Interlude 2.4: Battle of broken thrones

I choose not to dwell on the myriad dispositions of others; how things commence and conclude holds a meaning that feels utterly pointless. I stand amid the lives of others, yet the words Matasyn uttered before his passing linger in my mind.

["I think it would be enough. You always manage to overburden yourself with trivial concerns, leaving a trail of unnecessary exhaustion in your wake."]

For someone who deems nothing as significant against his solitary pursuit of research, it was kind enough to dispel the poison of "compassion" and "kindness" from my being when confronting enemies. I paid the price for playing Raphael’s accusations quite a bit and the redemption of thousands of souls.

Today, no such mistake is about to be made. I must also caution him not to harbor any doubts within his mind. I hastily make my way to Kryos's private quarters in the king's room. The red decorations are still there, adorned with black and gold.

"Is there something the matter, little angel?" Kryos says, fixing himself before the mirror, his face content with the task at hand, perhaps a bit more as a rallying point, but the assertion is needed by my own words.

"Kryos Asmodeus," I say, looking into his eyes, the deep golden glare perhaps displeasing to him.

"Eek! Why address me as such? Have I done something wrong?" Kryos retorts in fear, a temperament that won't serve our cause well.

"I need to take something like this, while it's distributed among our allies, I entrust you with the most potent of it all." I take a knife from the table and cut through my fingertips, where my mana is concentrating right now.

I pour them into the goblet well-prepared on the table; the wine shall dilute the content of my blood for first-time drinkers. Drying the golden liquid on my hand, I offer my sincerity to Kryos.

"This is my blood, for those beneath us considered a reward. But for you alone, it signifies our camaraderie, the shared bond that lasts through times prosperous or withered." The oath of shared grief is the best I can muster before the war.

"Mikhail, this is... quite much." His flustered face is quite adorable, a stark shift from the distressed expression just a moment ago. I suppose I should make the first move on this.

Holding the goblet to my mouth, I take a share of the red shimmering wine and offer it to him as an exchange of trust. He takes a quick gulp, almost suffocating himself with the content.

"It is just a word of encouragement. Though the task may sound insignificant, you are irreplaceable in my plan." Once again, I look into his eyes, where mana begins to surge within his body. With no addiction nor side effects, but the flustered demeanor remains. I may have overdone it with the words I've spilled.

"I don't think I have ever foreseen such aggression from you before. It’s a change nonetheless." Recovering from the dazing flustered state, Kryos answers, "Anyway, let's do our best today." He quickly marches out of the tent, and onto the allied troops.

The preparations have been completed, and I deem it unnecessary to check on them. I entrust in their abilities, believing them to be wise enough to be led by Kryos or others. I must have faith in those I consider allies. The tide turns with the arrival of [‘Itinere mitis’], following the assertion that precedes it, and I can only hope for their success.

The dusted sky awaits the coming rainbow until the ever-encroaching night takes hold. The sea of blood dripping from paradise signifies the end of an era. As the battlefield descends into a silent stillness, one faction stands on the verge of defeat.

[‘Dispellus magnus’] [‘Collocatio maiora’] A dispel over a large area of the castle, should only disperse the protective barrier in the inner sanctum, and the teleportation should work despite significant magical resistance.

Within the grandiose halls adorned with golden accents, the throne room awaits at the end. The undeniable aura still lingers upon these walls and statues, statues that hold the world's renowned legacy. However, I don't recall Jophiel's statue missing the last time I was here.

As I push open the magnificent golden doors, my gaze falls upon the throne where Sariel sits. Engrossed in his logs and artifacts crafted from pure mana, he speaks without averting his eyes, "The outer shell has been breached. They proved insufficient against the ferocious creatures." He says before stepping down from the throne.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

I suppose it should be the time now. Sing the marching hymn, for a better tomorrow. Matter does not to the ideal nor the mentorship; let us bring the last contract to an end. So does the separation band of fakeness. [‘Itinere mitis’]

The color of the sky does not change, maintaining the hateful color of blue. The sun still shines on the throne of the dictator. The plan failed; how could it fail? I would... no.

“Grinding your head in hesitation, I suppose it is high time for surrender in the middle of a usurp,” Sariel said while returning to his absolute throne and beginning his onslaught of elemental particles firing at me from the other side of the throne room.

Swing and swing, many spells of precise accuracy take hold over every bit to cover the ground. Each one aims for the fatal puncture of my body. The vines twist and turn my muscles, and the ice tears every living vessel on my body just for the raging fire to burn them again for the damage to amplify.

[‘Celeritas mentis’] In these fleeting moments of sanity, I manage to hold on to a single thread to survive. Thought acceleration has given me a balanced ground to stand on. Each spell is countered with its principal nemesis; the ice and vine wither in the harsh sun, and the fire is snapped by the horrified wind.

The first spell seems to test the opponent's magical capability; any sight mistake would be a point to exploit. Like beasts, we devour each other's mistakes. However, in terms of stamina and mana management, I still gain the upper hand, cornering him to the ground.

There won’t be another moment of fleeting hesitation. The amulet dies out, which means the fall of the left-wing is guaranteed. At least the twin has perished as the glimmering light of the amulet died out. How regretful I am not to have checked on them.

“You look distracted, Mikhail. Am I not worth your attention? Or have you grown arrogant like he was?” Sariel, holding his dual swords “Kindness” and “Bravery,” stands down and begins to conjure space-shifting slashes.

[‘Vibratio inter spatia’] Blades infused with space-rippling energy strike relentlessly. The recoil may cause my being to split into pieces by shattering his ego into a thousand fragments. However, the damage I suffer is nothing but a mere joke. I begin to trace back my steps, conjuring something to cease these continuous attacks.

“Contrary to your derision, I am fully cognizant of the adversary I face. Today, it is you who shall meet your demise,” I invoke [‘Typhoon’], [‘Genesis flood’], [‘Fimbluvinter’].

[‘Typhoon’] A cluster of wind takes form amidst space-rippling disturbances in conjuration. Torn wings scatter, an invisible force manifesting without direct physical form—a harbinger of the apocalypse. I wonder how long this will endure.

[‘Genesis flood’] The invocation of apocalypse in a singular blow. Water shatters the rose glasses of the falling paradise. Sariel ascends high in the cluster of small debris nearby. Is he observing every move? Why doesn't he react to anything I put out?

[‘Fimbluvinter’] The cluster of wind and liquid freezes in mid-air, from the furthest to the inner core. All but cracking as the omen of wind ceases and the floodwater starts to drain. A crystal palace, just enough to hold him temporarily while I attempt to quell the trembling in my body.

Then comes the final spell.

I feel a part of myself rip away. This feeling…

“Gabriel!” I cry in desperation, but there won't be an answer. Gabriel’s soul is no longer in this world. Not a single trace of him remains, all washed away in a single encounter. I feel the burning poison seep through my soul, erasing what is left of him. Why?

Shouldn’t we be immortal? Does our resistance even count as true death among the immortals? No, that won’t be plausible. Was I too careless, walking into this battle not knowing what it would cost me for my ambition?

“You should have been aware from the outset that certain endeavors are unattainable. Ascend too high, and your wings shall be scorched by the sun.” The ice behind me fractures, and Sariel's voice reverberates. I comprehend my fate, yet...

"Your existence is naught but a thorn in my side. In the subsequent iteration, I shall expunge free will." Sariel raises his blades high, plunging them into his own form. A golden liquid spills forth as he forcefully extracts them. This is divine puppetry, and I now find faith in the promises of God.

“How is this conceivable?” Coughing up blood, he descends to his knees. The tableau mirrors a prior triumph, but the roles are reversed. A dubious tactic, yet the course of this conflict was preordained.

“The incantations employed earlier aimed to catch you off guard, hoping to spare you from a fate more dire than this. Alas, my stratagem has proven misguided.” I stand amidst the debris, transforming it into a makeshift throne as I gaze down upon my adversary. This triumph carries an emptiness, yet it has been earned, fairly and squarely, at a considerable cost.

I extract the blades of “kindness” and “courage” from him, shattering them to ensure they are wielded no more—for better or worse. No other soul shall be influenced by those ideals.

"As my life dwindles, grant me the last of your dignity to understand your actions, so I may close my eyes one last time," Sariel implores with his final breath. In response, I chose to disclose a shared secret.

"Much like you, I forged a contract with God. It was for the strength to overcome you, Sariel," I respond in a monotone voice. Sariel, of all entities, should not be taken aback, having eluded the sealing through the granted wish.

Upon hearing this, he erupts into a fit of laughter: "Hahahaha, you are no better than me. Perhaps even worse. I had used my strength to uplift the world, rather than relying on the omnipotent."

"You may have emerged victorious in this battle, Mikhail, but you have lost the war of life. As the victor, I curse you to bear the guilt of those you manipulated, only to meet a more pitiful demise than mine..." With these words, his form metamorphoses into a swarm of golden butterflies.

Is this Sariel's curse? I am well aware of the repercussions when the scarlet sky fails to materialize.

Another soul slips away from my grasp.

Am I truly useless? The path ahead appears devoid of purpose. Nonetheless, I yearn to plunge into another sunless dusk, confronting the sins I have yet to atone for.

The end