“When was the last time we did something like this?” Ichiken asked, raising a dirty brown bottle of German beer in his hand. Carvalho had finessed a crate earlier. It was a little something to soothe everyone’s spirits for the war ahead.
“It feels like forever,” Kastellanos replied scoffing, taking a light sip. The taste seemed to wrong him. He scrunched up and set the bottle down, far, far from him. “Carvalho, where did you find this shit?”
“Pá…In the back of a truck,” he answered, heavy with a Portuguese accent. “It’s the best I could find. I would’ve taken every bottle myself but I thought of you, Kastellanos. Don’t say I don't care.”
“You might be poisoning me though. God, something had died in there.” Kastellanos rubbed his mouth viciously, trying to wipe down whatever he had tasted with his bottle. Then, he looked to his left, where Hei was shamelessly gulping down an entire bottle clean and she couldn’t have done it quicker.
She finished, slammed her drink against the ground with a loud clatter. Had she done it with a little more force, she would’ve broken it. Slayers needed to do that: watch their strength, but Hei didn’t look to be in the mood to practice caution. Her head swiveled around to Kastellanos, and she wiped her mouth with her sleeve, staring blankly at him. “What?”
Kastellanos opened his mouth, decided against speaking and looked away. He had a peculiar expression, envious perhaps, or utterly exhausted.
Hei huffed. She was notorious for her unprofessionalism outside the classroom. Especially to her colleagues. Though each time, they were surprised again and again at her ability to let loose. “Hmph. You all know me well enough by now; it takes much more than one measly bottle to get me drunk.” She waved the empty bottle around to show a point.
Everyone except for Saad was sitting, who was standing off to the side with a pen and notebook in his hands. Inside the notebook was a loose sheet of printer paper, from the stack that Archknell had left out earlier.
“Taking time to write your masterpiece?” joked Ichiken, cradling his bottle between his fingers. Everybody had already finished their letters, put whatever heart-wrenching thoughts inside and left the rest up to Fate, or God, whichever poison you picked.
Saad scowled. Of the six professors, he was considered to be the strictest and simultaneously the softest. He treated his kids like idiots but also his children; it came from being the oldest out of six. He had family in Britain (who used to live in Egypt before moving), a large family with at least a dozen different relatives and he remembered every single name. Perhaps that was why he was taking such a long time: saying goodbye to everyone. You could be envious of something like that. Having so many people who’d miss you.
Saad’s hand jittered as he wrote, revealing the lie behind his cold expression. “Have you made your peace yet, Ichiken? I think that’s a better question to ask.”
“As good as any man. I’ve always thought that dying in battle would be a good death. Somehow I survived.” Ichiken looked to the side, towards the building where the students were gathered. “It’s the only ending for men like me. I almost lived a satisfying life; I just need to do one more thing to complete it.”
Carvalho hummed to that, lifting his bottle to concur. He lowered it, the weight of death gradually darkening his eyes, and a sigh came. Blackly, he clung tightly onto his cross necklace and muttered a prayer in Portuguese, a chant specific to his culture and particular region. Every country had their own prayers and mantras, passed down from tradition, influenced by things like history or religion or plain circumstance. These words were reminders that once said, sort of like a spell with an incantation, you would have a piece of home residing in you, always, no matter where you were in the fantastic expanse of the multiverse.
“I have full intentions on living after this,” Hei said determinedly. “I have my students to look after; they’re like lost kittens without me. What about you, Cloutier? You’ve been strangely quiet.”
Cloutier raised her head when Hei mentioned her name. She sat up, holding the bottle on her lap; she barely drank it. “I need to look after my students too. That’s my responsibility as their teacher, so yeah, I’m not looking to join the flight to Valhalla. Not yet at least.”
Kastellanos shrugged vaguely. “It might not be our choice. None of us should die, but if we have to, we will. I will. We signed up to fight the Comets ourselves; we accepted this burden. We need to treat it like how we had before we got this cushy job.”
Everyone chuckled at his small joke. All except for Hei, they had volunteered to take on the most dangerous task yet: slaying something beyond any Nemesis. Hei was ordered by Archknell to lead the Department, though hardly anyone considered her job to be easy or any less dangerous. Rather, she had the hardest one: the fate of everyone’s students was in her hands.
Knowing this, Hei plucked another bottle of this awful, warm German beer and popped the cap open. She glanced at Saad, who continued to write his letter in silence, knowing there was a mess of hate stewing inside him. He was determined to kill the Comets. Hei was as well, but she was more maternal than that. More than anything, she wished to see her students live their lives that were promised to them: a peaceful, prosperous future.
If it came down to it, if she needed to make the decision between her and her students, then it’d be them one-hundred-percent of the time.
~~~
Pereyra was thrown through a wall and passed several rooms before crushing a large oven-contraption-thing in some kitchen. It didn’t have time to move before something rammed it deeper into the metal, then kicked with the force of a semi-truck. Going through more walls until breaking into the outside world, exposed to the cool air, and bounced off bricks.
From the holes, a large beast stomped through. Large, twice the size of a bodybuilder, his fur ink-drenched and smoking with concrete dust. His jaw hung wide open, canines gleaming in the starlight with strings of saliva connecting the two halves sinisterly. Golden-silver eyes glared at the Comet, possessing no respect for the entity, only sheer unadulterated hate. Hate!
Pereyra, the Lesser Watcher of the Kreutz Sungrazers, one of the five who’d called monsters into Ordo and slaughtered tens of thousands of innocent people. Who’d called those things inside Ordo University, killing his students. Many were still missing, their fates unknown, and they probably wouldn't be found.
They were kids. Straight out of high school, entered college with dreams in their eyes. Naïve, stupid at times yeah, but they had the most heart out of anyone. What was more unfair than seeing a dream die before it began?
The thought made him snarl.
Kostas Kastellanos, admin of Combative Class C2, S-Rank Slayer, Lykos. His honor, [Greater Lycanthropy] allowed him to transform into a werewolf with high attributes and allowed him to maintain executive control.
By the merits of being an S-Rank, he could fight Pereyra with some degree of confidence. There was a world’s difference between S-Ranks and A’s, and since the Comets treated the latter like children, they were on his level. Higher, most likely. The Watcher had made Team Luster look like brats.
But Kastellanos had one thing: anger, steadily bubbling into a heated resoluteness. Live or die. Execute with extreme violence.
The Comet, stuck in a metal coffin, looked to be without a scratch. This bastard was tougher than all of the Slayers put together. It tilted its head down and laughed. Chuckling about something funny. Mocking Kastellanos as if knowing his failure.
His teeth rattled like a rattlesnake’s warning, he hissed.
It tried raising its universe splitter but that was no good. For the Comet, to be specific. Made it all too obvious to signal its next attack. That thing was its greatest tool and weapon no doubt, and its greatest weakness.
Kastellanos clamored forward and grabbed the scepter by the staff before it could do anything dreadful. He tugged hard towards him with one hand, pushed Pereyra into the coffin with the other, trying, trying, trying to disarm it. But Pereyra refused to budge, giving up not a single inch, being the stronger of the two. Much stronger. Suddenly Kastellanos felt like a child trying to wrestle with an adult.
The momentary doubt made him blind to a flash of red light.
A concussive force launched Kastellanos into the building they’d came from, and he rolled several times on the ground and flipped onto his feet, claws in the floor to stop his momentum.
Didn’t get time to think. More red flashes shimmered sort of like fireflies. He growled and leapt to the right, bursting through an open window and out onto the street as a red flurry caught air, making a cacophonous sound with whatever they hit.
On the other side of the building, Pereyra flew out of an alleyway, levitating low to the ground to avoid getting targeted by the ranged Slayers (they were repositioned elsewhere anyway). And red glowed.
Pouncing on all fours, Kastellanos darted to the side and dodged the first one and the second, dashing between solid cover like a predator hunting in the wild. He crossed the width of the street in whole bounds, jumped off of walls and became a black blur in the dimly-lit night, which partly worked towards his favor.
Nothing touched him and the street sang with harsh buzz and sharp impacts.
Pereyra grumbled something, frustrated, and let out the same disabling shockwave that it’d used earlier, the one that made your blood boil. Kastellanos was hit head on, howling greatly in pain as his body screamed against him. He stumbled, knees briefly going limp, hunched over. Wasn’t fatal but sure as hell had a lot of stopping power.
A charged red bolt seized upon him.
Suddenly Kastellanos ducked down. Faster than Pereyra anticipated, moving just as swiftly as he had before. Make no mistake, the pain was a bitch to deal with, but he’d felt worse, and those times he was actually bleeding.
In a brief clear window, a broken lance-like streetlamp was lifted from the cracked ground and hurled within the second. Pereyra flinched and lurched just barely out of the way. But it couldn’t avoid Kastellanos, who’d leapt moments after throwing the lamp.
A wide claw smacked down into Pereyra, the talons themselves unable to pierce its hard, tough flesh, but managed to send it crashing down like spiking a volleyball. And Kastellanos crashed, too, feet-first, yet Pereyra jolted back as though carried by the wind, spun several times in the air to recover, feet barely off the ground.
Kastellanos saw the opportunity and charged. His left shoulder spontaneously burned—a good chunk of his skin got shot off. He gasped, eyes caught red, ducked. Had his head nearly blown off too. The third one was leapt over, and he reached Pereyra where it couldn’t escape no matter how agile it was.
And it tried, it definitely tried only for its scepter to be grabbed again by the bulb first. A hole was torn through Kastellanos’s hand, causing him to roar so loudly that the street shook. He grabbed Pereyra by the neck, managed to lift it into the air, slamming it into the ground. Over and over until the rage from the pain faded and Pereyra looked to be getting used to the treatment.
Finally, he spotted the building as described in the [Expedition Chat]: ‘The one with a random A in it.’ There it was a fair bit away, a café at the bottom with residential living on top, and there was an electronic sign in the shape of an A sleeping on someone’s couch.
Kastellanos let out a furious, primal howl, mustering his strength to throw Pereyra as hard as he could into that building, targeting the A in particular. Once again, it went through wall after wall before slamming into the A, tilted it off the couch, and they both laid on the ruined and cracking wooden floor.
Not even a second later, the building became engulfed in a cataclysmic blue explosion that reeked of mana, so much that Kastellanos felt the mana density weighing down on his chest—and he was an S-Rank. A mana bomb, functioning similar to from nuclear warheads, which the comparison alone was worrying.
“Jesus,” he muttered, voice distorted and monstrous from his transformation. That could’ve killed him.
Bedlamite’s work, a Head Officer of Royals because only Monarch could handle a maniac like him. Bedlamite ensured that he could make a small, controlled explosion but the damn thing shook the entire fucking demesne.
It was first heard through the deafening noise, then felt as shockwaves that cascaded through and ruptured any remaining windows, and finally seen as a blue cloud rose and everyone saw it.
For Katsuro Ichiken, of Combative Class A2, he had a wonderful reminder why he was no longer apart of any guilds. He loved his time as a Slayer but honestly, there were some people he’d preferred never meeting. This wasn’t a good moment to reminiscence anyhow, but the entire operation had given him countless bouts of bittersweet nostalgia.
He followed behind an Otherguard Slayer Team, from the Antarctic Division: Platinum Frost, an experienced team of five who spent years stationed in Antarctica. They moved in complete coordination that was both enviable and admirable. How many hours did it take for them to become a single mind?
For Tewfik, that sort of expertise was needed.
It got chased through the northern part of the demesne by a few teams earlier, some took casualties due to Tewfik’s conceptual powers. The evidence of its trail was clear: entire cars cleanly cut, walls bisected and crumbling, even the street themselves, having clear cracks in them. Blood. Bodies being carried and teleported out.
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And they were heading right into the hornet’s nest.
Being greeted when they approached an intersection, a man in leather-and-steel armor got launched into a truck. An arc of wind pressure swooped in only to be blocked by a larger man with a shield, dual-form spear. The weight knocked the brave guy on his ass, a green shine becoming dim around his body.
He didn’t see the smaller arc coming for him.
By the luck of God, it had hit his shield first, cleaved it in half. In his adrenaline, he tried to stand back up only to realize he wasn’t holding his shield anymore. In fact, he couldn’t. A large portion of his right hand was missing.
“Strike!” called the Team Leader of Platinum Frost, seeing Tewfik finally appear ahead of them, approaching the remaining Slayers.
“I understand!” Ichiken replied before suddenly overtaking the team, sprinting towards the Comet.
As Tewfik drew its spine-like sword back, a leg darted out, and a bone-shaking shockwave echoed throughout the area. Ichiken’s shin contacted the blade head-on, unfortunately blocked, but that surely got Tewfik’s attention.
After all, as Problem had noted earlier, its conceptual ability couldn’t activate unless a full swing was taken. As long as Ichiken met its attacks, he’d be safe.
Hopefully.
“You…” it murmured with malice, “…fine then.”
Ichiken was shoved a step back and the spine-blade swept through, and he effortlessly blocked it mid-swing using his forearm. Another shockwave coursed through the street. His skin didn’t break.
Tewfik lowered its head and seemingly scowled at him, the ember-scar in its chest festering brightly. “You are not a normal man.”
“Of course not. I'm not like the rest,” Ichiken said before throwing an elbow that cracked into its chin. The sound reverberated as though two cars had gotten into an accident.
Tewfik chuckled, amused by this flagrant act of rebellion—of course, any resistance to its superior power was deemed as such. Immediately, it retaliated, and so had Ichiken, both meeting together in the middle and of relatively equal strength. Then again, slowly, to test one another’s skills. And escalated from there.
A steel body clashed against a murderous cosmic entity. Their exchange rattled the Slayers who stood as witnesses, seeing Ichiken could not only face Tewfik through courage alone, but also persevere against it blow-by-low, creating scratching metal-like sounds from each time he had struck his adversary's blade.
This was a brawl where no fancy tricks could be used. No nonsense conceptual powers or any bullshit like that, but a duel where techniques and experiences pulled through, and instinct powered them, like gas to cars.
And Ichiken had much of it, having been honed for almost his entire life. As the battle continued, he’d only gotten stronger as he learned how Tewfik fought: surprisingly not that advanced, just quick and repetitious slashes, fighting like a junior who relied too much on their skills. This made Ichiken grin, increasing his intensity.
When it came to endurance, there was no one who could outlast him.
[Honor Exhibition]
The Slayer who had achieved a feat like no other, who’d became the first and immortalized the challenge for hundreds to accomplish.
100-Man Spar
[Hyakunin Kumite]
The infamous hyakunin kumite challenge known in Kyokushin Karate, where you underwent one hundred consecutive spars for one-in-a-half to two minutes each. Ichiken had completed the challenge about a decade ago (might've been more honestly), but with Slayers of a similar and higher rank, and they could use any skills they wanted.
One hundred Slayers, who didn't pull their punches.
His peers had widely criticized this idea. Performing the hyakunin kumite as an ordinary human was difficult enough—let alone dangerous—but as a Slayer? He would die; however, Ichiken Katsuro hadn't been discouraged by these comments. The opposite really. So on one weekend, he had undertaken the first Slayer-led hyakunin kumite and had successfully completed it. Claims of fraud had circulated on the days after, so he decided to complete it again, this time in front of an audience and several cameras.
Upon his second completion, he would gain this [Honor] and created a new challenge for Slayers to accomplish. For his efforts, his body was given incredible strength and resilience, being able to crush entire buildings with a single punch and fight for weeks on end. Although he was an S-Rank, the [Hyakunin Kumite] had essentially brought his abilities to an SS-Rank.
That was how he could stand toe-to-toe with this bastard, matching its attacks with his own. Since the disaster began, Ichiken fantasized about this for an unhealthily amount, indulging in dismal feelings of revenge. No one could really blame him.
Tewfik stubbornly attempted a frustrated strike at his side, blocked by an elbow and the impact rang. A fist slammed into where its solar plexus would be, didn’t seem to hurt it that much—its anatomy was far from human, of course. Tewfik quickly swiped at his arm, clanged off the flesh midway. Such a weak strike wouldn’t break his skin.
Ichiken grabbed the sword and stared down at Tewfik, gripping tightly with both hands so it couldn’t escape. Not unless it wanted to depart with its weapon. “You don’t know the first thing about swordsmanship,” he said. He’d fought with hundreds of swordsmen and women, saw thousands of them in action, and there were many who had better technique than this interloper.
Tewfik was kicked back weakly—”weak” in Ichiken terms—into a wall, cracking it but not breaking through. It didn’t have a chance to move before Ichiken was already on it, its sword instinctively raised but the man had a closed fist hovering inches from its chest. The Comet paused, perplexed.
Then the fist flung.
The impact, at first, was delayed. Tewfik getting crushed further into the wall, the expected result. But afterwards? The entire building it laid against suddenly erupted, bricks and metal and wood flying off, destroyed, falling in on itself.
That hurt.
“Now!” Ichiken cried as he rapidly retreated from Tewfik.
Platinum Frost came in, having been brought enough time to do their thing: a concentrated, multi-castor strike. The entire team was together, a blue mana circle stirring at their feet. Their hands were outstretched, and a large javelin-like ice projectile was formed, probably having the same might as one of Archknell’s.
That was a compliment. Platinum Frost was a team of A-Ranks led by an high-A nearing S. To match an SS-Rank?
Bravo.
As soon as Ichiken cried, the javelin was sent directly into Tewfik’s stomach. It carried the Comet through several buildings, tearing walls and foundation alike, away until no one on the street could see the ugly son of a bitch anymore.
But they definitely heard it, felt it. At some point it had struck, and something shattered loudly, then intense wind came next and shook the earth.
“You—!” passionately shouted Tewfik, who quickly arose from the wreckage. It levitated like the Watcher but none of the ranged Slayers fired immediately. That was the order after all. “Death!” it said. “Death to you all—!”
“You won’t.”
[Honor Exhibition]
From above, a woman with short blonde hair, a scar flattering her across her face, stood on the edge of a roof, a golden greatsword, which had been birthed in the Heavenforge during lightning strike, was swooned onto her shoulders, raised above the head. Thunder and lightning came, blue as lapis lazuli, and all the Slayers gazed up and witnessed a warrior of wrath. “Come!”
[Celestial Lightning]
The [Honor] of the Empress of Lightning, Levin, had ignited the air and struck the Lesser Cutter, Tewfik, down in a mighty, heavensent lightning, burning hotter than the surface of the Sun, devastating the surrounding area and rendering all into a thick, deep haze. Some Slayers shouted at her, Ichiken especially for being so careless when allies were close by but she didn’t care.
Sparks crackled across her armor, enveloping her entire body in a electrifying shroud, naturally emitting shards of lightning as though a tesla coil. Her eyes morphed into plasma-blue balls, seeing through the smoke and ash. She saw a silhouette deeply embedded into a crater; briefly, before she acted, her mind wandered.
[Celestial Lightning] was earned when she bested her master, the Lightning Saint, in single combat and surpassed his abilities; her victory was earned on a night similar to this one, when stars had broken free from dawn and there had been only the rolling of obsidian-glass clouds to speak of. On that night, too, did low clouds had formed.
For once her heart was still.
She was the infamous Vice Guild Master of Royals, unable to keep herself out of the media for her brashness and scathing personality, often harsh on her own comrades and threatened suspension and expulsion on numerous occasions. Monarch had to rebuke her countless times; perhaps her behavior was unforgivable at certain moments, and in some cases she was more demon than woman. Even she had warm memories however. Drinking with friends, sharing stories, listening to them, and tasting a bitter farewell. Those memories were soiled now, dirtied by their deaths. Maybe she should have taken Monarch’s advice and practiced empathy, understanding. Right now, however, she would rather practice revenge.
Levin gritted her teeth and roared stirringly, fronting her gold-steel as lightning banged above, shrouding her blade in a bubbling heaven-color. Tewfik was beginning to stand, and she wanted none of it. “I will smite you here and now, fucking bastard—!”
Her proclamation ended with a resounding boom when the clouds rubbed together like warming hands and caused an earth-shaking crack to sound throughout the battlefield. Fissures grew from the streets, car sirens blared, and thunder warned. She screamed as all turned white, slamming her greatsword downwards. Two cloud-splitting lightning bolts crashed onto the Comet, soaked them in white fire, and scorched everything in its immediate surroundings into cooling magma.
The lightning persisted. Maintained. As long as she could hold this powerful of an attack.
After all, that was the plan.
Across the demesne, a team from the Sonnenschwert Guild, the Stahlerden, was at work, cooperating with the Tairas from Isshin to put intense pressure on Pereyra. They were led by an S-Rank respectively, having the power to close the distance while the others, the lower-ranked, were essentially gnats: easy to bat at but annoying, thus avoidance was preferable.
While the S-Ranks were activated, they didn’t have the means to suppress the Comets the old fashioned way still—a gross underestimation on their end—they needed to use other methods.
Like planting bombs in a building (Bedlamite) or escorting a Comet to a designated location in order for a stronger Slayer to take over (Levin).
Like now, when the Stahlerden and the Tairas ushered Pereyra towards the edge of the demesne, with the aid of other Slayers, including Jury who had joined them with the rest of Luster not far off, aiding the teams with twelve of her Jurors. By using [Great Channel - Aether] in unison, they mustered a collage of burning white beams and sent Pereyra into a hotel, holding back enough power where it wouldn’t go through.
“Go!” someone from the Stahlerden cried in a thick German accent, turning to the roof.
“Let’s hope!” finally said Problem. While the other Slayers occupied the two Comets, they brought them enough time to write another ritual: one inscribed in the polished floor of the hotel. A gravity well.
Immediately the hotel collapsed in on itself with Pereyra inside, crumpled into a ball of steel and broken glass and whatever else it was constructed of. A shrill cry echoed but was soon drowned out by the horrid screeching of everything scratching together, like nails on a chalkboard or squeaking styrofoam.
The buildings nearby leaned in, tilted over as though wind had given them a small nudge. A man stepped up, standing next to Morgan. Ordoian-Chinese, wearing rather modern clothing in a green-and-purple palette, which was somewhat ugly and unaesthetic to Problem's eyes but who were they to judge?
This man was none other than Rend, an S-Rank Head Officer in Martials, and one of the best espers in the city (who had taken a particular interest in a fellow esper, Sorayama Kaiya).
“Can you actually do this?” asked Problem; they didn’t doubt his abilities, rather feared Pereyra’s more.
“Of course.” A devilish jade glow hissed from Rend’s eyes. “I only need to buy enough time.”
He raised his hands, imbuing every building surrounding the gravity well with the same jade-bright glow. Brighter, brighter, until they were shimmering as luminous as a lighthouse’s lantern. His teeth tensed, locked together. A small amount of blood dripped from his nose, and his eyes grew redder.
The buildings leaned inwards towards the balled-up hotel.
ESP powers, or mental-focused abilities in general, was one of the most mana-extensive systems out there; by the fact that he’d affected multiple buildings, each having over a dozen floors, signaled his abilities. Only a few espers triumphed over him, like Hunter from Korea, widely considered to be the strongest esper of them all.
It didn’t take much for the buildings to feel the great gravitational pull of the gravity ritual. Once the first pieces were ripped, the rest followed. In spite of the dreary circumstances, Problem found the sight rather breathtaking: how entire structures crumbled away and floated, like embers dragged by the wind, adding to the grumbling ball of detritus and debris.
Rend clapped and held his hands like that, and the rest followed. The ball was about the size of a block with its outermost shell, which experienced the least amount of pull, dripping concrete and metal. Blood trickled down Rend’s nose and he wiped it with his sleeve, hissing.
“How long does the ritual last?” he asked.
“Thirty seconds, I predict, give or take five.” Problem lowered, focusing. It’d been about seventeen minutes since the battle had begun. “I had to supplement the mana costs with Gallery’s pool. We probably spent several minutes of the demesne’s duration.”
“Well,” Rend began while staring at the gravity well, “Pereyra isn’t escaping any time soon.”
Problem nodded, then the System rang with a new message.
Archknell was ready.
Before he knew it, the Slayers below clamored, making a retreat. Problem shared their panic and anticipation both. He nodded to Rend and they moved from roof-to-roof, both using some form of levitation.
They needed to be far from the area, because at the center of the demesne, Archknell was standing on the same intersection where the Tormented Flesh had once stood, with six massive, missile-sized arrows woven above his head. Morgan could feel the mana in the air: the intensity, the voice.
Every Slayer, every spellcaster really, had a voice similarly found in the arts: writing, painting, music, the like. The same was found within the mana. Morgan felt his Guild Master’s sorrow in his weavework, the rage as the weapon was strung together, and the steadfast determination that was always present at the denouement, finished by the impossible, yet human, hope for absolute victory.
Problem remembered the last time Archknell had exerted himself this much. That had involved a god.
Another message appeared in the chat: Tewfik was immobile. Levin was on it.
Pereyra was still crushed by the gravity well.
Six spears, three each. They needed to be sure.
To kill the Comets, Ordo required something more absolute beyond the typical subjugation. If Tewfik had a conceptual power to cut anything and everything in its path, then this too could match. Or that was the hope.
The six arrows were sent, and the backblow shattered the street below.
They split into two groups going to different locations, one with an endless torrent of lightning and the other an angry metropolitan ball.
To deliver Death to the arrogant Comets.
[Honor Exhibition: The Knell Tolled]
[Death Chance: 100%]
[Death Chance: 100%]
[Death Chance: 100%]
[Death Chance: 100%]
[Death Chance: 100%]
[Death Chance: 100%]