Chapter 63 - Ambrose - Rhythm of War
The rhythm had played him today. First, it lured him into helping those lost newbies, telling him it'd be worth it. But ever since the moment he laid his eyes on that girl with off-rhythm, it changed its tune completely, whispering that it was over. That he wasn't going to survive, no matter what. A bunch of mixed signals if someone asked him.
Not to say he didn't have fun. Being able to fight without Captain Akira breathing down his neck and controlling his every move like some pawn on the chess board was a breath of fresh air. On top of that, he didn't have to worry about looking like a hypocrite. These were new people, so it was easy to respect the rhythm and act politely around them.
He wasn't big on being polite. Heck, fuck being polite, but such was his legacy. Finnese were masters of the rhythm, and rhythm demanded a modicum of respect. Respect for everything. Whenever he let the anger consume him, the rhythm became…constant. He couldn't glean anything new about it, and his growth stagnated.
So it was nice to be in the element. He had even gotten a little better at Rhythm Disruption today. Akira never really gave him the chance to use it, and his colleagues would despise him for even trying it. But that's where the fun ended.
Because, fuck that guy.
Ambrose had held it in for as long as he could, but that bastard wouldn't stop spouting bullshit. Religious suckers already made him want to beat them up, but this one was on another level.
He acted like he was a big fucking deal. Well, guess what? He was just an old piece of trash that fed on the faith of others and bullied those weaker than himself. He was showing off in front of the newbies and that girl whose rhythm was off. Like, why? Yeah, you got more shades, but anyone can have that if they suck insights of innocent believers for decades on end. What was there to gloat about?
Grandpa could also play me like a fiddle. Doesn't mean he's better than me.
It was like pumping your own ego for being able to beat a toddler. And he was sure that his Grandpa alone could give this asshole a run for his money. These suckers of faith always had flashy bullshit that would shatter by carving a simple seam in their rhythm.
But oh well, Grandpa wasn't here, and he had fucked up. It was bound to happen one day. But who knew it wouldn't be his own fault? Mother always said he'd step on the toes of some great personage one day and die a stupid death. Well, he proved her wrong.
No, really. This wasn't his fault. That sucker would have killed all of them anyway. He knew the likes of him. It was better to go out like this—abusing the fuck out of him.
And again, it wasn't his fault. Rhythm had guided him here. Father would be proud that he had died in pursuit of the rhythm.
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Is this death?
Did he really want to know?
Not really. He didn't want to feel this...It was—It was that fucker's fault!
The scammer had wrapped him into something, cutting off all his senses. He could still think simply because of the shades in his perception, which detached his personality from his physicality and blended it with the rhythm. His brain might already be dying due to lack of air. He had better odds than many in this situation because his body was part-rhythm, but there were limits to that.
Only if he could synchronize his body with the rhythm. But it didn't fucking work in here. He had tried. Tried everything.
This was where he'd usually synchronize his breathing with a flow in the rhythm and ruminate over Father's teachings, but even that seemed like a pipe dream now.
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.
.
Well, if death wasn't going to claim him right away, he might as well listen to the rhythm instead. Moping around too much wasn't his style. It'd be better than just…disappearing.
So, he discarded the unnecessary thoughts and focused.
To him, rhythm wasn't some abstract concept. It was a visceral, lived experience. He'd always felt it in the steady beating of his heart, the pulse of the blood in his veins, the flap of a bird's wings, the death throes of a beggar, and every little change that transpired around him. Even right now, he felt something, and he wanted to move. To synchronize with the rhythm.
Yes, this is the feeling.
Rhythm wasn't just about the timbre, the colors, or the flowing visuals. It was more than any of that. It was everywhere.
However, right now, it felt...constricted. Like someone was strangling it, cutting it off from the outside world—mirroring his own situation. Nevertheless, it was there. Muffled—yes, but there. That was enough for him.
Maybe it was the rhythm of whatever trapped him in here. Or maybe it was something else. Who knew? Rhythm was unpredictable like that. Whenever there was no rhythm around him, it pulsed to the beat of his memories, while at other times, it flowed to the ebb of echoes.
No one knew what it'd be this time.
So he calmed himself further and gave up on the anger, distress, and bitterness. Soon, the stagnated rhythm livened up, and he let it wash over him.
It pulsed with a maddening frenzy, fervor, and heat. Fire?
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.
But there was a flow to it. Lava?
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Then, there was the calmness amidst this zealous pulse. Very calm. Just like his own situation. Death?
That's when the rhythm suddenly amplified, and an acute pain shot through his body, leaving him gasping for breath in an unsteady rhythm.
UGHHH!
His head swam, and he felt light. It was as if someone had sapped him of all the energy.
What the fuck is going on?
However, even amidst this, his perception remained active. Heck, it was instead saturated to an insane degree.
In this vertigo-inducing mess, he felt it pulse.
The flow of the rhythm distorted and cracked, parting way for something. Something terrifying. A gaze.
A shuddering jolt went down his spine, and his brain finally caught up. His eyes flashed open—throbbing intensely, and his perception shattered.
But he was back.
He didn't know how, but he wasn't trapped anymore. He could see everything.
And he was falling.
Usually, it wouldn't matter, but the rhythm had just cracked a second ago. He'd need at least a few moments to reconnect. That meant he'd have to take this fall. Bracing for impact, he sucked in large mouthfuls of air.
With his brain not dying of asphyxiation, his memory caught up soon, too.
BAMM
The pain of landing on his hands was utterly dwarfed by the terror of that sight. That gaze.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
"Fuck me!" he yelped out loud amidst his heavy breaths.
God damn, it hurt. What the fuck just happened? He was back alive in the ruined basement of the station, and out of pure habit, he reached out for his cane. His precious cane.
That's when he heard, "Get up, my dancer friend. We need you to perform for a while longer. Akira would throw me down the Brass Harbor if I let you kick the bucket here."
Captain Shinsei? That was his voice! When did he get here?
Not my concern. He's here now.
Well, wasn't this just beautiful? He wasn't gonna die. Sounded like a 'fuck you' to that old shithead.
Good. Good.
He closed his eyes briefly and reached out to the rhythm. In no time, his perception livened up once again with all its myriad facets—colors, sounds, and ideas.
That terrifying gaze had disappeared, but his skin still tingled with goosebumps. The doctrine of Rhythm really proved itself right at times like these. He had to be respectful. He usually didn't bow down to unknowable entities, but whatever that was, it deserved respect.
So he set aside his crass, vulgar mindset and opened his eyes. He had to get in the zone now. He couldn't waste this second chance.
Clutching the cane in hand, he found himself an anchor and pushed up. Rest was simple. The movement was simple. Getting up was simple. He was the rhythm now. He just had to follow the minute pulses of the rhythm, and everything became a dance.
THUMP
Tapping the cane loudly on the floor, he reveled in the waves of the new rhythm it generated. Ahh, what beauty indeed! The process invigorated him and helped him leave behind the fear and terror that had begun to creep up a while ago.
TING
CLANG
That's when these earth-shattering sounds snatched his attention, and he cast his gaze skyward—breathing in an upbeat rhythm. There, he beheld an unusual performance. Captain Shinsei was locked in close combat with that religious bastard—no—uhh, preacher. Actually—no, fuck that.
He didn't want to call this scam a preacher either. That would be disrespectful to the real preachers worthy of his adoration. However, he couldn't keep repeating hateful thoughts. So…uhh, Quentin. Yes, that was his name.
It was hard to see, but the rhythm told Ambrose his obvious features. He was, unfortunately, a man of style. Only if clothes could choose their master, they would never pick him. For even though they suited him, he disrespected the attire by simply existing.
Beneath a mane of wild, snow-white hair—that shouldn't have graced one such as him—were his piercing blue eyes glinting with hostility. His face, chiseled and stern, bore an air of regal disdain. The celestial jacket he wore shimmered in silvery hues, adorned with gilded epaulets that hinted at a divine arrogance. Despite the elegance of his garb, there was an undeniable darkness in his rhythm, a stark contrast to the brilliance that wrapped around him.
But if Ambrose ignored the golden disgrace, it was an electrifying scene. Quentin maneuvered gracefully mid-air, brandishing a lance formed of golden particulates. Meanwhile, the Captain engaged him back in a dance of the most unconventional form.
Every once in a while, Captain would alight upon the station's roof only to vault back into the air, sprinting along a path formed by his...scarf.
Yes, scarf. It was a Perceptual Artifact originating from the Captain's homeland. If memory served him right, Captain once revealed that this unique item materialized when an Observer of Cartographer Shade-Sequence had fallen prey to the seductive calls of the whispers.
Anyways, their back and forth fascinated him. Every other bout, Quentin brandished his glowing lance with intense ferocity—dodging and weaving through sharp slashes of Captain's swords, backing away after every hit. However, even though it looked like Captain had the upper hand, Ambrose could feel the Rhythm of war. It wasn't in Captain's favor.
It was that Captain was just too good at deflecting. Nothing could touch him.
Each of the lance's thrust shot beams of golden light that cleaved through the air like celestial arrows, leaving a scalding trail of divine fire in their wake, searing the very fabric of the rhythm.
"What an insolent agent of Dissolution! Get out of my way! You're making enemies of The Eternal Directorate. This will not end well!"
But Captain was in his element.
CLANG
It was as if he was directing the rhythm itself. The celestial arrows that blazed their trail towards him hit the edge of his infinitely sharp sword—the rhythm was far too condensed there—and deflected into arbitrary directions. Some were even sent right back towards the man as if his sword were a mirror.
One perfectly calculated swing after another, Captain stood amidst the field of glowing arrows that slowly disintegrated whatever they touched. Then, the Captain chortled, "My friend, I'm not afraid of that piece of god you killed and hid in your basement. Why the hell would I fear you a bunch of sinners?"
Quentin's rhythm became disharmonious at these words, and his expression scrunched up as he spoke through gritted teeth, "You know nothing of our burden! Give me the girl and get out of here. I can be benevolent and let this slide."
Captain remained in his perfect stance and spoke with a haughty tone, "My friend. I didn't know you were incompetent on top of being a sinner. It would have been fine if you dealt with her before I got here. But now? You want me to be an accomplice in the kidnapping of the Lightvein heiress? Get my whole organization turned into Puppets and vessels? Drinking all that blood of your god has really made you stupid, eh? Who would've thought?"
"YOU DARE DISRESPECT MOTHER ASEA!" shouted Quentin, hate oozing out of his every word.
The rhythm around him emblazoned like flame and his cape shone bright as he flew higher, disengaging from this battle of attrition. In less than a second, he was already outside the bounds of the rhythm.
Ambrose put his free hand on his heart and regulated the wildly thumping heart. That was exhilarating! Worthy of his respect. Worthy of being a Captain—on the same level as Captain Akira.
Quentin was still cooking something, but Ambrose had yet to reply to the captain's words. So he thundered with a booming voice, "My gratitude extends to you, Captain. Do you have further directives for my course?"
But Captain was doing something enigmatic yet again. He swung his sword in fluid arcs, going from one angle to another with a momentum that increased by the second. Then Captain glanced back for a brief second and signaled with his free hand to wait as he shouted loudly towards Quentin, "Come, my sinner friend. Show me what you can do. Show me your best!"
Ambrose nodded. Captain was busy. He wasn't having as easy of a time as he made it seem like. Ambrose had to figure something out on his own. Find some way to help the cause.
He surveyed his surroundings to figure out what had changed. It appeared as though the station endured yet another series of hardships in his absence and was peppered with hundreds of holes.
The animated pollution upstairs was getting worse, too. Objects morphed and shifted into uncanny things with a discordant rhythm. Pollution gave him the creeps. Not this one here in the building—this was nothing. But let it fester and grow—and that's when one faced the most unspeakable horrors.
One such product still lurked in their Ancestral Castle. He had been forced to experience its presence for his enlightenment—left alone in there with that…thing. Luckily, he had heard the rhythm just in time and managed to escape the place. He didn't dare think what could have happened.
But that was in the past. This station wasn't even close to that, and it wasn't his concern. Someone would take care of the pollution if they survived this. Or even if they didn't. For now, he would just follow the rhythm until the Captain had orders for him.
Right now, the rhythm chimed for survival. He could get all of them to a safer place.
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.
Wait. Huh?
Something was missing.
He turned around frantically. There were only five bodies in his vicinity. Two of them had some rhythm to them, while the rest didn't. The newbie girl looked exhausted, while the woman whose rhythm was off seemed pained beyond measure. But where was the newbie guy?
He focused harder and let the rhythm wash all over him.
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Nothing.
There should be a lingering rhythm here, even if he was dead. Where’d he go? Did he run away?
With a frown, Ambrose trotted towards the newbie girl before kneeling to check her breath. He didn't need to, but it was the polite thing to do. She had helped him a while ago.
He quickly realized through her breathing rhythm that she was just unconscious. It was probably the post-enlightenment exhaustion.
Yeah. She's breathing alright.
That's when he felt it. A subtle change in the rhythm.
It was already disgusting that he had missed this hidden rhythm until it had gotten so close. So, not wasting any time, he let the rhythm of traversal wash over him and synchronized with it.
When he was in tandem with the world, it was a rush. Everything became a blur, and in an instant, he was already there—in front of the sneaky fuck—no, the man—his cane's sharp edge extended towards his neck.
The sneaky…man reacted poorly to Ambrose's actions, retreating like a scared rat while throwing something towards that off-rhythm woman. Ambrose felt it long before it left the man's hand and intercepted it with the hilt of his cane. Following this up with his smooth footwork, he kept up with the rat-like movements of the man.
What was funny, however, was that whatever Quentin was doing up in the air was helping him. It was too damned bright—it was like the sun had risen at night.
He didn't care about the woman's life, but it looked like Captain knew who she was, and it'd be a bad idea to let her die or be nabbed on their watch. And who said he needed a reason to fight these religious fucks.
Damn, it was hard to remain respectful to people like these. But now that one of them wanted to hamper Captain's plan, he knew what to do. Maybe Captain expected this and woke him up for this exact reason. He wasn't going to make the Vigil look stupid when Captain was performing so beautifully himself.
He took a quick glance back, only to see not a sun but a golden spiral of majestic proportions that churned with what seemed like unlimited energy.
What a backdrop!
The corners of his lips lifted up, and he spoke to the sneaky religious rat with immaculate grace, "Let's have a dance, shall we?”