The city, once a bastion of advancement and prosperity, now lay in ruins, its crumbling edifices and deserted streets whispering tales of a fall from grace. Through this desolate urban landscape moved a solitary figure, swift and silent as a shadow at twilight. Yumiko, her senses honed to a razor's edge, navigated the maze of destruction with a purpose that belied the apparent hopelessness of her surroundings.
The debris-strewn streets served as both path and obstacle, a testament to the city's last, gasping breaths in the face of calamity. Yet, for Yumiko, each overturned vehicle, each shattered pane of glass, and each gaping fissure in the earth was not merely wreckage but a challenge to be overcome, a puzzle to be solved at speed.
Her mission was clear, etched in the forefront of her mind with unwavering clarity: find Ajal and reunite with her teammates. The isolation weighed heavily on her, a stark contrast to the unity and strength they wielded as a team. The absence of Jean's strategic mind, Arc's unwavering bravery, and Ajal's carefree attitude, left a void that Yumiko felt with every step.
But there was no time to dwell on the void, for the city was not as dead as it seemed. Amidst the silence, a new danger stirred, an unseen hand casting forth a maelstrom of debris that turned the air itself into a weapon. Yumiko's agility was her shield, her body weaving through the air with the grace and precision of a leaf on the wind. She dodged a piece of twisted rebar that whistled past, a deadly missile aimed with intent, then rolled beneath a flying chunk of concrete that seemed almost to seek her out.
Her heart pounded in her ears, a drumbeat pushing her forward, even as her mind raced to identify the source of the assault. Who, or what, could command the very ruins to rise against her?
The realization that this was no random occurrence, but rather a targeted attack, sharpened Yumiko's focus. It wasn't merely about survival now; it was a test, a challenge laid down by an unseen adversary who wielded the city's wreckage like a maestro conducting a symphony of destruction.
As Yumiko leapt from the shadow of one decaying building to the relative cover of another, she caught a glimpse of movement atop a nearby pile of rubble—a silhouette, human in shape but elusive as the wind itself.
Yumiko did not slow; she did not falter. Instead, she accelerated, her path a weaving tapestry of motion designed to confound and evade her pursuer. The city around her might have been a ruin, but within its broken heart lay the stage for a confrontation that would test every ounce of her skill and cunning.
With each dodging step, Yumiko felt the distance between herself and the figurer shift and change, a dynamic dance of predator and prey. But in this dance, the line between the two blurred. For Yumiko was not one to be hunted so easily. She was a member of Team Z, a warrior tempered by trials and bonded by the strength of her comrades.
And so, as the first light of dawn began to pierce the veil of night, casting long shadows across the battlefield that the city had become, Yumiko prepared herself. For in the heart of this desolation, amidst the whispering winds and the wreckage of a world that once was, she would stand her ground.
⁂
"Arc, she doesn't seem inclined to give us a choice," Jean observed, his voice steady as he scanned their surroundings.
Arc nodded, her body tensing as she prepared for what might come next. "It appears so, Master Jean," she replied, her eyes scanning the horizon for any sign of danger.
Jean let out a slow breath, shifting his weight slightly as he adopted a more defensive stance. "Well, it looks like we'll have to double our efforts to convince her of our peaceful intentions," he mused, a hint of determination in his tone.
Arc looked at Jean with a mixture of admiration and concern. "But, Master Jean, one cannot claim to mean no harm while simultaneously inflicting it," she pointed out, her voice laced with a hint of sarcasm.
Jean offered a wry smile, even as the surrounding tension mounted. "That's the paradox of doing good, Arc. Sometimes, you have to get your hands a little dirty to achieve the greater good."
"Enough," the Drapabarn interjected, her voice cutting through the air like a knife. "Your names."
Jean met her gaze with a calm that belied the gravity of their situation. "I'm Jean," he said simply. "And this is Arc."
Arc gave a respectful nod, her posture still alert and ready for any sudden movements.
The Drapabarn nodded curtly. "Sosira."
As Sosira introduced herself, the surrounding atmosphere seemed to shift, becoming charged with a palpable tension that hinted at the impending conflict.
Without the slightest prelude, the air itself seemed to charge as Sosira launched herself at Jean with a ferocity that split the silence like a clap of thunder. Her right arm coiled back like a serpent poised to strike, muscles tensed and primed with deadly intent. Her fist, a harbinger of raw power, sailed through the air, zeroing in on Jean with unerring precision.
But the blow never landed. In the mere blink of an eye, Arc interposed herself between them, the embodiment of grace under pressure. With a palm as steady as the ancient oaks and reflexes as swift as the rushing wind, she captured the Drapabarn's punch with a fortitude that belied her serene exterior. The force of the halted strike reverberated through the subway, a shockwave of thwarted strength meeting an immovable force, and for a fleeting moment, the world held its breath.
Arc's expression was a calm sea, betraying none of the storm of combat as she smoothly lowered her intercepting palm. With the elegance of a dancer and the swiftness of a striking cobra, she redirected her energy upward, her own arm shooting up in a counter that promised retribution. Her fist, aiming with surgical precision, ascended in a powerful arc, targeting the underside of Sosira's jaw in what should have been a staggering uppercut.
The impact echoed with a thud, as if she had struck not flesh but marble. The blow landed with unyielding solidity on the Drapabarn's jaw, yet Sosira remained as unshaken as a mountain, her stance as unyielding as if her roots delved deep into the earth itself.
In stark contrast, a flicker of surprise, and then a wince of agony, flashed across Arc's features as she drew back her arm. She held her throbbing fist, the pain a testament to Sosira's hidden resilience or perhaps an indication of some unseen armor. Arc's eyes, filled with a mix of confusion and dawning realization, locked with Sosira's, who stood unfazed, a silent challenge emanating from her unwavering posture.
Jean shook himself from his reverie, his focus sharpening on the imminent danger posed by their foe. In a snap decision, he opted to throw caution to the wind, to engage rather than retreat, hoping to take the Drapabarn off-guard and perhaps gain the upper hand. His body shot toward Sosira in a low, diving tackle that aimed to bring down even such a hulking target.
Sosira did not waver, her body as steadfast as the trees that ringed the glade. With barely a shift in position, she planted one heavy foot, rooting it like the thickest oak, and delivered a mighty swing towards Jean. Even as the attack appeared telegraphed, Jean knew that it could spell the end of him, and the thought struck a spark of adrenaline into his veins. With all his strength, Jean rolled out of the way, managing to escape the grazing force of Sosira's hit by mere millimeters.
As Jean landed, the full weight of the exchange pressed down on his chest, his body keenly aware that their chances of success seemed slim at best. He glanced at Arc, a grim question in his eyes. The Drapabarn, sensing that the battle might tip in her favor, stepped closer, her shoulders hunched with renewed determination and confidence. Her fists, twice as large as normal hands, curled with tightly leashed violence.
Jean met her gaze head-on, refusing to yield. "Arc, do you trust me?" he asked, his voice low and urgent.
Arc, standing tall, met his gaze, her own expression set with an implacable resolve. "Implicitly, master," she said, her words heavy with a truth that seemed to transcend the circumstances.
Jean gave a terse nod, the motion sharp and decisive, an unspoken agreement passing through the charged air. With no time to waste, he pivoted on his heel, his gaze locking onto the shadowy maw of the subway entrance. Muscles coiled, he launched himself towards it, his sprint full of urgent purpose. Feet pounding against the pavement, he darted into the stairwell, taking the steps two at a time in his haste to retreat into the subterranean refuge.
"Coward!" Sosira's scornful accusation sliced through the din of the city, her voice a resonant bell of contempt that chased after Jean's retreating figure. The word hung in the aftermath, a label meant to shame, yet worn by Jean as a mantle of strategic withdrawal, not defeat.
For while Sosira might call him a coward, Jean would always choose courage over violence.
Behind her, Sosira sensed rather than saw Arc's reaction to Jean's departure. She turned with deliberate slowness, her focus fixed on the remaining fighter as if preparing to pounce upon the slightest advantage. However, when her gaze fell on Arc, what she saw took her aback.
Instead of anger or indignation, Arc's face seemed marked by an odd sort of resignation, as if she expected nothing less and held no grudge. To Sosira's heightened perception, it seemed that beneath this apparent acceptance ran a stream of fierce determination, but she could not be sure of it. Arc aimed her determined gaze past Sosira and towards the keystone. The timer that was at 20 minutes crept down to a mere 15.
A silence descended over the glade, a quietude that settled over them like the calm before the storm. A wind swept through the treetops, stirring the leaves in a whisper of warning as the air grew taut with an unspoken challenge.
Arc's body coiled, then exploded into motion, a sudden blur of speed that sent her hurtling past Sosira with the ferocity of a tempest. Her legs carried her swiftly, each stride closing the distance to the keystone — that critical piece upon which victory hinged. Sosira could only track her with widened eyes, taken aback by the sheer velocity that defied Arc's earlier composure.
As the keystone glinted tantalizingly close within reach, Arc extended her arm with desperate urgency, her fingers splayed and yearning for the touch that would seal their claim. But in the breath before triumph, a sinister force ensnared her leg. Something unseen and unyielding cinched tight and yanked backward, pulling Arc away from her prize.
With the keystone just millimeters from her fingertips, Arc was wrenched back, her forward momentum cruelly arrested. A gasp escaped her as she found herself suddenly airborne, then crashing to the ground, the keystone now a distant dream just beyond grasp.
Arc’s gaze dropped to her ensnared leg, where she witnessed the red wraps unfurling, slithering away like serpents retreating after a strike. Her analytical eyes traced their retreat, watching as they wound their way back to Sosira, entwining around her arms like crimson vines seeking a sturdy trunk.
"I see," Arc murmured, her voice a mixture of intrigue and acknowledgment. She studied the bandages, noting their hue—a stark, vibrant red, so different from the ones that had ensnared Ajal. "Those bandages move according to your will. It’s the same wraps as the one that took Ajal, but they are a different color."
Sosira regarded Arc with a piercing stare, a silent assertion of her readiness to engage. Arc, undeterred by the fall, was already rising, her posture poised and resolute, undaunted by the earlier setback.
"Fight. Then ya' can take the keystone," Sosira declared, her voice low and unyielding, offering the path to victory as a challenge to be met head-on, in the throes of combat.
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"Very well," Arc responded, her acceptance firm and her voice tinged with the steely resolve of a seasoned warrior.
In the next heartbeat, with no room for hesitation or doubt, both combatants surged forward. Their movements were swift, a mirror of intent and action as they closed the gap between them. With a convergence of momentum, their fists met in a clash that resonated with the force of their mutual resolve.
The sound of their collision, skin against skin, was like the crash of cymbals, marking the beginning of their battle for the keystone—a battle that would be as much about wits and will as it was about the physical prowess each displayed in that electrifying moment of contact.
⁂
Ezekiel navigated a labyrinth of destruction, his boots crunching over debris as he weaved through the skeletal remains of what were once thriving buildings. The streets lay desolate, with only the ghosts of their past liveliness echoing off the hollowed walls. With each dash across the exposed expanses of the urban wasteland, the air would sing with the deadly hum of arrows, each one a lethal whisper cutting through the silence, aiming to turn him from hunter to prey. The whizzing sound became a menacing rhythm, punctuating his every move in the open with the constant threat of a sharp, swift end.
"The time it takes the arrow to get to me is getting shorter. Which means I'm getting closer." Ezekiel said to himself. He had stopped looking at where the arrows came from, knowing that each time he turned, there'd be an arrow shooting down from a different angle. Now, all he had to do was follow the path they created, as they became a web that drew tighter the nearer to them he got.
An arrow flew right past his shoulder, close enough that he felt the rush of the wind as it grazed by. A second later, the arrow sank into the wall behind him. He'd only blinked. No matter how much effort he put into timing them, anticipating which direction or angle they're fired from, a few always seemed to slip past his notice, catching him completely off guard.
Suddenly, a stray arrow ripped straight through his jacket, embedding itself in the concrete behind him. He instinctively threw himself to the ground, rolling underneath the next projectile that soared through the air.
"Just a little more," He said.
His feet barely touched the ground in his sprints, pushing off with powerful dashes that carried him through the open with heart-pounding risk. Each jump was a calculated leap, bringing him ever closer to his goal.
Finally, he arrived at the precipice of the underground, the entrance to the sewers looming before him like the mouth of Hell. There, in the shadow of the city's underbelly, an idea sparked to life in his mind—a flicker of strategy in the midst of chaos. The sewers could provide the cover he needed, turning the hunter into a phantom, invisible to the archers who stalked his every step above ground. With the darkness as his ally, Ezekiel prepared to descend into the depths, where the game of cat and mouse would twist into his favor.
"Can't believe I'm going to put my shoes through this," He muttered.
With a quick, fluid motion, Ezekiel slipped open the manhole cover that guarded the entrance, his body melting into the shadows below.
Down in the dark bowels of the city, Ezekiel kept his senses attuned to every change in the environment around him. Though the sounds of his footsteps echoed faintly against the brick walls, the roar of the water drowned out everything else. As he traversed the tunnels, he couldn't help but marvel at the fact that such a system could still be functional despite the devastation above ground.
"This arena is kinda weird."
Ezekiel's mind was a whirlwind of thoughts, each vying for attention, but the urgency of his situation allowed no time for introspection. He pressed on, his steps echoing through the damp corridors of the sewer, the stench of decay and neglect thick in the air.
Soon, his path opened up into an empty room, a hollow chamber that stood as a silent crossroads beneath the city. The room was barren, save for the multiple tunnels that branched out like the limbs of a dark, subterranean tree. Each passage promised its own set of dangers and secrets, a network of choices that lay before him like a challenge. With only his instincts to guide him, Ezekiel prepared to make his next move.
Ezekiel stepped forward cautiously, the moist floor beneath his feet muffling the sound of his movements. The air hung heavy with anticipation, as if the very walls were holding their breath.
Without warning, the silence shattered as arrows surged forth from the darkness of each tunnel, turning the room into a deadly hailstorm of pointed shafts. With the reflexes of a seasoned warrior, Ezekiel sprang into action. His body twisted and turned, weaving through the air as he dodged the relentless barrage. Each movement was a dance of survival, a step ahead of the razor's edge.
In the moments he wasn't evading, his guns roared to life. With a practiced hand, he shot down arrow after arrow, the gunfire punctuating the whoosh of flying projectiles. His aim was precise, each bullet meeting its mark with deadly accuracy.
The attack seemed endless, but Ezekiel's resolve was ironclad. With a blend of agility and firepower, he managed to stave off the assault, standing unscathed amidst the storm of arrows. The room grew silent once more, but the echo of his defiance lingered, a testament to his indomitable spirit.
"You really followed me down here? Dumb move considering you lost your high ground from the buildings," Ezekiel said, his voice a melody of confidence and reproach. The words carried through the stale air of the underground, echoing off the walls with a resonance that seemed to make the shadows themselves shiver.
The darkness of the tunnel seemed to deepen, clinging to the figure that emerged with a slow, deliberate gait. He was tall, his frame cloaked in black, with robes flowing around him like the inky tendrils of the night. An elegant, traditional hairpin held his long, raven hair in a loose topknot, from which a few strands escaped, framing a face marked by an enigmatic serenity.
The man’s attire spoke of a bygone era, a nod to the ancient traditions from which he likely hailed. His black robes were adorned with subtle, intricate patterns that absorbed the scant light, shimmering only when he moved. Upon his chest, a pendant glinted—a symbol etched into a golden disc, suggesting an allegiance to a house or creed that Ezekiel couldn’t place.
But it wasn’t his clothing or even the regal way he held himself that captivated Ezekiel—it was the bands on his arms, glinting with metallic sheen, and the quiver of arrows strapped across his back that hinted at his readiness for battle. His hands were clasped before him in a gesture that was almost meditative, yet he felt the latent power within him, a coiled spring hidden beneath a calm surface.
The man's presence commanded the still air of the tunnel, his figure both a bastion of calm in the echoing silence and a herald of the storm that might follow. Though his eyes were closed, there was nothing submissive about his stance; it was the repose of a dragon coiled amidst clouds, a master swordsman with a sheathed blade.
His eyelids lay composed over eyes unseen, yet the potency of his gaze was undiminished—as if behind those closed curtains, there lay oceans of wisdom and constellations of power, waiting to be unveiled. The gentle arch of his brows added a softness to his otherwise stern visage, suggesting a discipline over the intensity that resided within.
The subtlety of his blind gaze spoke volumes; it was a silent challenge, a serene display of confidence that he could feel the world around him without the need to look upon it with open eyes.
"Nice enough to show yourself," Ezekiel called out, his voice echoing in the now silent chamber.
The figure remained silent, a sentinel with a bow in hand.
"Not a talker?" Ezekiel observed, a hint of amusement in his tone. "That's fine. Had enough of those already. Let's not drag this out and get started already."
The archer responded with a silent nod, a tacit acceptance of the challenge. He drew the string back to his cheek, his posture a perfect blend of tension and poise. Ezekiel watched, his eyes sharp, noting the archer's calculated movements and the measured breath that preceded the shot.
In a flash, Ezekiel sprang to the side, rolling away as the arrow whistled past, grazing the space he had occupied moments before. He came up with an almost wicked grin, a predator closing in on his prey.
With a burst of speed, Ezekiel charged forward, closing the distance between them. His intent was clear—to engage the archer in close combat, where the bow would be less effective and the fight would be decided by skill.
The archer, anticipating Ezekiel's aggressive approach, nimbly sidestepped his initial strike. With a fluid motion, he redirected his aim, pointing the bow at the ground between them. The release of the arrow was followed by a sudden, silent shockwave that rippled through the chamber. The force of the blast sent both combatants hurtling backward, creating a sudden and unexpected gap between them.
As they were propelled through the air, the archer, with a grace that defied the chaos of their flight, nocked another arrow. In the brief moment before he landed, he let the arrow fly. It sliced through the air with lethal precision, narrowly grazing Ezekiel's shoulder. The sting of the wound was a sharp reminder of the archer's skill and the perilous dance they were engaged in.
The two combatants stood at opposite ends of the room once more, but neither was willing to give quarter. They squared off against each other, their weapons ready, each weighing the odds in this new stalemate.
Ezekiel fired his guns, but the archer's arrows, in a feat that defied conventional logic, intercepted the bullets. His analytical mind raced, dissecting the situation.
"Okay, no one can just ready a bow fast enough to stop a bullet," he said, thinking aloud. "Which leads me to two conclusions. One, your Gift lets you summon arrows where you want by pulling back your quiver. Two, you're using Sho, one of the nine-steps. It increases your speed, so you're using it to increase your movements when drawing your bow back."
In response, the archer simply extended three fingers, a silent confirmation of Ezekiel's deductions.
"A combination then?" Ezekiel replied, a smirk playing on his lips. "Fine with me. I'm winning either way."
His confidence was unwavering, bolstered by the thrill of facing an opponent who wielded such a unique blend of abilities. The challenge only fueled his determination to emerge victorious, regardless of the archer's formidable arsenal.
⁂
Ajal slowly regained consciousness, a throbbing pain pulsating at the back of his head. He gingerly stood up, his hand instinctively reaching for the source of discomfort. "Ow," he winced, the memory of being dragged and then unceremoniously slammed on his head coming back in a rush. "Guess I got knocked out for a bit. I wonder how long we have left in the test."
His surroundings were a blur as he tried to orient himself, the events leading up to his blackout still a hazy memory. The test, the competition, and the urgency of it all slowly pieced themselves back together in his mind as he took a deep breath.
"Around 20 minutes," a girl's voice responded a few feet from Ajal.
In front of Ajal stood a character who seemed to have stepped out of a gothic fairytale. Her hair was a cascade of lavender, flowing down and contrasting with the darker shades of her attire. She donned an elegant, Victorian-inspired dress, the bodice a classic black adorned with intricate lacing in a striking blue, cinching her waist with a hint of regal austerity. The voluminous, ruffled skirt flared out, edged with a gradient of deep purples that whispered of twilight shadows. Accents of lace embellished her ensemble, from the trim of her skirt to the delicate choker around her neck. In addition to her Victorian dress, the character was adorned with arm sleeves that matched the darkly whimsical aesthetic of her outfit. The sleeves were of the same black as her dress, snug against her slender arms and extending from her wrists up to her elbows, where they flared into delicate lace cuffs. The sleeves were a seamless extension of her attire, accentuating the elegance of her movements and adding to the gothic charm that she exuded. Her ensemble was completed by a pair of high-laced, heeled boots, and her overall demeanor exuded an air of mysterious allure.
Clutched in her arms was a stuffed animal, a plush rabbit with a soft, velvet purple fur that would invite anyone to touch it. Its oversized, floppy ears framed a face that was a patchwork of emotions— one eye a button, the other a stitched cross, while a heart, split between love and despair, was emblazoned on its chest. The plush seemed like a guardian of secrets, its mismatched eyes suggesting it had seen much more than its cuddly exterior would suggest. This peculiar, endearing creature in her arms appeared to be a loyal companion to the enigmatic girl.
Ajal, still disoriented from his abrupt awakening, jumped as the stuffed rabbit spoke. "He woke up fast."
"Whoa! It spoke!" he exclaimed, startled by the plush's unexpected animation.
"She spoke," the girl corrected sharply, a flash of annoyance crossing her features. "Jolly deserves the same respect humans get."
"Ah, my bad," Ajal replied quickly, trying to smooth over his mistake. "We have an avatar in our group, too. Her name's Arc. So, her name is Jolly? Got it, and what's your name?"
In a display of indignation, the girl puffed out her cheeks and turned her head away, uttering a petulant "Hmph!"
Jolly let out a small, resigned sigh. "Yes, Jolly is Jolly. Jolly's master's name is Molly."
"Why did you tell him?!" Molly's frustration was evident, even as her face remained averted.
"It's only common courtesy," Jolly reasoned, her voice calm and almost matronly. "Molly dragged him here without his consent; the least Molly can do is tell him our names."
Ajal couldn't help but chuckle, finding the situation and their dynamic unexpectedly endearing.
"And what's so funny?" Molly demanded, her patience waning. "Hurry and get up; we don't have much time left to fight."
"Aww, I like you guys. I don't want to fight," Ajal said, his smile broadening.
But before he could react further, white wraps shot toward him with startling speed. With agile reflexes, Ajal dodged out of the way and turned to see Molly, her arms now enshrouded in white bandages.
"Wait, I thought Jolly was your Gift?" he asked, eyeing the bandages warily.
Molly sighed, her tone one of gentle exasperation. "My Gift is still Jolly. She lets me copy the Gift of whoever she touches. Which includes you, Inheritor of Death."
Then, in a spectacle that rendered Ajal speechless, Jolly melded into Molly, forming a hood with lengthy rabbit ears that draped behind Molly like a majestic cape, fluttering with an ethereal life of their own. The hood was large enough the leave a dark shadow over her eyes, the only thing visible was the deep purple gaze that shined through the darkness. The merging was seamless, a sight both wondrous and ominous as the stuffed animal and girl became one.
With their combination complete, a scythe materialized in Molly's hands, its blade wreathed in a lavender flame that seemed to echo the soul of Jolly. Molly, now a singular entity with her avatar, stood ready, a warrior bonded with the essence of her gift, the Inheritor of Death's power now hers to command.