Chapter 48 - Finnesse

TAP TAP TAP

Taps of the cane got closer to them when suddenly, a voice resonated from the shadows, "Ahhh. I extended an invitation for caution, yet the melody of my warning fell upon deaf ears. Our plans did not include this stage for another week."

It was still quite dark, but the silhouette was obviously shaking his head. He needed to quickly assess if this was a friend or foe. He really didn't have the willpower to spare thought to all the details, but this was important. His eyes felt like needles were puncturing them, but he still held his gaze.

And that's when he noticed something.

Isn't this the cane held by that man who wanted us to turn back? But his voice is so...different. This person sounded like a singer rather than that scruffy badger outside.

When the man tapped his cane yet again, a jolt of shock ran through Vern's mind as he saw the clean, smooth surface of the cane transform into something else—another feat of mechanical artists.

It was actually made of segments that separated from each other. The previously hidden joints began to reveal themselves as the rigidity of the stick gave way to flexibility. The individual links unfolded in a seamless, almost organic motion, each of its pieces moving in perfect harmony with the others. The whole process was instantaneous yet fluid.

And then, before he could get a better look at it, he declared, "You two, you danced to a rhythm all your own, a rhythm that sang of trouble. Allow me to take the lead in this dance. Your efforts have been bold, too bold for them to end in silence now."

With the clack of that transformation, a refined man suddenly emerged from the shadows, his navy-blue, tall coat fluttering behind him as he broke into a sprint.

The air stirred as the man dashed past Vern, stopping in front of the statue.

This reminded Vern of his condition and that Cera was still dragging him. He could at least try to be less of a burden. So he forced his legs to push himself, making his retreat faster.

He didn't want to leave his fate up to a total stranger, but what other choice did he have? He really wasn't in any condition to defend himself right now.

Cera settled him against a pillar and put her hands on her heart, kneeling beside him. Her eyes were glued to the man who was standing a short distance away from the rampaging statue.

His gloved hands were held high up in the air, a serrated whip—no, a cane in one of them. Its segments were rotated on an angle, their edges gleaming with sharpness. His coat's collar was raised so high his middle-parted silver hairs mingled with its frays, while the golden embroidery all over the fabric gave him an exquisite touch. It was as if he was a dancer, ready to perform a piece on the stage.

Cera parted her lips as if to say something but then hesitated. She wasted a few seconds like this until she finally mumbled, "Isn't he…? It's been him this whole time?"

A little confused by her words, Vern strained himself to speak, and his words came out a little staccato, "Isn't he—just the—person we saw—outside the station? Do you—know him personally?"

However, before she could say something, the man closed his eyes and continued loudly, "When I saw you in the library yesterday, poring over details of this place, a note of trouble resonated within me. Yet, I never anticipated the swiftness with which you'd take the stage—performing your daring act on the very next day."

Huh? In the library? Could it be...

Then, with a graceful movement, he turned sideways, perfectly avoiding the jab of the statue. Swinging the cane with a smooth motion of his hand, the distance between its segments expanded as their sharp edges gleamed and dug into the bronze hand—wrapping around it. With a twirl, he pulled the cane in a circular motion.

CLANK

The segments ripped the metal to shreds as they rushed back to the handle, sawing apart the statue's forearm, which fell on the floor with a loud clank.

His eyes still closed, the man continued his earlier discourse, "Fortuitously, I heeded the call of the rhythm and followed you out here, or the consequences might have been tragic."

Vern realized that the man wasn't talking to him at all.

Cera's face was still a perplexed painting, but she quickly found her words, "I—I, thank you very much." It was obvious she didn't know what to feel about this.

Its lower body still out of commission, the statue pushed itself up with its stumps and rushed towards their savior with an unmatched speed—ready to crush him in a hug.

To this unexpected rally, he opened his eyes for a second, and they glowed blue. Connecting his previous movement with the next one fluidly, he waved his free hand and—disappeared.

What?

Vern, who was wiping away the blood from his eyes, blinked repeatedly to make sure he wasn't hallucinating. Their savior, who was just about to be crushed in a metallic hug, disappeared and reappeared to the side of the statue instead, skidding a little.

He looked at Cera, and she did the same, a somewhat excited gleam in her eyes.

Catching the statue at an off-angle, he held the rigid cane upright in his hand like a sword, slashing at the shoulder of the thing.

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SHWING

A jagged-edged crack ran down the length of its shoulder as this, too, fell with a loud thump. That attack looked very smooth, but it was clear that the amount of strength that took was nothing to balk at.

The wrecked and fragmented automaton fell forward due to all that momentum and components spilled out of its truncated shoulder.

But it wasn't ready to give up just yet. Its legs, which were still pristine, kicked around haphazardly—launching chunks of stone and debris all around him.

The man displayed an agility surpassing anything Vern had seen, even in the fittest of humans—avoiding all the stones flung towards him with immeasurable precision. And all this was with his eyes closed. Finding an opening, he slid back and swung his cane, enveloping one of the statue's feet with it.

The moment the colossus tried to pull it free, he finally used his free hand for the first time—putting it on the handle. Then, synergizing with the opposite motion of the metallic leg, he yanked it with great ferocity.

CRUNCH

The bronze leg flew in the air as the silvery segments rushed back to the handle of the cane. But instead of tumbling back from recoil, he redirected his momentum gracefully. Circling his backfoot into a clean step, he turned it into a beautiful gesture.

As he continued to chip away at the statue, one chunk after another, without much trouble, Vern finally relaxed enough to take his eyes away from the performance. With a blood trail still staining his right cheek, he turned to Cera with a questioning gaze, "Who is he?"

Vern already had an idea from his words, but he asked anyway.

She looked back and forth between Vern and the man before replying with an uncertain gaze, "He's one of the persons that set the archive on fire yesterday. From the Vigil of Duskfall."

Ahh. Right.

A lot of pieces clicked in place, and he understood the chain of events. This person had been on her trail since yesterday. His faction was dealing with anomalies in the city, so when he noticed that she was looking up one of them, he grew suspicious and followed her.

This might as well be the person who gave him the odd feeling when they were walking up the hill. But how'd he get ahead of them on the hike to the station? Anyway, that wasn't the most pressing question right now.

Even if his brain felt heavy as a lead, he had to figure out what this meant for him. So he let his thoughts churn.

CRUNCH

CLANK

BAMMMMM

The performance continued, and he came to the conclusion that he shouldn't be in any trouble. If worse came to worst, he could just show the badge that the shaggy swordsman had given him. It was still in his coat's inner pocket.

Suddenly, his chain of thoughts was interrupted by Cera's, "How are you feeling? Is your—um, eye okay? Was it because of the Vision? Can I do something?"

He took a handkerchief out of another one of his pockets and wiped away the blood staining his face. He didn't want to further sully his coat with blood, after all.

It was most likely some sort of internal bleeding. Bleeding, which had stopped already.

The pressure he had felt in his veins after executing that Vision was so immense he was actually surprised it cauterized already. However, he didn't have any delusions of having attained fast healing or anything of the sort. His shoulder still wasn't in perfect condition from that confrontation back in the Ascendant Council.

For now, he responded, "It was indeed because of the Vision. I just…need a minute." He closed his eyes and pondered this feeling that plagued his mind right now.

A sense of emptiness.

He had felt like this before, but it was usually much milder. The worst before today was back when he had induced instability in that Kingsman's gear at the bridge. But the pain and sense of loss had been quite moderate.

This emptiness wasn't something rare, actually. Every time he envisioned instabilities, it came like a rushing torment and made him feel sluggish. It was usually fine after a few minutes, but something was different this time.

He believed this had to be the cost of using the Vision. But there was some logic to it. The instability he had induced in those gang members was much more involved than whatever he had just done, but it hadn't hurt nearly as much.

So, what was the determining factor? What was more 'expensive,' and what was 'cheap?' Because he'd rather not pay such a hefty price ever again. This would have been the end of him if this Vigilante didn't show up.

Is it dependent on the size of the object influenced? Because the size of the object was larger than ever.

But after a quick thought, he found flaws in that argument. He remembered that the 'cost' of destabilizing the wall clock in his room and that bigger one on the store in Silverthread district was pretty much the same.

The clock or the gear he destabilized to show off in front of Cera was at least twice as large as the one in his room at Hotel Inkwell. But their cost was minimal and comparable, which was odd.

Then, is it something more complex like Causality? The more my Vision changes the reality, the higher the cost?

This actually seemed to fit many of the scenarios correctly. But was that to say his eyes could determine how much they can change the future? That couldn't be right. Unless…the cost was determined by some greater concept instead of his eyes.

But even then, won't Observers be able to use this side-effect to quantify how much their actions can influence the future? That would be so powerful. Each Observer would be able to act like a seer to an extent.

Something else had to be going on in here.

Hmm, what if it's a more local cost rather than something grand like causality? Could it be the amount of reality that has to be viewed subjectively to achieve the effects of said vision? But not just the size of reality, but also the cascading effects caused by envisioning that change?

It was to say he would have to pay not just for breaking the rod in the waist of that statue but also for halting the functioning of the axle, even if it was an indirect result. And he would have to pay for any unnatural cascade of changes that happen during the time he kept up his vision.

In that sense, he was lucky he didn't need to maintain Instability inducement for more than an instant. Or it was possible he might have burst his eyes and emptied his brain from the immense cost he'd have to pay to warp a much larger flow of reality.

If such is the case, it would be almost impossible to calculate this cost on the fly. Ahh, my brain can't handle more of this right now. I can confirm the details later.

Massaging his forehead, he opened his eyes, and the fight was coming to a close. The statue was a ruined mess, and its components were scattered all over the ravaged floor. All it had left was a torso with a half-shredded face—the perfect visage of Emperor Aldric looking like some horrifying abomination.

The vigilante also had sweat running down his face as he ran circles around the rampaging machine. He ducked, bent at awkward angles, and even did a backflip once, maintaining his poise throughout the process.

After a dozen more seconds, a serious look appeared on his face. Finding another opening in the raging mass's wide attacks, he thrust the end of his cane into its chest. Then he opened his eyes for a second, jerked the handle, and just as a blue glow appeared in his eyes—he disappeared yet again.

Hmm, maybe disappear wasn't the right word. It was something akin to a very fast dash instead. A short-ranged, fast dash.

Reappearing to the side, he disappeared—no, dashed another time. With these rapid movements, he wrapped the segments of the cane all around the statue's torso. Bringing out his free hand one more time, he wrenched the handle in a devastating jerk.

SCHWING

The sharp segments ripped through metal with deadly agility, shredding everything that came in their path, not leaving even the innards of the statue unharmed. When all the segments receded back into the handle, he tapped it, and they turned completely straight, returning the cane to a smooth, glossy silver.

Flinging it a little in the air, he caught the shaft in his palm, turned around, and executed a performer’s bow. Pieces of the statue fell on the ground one after another as he looked at both of them with an amused smile and declared, "Ambrose Finnesse, at your service."