, yeah?"
The Supreme, squatting down next to Skipper, paused. His hand stopped. "What?" he said.
Skipper blinked -- and when his eyes opened again, they were blazing with emerald Aether. The rock he was lying against began to vibrate. The shadows of green feathers flickered in the air around the wounded man.
"This next attack will kill you…" Skipper said softly. "...if you're not strong enough for it."
The Supreme blinked. His hand retreated, falling to his side as the man that was like god regarded the talking corpse.
"Come on," Skipper grinned, his teeth painted red. "Live a little."
Long seconds passed, with naught but silence to accompany them. The Supreme looked down at Skipper, his eyes slowly narrowing. His foot tapped thoughtfully against the ground -- once, twice, thrice.
Sweat trickled down the back of Skipper's neck. If the Supreme refused, then everything would be --
"Do it," the Supreme whispered.
Skipper blinked, opened his mouth to speak, but before he could…
"DO IT!" the Supreme roared, voice booming with infused Aether. Golden rays shone out from his entire body. Everything he had, he was already putting into defense.
In short, he was taking this seriously. Good to hear.
Well… what the Supreme wanted, the Supreme got. Skipper gently closed his eyes -- but the following flare of his Aether was such that the emerald shine could be seen from behind the lids anyway.
Green Aether began to build all around, radiating out from Skipper's body, coursing around the landscape -- and then pulling back into him, over and over again. A heartbeat of his own. A thrumming sound filled the air, rising and rising in pitch
In that moment, the Supreme must have been supremely confident…
…but even so, he couldn’t help but look over his shoulder as the green drew back in.
…but even so, he couldn’t help but blink as he saw that emerald glow collect directly above Skipper’s heart.
…but even so, he couldn’t help but take a single step back.
There wouldn't be a better moment.
Skipper had never used this ability before. Skipper had never even conceived of this ability before. It would probably be presumptuous to call it an ability in the first place. It was nothing but unrelenting release -- the expulsion and amplification of everything. Every sound his Aether had ever absorbed over his entire lifetime. Every word spoken. Every passion screamed. Every regret half-mumbled in his sleep. Every heartbeat.
Yes… this was nothing but Skipper letting everything out. But still -- something like this needed a name. In the moment before the blast erupted from his chest, he mouthed two words.
“Heartbeat… Liberation…”
----------------------------------------
It was so loud that it was silent. It was so bright that it was invisible. It was so absolute that it almost wasn’t there at all.
The only trace of its existence was the mark it left.
As soon as the beam of sound struck the Supreme, he was sent flying, overpowered in a second by the sheer force of a lifetime hitting him at once. Immediately, he planted his feet down into the ground, keeping himself fixed -- but staying in that position took everything he had. Golden Aether flared around his body, seeming to form a wall as the Supreme raised his arms to block. The flood of green Aether slammed into it, but neither faltered, simply pushing against each other without end.
A clash of indomitable wills. An immovable force and an unstoppable object. The night sky shone green-and-gold just from the residual Aether.
One second, two, three. The blast of sound showed no sign of stopping. The strangest sensation began to trickle through the Supreme’s brain -- and it took him a moment to register it as agony. The skin on his mighty arms was being scraped away where it was blocking the sound. Slowly but surely, this attack was chipping away at the Supreme’s defenses. His body could not hold up. His body could not hold up.
The Supreme began to grin. The Supreme began to laugh.
Against the sound that was devouring reality, it was impossible for anyone to hear the Supreme’s words -- even himself -- but he roared them out anyway. His soul left him no other choice.
“ZACHARIAH ESMERELDA!” he called out, tiny and powerless against the emerald abyss, his arms and face red and bloody. “YOU’RE NOT BORING! YOU’RE NOT! I KNEW IT, MAN!”
The world roared.
“LOOK AT YOU! YOU’RE THE BEST, MAN! YOU’RE THE FUCKING BEST!”
Spittle and drool flew from the Supreme’s evaporating lips as he cackled, slowly being driven back through the earth. His hair caught aflame as it billowed back from the inconceivable winds. His eyes were bloodshot rubies as they stared, wide, at sheer force that eyes were not meant to look at. As the Supreme reached out towards the core of that energy, he did not even notice that his fingers had crumbled away to his knuckles.
“MORE!” he demanded, golden Aether flowing from his gaping mouth. “MORE OF THIS! MORE! GIVE ME MORE!”
The sound dimmed for a moment…
“GIVE ME MORE, SKIPPER!”
…and heightened again into the ultimate crescendo, from which nothing could escape.