It was a strange sensation Morgan felt, in that moment before the world began again.
To begin with… he’d been the one to tell Muzazi about the proxy law, he’d been the one to push for it to be used, he’d been the one who’d said he’d stand with Muzazi no matter what. He’d known what that would mean: betraying Aclima, betraying their comrades. That had seemed worth it. But now that the time had actually come?
It felt dirty. Like he’d tarnished Muzazi somehow, like he’d dirtied him, like the light had shifted and everything was suddenly, irreversibly, wrong.
And yet… what was done was done. The crops had been planted, and now it was time to reap. That was how the world began again.
Tick. Tock.
In the corner of the hotel room, the clock's heart beat. Save for that, the room was silent.
Tick. Tock.
Nobody had dared to move since Muzazi had left the hotel room, setting off on his journey to the Arena of the Absolute. Aclima still remained in the center of the room, her eyes ringed red. Her two bodyguards -- Hapgrass and Silversaint -- weren't too far away from her, but they too remained still. Right now, this room was a realm of silent glares.
Tick. Tock.
Everybody tried not to look at the pistol Marcus was clearly pointing at the trio, his finger ready at the trigger. Gregori Hazzard lingered at the window, his arms crossed, his crimson eyes watching the former Supreme Heir closely for any signs of movement.
Tick. Tock.
They couldn't be too careful, after all. Aclima's ability, Curse Hand, was one that opposed all Aether-users. Just by making physical contact with someone's Aether, she could turn it against them -- causing it to viciously attack their bodies, quickly disabling them. Paradise Charon had been exposed to the ability for nearly a minute and had never fully recovered, but even the briefest contact could be enough to take someone out of commission.
Tick. Tock.
That was why Morgan was keeping his distance, remaining by the front door -- Ionir’s hulking form by his side. If Aclima did try something, it would have to be Marcus Grace or Ash del Duran who'd respond. Even uninfused, Marcus' bullets packed enough of a punch to damage Aclima -- and Ash was a master of the killing arts, adept at the techniques designed to even the gap between Aether-users and those who went without it.
Tick. Tock.
Ionir, too, could probably dispatch Aclima without Aether. Morgan took the slightest step out of Ionir's way, opening a path between the Fell Beast and Aclima. A bead of sweat trickled down his forehead and into his eye, causing him to blink.
Tick. Tock.
There was the promise of violence in the air. This silence would not last forever, he knew. If that was the case… best he ended it himself.
Morgan opened his mouth and spoke: “Given the situation, it might be best that Aclima retire to her personal quarters. It's a more defensible area, after all.”
That wasn't even a lie. Aclima's room came with a lockdown function -- and so it could work just as well as a prison than a fortress. If they could just keep her confined until Muzazi got to the Arena for the final match, then they'd win.
Even so, though, nobody made any signs of moving -- especially not the young girl before him.
“Aclima,” Morgan said calmly. “Please go to your room.”
“Sure,” she glared. “Hold my hand and lead the way.”
Morgan's eyes flicked over to Ash. “Mr. del Duran,” he said. “If you'd escort Aclima.”
Ash gave a curt nod, stepping over towards the center of the room. As he did, though, Morgan couldn't help but notice he was dragging his right leg slightly. He frowned. An injury? When had he sustained that? As far as Morgan knew, Ash hadn't been in a fight since the Dawn Contest began.
He was still wondering about it a second later -- when Marcus suddenly raised his gun, eyes intense -- but by that point it was too late.
Crack.
Before Morgan even knew what was going on, something struck him in the face, and his vision turned a dismal grey.
----------------------------------------
Nearly every room inhabited by people is filled with dust. It's an inevitable byproduct of human existence. Dead skin, hair… it collects in the unloved places, the unseen places, building up like a grey tally of life.
Ordinarily, it's useless. To a man like the former Third Contender it was a weapon, but to the mundane masses it's nothing but waste. That is… unless you know how to beckon it.
You walk in a certain way, creating a certain rhythm, creating air currents that bring the dust of a room to you -- and then, once you have it, you refine it. Grinding it beneath your heel as you drag a leg along, you compress the dust until it is a tiny, dense pinprick. And once you have that, once you have the dust captured, what do you do with it?
Easy. You set it free again.
This is not an Aether technique.
Killing Arts: Graveyard Dance!
----------------------------------------
A cloud of dust engulfed the room as Ash del Duran lifted his heel, blinding everyone around him for a split second.
Morgan staggered backwards, coughing. A burning pain lingered behind his eyes, and it took two attempts before he could open them and see clearly. Even so, a watery film covered his vision, turning the world into a warped mirror.
He was still lucky, though. A third attempt would have been the end of him.
The second Morgan opened his eyes, he was keenly aware of what was coming for him. Ash del Duran’s fist, packed with all the man's technique, aimed right for his forehead. With desperate speed and monstrous instinct, Morgan barely managed to dodge the blow -- but Ash del Duran was not done.
A blur of movement, the older man stepped forward, thrusting his fist towards Morgan's chest. At this proximity, it was not an attack that Morgan could dodge -- and given Ash's killing arts, he wasn't certain it was one he could survive, either. Morgan braced himself --
Bang!
-- but before Ash's fist could strike him, one of Marcus Grace's bullets tore right through it, leaving a clean hole through the killing artist's knuckles. Ash allowed himself only a wince of pain before dropping down to the floor and sweeping Morgan's legs, knocking him down to the ground.
Ionir's branch grew forth like a flowing wooden river, wrapping itself around Ash and holding him up in the air -- but this too was not enough. Ash flexed his muscles in a strange rippling pattern, and a second later his wooden restraint shattered, undone in an instant by unknowable vibrations.
As he dropped to the ground, Ash's eyes flicked back to the dust-hidden silhouettes of Aclima and her two bodyguards.
“Go!” he barked at them. “Get her to the Arena! Go!”
The trio didn't miss their chance, rushing for the window. Clearly, they realized they'd never make it through the door, and planned to get out of here via the rooftops. Depending on how quickly they moved and how they employed their abilities, the three might actually make it to the Arena before Muzazi.
Morgan couldn't allow that -- not after all this.
“You damn traitor!” he snarled at Ash, picking himself up off the ground and unsheathing his saber.
“Traitor?” Ash scoffed, his gaze returning to his enemies. “You can hardly talk.”
The smog began to part as Aclima reached the window -- but it wouldn’t be that easy. Gregori lunged out of the dust-cloud, red eyes wide and predatory, his arm folded into a mantis blade. He swung it at her throat with deadly precision, and surely would have sliced his target open if not for Endo Silversaint’s intervention.
With a roar of fury, the armoured knight parried the paper blade with a swing of his shining broadsword, standing in front of Aclima protectively.
“Hey!” Morgan shouted at Gregori. “Don’t kill her, idiot!”
If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.
Gregori glanced back at him. “It’ll solve the problem,” he said coldly.
Whatever the case, Gregori had lost his chance. Silversaint swung his broadsword with such force that the air pressure alone sent Gregori flying backwards -- and once his enemy was in the air, the knight held up his hand and snapped two gauntleted fingers together.
“Bonds of Fealty!”
Silver Aether illuminated the room in a flash, and a shining metal chain appeared at the same time -- connecting Gregori’s back and the window behind him. Before he could even land, the chain contracted with a screech of metal, pulling Gregori towards the window so quickly he was barely even visible. The glass stood no chance: it shattered as soon as Gregori’s body slammed into it, sending the First Quarter Moon flying out into the night.
Bang bang bang.
Silversaint blocked all three of Marcus’ shots with lightning-fast swings of his greatsword, but Ash del Duran rushed in again before the gunslinger could fire a fourth.
In these cramped quarters, a killing artist like Ash del Duran held near-total dominion. With his bleeding hand, he slapped the flat slide of Morgan’s incoming blade, diverting the slash -- and with the other, he landed a vicious chop on Marcus’ gun-hand. For a moment, it looked like the chop had done no damage…
----------------------------------------
Killing Arts: Slothful Fist.
----------------------------------------
…but then, with a sickly popping noise, Marcus’ hand was mangled by a burst of delayed force.
As the pistol clattered to the floor, Ash looked once again to the trio by the window: “I said go, fools!”
Aclima had been standing there in a daze after her near-death experience, but her companions were much quicker to move. Silversaint picked the former Heir up by the waist like a sack of potatoes, summoning another set of shining chains to propel himself and Hapgrass like grappling hooks. The chains pulled them out of the window towards the next building over, and soon enough they were out of sight.
“Damnit!” Morgan went to charge forward and pursue --
-- but before he could take a single step, Ash del Duran was right before him.
Oh, I’m dead.
Ash’s gaze, Ash’s stance, Ash’s palm readied for a decisive thrust -- all of those things communicated death to Morgan clearly. This was not an attack meant to incapacitate. This was not even an attack meant to end a fight instantly. This was an attack meant to end a life instantly.
I never made my teacher proud.
“MOVE.”
Ionir Yggdrassil chose that moment to act.
Razor-sharp leaves, infused with green Aether, filled the hotel room in an instant. Furniture, electronics, even the carpet -- all of it was shredded by the deluge of vegetation, scraps sent flying through the air. The only thing that went unscathed… was Ash del Duran. The man maneuvered through the onslaught, winding through the air currents to avoid each and every projectile, his eyes still fixed on Morgan.
Morgan let out a shuddering breath. He’d known that Ash was strong, especially in close quarters… but this was far beyond what he’d expected. Had he grown even more skilled over the last two years? And this was without Aether?
“Let me tell you something,” Ash declared, afterimages flickering around him as he danced against death. “I’m going to go ahead and eliminate Atoy Muzazi now.”
Morgan’s eyes widened, and he bared his teeth in a growl. “Like hell!”
Ash’s face was fixed in a disdainful glare. “He’s a traitor and a usurper, but as you’re clearly one too, I won’t bother arguing. My point is… I’ll have to pursue him. He’ll be taking one route, while Aclima and the others are taking another. Whoever reaches the Arena first wins.”
Scowling from the pain, Marcus slowly snapped his dislocated fingers back into position. “What’s… your point?”
“It’s nothing complicated,” Ash said. “I just wanted to make sure you understood… if you want to stop both of us, you’ll have to split up. That’s all.”
Marcus clicked his tongue. “Cocky bastard.”
The leaf attack finally abated, and Ash snapped the last projectile out of the air between two fingers. He held it out before him, frost slowly spreading over its surface -- until he applied the slightest pressure and fully shattered it.
“Well, then,” Ash said seriously. “Ready or not, comrades.”
He lifted his heel… and the dust he’d accumulated throughout his dance surged through the room once more. Morgan raised his sword to defend himself, but he needn’t have bothered. Instead of attacking, this time Ash just launched himself out of the broken window…
…and the whole time, he still kept his eyes locked onto Morgan’s: an accusation.
“Damnit,” Morgan muttered, looking at the remains of the hotel room. “Damnit.”
Things had deteriorated way too fast. The situation wasn’t as simple as keeping Aclima confined until the end of the Dawn Contest anymore. If both Aclima and Muzazi arrived at the Arena of the Absolute to stake their separate claims as Supreme Heir, things could escalate into a full blown civil war before the Contest even ended.
Hell, there was no guarantee that Muzazi would even make it to the Arena anymore, what with Ash going after him. Muzazi didn’t know that Ash was an enemy: there was the possibility of a surprise attack, and -- from what Morgan had just experienced -- del Duran certainly had what it took to achieve an instant kill on an unsuspecting opponent.
How long until Ash tracked down Muzazi? How long until Aclima got to the Arena?
Morgan gripped his collar tight. There was no time. There was no time to stand here agonizing about what to do. Decisions had to be made, right or wrong.
“Marcus,” he barked. “Go after Ash. Make sure he doesn’t reach the commander.”
Marcus didn’t hesitate. “Roger,” he nodded, charging out the door in pursuit of the killing artist.
“What about Aclima?” Ionir Yggdrassil said, his rumblings assigned meaning by Morgan’s mind. “GregoriHazzard will likely continue to pursue.”
“Can you track her?” Morgan asked, closing his eyes to prepare for disappointment.
“This is a cold and metal place, MORGAN NACHT,” Ionir creaked. “There are no simpletons here to question. I am as blind as all of you right now.”
Good to know that Ionir considered everyone else blind, but that didn’t solve the problem. They needed to intercept Aclima before she could disappear into the city completely. There had to be a way to do that. There had to be a way.
Morgan Nacht opened his eyes.
“Ionir,” he commanded. “Grow. You’re with me.”
----------------------------------------
Gregori Hazzard was a persistent one. He reappeared just as Aclima and her bodyguards were leaping from one skyscraper to the next.
At first, she had thought he was just a piece of trash drifting up the wall with the wind -- but then he had unfolded his body, suddenly crawling up the building's surface, skittering upwards at a blinding speed. His crimson eyes were wide and staring, like promises of blood -- and in a second he was thrusting an arm-folded spear right towards her own eye.
Clang!
Once again, her knight Endo Silversaint dashed in front of her, deflecting Gregori’s stab with a swipe of his gauntlet… and once again, Silversaint followed up before Gregori could even land. He seized the paper-man by the ankle and -- with a mighty roar -- hurled him down through the skylight of the building. Looking down through the broken glass, he readied his greatsword.
“Mr. Silversaint!” Aclima cried out.
He looked up and gave her the tiniest rattling nod. “Go. I shall hold this villain off.”
And, without another word, he dropped down into the building.
“Mr. Silversaint!” Aclima screamed -- but before she could follow him, Anya seized her by the arm and pulled her along.
She was right. They didn’t have time to slow down and defeat all of the traitors one by one. To achieve their goal, they had to hurry to the Arena of the Absolute, they had to get there before Muzazi did.
Muzazi.
“Only an equal can be your enemy.”
Aclima’s heart twisted at just the thought of him, the betrayal an open wound. How long had he been planning all this? Since the beginning of the Dawn Contest? Or before even that? She’d gone from being Baltay’s puppet to Atoy’s puppet. What a joke. What a mess. She’d known it, she’d known it, so why had she doubted herself?
Why had she bothered to believe in him?
She blinked away the tears as she sprinted across the rooftop, Anya by her side. There wasn’t any time for regrets anymore. They had to get to the Arena -- that was all that mattered. Decisions had to be made, whether they were right or wrong.
They had cards they could play. If anyone other than that crazy Hazzard tried to get close to them, she could use Curse Hand to defeat them instantly, and Anya could use her flags if it came down to it. If they played those cards right, they could win against --
A shadow passed over them.
Aclima looked up… and immediately, her jaw dropped.
A dragon.
There was no other way to describe it. A massive beast of bark and branch, flying overhead on two great leaf-wings. Each flap of those wings sent a surge of wind pressure coursing across the rooftops, but even if the night had been still, Aclima doubted she could have moved. The sheer spectacle of it would be enough to stop anyone’s step, and enough to freeze anyone’s blood.
Morgan Nacht stood atop the great beast’s back, sword in hand, his body coursing with purple Aether. His eyes were resolute, and his grip on his blade was tight. It seemed he had no intention of letting them go any further.
A single green eye stared at Aclima from the dragon’s forehead, and a shudder went down her spine -- but before she could take a step back, she felt Anya’s hand on her shoulder.
“What are you scared of?” Anya said, looking at the dragon with a strangely vicious grin on her face. “You’re going to be Supreme, aren’t you?”
Orange Aether surged through the woman’s hands, and two billowing flags -- one black, one white -- appeared in her grip. She twirled them as she stood by Aclima’s side, both of them dwarfed by the massive beast ahead. Even so, Anya’s eyes were filled with confidence.
“This is just a staircase,” she said. “Right?”
Aclima nodded. “Right,” she whispered.
She reached out and pulled her own weapon, Beelzebub, from her Aether. The gnarled dark cleaver-sword was the size of her entire body, but felt as light as a feather. Forcing a smirk onto her lips, she hoisted the weapon over her shoulder…
… and the two of them stood side by side, to face the coming storm.