Even after all life had left the man, and he lay motionless, Anthemion still held him close in his arms. Only now could he see that the man was barely older than him, that he had probably left adolescence and reached adulthood not too long ago.
He had beady eyes and a nose too big for his face, meaty lips, and cheeks like a hamster. His face was oddly discomfiting, not because of his features, but the expression on it that even persisted in his death.
It was beatific almost, though certainly not peaceful. As if death had been but a relief from the torment life had been in his last minutes. As if the darkness that had claimed him had not been his end but an ascension.
An odd calm had fallen over Anthemion, and there was a numbness spreading through his body and mind, seeping deep into his soul. The world around him had faded into nothingness until a shout dragged him back into reality. "Come to yourself, boy!" Lucian bellowed over the sound of battle, of death.
His hands shimmered with heat, and a raging fire danced over the skin of his fists. Grabbing a man from behind by his head, who assaulted another spasming on the ground with gruesome kicks, he pushed more spiritual energy into his spell, and the inferno crackled with power as the man's screams reached a new realm. It took only a second until the flame had penetrated his skull and fried his brain, evaporating every resistance. Lucian threw him aside like a child would a toy if it had no interest in playing with it any longer.
"Stand up, Ant!" he growled. "Fight!" And then he was gone, merging with the chaos, in search of his next prey. Anthemion shook off every worry, every hideous thought, every question that rampaged through his mind. This was not a time for grief, nor could he allow himself to stand idle while others sought to end his life.
Storing his small and rather pitiful knife, between the bounds of his pants and skin, he turned around the body and grabbed the hilt of the sword. It hummed with power, a proper weapon of the spiritual.
While it would surely only be graded as one of the First Sphere, it still gave him an intoxicating feeling of power. The blade was so sharp that the corpse slid from it with no resistance, like a person on slippery ice, as he pulled it into the air.
It caught the shimmering moonlight but also another reflection. One that saved his life.
He whirled like the wind around and raised it barely fast enough to block the blow of the sword intended to take his life, the force behind it strong enough to push him back several steps. A woman with shaved hair on the sides of her face and green spikes on the top flashed him a menacing grin as she twirled a short sword in her hand.
Her blade was dripping with red liquid, and her clothes were stained with the darker crimson of dried blood.
"Pretty boy," she mused, her lips puckered. Before Anthemion had a chance to answer, she lunged forward and made a horizontal strike. He hastily erected a defense, or rather tried to. His clumsy attempt at parrying with his sword was wholly miscalculated, and were it not for the fact that another man had stumbled in front of him, desperately trying to keep the gaping wound in his side from opening, and separated the two, her follow-up strike would have surely cost him his life.
Instead, she cleaved off the man's arm, accompanied by a shower of blood, and pushed him aside. He stood on his legs shakily for a second or two more before falling, never to rise again. "Where were we?" she asked and laughed shrilly.
Anthemion didn't give her the joy of an answer and instead merely watched her every move, observed her stance. His stoic determination made her laugh even more, and she wiped imaginary tears from her eyes.
This time, he lunged forward, one hand grasping the sword, the other hiding at his side to conceal his knife. Just moments before reaching her, he flung his arm forward, harnessing the momentum of his sprint to amplify his throw, and the knife sailed through the air, aimed squarely at her gut.
Her eyes widened in a mixture of surprise and shock, causing her to hastily retreat a step back as she positioned her sword to intercept the lethal projectile. This maneuver left her vulnerable to Anthemion's attack.
However, rather than genuine fear in her eyes, there was only unwavering confidence in her stance.
With a sardonic, glazing smirk, spiritual energy radiated from her body in a small yet potent unidirectional surge of power. The force hurled Anthemion backward, sending him crashing violently to the ground.
The impact expelled the air from his lungs, and searing pain flared through his chest. Groaning, he struggled to rise, mentally urging, ordering, no, begging, his legs to bear his weight. Regrettably, they refused, rendering him helpless.
All he could do was watch as the woman moved through the chaos with deliberate slowness, akin to a knife gliding through warm butter. She toyed with the sword in her hand, that irritating smile never leaving her face. How desperately he wished to wipe it away. How fervently he yearned to survive, to live.
An understanding dawned upon him that she'd merely toyed with him, exploiting his vulnerability to satiate her perverse curiosity. He'd been nothing more than a toddling child, a plaything, a toy, in her hands.
Had she chosen to exert even a fraction of her spiritual prowess at the onset of their duel, there would've been no single exchange of blades whatsoever. Such was the might of a Conduit, even if it was but a weak and crude one, as he assumed it to be the case with her.
She leaned in closer, doing her best to expose her cleavage to his eyes, and her breath washed over his face as she relished in the fear coursing through his soul.
"This is no place for little children," she whispered, her voice and demeanor suddenly serious for the first time. "You're lucky, you pulled your blow."
He gasped and -
A cutting pain, as intense as a thousand suns, erupted against his temple. The world rapidly darkened and chilled as the bloody pavement drew near, and he descended into the realm of shadows and dreams.
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He didn't know how much time had passed while he traversed the realm of dreams. However, a quick and sickening glance around told him that the battle still raged on. Lives were still being lost, and men were being maimed.
The street had transformed into a true battlefield, with deep slashes in the pavement, cracks in the concrete walls of the surrounding buildings, and upturned cars all bearing testament to the formidable power wielded even by low-level Conduits.
The brave members of LUV had fought valiantly against an enemy that greatly outnumbered them and had even achieved some victories. But it wasn't enough. It wasn't enough to prevent their comrades from falling to the overwhelming force. It wasn't enough to keep them alive.
As Anthemion observed and counted their numbers, he came to a harsh realization: they were destined to lose. They would fall and die.
They had been chosen as sacrifices, lambs to be slaughtered by the wolves, so that they wouldn't turn to see the others sneaking up from behind. He could choose to hold out, to try to remain alive and wait for reinforcements, or he could flee, run as fast as he could, and leave it all behind. There was no loyalty in dying a meaningless death, was there? Not that he cared a single fleeting fuck about loyalty anyway.
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He groaned as he stumbled to his feet, his clothes clinging to his body with sweat and blood. Entrails, shreds of muscles and organs, and blood formed pools on the ground, gathering into small rivers. The air was saturated with the metallic stench of gore, as well as the odor of death. It was a gruesome sight. He felt his stomach churn and heard nothing but the deafening beat of his heart in his ears.
Nevertheless, he persevered and fought on. He had to; there was no other choice. His initial steps were shaky, and dizziness threatened to bring him to his knees, but with each new stride, he regained a bit of his confidence.
He made his way along the sidewalk, avoiding any confrontations, for he was in no condition to be of true assistance. His presence would serve as nothing more than a momentary distraction as he inevitabely perished upon his intervention.
By now, only Conduits remained alive in this battle. All the ordinary mortals had perished in the early stages, unable to contend with their enhanced counterparts on both sides. They were simply outmatched.
Streaks of orange flared through the air, the remnants of a nearby skirmish, and he sought refuge behind a burning car. The metal groaned under the heat, and he winced as it seared his skin, but he dared not leave the sheltering protection. He waited until the flames subsided, but just as he was about to emerge, he caught sight of something that made his breath catch and his heart pound with an intensity he hadn't felt since his last running to near exhaustion.
The Scripture shimmered with a pale blue light in the darkness, a small circle intersecting with fine lines on the cover. There were words, no, runes, written in the caption that he couldn't understand, yet he instinctively comprehended the meaning they carried within them:
Keeper of Seabloom.
Panting heavily, he fell to his knees and retrieved it from beneath the car, barely noticing the pale corpse that still clutched it as if his life had depended on it. His fingers felt cold when they met, and he quickly pulled away, turning to face a different direction. He needed to look anywhere but at the horror of death.
Taking a calming breath, he gently caressed the cover with his fingers, holding it with the same care a mother would have for her child. He marveled at its finesse, the elegant feeling beneath his thumb as he traced along its side. It was otherworldly.
Quickly, he concealed it beneath his sweater, feeling a subtle chill press against his body.
He couldn't fathom his good fortune, couldn't fully grasp the chance that Heaven had bestowed upon him. First, he'd been spared by the opposing woman, granted a second lease on life, one might say, and now, with this item in his possession? He had a true opportunity for a better future! Gripping his sword with renewed determination and unwavering vigor, he steeled himself. He simply had to survive!
He shook his head, quelling the surge of joy in his heart, submerging it in a tranquil sea of calmness. He needed to be cautious, lest there be no future in which he could utilize his newfound treasure. In hushed tones, he quietly criticized himself for getting carried away.
Peering over the rear of the car onto the street, he glimpsed the ongoing ferocious battle. It came as no surprise to see Lucian still among the living, and the smile on his bloodied face was equally unsurprising. That maniac.
The air crackled and shimmered with heat as he struck at a hazy figure, adorned in an armor of hardened water, dark blue spiritual energy rising from her like reversed raindrops. Vapor sizzled with each punch, yet the woman didn't even flinch, merely absorbing the blows and even laughing skyward in mockery.
Water gradually rose from the front of her armor, resembling waves formed by the impacts, and clung to his fists. Though it failed to secure a firm grip on Lucian, it slowed his movements.
Spiritual energy streamed from her soul, down her shoulder, and into her fingers, enveloping her short sword in a watery sheen, causing it to elongate.
Lucian, sensing the impending danger, tore his fists free in a small explosion of fire and heat that was swiftly stifled by the overpowering currents. He leaped backward, covering more than fifty meters in quick and graceful movements. It was all but a moment too late.
She raised her sword, surrounded by a fury of razor-sharp fluids, the armor around her body fading as it strengthened the blade. Watery reinforcements flowed from her limbs and skin, hugging the blade with additional power.
By now, it was barely more than a stormy torrent of abysall-blue water and bristling energy. It was her greatest spell, the pinnacle of her spiritual achievements. She took but a moment to revel in the power coursing through her now-exposed body, savoring the cold kiss of the night air on her sweaty cheek before she slashed.
A thin but potent wave, a chaotic blend of the darkness of the ocean's deepest depths and swirling iridescent veins of energy, shot from the blade and spread like a crescent moon. Lucian felt death at his doorstep and was horrified at the thought of losing his life. To a woman nonetheless, he cursed..
Gritting his teeth, he tagged at his soul, pulling power from the metaphysical beyond and readying himself. He grasped harder than ever before, pushing far beyond his limits.
His very soul ached, and he sensed his body breaking down, unable to withstand the turbulent energy flooding his every fiber. He held it together for as long as he could, guiding more and more energy into his body but refusing to give it any outlet.
He felt the energy swelling, thrashing around, growing. Then, when it finally became nearly unbearable, he pushed with his entire will and the last of his mental capacities. A new spell structure was created, woven into the very essence of his Soul Realm. The runes glowed with power.
A halo of flimmering flares manifested hovering above his head, an open display of his achievement – the specter accompanying every new creation of a potent spell.
The energy broke loose as if a dam had burst open. Flames awoke. The skin around his fingers burst, revealing the glittering red tissue underneath, which quickly evaporated as well. A fire of pure red, streaked with ominous black, danced around his white-marble finger bones, like a malevolent serpent coiling around its prey.
The air hummed with heat, and red light repelled the darkness of the night, casting an eerie glow over the surroundings.
Drunk with power and tormented by unimaginable pain, Lucian unsteadily lifted his hands, mechanically even. A soft whisper escaped his lips, "Die."
A tunnel of red and black inferno shot from his hands, wide enough to encompass entire cars. The fiery wall collided with the thin crescent head-on, and steam exploded, shrouding the entire street.
The woman shrieked and hastily erected a defense, pushing past her limits as she conjured seas of water in the air, forming layers of shields before her.
All the while, she fortified her bodily defenses with spiritual energy, cursing her apex spell that required the sacrifice of her armor. This necessary downside, embedded in the fundamental runes of the spell structure, meant that once the spell had been cast, all components related to it could not be used again for a significant period of time as they had been overcharged.
In exchange, the spell's power output was drastically increased. She had been proud of her creation back then, but now, she could only curse herself as the flames devoured her flimsy shields one after another, reducing them to ashes, and finally enveloping her in searing pain.
They tugged at her clothes, singed her green hair, and scorched her skin.
She imagined feeling her eyes cooking in their sockets, the blood flowing from her wounds rising as red vapor to the sky.
Dreadful pain stretched seconds into agonizing eternities of torture. She couldn't prevent herself from collapsing to her knees, her arms hanging like limp, wobbly snakes at her sides.
She cried tears enough to fill entire buckets, streaming in torrents, yet none graced her cheeks.
She shivered enough to fight every cold, wracking her body, but it wasn't enough to fend off the searing fire consuming her skin.
The once-mighty ocean of spiritual energy within her now resembled a desolate desert. Her power dwindled, and she wept bitterly. Her resistance waned.
Then, the fire receded, leaving her alone with her anguish. She lay on the ground like a helpless child, clutching her knees tightly to her chest.
It reminded her of her youth, growing up on the grimy streets of the 8th District. She remembered shivering through the cold winters, shifting positions every few minutes in hopes of finding a comfortable one and stealing a few precious moments of sleep.
It also brought back memories of huddling on the ground, shielding herself from the merciless and brutal kicks of other kids. She had despised them for their cruelty, and mockery, and strength. Once more, she felt helpless. Once again, she was defenseless. Completely alone.