Age hadn’t slowed the elder one bit. Every movement - every minute twist of his blade - was made thoughtfully and without hesitation. For the first time since his days scouring the Black City, Baccharum was giving up ground to another opponent. His only claim to fame was that the old master of the Unseen Hand guild hadn’t managed to kill him with a single strike as tradition demanded. The stream of blood running from his wounded ear, however, told him that death wasn’t some distant reality.
An overhead swing. Baccharum ducked, only to recognise it as a feint one instant before the shear of an edge through the chilled air came rocketing towards his waist. Without time to dodge, he brought both daggers down to catch the blade in their crossed embrace, allowing a brief moment of respite to consider his counterattack.
“...I suppose I should be grateful that you’re wearing that blindfold.” Raising his arms, both weapons passed harmlessly over Baccharum’s head as he closed the distance between them, “Is my death all that matters? When your students are being butchered by thralls as we speak?”
“Hm.” The elder’s solemn expression tightened, “You’ve wasted your opportunity.”
Spinning his hands around the curving pommel of his cane sword, the old master turned his back and threw one leg towards Baccharum’s face. There was something off about the kick’s momentum, as if a cumbersome weight was upsetting the old man’s balance. Baccharum realised too late - thanks in no part to his blindness - that a weapon was attached to the aging Elf’s heel. Curved iron sliced deep into Baccharum’s left cheek, inches away from plunging through his gums and straight into his tongue when he leaped back.
He had no time to consider the severity of the wound. A subtle break in the wind told him that the elder was approaching fast. Baccharum resisted the urge to place some distance between them and hopped forward, raising a knee into the air to catch the elder right in his jaw. It was a surprise attack making use of the opponent’s expectations, and a dizzying blow to boot.
No sooner had he raised both daggers, stabbing towards vital points on his opponent’s neck with the intent to kill quickly and painlessly. But - trained in the very same art as he was - the elder cast aside any notion of moving as Baccharum predicted and deepened his duck to leave only empty air where the daggers struck.
Noticing his folly by the lack of visceral feedback, Baccharum had a difficult choice to make: How would he move - and where would he strike - without understanding precisely what the elder’s next move would be? With both arms overhanging like a Gravewalker and his enemy poised to strike from beneath, it would have been prudent to use his legs to save time.
But no - that was too expected. Too by-the-book. A master of the art of assassination had witnessed every underhanded tactic and was always poised to take advantage of an enemy’s hesitation. In order to defeat an assassin, one needed to abandon their ego and rely upon nothing but instinct to guide their hand - even if that meant treading into the realm of insanity.
He could see it in his mind’s eye. The elder, poised to sink a blade right into his heart. The movement would be perfect if Baccharum remained still, and so the counterplay was obvious, if a tad painful. Instead of backstepping, sidestepping, leaping, flailing… he threw himself forward.
The sword plunged straight into his abdomen, further than the old master could have ever anticipated. He had been prepared to retract it instantly, but the puzzling hold of Baccharum’s innards made that a difficult prospect. And where was the elder’s head placed in that moment of hesitation? Right in front of him.
Baccharum struck before the pain could settle in - a deathblow wouldn’t be possible if he was in agony. His daggers slid under the wizened Elf’s neck, tapping the carotid arteries on either side before returning just as quickly. He didn’t retreat afterwards. There was still a sword stuck in his belly, after all.
-But the elder’s grip weakened. As he stumbled back, both palms rose from the cane sword’s handle to cover both sides of his neck. He could feel the blood flowing just a second later - great, unstoppable waves of crimson spurting out from the tiny wounds. Unable to tolerate the ensuing pain of his own wound, Baccharum fell to one knee and toyed with the idea of pulling the blade out.
In a single moment, the battle was decided. Though whether one or two men would die that day was up to the Heavens. The encroaching ring in Baccharum’s sensitive ears was broken by an avalanche of rubble in the distance - Lieze had gained unwanted entry into the Black City, he guessed.
“When was the last time… someone landed a blow on me like this?” He panted, “You still haven’t lost your edge, you old fool…”
“Beautiful…” The elder’s reply came out breathless, accepting of his end, “These are beautiful cuts, Kaen-Yaan….”
“They’d have been better if I wasn’t wearing this damnable blindfold.” Baccharum could feel a warm veneer of blood forming upon his cradling hand, “It’s a little upsetting. I was never in love with Akzhem like the rest of the kinblood… but I find myself wishing I could see it one last time before Lieze destroys it. Don’t you think so too, you old fool?”
Silence.
He smirked, “...Gone already? You must have been in a rush.”
If only he could die so peacefully. But not now, he thought - not when there was still a war to be one. With both hands steadied on the handle, Baccharum drew the sword out from his gut, determining with surprising accuracy his chances of survival.
“...Oh, well.” He said, “Long enough, I suppose. Just have to bear with the pain a little longer.”
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The wall came crumbling down in great, reflective boulders studded with starlight. Obsidian or not, there was only so much that could be done to resist a Golem’s strength. Lieze broke her eyes away from the sight to force Drayya down by the scruff of her cloak - just in time to avoid a whistling gust on the wind that would have taken her head clean off.
The source slid down on the grass just ahead of them - another assassin. Not one of his movements was wasted in seeking their lives, lunging with a dagger poised to strike with two deadly thrusts. Beneath Drayya, something formless and hidden detached from her shadow, rising with impeccable accuracy to block the attack with a whip-like axeblade.
“What!?” The Elf’s words were incomprehensible to Lieze or Drayya, but the inflection of his tone denoted a universally-understood level of surprise, “What is-”
When the axeblade eased off, his weight was sent forward, and as he struggled to maintain his balance, the wicked edge circled back in the air like a bird of prey, coming around to settle right against the assassin’s neck. In the next moment, he was one head poorer, gangly limbs folding upon one-another as his body collapsed into a lifeless heap.
“Fudge!” Drayya trilled, “Good girl!”
The Void Beast emerged fully from its puddle, sitting obediently with all the nonchalance of a tiger having just ripped its prey to shreds. Drayya went to give the beast a good scratch behind the ears, but a telling stare from Lieze encouraged her to focus on more pressing matters.
“Uh… right.” She cleared her throat, “Let’s get going! We can enter the city now!”
“Wait.” Lieze held out an arm to prevent her from rushing forward, nodding towards the gaping fissure in the Black City’s obsidian perimeter, “Look.”
Beyond them, the innards of the Elven homeland were only so familiar. Lieze could spot streets, certainly, but unlike the avenue and highways of Tonberg, they had a distinct air of lifelessness about them. There was no end to the sprawling maze of obelisks extending into the city’s depths. There were no lampposts, no roads, no signs, no flairs or decorations - just a sterile, unremarkable labyrinth designed for those who had no interest in traditional beauty.
And within the outer threshold, tucked right between the wall and the circular rung of buildings wheeling around the perimeter, was a crowd. A crowd of pale, elongated faces, their eyes obscured by layers of blindfolds.
They weren’t assassins. Merely civilians. And yet their stances were alive with the very same lethality that quickened within the blood of all Elves. For the first time, Lieze couldn’t notice a suggestion of fear upon their expression as she had seen among the holds of men and Dwarves. Was it their blindfolds obscuring the horror of her thralls, or were the Elves simply made from sterner stuff?
Conscious of the ongoing battle between her own army and the Rootborne, Lieze performed a quick scan of the civilians’ levels. The results were formidable - [42], [39], [46]. A livelihood earned by struggling through the perils of Akzhem had toughened even the weakest Elves into warriors more than capable of defending their homeland. But there was an anomaly among their numbers. One higher than the rest.
He stood a full head higher than the others - practically titanic by human standards. Curtains of dark silk obscured most of his body, a trend shared by some of those he stood beside. In one hand, he gripped a gnarled foci which more resembled a spear than a staff thanks to its size, and in the other - long neck wrapped by his bony fingers - was a decanter blown from inky glass.
Kes’axumagnulet-En’budla’Akzhem-Yaan’mus’Kes’axucenarek Level 89 Transmuter (!SCION!) HP - 500 / 500 MP - 3,509 / 3,509 BODY - 5 MIND - 81 SOUL - 3
“That’s him…” She thought, “What’s that bottle he’s holding?”
A glance was all it took to reveal the answer.
Decanter of Endless Water Artefact (Very Rare) Description - When uncorked, this bottle produces an infinite amount of water (up to 2 gallons per minute if continuously poured). The enchantment powering this item is dispelled if the decanter is cracked or shattered.
“Huh… seems useless.” She muttered.
“Hm? Did you say something?” Drayya turned her head.
A bottomless decanter of water. Naturally, to the average commoner, it was a treasure worthy of its rarity. But as one’s circumstances improved, it drastically lowered in value. Why would the Head Shaman be carrying something so useless in a fight?
“Watch out for that endless bottle of water he’s carrying.” Lieze warned, “I’m not sure what he plans to do with it, but he wouldn’t have bothered bringing it along if it didn’t have a use.”
“Should I give the order to charge?” Drayya asked.
“Send a few Gravewalkers ahead first. I want to see what he’s up to.”
“That’s…” As she fell silent, the chorus of battle seemed to be growing louder by the minute, “We don’t have a lot of time to waste experimenting, Lieze.”
“I know.” She nodded, “Just trust me. This is important.”
Against her rebellious instinct, Drayya stepped forward to direct a few of the army’s lesser Gravewalkers towards the gap in the wall. Lieze observed the Head Shaman uncorking the decanter as the small army surrounding him parted warily. He allowed the water to stain the Black City’s polished streets, creating a shallow but wide puddle separating himself from the Gravewalkers.
He pointed his staff towards the water and waited for the Gravewalkers to close the gap. His heavy robes billowed under the gusts of a sorcerous wind. The obsidian crystal nestled right at its tip, channelling mana.
There was a spark. Then another. Then two more. Then, in a flash, the Gravewalkers were bathed in a wide column of fire. Before their very eyes, the puddle of water had metamorphosed into scalding flames. It was the kind of miracle only seen in fairy tales - or a transmuter’s laboratory.
“He transmuted the water that quickly!?” Drayya blinked, “Of course… Lieze!”
She placed both hands on the girl’s shoulders.
“That guy is the Scion of Transmutation, isn’t he!?” Her eyes widened, “-If that bottle of water is endless, he can turn it into whatever he wants! We need to break it before he can do something really dangerous!”