"How very exciting, so that's what goes through the mind of the infamous Azama Meyos, is it."

Indeed it is! You’ve done well in assessing my thought process, Mr. Ode’go. I can envision his mind filling with thoughts right now, conceiving the best possible option forward. It’s honestly so much fun. Just conceiving all of the possibilities, that is.

It’s as if he’s restless. Scratching his chin, cat ears standing upright, and staring at me ever focusing on any hint of movement.

A very short moment passes, and he seems to come to a conclusion.

"How would you like to fight, mano a mano, me and you, twenty minutes from now?"

I had been left wanting after my last tabletop extravaganza, as fun as it was.

So, why not? This is as good of a time as any to kick things off. You see, it might seem strange to the uninitiated, but such things aren’t uncommon where he comes from.

Every person in Criland is expected to enter a monastery at some point, once during their youth and once during adulthood. I use the term monastery loosely because they’re not really studying religion there.

Nope. What they’re studying really is a very specific set of guidelines and philosophy on life.

Designed to cultivate Resolve and happiness alike. And you know what happiness and Resolve often entail?

That’s right! Fighting, duelling, and carving out one’s path in the face of ever-present mortality. In fact, I’m quite fond of it myself, so I decide to propose a more ‘present’ alternative…

One in line with such a philosophy.

"How about we fight now instead?"

"Sure, no time better than the present," replies Ode’go, almost immediately after my own question.

Deciding to take things one step further, I then offer, "How about in ten seconds?"

"Unfortunately, I find that when it comes to counting, that all accountability takes a lovely stroll."

Easy solution in our close proximity, Ode'go!

"No worries, I'll have my buddy here do it."

I flash Rainee a wink.

Faster than what one might expect, he follows up quite quickly. Scurrying to the side of the table, Rainee reaches his hands into the air.

In the 2.1 seconds proceeding, our arbiter, the greatest mage himself, Rainee, has begun to countdown.

"Ten."

I sit perfectly still, legs crossed.

"Nine."

My newfound opponent gazes forward, doing likewise.

"Eight."

Looking at each other, our gazes meet, our bodies perfectly steeped in wait.

"Seven."

Rainee.

"Six."

I hope you realise our plan is gonna begin a little sooner than expected.

"Five."

Oh well, what can I say?

"Four."

Situations that align perfectly like these are pretty rare.

"Three."

But then again, that's what makes it so exciting.

The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

"Two."

The unexpected series of variables and variance that makes life what it is.

"One."

Sorry I made you wait so long, Ode'go, but you can finally beat me now.

Or, at least, attempt to, anyway.

The upcoming second seems to last an eternity. I thought it a good idea to wait for his attack and react accordingly.

Sure enough, his hands launch forward. Extended nails first, the long claws of his savage side attempt to make contact.

"Jeez, Ode'go, right for the throat, huh?"

Utilising one's advantages shouldn't be something that warrants shame, of course. It's just that it really has me wondering.

Wondering what ploys and techniques Ode’go will use, that’s all.

----------------------------------------

SHORTLY BEFORE DECISIVE BATTLE - CAFETERIA

Some centuries ago, as a product of the ingenuity of a grand and demented wizard, who had all but impure intentions, were the savagesplice conceived. Leaving but a note that, when translated to modern languages, inferred ‘I am not a sexual deviant. In creating animal-human hybrids, I have, in fact, done a service to the world.’

It should therefore go without saying that this wizard was perceived as a pervert in the coming years.

This is a detail of particular importance because, unlike the other races, such as humans, elves, or even demons, who were thought to be the product of gods, the so-called Savagesplice were mere concoctions of the existing races.

Thereby to some pedigree, putting them even lower in status.

Whatmore was that Savagesplice often were subject to a few negative byproducts of their existence.

An unfortunate side-effect.

Which, excluding the social scrutiny and scorn, consisted of a little something called physical degradation.

Though appearing fine in terms of their outward appearance even up to their very end, their innards, on the contrary, lacked that quality.

What this constituted was not only organ failure but random chances of dropping dead and even madness, amongst other things.

So, it was with his mortality in mind that Ode’go came aboard a choice. Either sell himself to some twisted degenerate or sell himself to an equally as twisted (albeit perhaps not as sexually degenerate) government.

That was to say, most members of his race were either sex slaves or cannon fodder.

Ode'go, who had for some time now been associated with the second category, saw no wrong with it. He was, by nature, a fighter. One who acted on behalf of their master, without so much as hesitation or moral quandary. Though he started weak, as did everyone else, he managed to achieve strength. Gradually, he continued to train. Gradually, he had continued to kill, and gradually, he had finally elevated himself.

In a time short of a few years, a quarter of his existence, he had become devastatingly competent. Defeating mages, scoundrels, and whatever enemies he had been tasked with was his life's meaning. Now that another supposed scoundrel presented itself, the boy found it only natural to challenge said opposition. The circumstances of his arrival were not for him to question. Why a notorious assassin and mercenary would join a school, an uncontested enigma.

That was all there was to it. A challenge was a challenge. An opportunity to seize greater power, a natural step to overcome.

However.

On the other hand, there was room to assess what the mercenary was capable of. He was part cat, after all. And as cats did, Ode'go craned his neck in contemplation.

Hmm.

His gaze lingered on Azama's amber eyes. What was in there? He wondered. How much was that man truly capable of? Legend and truth were two separate things, the former oft inflated by conjecture and farce. He knew not all was false. That much he could tell by the man's skill. But that still offered little in the way of information.

Ode'go wiggled in his seat, relaxing into the pillowed chair.

He paused. The cold amusement on Azama's face brought Ode'go to a time prior.

A moment two years ago, to be precise. A time when he'd heard a tidbit of information concerning the mercenary’s previous work.

A legend in flesh and blood, eh?

In his recollection, Ode’go remembered a certain debate surrounding the man. A debate concerning one family in particular.

The Arcinciels.

And a debate on how he went about killing every single one of them.

Supposedly, Azama had managed to annihilate a dozen elite mages singlehandedly, brought every single last member brought to the slaughter, unarmed and children included, and dissected them into seventeen pieces for no reason other than pleasure.

Ode'go exhaled gleefully. He wasn’t certain if it was true, but the circumstances that enabled such a rumour were telling enough. The fact was, from a certain day onward, the Arcinciels never made a public appearance again.

That much was certain.

Now then, let’s see if the man lives up to the legend.

"Ten," said the armoured man, his voice announcing the start of a battle.

Ode'go thrust out his hand. He aimed for the neck.

Hoh, not bad. Azama had deflected his blow just in time, having slapped Ode’go’s wrist to the side with an almost gentle force.

He’d attacked with inhibition, but he was impressed all the same.

Again, Ode’go thrust out, sending seven blows. Again, Azama deflected them, each with the same smile, method and force as before.

Yes, Azama, splendid!

A sparkle of anticipation glimmered in the catboys eyes. The prospect and joy of a clean and honourable battle before him. Besides a few students with delusions of grandeur, opponents were rare around these parts. The balance of power posed with itself a careful peace, one supported by chains of relations and friction.

Hence, opponents with the gall or skill to back themselves up were rare.

Knowing this to be a rare opportunity, Ode’go stood up. He offered Azama a chance to reposition as well. The mercenary took it.

Thus, standing face to face on the marble flooring, the two simply stared at one another.

The expression on Ode’go’s face hardened. His cat ears perked with motion. Deep within his chest, a sound almost akin to a chirp ran gutturally.

"I, Ode'go, one of the Menchåmi, hereby accept your challenge!" He unleashed a rhythmic tapping of his feet. It was his way of thanks. His method of proving his pleasure. "Now then, Azama, why don't I show you a little humility?"

And he would begin by bringing the mercenary down to his knees.