The Overwatch Seraphist of Cloud was still talking when Manziholet brought his right hand into a horizontal swing. Along the way, Wispstrike Cutter manifested on his palm.
[Seraph: 30υ of vaepor
ArchSoul: 72υ of draeg]
Manziholet had chosen the Second Sphere as his first target, as opposed to the Third Circle Daemoneer, because the latter might not be as strong as he himself had claimed.
In his eyes, Fliker was the bigger threat, particularly given Seraphists’ nasty habit of unleashing their Ruin Scars when they wanted to escape from an unwinnable fight or take everything in the immediate vicinity along with them to death. Unlike with Chiorou, Fliker had no reason to hold back in the tunnel due to potential collateral damage. His Ruin Scar would be a farewell present wrapped in pure malice. Manziholet had zero interest in receiving it.
Mist trailed behind the Armament as its white edge slashed toward Fliker’s head. He was confident that his attack would connect due to its speed and the fact that the independent was too immersed in lecturing him about why the Defiant Path would emerge victorious. Since Manziholet had been nodding with feigned interest, the man had no reason to suspect an ambush.
Instinct often surpassed reason, however. At sight of the incoming mist-forged longsword, Fliker’s arms seemed to move on their own. His First Sphere Miracle was promptly summoned into reality as his right hand raised it up to assume a vertical block.
The Cloud and the Mist Domain shared the same type of Armament, although his Wispstrike Cutter took after the design of a saber, with a curved blade and an ornate guard that spiraled like plumes of clouds. Their inherent offensive and defensive capability was the same nonetheless. Irresistibility would be met with indestructibility. The ambush would be halted before any damage was done.
Everything hinged on what came in the next instant. Time slowed as Manziholet raced to think ahead. He could switch it to the second state then bypass the mist through Fliker’s block, but that was a dangerous gamble. The man might easily predict the move and work not only to render it ineffective but also strike back hard. He had more experience being Seraphist after all.
Alternatively, Manziholet could draw out his aeon Rapier to overwhelm Fliker. Not many had experience fighting a dual wielder, which was one of the reasons why he trained in the style in the first place, but in this particular moment he would need to hold it in reserve grip using his left hand – not optimal, and that would allow Relias enough time to notice the treachery and retaliate.
No, he must end the independent’s life as swiftly as possible, even by making that dangerous gamble. Hesitation or any other alternatives would only ensure his own demise.
[Seraph: 17υ of vaepor
ArchSoul: 85υ of draeg]
More of his limited vaepor reserve was drained to unravel his Wispstrike Cutter into the gas form just as it made contact with Fliker’s saber. The curling mist passed through the blade of frozen cloud and arrived at the empty air right in front of his dilating pupils.
Instinct took over once more. While his head jerked away, Fliker drew back his saber, angling in a way that would presumably settle it inside the mist-forged longsword as the latter reverted to the solid form. Such a maneuver would destabilize the Armament’s structure and deliver a punishing backlash to Manziholet’s Circuit.
But, from the very start, Manziholet had made sure the strike came from his right arm, the stronger and surer of his limbs. Countless years of training had honed each of its muscles, which were further compounded by the Seraphist physiology. The speed of his attack was faster.
Right then, Fliker must have realized that and changed his mind. His own Wispstrike Cutter dispersed. Draeg stored in his Overwatch ArchSoul was being pulled to his seraph. The opposite of a Miracle was about to manifest, setting ruination free in the tunnel, and Fliker’s demise would entail Manziholet’s reckoning, and the novice would learn that the cost of disloyalty would be paid in blood, and–
And all that would have happened, had Fliker unleashed Ruin Scars as soon as he saw the ambush or had he come up with a smarter counter to the Wispstrike Cutter’s second state. Those were fatal miscalculations, perhaps born from underestimation of someone he had dismissed as the regular novice. Never judge a book by its cover, Manziholet would know.
His gamble struck true. The mist condensed back into the gleaming edge without issues before Fliker’s counter came into effect. Its Sharpness easily cleaved through the handsome face and delivered the inevitability of destruction.
The part beginning from his upper lip was severed from his body, and the long hair attached to it acted like a sail. It was flung tumbling away from the blood tide, keeping Fliker’s brain safe for later revival. Of course, Manziholet had a different plan in mind for it, one that was not needlessly wasteful. But first, he needed to finish off the so-called Third Circle Daemoneer.
Less than a second in time had passed since Manziholet brandished his Miracle. Relias was still concentrating on his task, seemingly oblivious to what happened behind him, but his mind would react to the noises soon.
Harshly twisting his body, Manziholet brought the Armament around to slash at Relias. He had no fear of retaliation from a Sanguine Wright’s power, since the Daemoneer was less than unlikely to possess one. Assuming his identity aligned with the man’s own assertion, he would never have sought help from Manziholet or even Fliker, or allowed the mortal Fireguards to put three dents across the chestplate, or strained to steer the blood tide. They were embarrassing signs of a novice.
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An anchor under the control of a Sanguine Wright would have procured the Pneuma Heart by yesterday. Relias’s daemon must be a Blood Pyre or a Blood Churl (Second and First Circle of Blood Lineage respectively), both of which could bend blood to their will but had yet to unlock the full might of transmutation.
As the Armament bit deeply into Relias’s left shoulder and his eyes caught a glimpse of the attack, his body contorted abruptly and pulled himself out of harm’s path. Those were impressive reflexes, though not quite fast enough to keep his arm.
With the will holding it together disrupted, the blood patch they were standing on lost its cohesion. They fell down and rolled across the floor, thoroughly drenched in crimson. At the same time, Relias’s presence became visible in the metaphysical realm.
[Warning! Daemon detected: First Circle, Blood Lineage.]
With a grimace, Relias scrambled to his feet, clutching the stump on his shoulder and applying his Miracle to seal the open wound. Scattered around the man were his separated limb and the disfigured independent, behind him were the carts and mortals who were in a commotion at the sight, and in front of him were the charging form of Manziholet.
Perhaps Relias was really a novice after all. Only a person unfamiliar to conduct on the battlefield would pause to stare slack-jawed when the enemy was within striking distance. It was pure inexperience on display.
The Wispstrike Cutter jammed into his right eye socket. Seizing the momentum, Manziholet shoved the Daemoneer to the ground and twisted the blade, tearing through what remained of his brain. Even a Bastion Miracle would raise hands in surrender before the damage. As the last vestiges of life drained from his body, his other eye locked onto his murderer, who met back at the gaze with an equally unflinching stare. Immense hate burned in that olive green eye.
Not a mote of iridescent light bursted out and dispersed into reality from Relias’s corpse. Daemons, unlike seraphs, did not release their leftover vaepor upon death. The stuff seemed to integrate directly into their being upon absorption of Shards, and Daemoneers seemed to share the same trait as well. This prevented their powers from being siphoned by adversaries, which was an affront to basic civility in his opinion.
Having dismissed his Armament, Manziholet wiped the blood off his face, and took a long sigh. Altogether, during this entire trip, he had witnessed the demise of two Seraphists and one Daemoneer. They had yet to ascend to the Fifth Sphere/Circle, but that did not mean they were beyond reaching it. It was the equivalent of watching the legendary Rokous die young before he ever had the chance to compose Firelight Serenade for humanity. So much for ‘Nothing too intense, I imagine’, mother.
He gave the corpse a kick, just in case the Defiant Path had installed posthumous traps into their members. Like any other dead corpses he had encountered, it stuck to the specialty of remaining utterly motionless, though Relias’s intact eye stubbornly refused to close.
Manziholet could have captured the poor Daemoneer alive. The wealth of intelligence that the government could creatively extract out of the man about the mysterious organization who had terrorized the good residents of Sui-Jen would bring Manziholet untold benefits, but he decided better. A Blood Churl was dangerous even in captivity, and all grudges against Manziholet should die with those who carried them.
Moreover, the Defiant Path would surely appreciate it more if Manziholet brutally murdered instead of consigning one of their people to a fate behind the government’s closed doors. It showed an appropriate degree of courtesy.
After Manziholet signaled her, the mortal in charge of the carts came closer. “Sir,” she said, bowing her head, in such a way that suggested fear mixed with vexation. Evidently, her meager wage failed to cover enduring this lunacy. He could sympathise. He was not even getting paid.
“I need you to dispatch a messenger to Seraphist Raka Weng immediately. Inform him that we were under attack by an independent called Fliker and a Blood Lineage. Repeat it back to me.”
“We were under attack by an independent called Fliker and a Blood Lineage.”
“Good. Then have all of your people retreat back to the previous chamber. Forget about the carts. Move fast. And don’t let them go anywhere near the blood. There may be dangers hidden inside.”
Her eyes hastily darted around the floor, where the blood was slowly trickling down the tunnel.
“Don’t worry. You’re fine.” He smiled. “You can leave now.”
“Of course, sir.” The mortal was not convinced, and practically ran away. The rest quickly did as told after she relayed the information. During the retreat, a few stumbled and fell to the floor. He felt cheap, having exploited their ignorance over Miracles to incite panic.
The lie was necessary, however, because he needed privacy for what came next. The government would demand a detailed report of the event. It would be far easier to handle if he was the sole person to frame the narrative. For example, the Daemoneer definitely had not brought anything of value into the Ruin…
When Relias’s left arm was severed from his body, the presence of his metaphysical mass, once concealed or dormant, had instantly rippled out. Manziholet still remembered the moment his Circuit picked it up. Was it because the man lost concentration, or perhaps his left arm held the secret to the Daemoneers’ ability to vanish from the perception of Circuits and the Oculon System?
The answer laid not far from where Manziholet stood. When the last prying eyes had left this section of the tunnel, he walked over to the limb and picked it up. The peculiar wristband was still there. Once he wiped away the blood, its surface gleamed faintly under the light from the Ruin’s fruits.
Upon a closer look, it was not solid marble as he had initially assumed, but rather a liquid of black resin that flowed sluggishly, like the dissonant material used to mint forisma coins. Sharp golden patterns zig-zagged across the surface, upon which the resin twirled and splashed against. When his fingers ran over it, what responded in return was neither wetness nor stickiness but the familiar feeling of cold, smooth stone.
He located and undid the clasp behind the wristband, liberating it from the unsavory attachment, then weighed it for a moment in his own hand. The item was lighter than it looked, which made it ever more suspiciously dangerous. A normal wristband would be content to just quietly accessorize its wearers, maybe jingling a bit for fancy. This one, though, was probably crafted with deadly securities to prevent theft in case said wearers got terminated.
The sensible thing to do, he thought, was keeping the wristband safe and secret until he could pawn off the risk of experimentation onto some poor unsuspecting Seraphist. Let them discover the Defiant Path’s secret, or involuntarily combust, whichever came first. Either way, he would not end up as a cautionary tale passed down to posterity: And that, children, is why you don’t put on a weird piece of jewelry without consulting your elders first.
Unfortunately, on this particular occasion, he felt like the opposite of sensible. Fortune favoured the brave, and so far She had been remarkably patient with his repeated attempts to test death. At this point, stopping would just be bad manners.
Without further hesitation, Manziholet rolled back his left sleeve and slid it on.