The agent suddenly leaped into a full sprint, turning into a black blur amongst the cascading raindrops eclipsing even the warrior's earlier feats of speed. Her legs propelled her forward - each step she took shook the ground she landed on - leaving deep gashes in the earth before another swiftly followed to maintain her stride. In what felt like an instant, with no extra tricks or gadgets, she appeared in striking distance of Hunter, voluntarily nonetheless. She raised the rain catcher-turned-staff by the chestnut handle, the restrained black canopy placing a menacing shadow above Hunter's unprotected head, still trying to process his opponent's sharp increase in acceleration. The warrior quickly placed the broad side of his blade between himself and the oncoming attack. But without enough time to ready himself, as the two weapons clashed, it was as if a shockwave rang out from the collision, the air expanding outward, disturbing the grass and snuffing the flames around Hunter. The entirety of the kinetic energy flowed through the warrior's blade, his arms, his torso, and lastly, his legs, shoving him back a few meters, his slippers plowing through the mud as they did.
There goes his strength advantage.
Hunter lifted his feet out of the silt, trying to reestablish a literal and metaphorical foothold on the battlefield. But as he brandished his weapon, I could tell he was still shaking after the forceful hit, his bones rattling not just out of pain but also fear.
Throughout the fight, Ilya's been trying to overwhelm Hunter by putting him at a disadvantage. Whether it be by poisoning him, taking away his vision, or using distance to her benefit - this time, she's gotten rid of that middleman and went straight to brute force.
Ilya began her gait, once again, practically throwing herself towards Hunter, who returned to his role of the defender. Heavy blunt strikes converged with swift-edged cuts, a battle of well-timed parries and unyielding power. It was during this scuffle that I realized something else. The injection definitely made Ilya bolder in her advance, but it didn't turn her any less cunning. At first, it seemed her strikes only held force with no skill behind them, strikes that leveraged her speed and body as well as the central mass of the umbrella to deliver as heavy of a strike as possible. But as each subsequent hit landed, her professionalism showed more and more. She frequently changed her stance, going from a crouch to a jump to leverage gravity and her weight to slam down on the warrior's blade before switching the use of her legs to low and large sweeps after she landed. Her use of her sunshade also remained diverse, from homerun swings to uppercutting golf swings that launched blinding mud at her opponent's unshielded eyes to using the weapon like a medieval greatsword. And even using the weapon's handle to try and snag the blade out of Hunter's hands, there was no end to her myriad motley of attacks, all in one combo, no less.
Hunter can't keep up this defense forever.
The warrior's feet were basically nothing more than sticks in the mud, each blocked strike forcing him deeper into the ground and his grave. Ilya paused for a second after unleashing her flurry, allowing Hunter to strike the only part of her safely in his range - her umbrella. But instead of dividing it, the weapon promptly sunk into the fabric, not leaving so much as a superficial cut. Ilya scoffed at his attempt to disarm her, plunging her unharmed sunshade at his feet before swinging it upwards in a scooping motion - that, while dodged by her opponent, sent her melee ordnance spinning into the sky.
That seems unpractical, disarming yourself for a neat trick.
The weapon returned to the earth, its ferrule stabbing into the ground and standing stiff before Ilya removed it from its place like a sword from a stone, a needle-like blade now protruding from its tip. The agent performed a courtly one-handed flourish with her rapier, entering a stance befitting a fencing knight.
A battle of blades from the West and the East,
Ilya's style switched once again, fighting like a Renaissance-era fencer with deadly and precise stabs that aimed for critical points on Hunter's body. The warrior was at an impasse. While his experience in sword-fighting outclassed his opponent tenfold, the difference in strength and, more importantly, reach put him in a difficult spot, using his thin blade to block surgical pokes from the lengthy weapon.
On the bright side, the change from heavy and blunt slams meant Hunter could strike back without his arms aching from blocking. But this was a give-and-take. The faster, less predictable attack pattern allowed Ilya to weave in graceful dodges with her strikes as well as freedom in her range of motion. This became evident as mid-thrust, Ilya jabbed the weapon into the ground, using it like a pole and performing a kick spin from the unconventional position. But it wasn't the maneuver that caught Hunter off guard - it was the pellets that wooshed past him coming from the still revolving legs of the agent that drew blood from his cheeks.
Ha! Her heels have guns! Compressed-air powered to prevent recoil too! This crap is wild, man. Stupid? That too, but wild nonetheless.
Even as the battle continued its downhill trend, Hunter was not to be discouraged, combining his far wider sword swings with rapidly-loosed crossbow bolts, bespeckling the battlefield with spots of decaying vegetation, all in an effort to close the range gap. Damascus thwarting titanium, fletched venom intercepting gas-powered lead, the battlefield painted by the two combatants brushes of death. Even so, Ilya's advantage was still apparent. Her jabs were far faster, giving her more time to evade backward if she overstepped her boundaries. And as fencing was an art of dueling, this situation favored her technique over the more generalized and war-centric combat of the Eastern warrior - not even to mention how her ranged armament made her even more difficult to strike down.
"You're all legs, aren't you?" Hunter shouted as he simultaneously hopped backward and fired, covering his retreat.
"You wouldn't want those words to be on your headstone, would you?" Ilya retorted as she threw a kick that sent another round towards Hunter, one he would quickly deflect before adding,
"I don't count on it." His eyes focused on her outstretched limb before launching a particular-looking arrow from his left. The bolt uncoiled from him like a snake, a thick braiding tied to the dart whose tip stabbed into the cork and leather underbelly of Ilya's shoe, not a way to maim her but one to turn the tides of the battle.
"Get over here!"
Now you're not even being subtle with that.
Hunter yanked the lasso-like projectile with an arm he could use to cut boulders in twain, dragging the agent across the mud like a ragdoll, unable to recover as her back was to the ground. Ilya neared the warrior and, without any options, placed the tip of her weapon between her body and her opponent, hoping to skewer him as she arrived. But all this did was give Hunter exactly what he needed. He pulled on the rope even harder, jerking it and throwing Ilya off her course. And right before she reached the warrior's feet, Hunter readied his blade and, in one clean swing, severed both the cord and the tipped point of the agent's umbrella, her body getting tossed behind him like dust in the wind.
Grappling hooks make everything better.
The agent crashed through the field, kicking up muck and grass as her body plowed into the dirt, her once pristine suit getting coated a foul brown. She finally halted her momentum, attempting to perform a roll to recover but with no doubt battered bones and sore muscles, failing to do so and ending up slumped and bruised - her weapon thrown to her side, barely in reach. But the stained suit and battered innards were the least of Ilya's worries. Hunter took a stance, holding the blade with both hands and placing it near his cheek - he began to charge, its curved edge and honed tip glinting in what little sunlight pierced through the storm clouds. The agent was a sitting duck, the serum now only slowing down her perception of her oncoming demise.
Or so it seemed,
Her arm extended to her side, clearly aching in pain but still full of life as it clutched her sunshade close to her chest. She placed her other hand farther up its shaft, holding it like a rifle and pointing it at the approaching swordsman with weary eyes. Hunter maintained his stride, seeing it as a desperate attempt to fire off a few final shots that he could either halve or send back, not hesitating on the prospect of the agent's final bluff. But this was no bluff - what she had in store was, in reality, a final gambit.
Gun umbrella? Overdone, cliche, and a bit obvious for such a discreet occupation.
As I expected it to fire a hail of lead, the rain catcher opened its canopy - each rib pulsating with ominous red lights, a familiar warning of fiery death. The charging warrior realized it as well. He unleashed his grip on his steel, firing another tethered arrow to the ground to stop his momentum, but it was too late. He was only a dozen or so meters away from the agent, hooked to the ground, and like a deer caught in scarlet headlights, unable to move out of the way.
Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.
"Farewell," Ilya whispered before the locks on the umbrella opened - and a loud compression of air could be heard, launching the entire black canopy of the umbrella hurdling towards the warrior. It flew through the air at astonishing speed, a net of high-grade explosives resembling a deep-sea jellyfish flashing its stingers and the pain they wrought.
Chain-bomb umbrella? New, unique, and guaranteed to catch your local samurai off-guard.
The doctrine of "cut everything thrown at me" was nullified - each rib had bombs lining them, and simply cutting through would result in the erasure of your existence in a heartbeat. The web of explosives was also too complex, too varied to find a way to cut it in between its patterns, and to add to it, it barreled through the air spinning, making it near-impossible to defuse safely with a blade. The warrior almost looked pale, each realization I made entering his mind even faster than it did mine, but if there's one thing main characters from anime are good at, it's pulling something stupid out of their ass at the last second to save them.
"Not yet!" Hunter shouted, cutting the rope that tied him to the ground and using the freed hand to hold his weapon in two hands. He gritted his teeth, the air he exhaled condensing into a white mist around his mouth. His stance widened, his legs spreading out and being planted firmly on the ground. His arms steadied, once more raising the Damascus to his cheek with the curved edge pointing up, a position to repel and ward off any attack. His eyes concentrated, his pupils lighting up with the full blaze of his unshakeable spirit. And finally, he took in a breath.
The world froze, and all became still. Raindrops remained suspended but still refracted the heaven-bound rays like a blessed spotlight on the warrior. The tangle of fire continued its pursuit - even in the tranquil repose of this serene scape, its imposing reds continued to shine - and yet Hunter was calm. His eyes were closed, no longer raging but mere slits that felt more at home in a quiet household, not on a battlefield, not at death's door. I could see all this, yet it felt like I hadn't even taken a breath. It felt like I wasn't the only one in the audience anymore. It felt like the heavens were watching, waiting for the warrior's next move. And in one decisive swing to the sky, guided by the divine rays - his edge followed a path written by the gods themselves. His blade made contact with the canopy, cleaving through the weave with ease and changing direction mid-swing, avoiding and dodging the lined explosives without so much as pausing. It was a perfect, untattered slash through the black fabric, severing it into two pieces that flew by the warrior's sides, not even grazing him, only causing his kimono to flutter as they passed - exploding in a storm of fire and shrapnel behind him.
Ah, anime swordsmen, true masters of swords and breathing real good.
But as Hunter basked in the celestial light that bathed him and his raised blade, a snake was readying its fangs within the grass. I turned to Ilya, who placed a rose-gold cloth into her breast pocket, her muddied glasses now clear as crystal and glowing with a bright-blue light. She placed the chestnut handle of her umbrella against her shoulder, aiming down the length of it like a rifle and squeezing a trigger hidden on its shaft. A guttural, deep, and almost thunder-like sound rang out, a massive crackle of muzzle flash burning from the sunshade's tip.
"No!" Metal shards flew like shrapnel above the warrior's head, the sound of screeching metal echoing through the field as the round impacted the broad side of his heavenly blade. The weapon shattered, unable to take the force of the high caliber round on its far more fragile side, fracturing into pieces and cutting it in half by its tip.
It was a gun umbrella!
Hunter was still in shock as his brush of death, his most prized possession and his lifeblood stained and baptized by the blood of hundreds of demons, was scrapped by a wayward bullet. Even so, this short moment of grief had to be cast away in the name of winning the war. Hunter shouted in frustration before jumping and performing a backflip kick, sending the torn piece of his blade toward his opponent.
"Tsk. This glitchy thing." Ilya groaned as it seemed her real target was Hunter himself. She threw her glasses to the ground, angered but rechambering a second round into her rifle - not realizing the warrior had already recovered. The shattered tip of the blade flew at Ilya, hitting her weapon and severing its barrel, turning it useless as it snapped in half. She faced Hunter with surprise, the warrior's face covered in many cuts from the fragments of his blade splintering onto his visage - blood running down his face just as the raindrops were.
"Let's finish this," Ilya spoke, tired and in pain but still refusing to yield. Her suit was in tatters and stained with mud and blood. Her gadgets all spent - going from a living weapon, no, a living armory, to just a mortal with cunning and a will to fight.
"For Myla's sake," Hunter replied, his blade cracked but still deific as it readied to send his opponent to the heavenly weapon's forge. The warrior was tired - out of energy to use his many techniques and arts, with no arrows left and what amounted to an uneven dagger in his hand. But he still readied himself, clasping his weapon tightly by its handle as he began to breathe.
The final round! This is it! I know I shouldn't be excited but come on!
Ilya adjusted her cufflinks, a hidden stiletto blade sliding into her gloved hand. Hunter wiped his blade clean on his sleeves, ridding it of the leftover steel flakes and stains of blood and water. The final fight was about to begin. Both combatants were drained of their resources, only running on adrenaline, the prospect of victory, and the fear of failure. And as they shouted to the sky, their legs pushing them towards each other, the climax of the battle, the apex of their decision, and the final strikes that would decide it all, it was all about to happe-
Tock tock. "Helloo? Anyone home?"
Huh? What was that?
I began to hear ringing, not the ones from Ilya's weaponry, but instead one that gave me a far more domestic feeling.
"There's no way I'm at the wrong house...Then again, he could still be sleeping. Oh well, guess I'll just leave the package here."
The scene of the battlefield began to blur. My earlier crystal-clear view of the fight was slowly fading away, and as I was already well aware of it, the realization struck me.
I'm waking up.
Figures began to turn into shadows, the sounds of their traded blows beginning to dampen as another sense of mine left the dreamscape.
No, no, not right now.
I could begin to feel my body once again. I was starting to turn and fumble through the unorganized fortress of blankets and pillows that was my bed, nearing the point of my exit from REM sleep.
Not at the good part, please.
But right before I left, as the battling figures became indistinguishable from one another, I could see one stab into the other, a victor and a loser finally being decided in the fight, but one I would never get to know.
ARE YOU KIDDING ME? NO!
"No!" I shouted at the top of my lungs, sitting up in bed and more than likely disturbing most of the families in my vicinity. I woke up panting and breathing heavily, but at the same time, my breaths felt easy - my sinuses were clear, and my chest didn't feel so weighed. As I observed my seemingly healed body, another knock came from downstairs, perhaps the visitor realizing I had woken up from my exclamation.
"Oh, uh, coming!" I shouted as I got out of my place of slumber, opening my phone to make sure I looked at least halfway decent before climbing down the stairs to my front door. I opened the door to be first greeted by the night sky, something I didn't notice as I had kept all my lights on in the house and was too busy still worrying about the story I had just missed out on to realize.
"So you were awake! Um, down here, Bridger." A young male voice spoke, prompting my eyes to face the person standing before me - a youthful man with short black hair containing a single brown streak beamed me with a warm smile.
"Oh, Alex. Um, What's up?"
"Luckily, you are now." The young executive I worked under chuckled, his white suit lined with black accents denoting his position fluttering in the calm breeze.
"Anyway, I just had to make a delivery to you."
"To me? Of all the people, why would it have to be you? Couldn't they have sent someone else from the office?" I asked as I folded my arms in confusion.
"Oh, it wasn't an order, more of a favor, I guess." He replied with another smile before pointing to the cardboard box on my doorstep.
"Welp, I gotta go, super late and all. You think you can come by tomorrow, or do you need another day?"
"Oh, I guess I should be fine. I might want to wait another day since I actually haven't eaten a proper meal yet. So it might recur. I'll call just in case, though." I replied as he nodded and began walking back to his vehicle. He entered, and the car sounded to life, its headlights illuminating the street in front of my abode.
"Oh, right! Alex!" I shouted, the young executive rolling his window down to listen.
"Why'd you contact Amanda about me? I don't remember us having such a hands-on policy about sick employees." I asked the question that was buried in my mind beneath the memories of the harsh battlefield.
"Huh? We don't, actually. Whatever the case, I nor the office themselves had anything to do with it. Welp, if that's all, I'll be off." He closed his window and went off into the night, leaving me with more questions than answers with his response. I decided to brush it off for now and answer another question I had - the box. I opened it to be greeted by stacks of books, their covers making me realize they were comics, but not just any comics, manga. It was a familiar story, not because I liked it or because it was a notable piece of media, but because there was a notable person who read it.
"So this was her doing, huh." I went through the rest of the box, rummaging through the nine volumes of literature before stumbling on a handwritten note at the bottom. The handwriting proved my intuition, and as I looked at it, a cold voice read the words to me in my mind.
"In all honesty, I'm more bothered about having to call Amanda about this, but I do hope she was able to come by and help. Consider these two favors to be repaid, leaving me to do all this work by myself and having to burden one of our clients."
I finished reading the note with a smirk. While Myla definitely seemed a bit annoyed at me, it was good to see she was kind enough to check if I was okay.
Then again, there's a good chance Hunter and Ilya contacted her about what they did to me, which was probably what made her consider checking if I was still alive.
I laughed to myself about the humor in the situation. The fact that just moments ago, those two well-meaning but sometimes eccentric friends of ours were engaging in a battle to the death - my earlier sadness at missing the fight's conclusion turned into an appreciation of how weird it was.
"Welp, better go out to make some actual food then." I lifted the box as I told myself, causing my dear partner's note to flip over inside.
"Hmm? What's this?" I noticed some extra handwriting on the back of the paper note - reading it with the porchlight, it said,
"Please have these read by the time you're back." It seemed even she wanted to have someone to talk to about her favorite stories.
Aha, back to square one, I guess.