Magic is quite the extraordinary thing.

Of course Malt had known this prior, but save for the time that Nasir demonstrated his illusion magic, he hadn’t really experienced it before.

It was a strange sensation more than anything else.

While holding the strange sword, he could practically feel the blade vibrating with some form of energy, so much so that he felt anxious when waving it around.

But as he’d soon find out, the blade was much sturdier than he gave it credit for.

Parrying Pavel’s swings became trivial at that point. Every time their blades clashed, a deafening clang would reverberate throughout the woodland, and with it, the smaller of the two blades would be pushed back as if repelled by some external force.

Whereas Malt had been constantly on the defence, he now pushed forward in confident strides, deflecting any strikes that came his way without as much as blinking.

Just beyond this flurry of sparks, Pavel’s face scrunched in a mix of frustration and impatience, as well as a hint of panic. He’d tried to counterattack multiple times already, but to no avail.

No matter how much he tried to ignore or deny it, the fact of the matter was that Malt was the better swordsman of the two. His movements were efficient and committed to heart, and his body reacted to blows as if it was second nature. Pavel’d only been winning thus far due to pure physical prowess, but now that Nasir’s magic had levelled the playing field, he was at the definite disadvantage.

In a fit of frustration, he lashed forward with his unprotected hand in an attempt to drag the fight into unarmed combat, where he could regain advantage.

Malt seized this opportunity without a second thought.

Instead of backing away as one would typically do, he lunged forward and with a quick swipe, the pads of Pavel’s fingers were sheared off, dropping dully to the ground.

A guttural bellow erupting from his gullet, he hastily pulled back his mutilated arm, swinging with his other in an attempt to cover his retreat.

But Malt didn’t stop there, one of the most important things he’d learnt on the battlefield was that excessive force was preferable to inadequate force.

There was nothing worse than maiming an opponent thinking that you’ve put him out of the fight, only for him to rise again a few minutes later to stab you, or worse, your comrade, in the back.

It wasn’t a slash to the chest and a stab to the neck, it was a dozen across the chest and three through the throat. You make absolutely sure that anyone defeated was ded without a doubt, as cruel as it sounds.

With this in mind, Malt used the circular steel pommel at the end of his sword and crammed it into Pavel’s nose, crushing it as blood began pouring from the mishappen chunk of cartilage.

Now came the finisher. He grabbed the end of his blade as one might hold a spear, leaving just a couple inches near the tip exposed.

As he did so, Pavel threw a horizontal cleave, one that would have split Malt’s head from head to ear had Malt not internalized Pavel’s movements.

The way he fought held practically no semblance of skill. All he did was swing his sword around as a kid might swing a branch around, not even bothering to utilize one of the sword’s deadliest bits, the tip.

Predicting his movements was fairly simple knowing this.

As he felt his hair flutter from the blade flying overhead, Malt found himself eye-level with Pavel’s protruding gut, the perfect position. He rotated his upper body as if he were winding up a coil, simultaneously tensing his body.

Then, in an explosive release of pressure, he jammed the sword’s tip into the side of his Pavel’s knee, sticking perfectly in between his kneecap and femur.

Pavel’s uncharacteristically agonized screams filled the air, egging for Malt to go on. He wiggled the blade violently and felt as it severed tendons, veins, and the soft, tender flesh behind the knee. The bones creaked as they were being literally pried apart.

Pavel collapsed onto his other knee, unable to stand, let alone retaliate.

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Malt abruptly yanked the blade out, inciting a yelp. He’d already accomplished his goal, but it would be foolish not to take advantage of such a ripe opportunity, no?

The tip of his blade made a beeline for Pavel’t throat, nearly skewering the once-smug bastard. He’d managed to move his head to the side, but the blade still managed to cut a gnarly gash into the side of his neck. A hefty amount of crimson began spilling from it, indicating that at least a minor artery had been severed.

Malt’s lips curved into a satisfied grin, such an injury wasn’t certain to be fatal, but it would definitely put a fighter out of a battle, though it might take a few seconds for the blood-loss to set in.

He held the blade there, using his other hand to rock it back and forth in a sawing motion. With each movement, the blade slid in a few millimeters deeper, causing more blood to spill from the thin laceration.

“...you...motherfu...cker-”

Malt’s eyebrow raised in surprise at Pavel’s pained groan. This wasn’t the first time he’d done this, and in every other instance, his opponent would usually have trouble breathing at this point.

The pain and panic would more times than not make it harder to breathe, and if they had the willpower to resist the pain, the blade would eventually enter the side of their jugular anyway. Their arms would be useless, being obstructed by his own body. They wouldn’t be able to muster any strength in such a precarious situation either, which made this technique one of Malt’s favorites.

He brushed it aside, chalking it up to Pavel’s abnormal strength.

As he thought this, a Nasir’s strained voice called out from behind him.

“You should probably back up now, lad. Things are going to get pretty messy.”

Malt turned around slightly, seeing Nasir standing there surrounded by an uncountable number of blue orbs. Dozens, no hundreds of them surrounded the aging man, shaking as if they wanted to be set free. And judging by the strain on Nasir’s usually calm face, that was probably exactly the reason.

Not asking any questions, Malt promptly turned back and attempted to yank his sword away. To his confusion, it didn’t budge an inch.

His brows furrowed. At closer inspection, he found that the gash on Pavel’s neck had somehow tightened, as if it were clamping down into the steel of Malt’s sword.

While he stood there bewildered, something caught his eye.

Pavel’s entire body was twitching strangely, and not in the way that a person in the process of dying would. The muscles on his body twitched and shivered uncannily, like his entire body was cramping up.

When Malt’s eyes finally made its way to the guy’s face, things became much clearer.

The veins in his face protruded and his eyes looked as if they were going to pop out of their sockets. His lips were pulled back several inches more than what could be classified as normal, and his gums seemed like they were protruding.

It turned out that they didn’t seem like they were protruding, they were protruding.

Malt watched in horror as the entire front of his skull elongated with audible cracking, stretching his flesh like it was putty. All the while, screams and cries escaped from his locked jaws, slowly turning more guttural, and less human. It was like watching a cicada molt.

Goosebump-like speckles began forming on his skin, covering every inch of his body. A few seconds later, long, slick black hairs began spooling out of them as if they were moles.

Malt reeled back, suppressing the urge to gag at the sight. He was beginning to realize why the situation was about to ‘get pretty messy.’

Still halfway through his transformation, Pavel grabbed the unsuspecting Malt with his grossly elongated arms, covered partially in patches of matted black fur.

The speed and violence of his movements was nothing like it had been before. Malt hadn’t the speed nor strength to resist in any way whatsoever.

He brought Malt up to his grossly malformed face, he couldn’t decide whether it looked disturbing because it looked like a hairy human or a hairless canine.

He bared his enlarged canines, snarling inches from Malt’s face. Malt winced. Slobber was being splattered all over his face, which was really the least of his worries.

Pavel’s half flat half incisor teeth separated to reveal a gaping maw. Rancid, moist air plumed right into Malt’s face, making squirm on top of already trying to escape, despite how futile it was.

The struggling on his part was really just an unconscious action, he knew that trying to wiggle his way out would be like trying to drain a lake with a bucket. The only reason he wasn’t panicking as much as he should have was because of one factor.

“Get off of him, you lousy mutt.”

Nasir’s sharp, icy voice was like music to his ears.

A wave of blinding blue death came barreling towards them, to Malt’s relief.

But as the missiles surged toward them, his relief quickly turned into disdain. The area of effect of Nasir’s spell was much, much wider than he’d expected it to be.

It was less like a torrent of arrows like the other spells had been, and more like an explosion that engulfed everything within a half-circle in front of him.

Pavel didn’t even try to escape, because he too knew that there wasn’t any way out.

As Malt witnessed the incoming barrage of sapphire, unable to do anything else, he couldn’t help but say out loud what he'd thought multiple times within the last few minutes.

“Are you shitting me?”