Kalon felt like he was dying, but he is only the main character, so we don’t care about him.
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Crusadina dashed through the skies, ascending in an acute angle in a hunt for the elusive, sitting Cutbastra. The cucktivator downed a vial of his elixir and used the empty bottle as a projectile to attack his adversary.
With a powerful and unequal thrust of her flaming wings, Crusadina dodged to a side. She hadn’t figured out flight, but the cannons of her soul were aerospace engineers and pilots and held a vested interest in her continued survival.
She extended her fist like a battering ram and accelerated, the ramming course set towards her mortal enemy. Cutbastra sat up and let gravity take a hold of him for a second, spending no energy on the evasive maneuver and ending below the child. He grabbed Crusadina from her ankle and began spinning, his body a horizontal axis, building momentum to throw his opponent away. Then, he let go, with Crusadina becoming the inaugural event of Cutbastra’s space program.
Crusadina’s wings extinguished as the clouds drew close, she covered her face instinctively, and crashed into one, naturally going through the cold water droplets and turning many of them back into vapor. She thought fast: she was reorienting the tiny catapults of her armor to shoot upwards, to counteract the force applied to her. And if that weren’t enough, as it seemed not to be, she would have to manifest cannons and use them for counterthrust. She felt the growing cold as she left the troposphere, and then a slight rise in temperature as she ascended through the stratosphere.
The ozone layer noticed the electromagnetic signature of a lady approaching, and tucked its beer gut in, tensing up its metaphorical abs. Now I want you to picture two things: a window, reinforced and bulletproof, set high on an office building that somehow needs bulletproof windows all the way up; and a bird, soft and not bulletproof, flying around the place like she owns the skies, with a cocky attitude and a pathological denial of the existence of glass panes in her mind. In our situation, the ozone layer was the window, and Crusadina the bird undergoing the painful sort of character development.
A second or two Crusadina spent glued to the gas layer, pressed against it like a Shar Pei aboard a fighter jet, subject to the whims of several Gs. Then the ozone layer noticed she was a minor and, disgusted with itself, relaxed its metaphorical abs, causing the child to become unstuck and plummet back to the ground.
“In dire straits, are we?” Katie, reduced in size, appeared over her head and spoke as Crusadina’s wings sprouted back, the cannons inside doing everything in their power to try and stabilize the nexus of their existence.
“He hurts me. My body aches all over, like the castles we assail. What do I do, Katie?”
“Fight back! You may have almost no battle experience, but if he’s a wall on your road, he will come down, one way or another.”
Cutbastra seemed to appear out of thin air, as the moment of distraction had allowed him to sneak up to her. “You talk a lot of shit for someone who doesn’t exist, catapult. Then, he batted Crusadina on the back, making a crack heard and sending her, and Katie, flying towards the horizon.
The child’s sweat and tears vaporized due to the speed she was attaining as she soared through the skies, leaving a contrail behind. A farmer who was petting its crops so they would yield higher-quality Rottweilers raised his head and saw the line of white staining the blue sky. He frowned. “They are fumigating us again, the motherfuckers!” He roared before stomping its way into the shed where he kept the gas masks for the plants.
Crusadina whimpered in desperation as she saw the leisurely-strolling figure of her torturer in the corner of her eye, a foreboding shadow following her. She couldn’t shoot in the contrary direction. She needed an idea to not get batted again, and needed it now. Her brain obliged, and, as a brain is wont to do, it defaulted to a contraption consisting of a modified ballista, that shoot a smaller modified ballista on a chain, that in turn shoot a smaller modified ballista on a chain, ad nauseam. This abomination of nature and artifice, this affront to all laws that governed the world and warfare and carpentry, got manifested around Crusadina’s healthy arm, a dance of pink and red lights taking the shape of each component of the massive contraption. And when it was done, Crusadina shoot it downwards. The first projectile-ballista reached the end of its chain, triggering the mechanism so it would release its load too. So the second projectile-ballista ejaculated a third, and so forth, like a succession of fathers and sons born from the besieged eggs of the blood-soaked womb of mother war.
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Dear Lord that sentence was atrocious.
The smallest ballista shot its bolt and it dug deep into the ground, going through and shattering to little pebbles the only fossil in existence that would have convinced the creationists that evolution was a fact and they were wrong. Good job, Crusadina, you awful enemy of science.
The chains tensed, and Crusadina held on it on dear life as the centripetal force did its thing and curved her trajectory. She then let out an eloquent discourse as the grass came at her with smashing intent. “Excrement excrement excrement excrement!” she cursed in a Jaggerian way.
What followed was that a piece of Classical Capitalized Chinese Cryptofauna (that, due to budget cuts, was replaced by a Male Capybara) began believing that, maybe, there wasn’t a god-shaped-hole in its heart, but there surely was a girl-shaped-hole next to his pond.
The Male Capybara went up to the hole and looked down it, ignoring the chain-and- ballista shaped rift that had been created on the terrain, extending from the girl’s right arm.
The dark bottom of the hole moaned in pain, and the Male Capybara spat on it, because it was interrupting this private time with his harem of Female Capybaras.
Cutbastra landed next to the hole, produced a fishing pole out of his pocket dimension, produced a brick to use as bait for Crusadina, attached the brick to the hook by means physico-heretical, and cast the line into the hole, eliciting a gasp from the pained girl when the brick hit her on her right scapula, and then a DING! as she bit and the fishing minigame begun.
Because this was reality, Cutbastra ignored the minigame the God of Delusions had made appear ethereal by his side and reeled his prize in. After getting the Brick-bitting Crusadina out of the hole, he moved quickly, hitting her several trillion times , yet avoiding the crotch and chest areas, because he only wanted to spiritually cripple her, not be labelled that sort of person, you know.
And Crusadina saw this, and felt the stick of every hit. An eternity of torture where her bruised and tired body wasn’t able to respond fast enough, where thin needles of Cutbastra’s v energy inserted themselves on her spirit, erecting barriers between her cells. She felt herself burn, disintegrate like an old gate facing a huge amount of explosives.
Cutbastra freed her limp body from the hook, after making sure he had thoroughly closed most of her spiritual passageways.
“There, girl, now I don’t have to kill you,” he said, dedicating her a genuine smile. He sauntered up to a nearby tree stump by the pond, examined it, and then grabbed a Female Capybara to use as a seat. The Female Capybara felt honored to be chosen as Cutbastra’s seat, and the Male Capybara did nothing, because, well, one did not mess with Cultivators if one wanted to reach the ripe old age of nine.
Crusadina scrambled to her feet, supporting herself like a newborn deer whose legs suffer from an excess of foreskin. Her body felt like it belonged to a puppeteer that wasn’t her. Katie had been silenced, and she couldn’t cycle her vital energy.
Running up to Cutbastra, she took a pathetic swing with her right hand, and the impact, that left Cutbastra’s side intact, sent a round of pain coursing through her arm, up her shoulder.
“Why? Why?” The brick eater cried.
“You won’t be able to cultivate until you repent and abandon those silly ideas about destroying the world. Those spiritual corcks will last years in place, so I advise you to accept my offer, surrender, and let me unlock some of them, so you dcna at least begin your way on another road.”
“No!” Crusadina swung again, another pathetic hit of a feather against Cutbastra’s steeled skin.
“Girl, really, desist. I can finger flick you into an early grave with your current state. BE clever and give up your weird dreams.”
Crusadina looked down, her tears falling upon the dirt, wetting the mixture of fine grains, decomposing vegetable matter and capybara shit. She tried to pump her energy around, but it refused to flow. She was now as useless as that motherfucker with the black puppy.
“No! I must bring down all walls! Their vertically ordered tyranny cannot stand!” She dramatized. “All walls. “
“Yeah, yeah, go through the five stages of grief if you want. I can wait.” Cutbastra was too busy stashing the fishing rod back into his pocket dimension to notice that, in a particular energy channel deep behind Crusadina’s right eye, a microscopic battering ramp was pummeling against the barrier. Cutbastra’s blockades were walls in her soul, and that was just unacceptable.
Soon the first needle fell, with some trillions to go. The instant after, three more needles fell, and then nine, and then twenty-seven…
“Every. Single. Wall,” Crusadina declared, smirking. Her pupils began changing shape again, going from their round, natural shape they had when not irrigated with vital energy to that of the face of the most powerful siege engine that would ever exist: Crusadina herself. Little versions of her sprouted form the catapults and rams and cannons inside her soul and punched, bit and kicked down the walls. And as they fell, crusadina giggled, for she was breaking through yet again.
But this time she betrayed no shine. There was no excess of energy as she reached the Universal One-Girl-One-Vote-Zero-Walls Absolutism stage.
“Hey, sir, I have reconsidered,” she said, approaching with her eyes closed and her hands behind her back.
Cutbastra turned with a genuine smile and examined her face. “You are bad at lying, lass.”
“About my intentions, sure,” Crusadina disappeared form Cutbastra’s sight, and he turned just in time to watch the pair of tensed fingers aiming between his eyes. “About my power, not so much.”
“Cariogamy,” Cutbastra cursed Jaggerianingly.
And like that, Crusadina Finger-Flicked Cutbastra away, sending him flying in direction to the mountain range.