Emmanuel battered through the gheists with relentless fury, his lightning-charged fists disintegrating the sprites into showers of dispersing fragments. Each punch felt as though he were hammering a heavy bag, the resistance fierce but fleeting. Despite the raw power behind each strike, it took only a feather-light touch to dispatch these malevolent entities. The specifics of his stat distribution or any bonuses from the lightning were irrelevant in the heat of combat. He was in the thick of it now, and survival was all that mattered.
A screeching scythe arced towards his face, its edge gleaming ominously in the flickering light. Emmanuel ducked beneath the swing with the practiced ease of a fighter dodging a haymaker. With a powerful, if somewhat unrefined, overhead smash—one that would have earned a disapproving nod from his boxing coach—he sent the sprite erupting into a burst of sparks. But even as the first foe dissolved, another ghastly silhouette emerged from the swirling gloom.
He darted through the labyrinth of bookshelves and computer banks with a frantic agility that belied his size. His once-pristine footwork was replaced by a desperate scramble, designed to disorient the pursuing gheists and force them to attack him piecemeal. Every instinct honed from years in the ring was now deployed to outmaneuver his ethereal enemies.
A blade materialized out of nowhere, slicing towards him with lethal intent. Emmanuel instinctively raised his hands in defense, treating the scythe’s arc as though it were a right hook. He braced for the blade to cleave through his arm and end the fight in a singularly final blow. Instead, the weapon clanged off his flesh with a deafening crack, scattering bright sparks in its wake. Emmanuel didn't spare a thought for the gaping, featureless face of the gheist—its potential shock irrelevant in the face of his own survival. Seizing the opening, he hammered his MetaTEC-clad fist through the sprite’s grotesque maw. The result was a familiar, explosive burst of energy, the sprite dissolving like its predecessors.
Breathing heavily, Emmanuel stood amidst the wreckage of the library, his chest heaving with each ragged breath. Sweat streamed down his face, mingling with the grime of battle, soaking through his torn clothes. His skin was marked with a constellation of minor cuts from close encounters, and a sharp pain radiated from his hip where he had collided with a desk corner. The lightning that had crackled around his hands sputtered out, leaving him in the heavy silence of the library, the echoes of the fight still reverberating in his ears.
“About five minutes, huh?” Emmanuel muttered to his MetaTEC, estimating the fight had lasted less than two rounds in the ring.
A wheezing cough and a gasp of pain drew his attention to one side of the library. Mr. Smith, his old science teacher, sat where he had fallen when Emmanuel had entered. Miraculously, he was still alive. As Emmanuel approached, he saw that Mr. Smith was deathly pale. Blood oozed from the gash in his chest, but the old man had managed to wrap his belt around the stump of his arm, tying it tight during the battle.
“I couldn’t very well miss the chance to see you in action,” the old man said, his voice wavering but attempting to sound light-hearted. “I’ve been keeping up with your exploits through the videos your mum posts. You’ve got quite the highlight reel, lad.”
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“Hold on,” Emmanuel replied, his concern palpable as he glanced at his former teacher. “I’ll get some help right away.”
“Don’t be foolish, Emmanuel,” Mr. Smith rasped, a touch of resignation in his tone. “I’m finished. We both know it.”
“What can I do?” Emmanuel asked, desperation creeping into his voice.
“Just stay with me until the end,” Mr. Smith said quietly. “That’s all I ask.”
Emmanuel sat down on the floor beside him, the gravity of the situation sinking in.
“You’ve got a tendency to overcommit when you throw that right cross,” Mr. Smith murmured, his voice frail but insistent. “You plant your feet too much. Try to break that habit. It’ll serve you well.”
“You know about boxing?” Emmanuel asked, startled to discover his former teacher’s unexpected interest.
Mr. Smith managed a feeble chuckle, a rough sound that barely cut through the oppressive silence. “Do you know who was behind getting your mum to drag you into those classes after…” His voice faltered, trailing into a whisper.
“…after my dad passed away,” Emmanuel finished for him, his voice heavy with the weight of old wounds. “I never knew where she got the idea. Care to shed some light?”
Mr. Smith leaned back against the cupboard door, his eyes growing distant as he slipped into the fog of memory. “You were thirteen, lost and spiraling. Grief had you in its grip. When you burned down the science lab, it was clear you were heading towards self-destruction. I had to call your mum, told her I knew the pain you were going through. I lost my own father at your age, and I wanted to fight back. Got into trouble, was expelled, and ended up in the army. I wasn’t meant to be a soldier, but I could throw a punch. Boxing in the army taught me discipline and respect. I suggested it to your mum, hoping it’d set you on a better path. And look at you now, fighting those things… you’ve become a hero, lad.”
Emmanuel struggled to keep the tears at bay, his voice cracking as he said, “I failed. I left my mum behind and didn’t save anyone.”
The crushing weight of his perceived failure pressed down on Emmanuel, a suffocating wave of despair.
“No, lad,” Mr. Smith's voice was a ghostly whisper, barely more than a breath of sound. “In the cupboard... three children. I hid them. Look after them. Please.”
Emmanuel, his heart heavy with the gravity of the old man's final plea, gently arranged Mr. Smith's body on a nearby couch. He offered a few quiet words, an attempt to soothe the old man's spirit as it drifted towards whatever peace awaited beyond.
With a deep breath, Emmanuel turned towards the cupboard. When he opened the door, he was met with the sight of three children huddled together, their faces pale and their eyes wide with fear. Two boys and a girl, all around twelve, clung to each other, their terror palpable.
Emmanuel knelt before them, his voice soft but resolute. “Don’t be afraid,” he said, striving to infuse his tone with warmth and reassurance. “I’ve got magic, and I’ll keep you safe from the demons.”
To prove his sincerity, he invoked his lightning spell again, allowing the arcs of golden energy to crackle and dance across his hands. The children’s eyes widened, a flicker of hope breaking through their fear as the light revealed his determined face.
“This is my promise,” Emmanuel said, his voice steady and comforting. “I’ll protect you. But we need to leave this place now. Follow me, and stay close.”
With the children now tentatively trusting him, Emmanuel led them out of the school, his mind focused on their safety as they made their way through the chaos.