Mhaieiyu

Arc 2, Chapter 3

One in the Chamber

“Don’t even try it!” Corvus yelled, kicking at the anonymous marksman’s legs only to meet air and muck.

Leaping into the air, the barrel of their pistol would align with the soldier’s head amidst a brilliant spin. The chamber of the gun wouldn’t detonate, however, as a brutal collision would send their body awry.

A mass of leather smashed through the wall in front, levelling the already wilted state of the cobble. In that same instant, the enemy was knocked away with a swipe of a shield, sending them eastward with a skip and a roll against the rubble floors. The stones served as serrated edges, leaving their armour in a deplorable state; with multiple gashes, breaks and an absent foreleg guard.

“Good save, Brigadier Bruttus!” the soldier said, giving the massive beast a salute.

Bruttus was a big Mynotaur for his kind, and yet was still lacking somehow. He was of a variant of the bipedal bulls blessed with additional mass and limbs — so-called ‘Havoc’ Mynotaurs. Their genetic mutation was exceptionally rare, and likely less than one per cent of their entire population was blessed with such features. To say the added strength and dexterity served them kindly would do it no justice. Their advantage over their kind was enormous, with only one drawback: commonly long horns curved opposite their foe, which could be leveraged against them in a pinch. Even still, they often ended up as leader figures for their tribe-like communities.

Bruttus had an additional handicap unique to him. His absent lower-right arm.

“Guess I made it a lil’ short on time,” he said, raising Corvus onto his feet with indifference.

“Don’t get comfortable yet. We have a nasty catch here,” Corvus said, taking his sabre clumsily. The Mynotaur gave the angel a subtle look.

“You’re littered with holes, mate.”

“I know… I’m faring as best I can right now. I could use the help.”

“Sirs!” the lone soldier warned, raising his gun. The attacker had managed to stand, their legs shaking, before facing the three once more. Seconds of idle contemplation strangled the tense air before the impostor took a step back.

Taking a second firearm into grip, a red pistol was raised into the air, followed by an ear-splitting, brief bang. A glowing orb shot into the sky, followed by a trail of smoke squirming just over the clouds before exploding in a brilliant display of sparkling rouge. The assailant stood still, injured yet persevering.

“I’ve had enough of this,” Corvus announced, stepping forward. “Shoot if you must. You won’t kill me with one bullet.”

The enemy perked up, raising into a more suitable posture. Gunfire suddenly flooded from three directions as the Syndie rifleman coupled with an exhausted Elena unleashed their ammo upon the target. This single individual had made enough of a ruckus alone. It was time to end it.

The sword was thrown high once again, spinning wildly as it made its way towards the target. With a single bullet, the odds of retaliation were slim at best. And with hell’s rain storming in, the attacker was forced to hit the ground, rolling off the uneven ground even as the pain pushed will over the edge. Hiding away from the whistling birds of lead, the assailant, forced into a corner, had little time to improvise. If help didn’t arrive soon, fate could be tragic for them. Running behind walls became redundant as they would be crushed by the Mynotaur. Instead, escape seemed the only feasible way of living. Suicide runs weren’t exactly hip these days.

Time would be cut short as Corvus crashed into existence, skipping against the rocks to pursue the attacker, who had no choice but to face the angel as mobility had already been dulled too much. Ducking under his sabre, Corvus retaliated with a series of swipes, each of which clanging and cutting into the armour. The enemy was putting up a serious fight, all things considered. Suddenly, their balance was tested as more bullets flew by their back, skidding among the metals and wearing them down more. Leaping forward reflexively, the attacker threw the pistol in the angel’s direction, bashing him in the skull before slamming him in the chest with their still-armoured leg.

Having expected such an attack, although too slow to react at first, Corvus gave one last clumsy slash of his sword before letting it slip from his palms. His plan was to teleport behind them, but instinct kicked in, and so, Corvus took their anticipation as a minuscule opening before tackling them down.

Once more, the two fell upon the earth, this time with the killer of so many Syndies beneath him. Frustration took over his mind as he immediately began to punch at the impostor’s helmet, cracking the visor and forcing their head from left to right repeatedly. His hands bled, and his chest’s wounds reopened, but that didn’t matter now. Whomever this was, he and his troop couldn’t afford to let their presence influence the battlefield.

Corvus heard a crash as one of the few remaining walls was dropped, but he couldn’t care less. The power behind his fists was nowhere near that of Emris’, but the strength of the Celestials was still superior to that of most. In little time the metals were shredded, leaving the bloodied complexion beneath to be exposed. As the suit had made evident, it was a woman.

“Sir! Sir, that’s enough!” the soldier pleaded, restraining Corvus’ arms as he prepared another swing. Relenting, he breathed deeply, letting his arms collapse by his sides. He hadn’t mangled her, but she wouldn’t be getting up soon after that.

“We won, sir. You won.”

“Let’s get this one back to base,” Corvus said, standing up with a groan.

From the sidelines, Bruttus said, “We haven’t a whole lot of time right now. If you want to take this victory in strides, I suggest we get moving quick.”

Nodding, the soldier said, “Yes, Brigadier. I’ll get a transport ready. I’ll go fetch Elena——”

“Quiet,” Corvus interjected, silencing the lot who looked at him in confusion. Both the Mynotaur and the human wore a helm and a helmet respectively, the likes of which deafened ears considerably. On the other hand, Corvus lacked headgear, which coupled with his heightened senses allowed him to hear a distant, indiscernible rumbling.

“I think the mortar fire is getting intense. Is the rightmost wing…?”

“Lieutenant!”

The angel was suddenly jabbed by the rifle of his ally, pushing his body violently as a gunshot rang. The Mynotaur barely had time to register the attack, watching as a bullet cut over Corvus' shoulder and struck the soldier’s neck. The perpetrator, the lass Corvus had just ruined, rattled her gear as she shakily raised her head and arm, too weak to sit up and with bloodied vision. Even in her state, even with her restrictions, and even with the sheer boldness such a move required, she had managed to down a Sergeant and so nearly a Lieutenant of the world’s most fierce authorities — all with a single bullet.

Spent of all her resources, she finally dropped, and with great timing. The bull, enraged, sprung into action immediately, raising his spear high with intent to shishkebab the murderous human lass only to turn as his ears finally caught the rumbling. Smashing through rubble and stone, leaving behind a trail of dust, Bruttus could only raise his two shields high before the impact took place. Despite the defence, the Mynotaur’s feet skid against the gravel beneath him, forcing him to slip and tumble before receiving a whistling, ferocious thwack across the cheek. Atop him stood another bull; one all-too-similar to him, with a bulk that surpassed the Brigadier’s own by a mile and with all four arms to count. Bruttus managed to kick the bull off him, standing up to create distance between them. The new beast's left horn had suffered serious damage, having been split by the midsection which added to their barbaric appearance. Whereas Bruttus wore with him some semblance of armour and weaponry, the other Mynotaur wore nought but the muscle mass of a deity.

The bare Cryptud huffed and showed off those gigantic, blunt teeth of his. “Damn it all, if it ain’t the lil’ bro himself.”

Seething at the sight, Bruttus’ eyes narrowed.

“...Midas!”

Spreading his arms with a taunting look, Midas practically drank in his brother’s rage. “No need ‘ta look at me like I’m the worst, three-bones. I was hopin’ to meet ya ‘round these parts. Ain’t the Goddess a niceness.”

Before rebuttals could be made, the beastlier bull charged at his sibling, smashing two of his arms against his shields whilst his third immobilised the spear.

“You’re as much a mutt as I remember ya.”

“Pleasant as always,” Bruttus struggled to reply, trying to push back at the impossible strength.

“Speakin’ fancy talk now, ah? Well, ain’t that a nice’un. See, that’s the thing though, ain’t it?” Midas leaned in his head, giving a horrific grin. “Ya’ve got tae use new tricks, ‘else you’ll always be short-handed.”

Clenching his teeth, the brig gave the bull a resounding headbutt, only for Midas to absorb the hit with but a cringe. Immediately, Midas’ fourth arm shot forth, clocking Bruttus in the jaw with the force of a semi-truck. Even to their species, his potency was impressive. Bruttus reeled, losing focus as he fell back onto his rear, crushing a half-wall as he stumbled into.

Spitting his displeasure on the floor, the Yanksie bull kept his contemptuous grin as he looked off towards the fallen men.

“Oi, Missus Wraiths. Ya dead there?”

No response. Midas shrugged, squaring up his shoulders.

“Alrighty then, I’ll do the work. Right side’s still there; your bro pulled a fast one on me,” he said, stepping up to Bruttus, who spat blood. “C’mon, we’re men, not babies!”

Kicking the Mynotaur in the face, cracking the edges of his helm, Midas’ grin became more corrupt. With a revved up fist, he laid waste to his brother’s helmet, mashing him punch after punch. The sturdiness of their kind kept deformations from occurring, but the splintering helm fell apart in seconds.

“Up, up, up and movin’! C’mon, Syndie fuck! Up, up, up!” he said in song, showing a cruel lack of remorse for his own flesh and blood.

If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it's taken without permission from the author. Report it.

The spear, caught in the fallen beast’s grip, suddenly swept the earth beneath them, catching by Midas’ leg. The edge of the steel sunk in by less than an inch, but it was enough for him to flinch and take a step back.

“Oi, oi! What’s that for? I weren’t done,” the Yanksie complained, making a tease only monsters could make.

Raising himself onto his feet with the help of his pole, Bruttus pressed a finger against his head, collecting blood on his fur before flicking it off. On his right arm, a ten-foot lance. His two southpaws were covered by two bucklers.

Spitting a tooth, the Syndie said, “We should swap names. You’re barbaric.”

“Phah, it’s survival.”

Giving no time for a family conversation, Midas once again charged his brother, only to drag his feet upon meeting thin air. The four-armed bull had sprinted with his head held low and his one usable horn pointing toward his enemy; succumbing to primal instinct. Taking advantage of this blindness, Bruttus sidestepped his brother, using a doorframe as leverage to jump high and drop his weight upon Midas’ skull with a bash of his shields, releasing a shockwave and a reverberating dong similar to a tower bell.

Corvus pressed on the throat of his dying comrade, trying in vain to stop the bleeding as he watched his subordinate suffocate on his own life, clutching desperately around him to cling onto the world of the living.

“Victus, Victus, Victus! Why would you do something so…”

Corvus couldn’t hide his disappointment, although the pain of watching the man who saved him die in his arms wasn’t lost to the angel. The Celestial might have spoken to this soldier four times in his whole career; three of which he was only included as an audience member for their training regiments. Whether you knew them or not, the mind always made the passing of your fellows a hardship at least. Now was no time for weakness, he understood that, but Corvus couldn’t allow the man to wilt alone.

In minutes, he was gone. His hands ceased their fruitless struggles. Limp in his arms laid the body of the soldier who took his bullet, or at least, partly so. With a deep take of air, Corvus shakily exhaled, turning to the woman responsible. Despite the situation at hand, he knew better than to abide by anger. He had done enough. People didn’t fight these battles for pleasure, or so he imagined. People fought for their resources and their people — it was only natural. If anything, he should admire her talents in combat. Evidently, he could not, but if knowing the Guardian personally had taught him anything in life, it was what not to do in the struggles of anguish. To live with regret to satisfy revenge? What a foolish notion to live by.

Turning to the conflict between bulls, the Celestial acknowledged his wounds. He had been shot so many times, it was a wonder he was still alive. A normal human could only hope to survive such damage, but he was no ordinary man. Even still, his body grew weary. He couldn’t afford to fight such a battle, and so, he faced the horizon.

The war still raged on, but gunfire started to quieten. Like a bonfire burning away its fuel, the fight was nearing its end, as soldiers either expired or gave up. The land vessels had all been spent or destroyed, the remainders retreating into Yanksee grounds. To fight didn’t always mean to kill, after all. Such should be deemed a last resort.

The angel scooped the unconscious woman into his arms, pulling her from the mud.

“Elena!” he called, his voice hoarse. Stepping silently in a random direction, Corvus made due course for the Colonel, doing his best to ignore the brawl taking place so close to him. Pebbles and debris fell near his shoes.

“Erica, please,” Corvus pleaded to the heavens, “don’t do anything stupid. And stay alive.”

♦ ♥ ♣ ♠

Metals never stopped touching in the rearmost of the Yanksee formation, and most of it was due to three culprits. The Wraithsman, Erica and Eclipse were locked in a stalemate, with the girl’s combined prowess just barely matching that of the swordsman. In the meantime, Emris and Kev paired up to lay waste upon the men that redirected their attention towards their leader’s safety; although the greater majority was too engaged in fighting the Syndie forces ahead, as the beasts gave them no time for breaks.

The southern half of the Yanksies had been reduced to nothing, and thus, one of the twin mortars was successfully dismantled. The same couldn’t be said for the northern side; unsupported and unassisted by the annihilated left prong of the Syndie’s trident formation.

And in the meantime, two nobles clashed, exchanging quaking clashes of blades with shotgun slugs as loud as the tanks themselves. Alpha used the immobilised vessel for cover, always keeping his distance from the fallen body of Ignus so as to not redirect harm upon him. A thoughtful leader. A shame he shrank in popularity by the day.

“Oi! Ye should know something!” Alpha shouted from behind the silver mass.

“Ah?” Ducasse snorted back, firing another omnipotent shell against a corner, shredding even the tank’s edges.

“Loyalty goes a long way. If we do sort this out with words, would you wager for peace?” the Head proposed, not too convinced himself. His voice spoke over a distinct click.

“Ah. Ah, no. We’re too deep in this, Alpha!”

BANG

The tank was grazed by hell yet again. At any moment, Alpha’s cover would be lost.

“Nay, mate. Give it some thought, will you?”

“I think both of us know how that’d end up by now, ay?” Ducasse insisted, pumping his rifle. “Let’s just give it this one and call it a day.”

“People would surely die though, Ducasse,” Alpha said.

The Iron Eyepatch clicked his tongue. “It happens. Those poor men, and how cruelly you took them from me!” he jested.

The General finally overstepped the boundary of the vehicle’s extremes. To his surprise, Alpha didn’t stand behind it.

Raising a brow, Yanksee’s titan turned, only to receive a handle to the nose, smashing it instantly. Ducasse closed his eyes reflexively, during which Alpha hammered his sword against his torso, cutting through his armour and slicing his chest with a powerful slam of his sword’s edge. The General managed to keep his feet under him, but not before Alpha pushed the barrel away from him, forcing his bullet to miss.

The sound was intense. So loud that it put pressure on the Head’s skull, disorientating him long enough for Ducasse to withdraw his cutlass and push it against Alpha’s pauldron, failing to even dent the material.

“Agh… Zirconsium, lad,” Alpha huffed, giving him a sly smile to which Ducasse responded by thwacking him with the back end of his rifle. Alpha’s mighty helm kept his head on his shoulders, but the blunt force was enough to drop him on his hands.

“You’re a sly dog, Alpha. I like ya, but…”

“Aye, aye. War’s a duty. I know it well.”

Even in his compromised position, Alpha held a firm grip on Ducasse’s barrel. His exhaustion had caught up with him, and so his hands trembled where they might otherwise work flawlessly. Ducasse didn’t relent, pushing to force the rifle upon his head.

Despite their conversations, Alpha did loathe the General of Yanksee; at least, professionally. His firm hold on a country that wasn’t his own mirrored the ways the Head of Men’s own fake reign functioned: oppressing the rights of the conquered—their own men, women and children—to give foundation to their own power. A needless divide of everlasting, persistent intolerance too clouded Alpha’s pleasure. As much as he despised the thought, he was no better than his enemies were. Some might argue he was worse, though not by voluntary action. The Syndicate had long harassed the neighbouring country. But who started the squabble was still up for debate. Of course, the history books varied wildly on each border. It’s easier to give blame to others than to admit your own faults, after all.

Glancing around at his allies, he watched as they fought desperately to stay alive. Who really mattered, in situations like these? Who’s life was most important? At the end of the day, it was a matter of perspective. To assume the role he had taken is to become, by a generous extension, the guardian and paternal figure to a whole empire. There was no greater joy than having people believe in you. He couldn’t risk that.

It was then, that the self-proclaimed king reached into his pockets. If he had to live the life of a snake to sate his people, then so be it.

Ducasse barely had time to understand the item produced before it fired twice. A simple pistol; one that’s so small and insignificant that it could fit in your undergarments. The perfect stealth arm.

“Your children will make fine rulers, Mensomóte. It be in them your stubborn blood flows. Let us hope they are more disciplined than you were.”

The General clutched his chest, bleeding and losing strength. He had never imagined Alpha would go as far as to conceal his weapon — in many ways, it was foul of battle.

Gritting his teeth as pain manifested, Ducasse let the barrel drop, looking the old man in the eyes with a face that said it all.

“Thanks, oldie. But don’t get cocky.”

In an instant, Alpha’s hip was destroyed. He let out a rumbling shout of pain. His leg had been almost entirely severed with a single slug. Ducasse’s vision blurred as he was thrown to the floor by force, tackled by the opposing General himself.

“You piece of shit!” Kev yelled mere inches from his face, pushing a dagger through Ducasse’s hand as he tried to plunge the blade into his neck. Even weak as he was, Ducasse was still strong enough to push back at the soldier’s attempt, but not without cringing and crying out in agony.

The General of Yanksee was lucky. The bullets he took from Alpha didn’t perforate him entirely, mostly impeded by his vest. Still, at such short range, the pistol had cut through his defences and struck an organ. The pain was such a unique blend of red hot and uncomfortable; an experience he couldn’t put into words.

The emotional Kev was grabbed by the shoulders, hustled from the General’s chest by Ignus, whose shoulder still bled. The pyro’s supernatural talents paired up well with his physical strength, and so, with just an arm, Ignus eventually managed to pry the human off.

“That’s enough, boss. Come on!”

It wasn’t easy for Ignus either. His face trembled at the sight of his leader, to whom he averted his eyes.

“What are you doing?!” Kev demanded, overcome with hatred for the man on the floor.

“Ya can’t kill him,” Ignus said, restraining Kev.

“Victus…” a bearish voice murmured. It was Emris. He was laced with bullet wounds, but they were insignificant right now. Alpha struggled to breathe as his life gushed from the wound.

“Bloody hell! Let me go! Emris, for the Goddess’ sake, do something!” Kev ordered, still struggling against Ignus.

Emris looked completely distraught, his glassy eyes scanning over Alpha and Ducasse respectively. He took a step forward, fully intending on squashing the General’s head, but his leg was stopped by the grasp of a crumbling soul.

“Don’t try it, Em,” Alpha wheezed. “Go out there and win us this one.”

Alpha’s voice was becoming delusional, his eyes fading in and out. Emris dropped his gaze by the Head of Men, whom he had known for two decades, and quickly reasserted himself to tending to his wounds.

Taking a worn cloth from his jacket, Emris did his best to cut the circulation. There was too much blood, and the area of damage was too large, but nothing would accomplish nothing.

“Stay with us, guv,” Emris demanded, working hard to wrap him. Ignus soon joined him, following his instructions to the letter as now was no time for debates.

Kev, on the other hand, simply watched Ducasse stand with difficulty, leaning on the tank to support himself, before slowly working his legs away from the scene. At this rate, the General of Yanksee would escape. But nobody was authorised to kill or even impede him.

“Shite, shite, shite!” Emris seethed, working like a machine to preserve his boss’ life. He was much more than a leader to him. He was one of his oldest friends.

“Stay with us, dude! C’mon, are you even working, Em?!” Ignus frustratedly said, his young mind overwhelmed at the consequences losing their king would harbour.

Watching them fight for his survival, Kev exhaled a shaky breath, looking up at the smoking sky. To what end these battles were for, he still wondered. He knew the Head of Men’s reign wouldn’t last forever, especially as he steadily lost favour among his people. But what’s a world without tomorrows? What’s a world without hoping today would turn out just fine?

Dropping by the Head of Men’s paling face, Kev pressed a hand on his forehead, saying, “Are you with me, Alpha?”

“Agh, don’t… call me that, mate...” the wounded king replied with crushed breaths.

With tearing eyes and an old smile, Kev closed his eyes.

“Of course, Barbatos. Don’t die on me just yet.”