Chapter 205
There Was Once a Man Who Could Not Die (V)
Sylas drew out his sword and slashed forward, moving at the speed inconceivable to an ordinary eye. And yet, the King followed–blinking backward and summoning golden lightning that turned into a shape of a spear and thrusting it forward. The clash resulted in yet another explosion, bouncing him back as his skin melted off.
However, just as quickly as it melted, it healed. This was their eleventh clash. Though Sylas turned the blind eye to it, there was a notable difference in strength after one of the loops. The King received help from someone, but it only made what was a boorish story more fun. It had been a while, after all, since Sylas could almost go all out while fighting. Though he still held back, as he could still kill the King in one go if he sacrificed enough lives, this was enough.
Being ragdolled about by magic that could shatter the world was fun. Losing his mind trying to find a way through without being melted was fun. Fighting off countless bolts of lightning, each of which can easily disintegrate his limbs off, was fun. It was tireless, the long walk and the short battle.
Sylas often heard and read of the legends of fights that lasted for days, with two combatants going at each other relentlessly as the sun and the moon exchanged the viewing seats. Two souls locked in a death grip, swirling in the currents of doom. But this fight was not like that–they had never fought longer than ten minutes. Neither held back, there was no testing of the other, no warm-up. They both went all out from the onset, shattering the domain around them into pieces as they worked to slay one another.
One bolt of lightning was in equal measures deadly to Sylas as it was to the world–and his swings and thrusts would open a gash in spacetime, let alone human flesh. Bit by bit, they were growing slightly longer, however. The King was finding it harder and harder to finish Sylas off, and the latter was slowly working through being able to approach the gold-clad King without dying in the process.
It was simple, the theory of the fight–both men knew that if Sylas managed to reach the sword’s true slashing distance, the King would die. All the ranged attacks in the world were simply means for the swordsman to come closer, while a mage had to keep his distance perpetually, whittling down the immortal man.
And those stories played out time and again, two men wrestling in the domain of death, attacks that would undo mortality of man in a flash sweeping past the dead fields regularly. It was a scene that only the immortal eyes could capture, and a story that would never be known.
Sylas fell to his knees, his right side completely obliterated, the last of his hearts bleeding out. He had come within twenty feet at last–enough to smell the end. The King stood away still, breathing heavily, staring at the dying man in horror. He was endowed with the blessing of the Voyager, power beyond that of even a God’s, but he was still beginning to falter. No matter what he did, no matter what scenarios he ran through his head, no matter how well he executed his plans… it all faltered. It all fell apart before his eyes, fight by fight.
There was nothing he could do, he knew, to escape fate. All he wanted, though, was to make it longer. Just a tiny bit longer. Another day to feel what it was like to be unchained. But those days… they were coming to an end.
“... this might have been my last victory,” the King said with a solemn gaze.
“Perhaps,” the man replied, smiling. “Why? Are you disappointed?”
“No,” the King shook his head. “The opposite. I felt what I chased all my life, however briefly. I have no regrets.”
“What’s that like?”
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“What?”
“Having no regrets.”
“... you have regrets?”
“A mountain of them,” the man said. “If I were capable of death, I’d be a lost ghoul haunting this world for at least a few eternities.”
“And yet you’ve come this far,” the King said after a brief chuckle.
“... and yet I’ve come this far.” The man said, looking up at the dark, clouded sky.
“Do you still think that your life here was led down an inevitable line?”
“... wasn’t it?” the man asked. “I mean, I did take a few side roads here and there, but that was just a brief distraction.”
“I would have never fought you,” the King said. “Merely bent my head forward so you can slice it off. Never once did I think, even for a moment, that you would grow strong enough to rival me.”
“...”
“The ending to the story is important,” the King said. “But its permanence is… deceiving.”
“No, I get it,” the man chuckled lightly. “I’m not bitter. I’m not angry. Not anymore, at least. Merely regretful that I’ve wandered blind this world for countless years before finally growing my IQ to that above the room’s temperature.”
“... that’s good. Truth be told, Lea and I didn’t think too much about you before it all began. We didn’t consider we’d be changing the life of someone so monumentally their mind would crack. All we could think of was our boy, was this place–how to make it all come true.”
“How the hell did you even get a Voyager to assist you?” the man asked.
“That was the least difficult part,” the King chuckled. “Voyagers assist whoever asks. But only a few are willing to pay the price.”
“So, what was your price?”
“... I’ll see you next time, Sylas.”
“That horrible?” the man smiled as he blew up his fading heart. “Whatever you’ve done, I’ve done worse.”
“...”
Sylas sat perched on top of the lonely, snow-coated walls of the castle hidden deep in the winter’s north. Silence was only ever interrupted by the buzzing and the howling of the fjordian winds, carrying on their eternal, uninterrupted mission. He drank the rather sweet wine in silence, his heart a calm sea. This would be the last one, he realised. The last journey south.
Many and all things led him here, over the years that he had long since lost count of, months away from inking the last letter of the story he was summoned to write. And all he felt was… calm. For even though the story he was summoned to write was ending, his story, he knew, was only just beginning.
“Got a place for another alcoholic up there?” his lips curled up into a smile when he glanced back. Asha stood below, her eyes looking up at him.
“Always,” he beckoned as she climbed up, sitting by his side. “When did you become an alcoholic?”
“You mean when did you make me an alcoholic?”
“Oh, so we’re blaming me, now?”
“Of course. Who else?” she took a sip directly from the bottle. “Before you, I was but an innocent, Holy Maiden devoted to light who knew not one of the world’s vices. But then you came along and, well, fucked it all up to be honest.”
“And, yes, me. The fucker of everything. Holy Maidens especially.”
“Hey!” she elbowed him gently as the two swayed for a moment before she rested her head onto his shoulder. “Are you scared?” she asked after a few moments of silence.
“Terrified.”
“You don’t seem it.”
“What about you?”
“What about me?”
“Are you excited to see how the story ends?”
“... I am,” she replied. “It’s been a long time comin’.”
“It has,” Sylas nodded. “Do you know how many years exactly?”
“I do.”
“Will you tell me?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because years are meaningless.”
“All the more reason to share,” he chuckled. “Because they are meaningless.”
“I misspoke. They are full of meaning.”
“Musta been thousands,” he said, taking a sip. “Jesus. Just sayin’ it out loud sounds absolutely insane. Thousands of years. You know, back on my other world–thousands of years represented… well, everything, to be honest. Our entire civilised history. From the cradle of the first societies to whatever nightmare-fueled hellhole I ended up being plucked from. To think I outlived all those lives that kindled and flamed out. I still remember some names, magically. Cleopatra was a big one.”
“Oh? What’s that?”
“Not what–who. It was this empress or queen or princess or something,” he said, taking a sip. “No clue what she did, how she did it, why she did it. I just know her name was up in the pantheon of historical figures. She and all others came and went with the fire of time… and my stay here numbered longer. Thousands of years…” he mumbled, looking hollowly into the distance. There was something lost in his gaze, though how important it was, it was impossible to say.
The two stayed silent for a long, long, long time after, Asha’s head perched on his immovable shoulder, winds whipping up their loose clothes. It was a painting with no meaning, a contradiction that should not be, a thing that can not. And yet the heavens above and earth below witnessed it, and the invisible pen inked it into the tomes of permanence, for the history that was halted for times incalculable was to resume, and the river of time was to finally unclog its infinite streams.