Without warning, the spear exploded with magic energy. Eliphaz dodged, and a beam of white flashed before his eyes. The beam traveled so fast it appeared almost instantaneous, for a second seeming as a solid extension of the spear before it was gone. In its wake it left the air distorted and shimmering, and the river erupted in boils of rippling steam upon impact.

Eliphaz wasted no time in retaliating. Two vines erupted on either side of the soldier, constricting his arms in an attempt to subdue his assailant. The man yelped in surprise and struggled to raise his spear, fighting against the snake-like growths as they tightened around his limbs. But then, the golden bracer on his left arm activated, glowing with otherworldly light.

Again, the magic happened so quickly it barely registered to Eliphaz’s sight. The light gathered along the bracer before coursing across the man’s body, a wave of heat that pulsed across his skin, burning the vines to ashes.

The man flashed a cruel, self-satisfied smile. “You think your little tricks are a match against the empire’s men? If so, I underestimated your stupidity.”

The two other soldiers flanked their leader on either side—as Eliphaz’s options dwindled. There was no escape. They would beat him down with overwhelming force, strip him for all he was worth, and let his bloodied corpse float down the Arantu. Narina would receive no recourse, left to flicker and die at the road’s edge like a diseased beggar.

There was no escape. So he had no choice but to fight.

Without warning Eliphaz jumped forward, past the blade of the spear, so close that he could see the soldier’s nostrils flare in surprise. The men took a step back, but Eliphaz didn’t wait. A third vine had sprouted, wrapped its way around the hilt of the Sword of Lamech. And now it retracted, pulling the sword from its sheath, into the air until it landed firmly in Eliphaz’s open palm.

He yanked it upward, plunging it into the soft flesh of the man’s armpit.

The man’s voice broke as he screamed. Blood ran along Lamech’s edge. It collected and dripped from the hilt, painting Eliphaz’s fingers red.

He withdrew the sword as the man collapsed, and prepared to meet the others. They came at him with weapons raised, raging fires in their eyes.

He couldn’t face two men at once, so a vine lunged for the man on the left. It yanked him by his neck, dug into his skin with protruding thorns. It stopped the soldier in his tracks, at least momentarily, but based on the golden bracer around his arm Eliphaz had no doubt he’d have no choice but face the man soon.

So best to make quick work of the third adversary. Eliphaz swung wildly at the soldier, desperately throwing himself into the fray. He needed to win, and fast, before the others recovered and surrounded him again. He attacked again and again, but each swing met the soldier's blade. The sound of metal-on-metal screeched in Eliphaz’s ears, sparks flying into his eyes, every impact rattling his teeth.

The soldier parried and quickly recovered before thrusting his sword at Eliphaz’s chest. He forced Eliphaz back, step by step as Eliphaz struggled to weather the blows.

Time was running out. In his peripheral vision Eliphaz could see the second soldier activate his bracer, preparing to burn the constricting vine. Further off the first soldier slowly picked himself up, staunching his wound with his headscarf. He needed to act. Eliphaz had no training in swordfighting, there was no way he’d outmaneuver an Egyptian soldier. Not unless he did something unexpected—

Eliphaz swung forward, barely in control of his sword as he let its weight guide his movement. It was a terrible strike, sacrificing control for strength, giving his opponent ample time to counterattack. The man saw the opportunity present itself and seized it. He raised his arms as Eliphaz recovered his momentum, preparing a blow that would cleave the boy’s head in two. The weapon fell like and executioner’s axe but then—

It stopped. Frozen in place as two vines wrangled their way between his arms.

Mana low! 6/30 points remain

The soldier snarled and his bracer burned with divine energy, but it was too late. Eliphaz swung again and this time his aim was true, and Lamech slipped its way across the man’s throat. A waterfall of blood erupted, pooling in the pocket of his collarbones as the man fell to his knees. It ran down the bronze plates on his chest, the metal glittering like pyrite beneath the flow of a creek.

You defeated a soldier of Amun! +100 exp

Eliphaz let his arms go slack—stunned, exhausted—stumbling backwards as the soldier’s face paled, eyelids fluttered and drooped before the body collapsed. He tried to center his mind, calm the blood that rushed in his veins, forget the sound of clashing metal that still vibrated in his skull. He wasn’t done, not yet, and now that the one was dead they would only strike with more vengeance.

He scarcely finished the thought before a resounding impact cracked against his jaw. His mind reeled and he watched slowly, helplessly as the ground approached. The earth was soft but the force with which he hit the ground shook his body. His vision went out.

When he came to his sight was blurry. He felt weightless, the sensation in his fingers a dull buzz, and he scarcely noticed as the Sword of Lamech slipped from his grasp. No, he was weightless, he realized as he felt the rough grip of a hand bruise his neck, lifting him with superhuman strength off the ground.

Eliphaz’s feet dangled in the air. His windpipe constricted as he wheezed pitiful gasps of air into his lungs. He looked down at the soldier slowly squeezing the life out of him. Remnants of the vine which had constricted the soldier still clung to his neck, scratch marks bleeding where the thorns still stubbornly held on. His face was screwed-up in an expression of pure rage. He growled something in a language Eliphaz couldn’t understand.

The barest glint of a golden bracer glowed beneath his chin. It hummed with energy, growing brighter until it felt like a ball of fire hovering beneath Eliphaz’s face. The heat traveled up the fingers beneath his throat, searing his skin until it bubbled and popped beneath the man’s iron grip. Eliphaz screamed with what little breath he had left. He thrashed desperately, kicking his feet, clawing at the soldier’s arm.

Nothing worked. His consciousness sank away, drowning in a boiling pit of black tar. Nerves gave out, pain oozing off his skin and leaving only a pleasant warmth. Like a person drowning, who stops their struggle and gives in to the serenity of death.

But no. He couldn’t die now.

Eliphaz reached out, grasping for something—anything—that might save him. His fingers grazed the man’s neck, dislodged a twig of vine that fell into his palm. He closed his hand around the vine.

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Staff of thorns!

Mana low! 1/30 points remain

The vine absorbed the dregs of Eliphaz’s mana, and as it did, it grew in strength and size—and with force. The staff barreled into the chest of the soldier and sent the man flying as he loosened his grip around Eliphaz’s neck. The two fell in opposite directions, but Eliphaz was prepared, landing on his feet with his staff of thorns in hand. He wasted no time leaping atop his assailant, delivering a concussive blow to the head.

The man was alive but staggered, half his face already bloomed with a bloody bruise. He groaned and clutched his head.

Eliphaz stared at the scene, struck by the unreality of the moment. Behind him a corpse still crouched, its slit throat sowing the field with blood. Narina still rested further off, her arms awkwardly splayed but otherwise incongruent in her peaceful repose. His horse was missing, no doubt alarmed by the violence of battle. And before him, a grown man whimpered, appearing oddly pathetic—considering he had plucked Eliphaz off the ground only moments before.

Eliphaz sensed the danger before he could see it. A near-silent whir of air, the almost imperceptible displacement of energy, perhaps? Whatever the case, he dived beneath the beam of white light as it tore through the air, scorching the loose threads of his tunic. He fell to the ground, arms outstretched and searching for his sword. Nestled in between blades of grass, he felt the cold, familiar hilt and pulled it close.

The final soldier—the first soldier—stood ten paces off, still at the bank of the river. His right shoulder was uncomfortably hunched, the underside of his arm stained with blood. Nonetheless, he raised his spear again, wincing as the weapon violently shook and gathered its energy.

The distance between them was too wide for Eliphaz to close the gap. Weary of battle, inundated by the thought of violence or death, he did the only thing he deemed possible. He grabbed the groaning man by the shoulder, held him like a shield and placed his sword at the soldier’s neck.

“Please,” Eliphaz said. “It doesn’t have to end like this.” The words were meant as a threat but they came out as a plea for mercy. The half-conscious man struggled in his arms but Eliphaz pulled him closer, pressing the blade against his skin. “Just leave, and no one else will need to die.”

The soldier didn’t respond. Eliphaz stared into his eyes, searching for some shared presence of humanity, some means of appeal to the man’s reason. He found only bloodshot anger, a crown of fissured veins encasing a black-on-black iris. The hostage tensed in his arms, sensing the inevitable.

The light burned like a falling star. It tore into the man’s chest, melting bronze and flesh alike. A scream could hardly escape his lips before his lungs were shot through, withered and lifeless. Eliphaz was thrown back, tumbling to the ground—though otherwise unscathed as his hostage bore the consequence of the lethal attack.

As Eliphaz saw the spear rise again, again gather the deadly light at its point, he knew there was no escape. He couldn’t run or hide—the man would pursue him relentlessly until his revenge was served. He had no means to retaliate, no way to approach without facing the same fate as his hapless hostage. No, he could scarcely think of a plan at all, his mind too dazed by shock and blood and gore—and thought of death lurking in every misstep, every swing of a blade or dash of mana. Even if Eliphaz could think—what was he to do? What was anyone to do?

What is one to do, when fate closes in, when possibilities are eliminated one-by-one? When every possible choice you once had slowly dwindles until there is only one way forward?

The situation is hopeless, one might say.

There is no man on earth who can escape his fate, says another.

Yet therein lies the paradox at play, the fickle nature of the phenomenon that confounds even the gods. Fate does not move ‘forward.’ It is not to be ‘escaped,’ but neither is it set, a fixed and rigid path we take, step-by-step. Fate is a thousand potentialities measured in an instant, a path which only feels inevitable after it has taken its course. It is a sheet of paper folded to-and-fro until its surface is crumbled and we are let loose across the wanton folds.

Fate presents us with a single door, and we believe our path is already known—but think again. For even a single door presents a choice. Do we rush through, no matter what lies beyond? Or do we stand frozen, paralyzed by fear, incapacitated by the very thought of fate itself?

Eliphaz chooses the former. He rushes towards the head of the spear. He holds his sword behind him—readying a strike that will never meet its target. Eliphaz doesn’t care about such certainties. If death is certain, why not look it in the eye? Like Ishtar, before the gates of the underworld. Like Narina, before the hunger of the Nephilim—

The spear erupts with light. Blinded, Eliphaz extends his empty hand, shielding his eyes. He calls forth his final point of mana. The fragment in his soul strains and spins, but it is empty—no magic comes forth. The light touches his hand, the sensation akin to being submerged in white-hot coals.

Eliphaz screams.

The fragment strains and spins.

He feels the heat flow into his hand. Beneath his skin the light throbs like blood through his veins. It flows up his arm, into his chest.

The fragment strains and spins. It grows with light.

Attention: Your Level 1 Godshard is threatened!

Godshard self-preservation settings activated:

When under risk of eradication, your Godshard will absorb hostile mana.

Mana restored! 9̸̫̆/30 points now remain.

ERROR: Mana aspect [light] is incompatible. Incompatible mana risks corrupting the Godshard and/or destroying your mortal form.

Expel [light] mana? Yes / No

>YES / No

The fragment strains and spins—and stops. Frozen for only a moment, it begins to rotate in the other direction. Faster and faster, faster than it ever has before, like a spinning top that threatens to destroy Eliphaz’s very soul.

Light explodes from his fingertips. It fans out before him. The grass at his feet burns in an instant and he is thrown to ground as the light mana exits his body. He stares up at the sky, entranced by a kaleidoscope of blue as a myriad of screens mingle and blend in the atmosphere.

—

When Eliphaz came to, he found the last soldier in the river-rocks of the Arantu. The spear was broken beyond repair, split into charred pieces that lay scattered around the scene. The man lay covered in dark burns. In places the skin peeled like papyrus and the dull, brutish face of the former soldier was unrecognizable. Half-submerged in the shallow water, his chest slowly rose and fell, in and out of the stream.

Eliphaz stumbled forward, sword at his side. Each step was stilted, painful—his limbs felt as if they had been torn apart before being put back together. His whole body ached, and Eliphaz could swear the very blood in his veins seemed somehow perturbed.

He looked down at the wretched figure. “I told you to leave,” he whispered. “I told you to run while you still had the chance.”

And so, Eliphaz fulfilled his promise.