Chapter 32
A Casual Vacation Part 2
After a hefty amount of explanation, Mayor Wilder was more than happy to fake his death. He had no named successor nor was there a political figure that could rapidly accumulate power in his absence. By the time he announced he was still alive, there would be no permanent damage.
From there, they split their duties. Mayor Wilder would go into hiding and covertly reach out to Archmage Lorand, who would unify the city’s remaining powers in the mayor’s stead. Cel was stuck with the unfortunate assignment of convincing the only three Demigods in the city to help. Mayor Wilder couldn’t tell Cel much of anything thanks to the signing of a nondisclosure agreement. He explained that it was the only way said Demigods would stay in Frost Born city, at least during the summers. The only thing he did say was that two of the Demigods were subordinates to the smith.
Afterwards, he returned with Iter and stomached a day of her cruel training before signing up for another mission. Luckily, Mayor Wilder managed to get someone to request a few fake missions with seemingly normal key words that Cel could use as a cover. Iter didn’t bother with supervising, and he found himself uncomfortably stepping inside a noble smithery.
The building itself was made of polished stone and the sign was large, colorful, magically illuminated, and written in a cursive. Not to mention the clear glass doors he shyly cracked open with one of his knuckles. Inside, the walls were covered with orderly lines of weapons and armors, all shapes and sizes. Of course, those were only the fluff that could be labeled as perfect, without a single flaw. In the middle of the room, four display stands stood in a punnett square formation. One on each stand, there was a weapon of sublime quality, better than perfect, better than anything that could be achieved by a mere mortal. They seemed to gleam with awesomeness, polished to the point that the blades were more reflective than regular glass, sharpened to the point that their edges radiated a feeling of danger.
Cel subconsciously looked over the daggers on display. The wavy blades were forged from a shiny black metal, and attached to an unblemished silver forward swept cruciform hilt with inferior pointed edges. The pommel was a small silver circle with radial depressions in a stair pattern that ended with a pin sized hole in the middle. All held by a dark gripped, doric column shaped handle. Cel wanted nothing more than to test its edge, just once.
“See anything interesting?” a pleasingly scratchy voice resounded in the acoustic room. Cel jolted out of his daze like he was coming out of a dream.
He forced his eyes forward and walked up to the wall joined desk at the back of the room. “I was actually wondering if I could speak with The Smith for a custom item,” he queried.
The man stood ramrod straight, hands leisurely locked behind him. His eyes were emerald green, his ears were small and pointed, and his cherry blonde hair was wavy, unruly, and spiky all at the same time. The man was a half elf, wearing bright blue noble vender attire.
“Ah, you’re a fan,” he concluded, gesturing with his eyes at the weapons appended to Cel’s belt.
“Of a sort,” he politely gave a vague answer.
“The Smith is always open to custom orders. You can talk to him in the next room, I’ll let him know.”
Cel entered a room to his right, littered with small, individual pieces of incomplete weapons. He figured they were used as models to help translate theoretical designs to the physical. The Smith must get a lot of custom orders if he has a whole room for it, he assumed. In the left wall, there was a large pane of orange tinted glass next to a door. Through the glass, he could see The Smith hammering away at a piece of metal on an anvil. Suddenly, The Smith looked to his left, then looked through the glass at Cel. He entrusted the metal he was working on to his attendant and entered the room.
The Smith only came up to Cel’s chest in height. He was wider than anyone Cel had ever seen before, and his gloves and apron covered seventy percent of his body. The other thirty percent wasn’t covered at all, revealing large muscles that looked harder than the metals he shaped on a daily basis. As he sized Cel up, he pulled off the wool and mail mesh he used as a mask. His defining features were long braided locks of brown hair that matched his eyes and a smaller than average nose.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir,” Cel greeted him with an outstretched hand.
“And you as well,” he returned the favor and the hand. “Call me Othello, it’s always a gift to meet a connoisseur. If I haven’t aged too much, your weapons must be from my second collection. How are they fairing, not damaged I hope!”
“Ah…um,” Cel awkwardly filled in silence. “They have been through strenuous circumstances, and I’m afraid they aren’t in pristine quality.”
“That’s no good, may I see them?”
He untied the sheathed and handed the blades over. The Smith gently unsheathed the top dagger, gasping in horror at its sorry state. His face darkened and let out a huff, still ever so gentle as he let the blade fall into its sheath once more.
“Follow me,” he demanded as he wheeled around and threw open the door to his forge. “How long have you had my Twin Flames?”
“More than a year…” Cel answered quietly.
“All that time, you never thought to sharpen them?”
“N-no,” he admitted, slightly mortified.
Othello’s forge was immaculate, O.C.D level neat. The walls and ground were a prominent light blue with thin white lines perfectly crossing in a large cartesian grid. Magnetically hanging on the northern wall was an array of smithing tools that Cel had no concept of, precisely placed in the center of each box. There was a main forge built into the eastern wall, connected to the chimney that was currently housing a somehow consistent and lively flame. Also defying common sense, the bright orange metal resting on the polished deep blue anvil didn’t seem to be cooling, nor was the anvil heating up. The attendant from before was comfortably sitting with his legs crossed in the stool that was placed equidistant between the anvil and forge; his irises were glowing the same fiery orange as the metal and a knowing grin floated on his lips as he noticed them enter.
Othello mentally counted his steps, stopping before a specific square that he pressed into the ground with his boot. The ground before him parted, and a rectangular table carrying two built in strips of whetstones rose to a comfortable height for the short smith. They were glistening with droplets, perpetually soaked and ready to go magical whetstones.
The Smith caringly placed the bare blades exactly parallel on the side of the table, picking up the nearest one directly after.
“Thank the gods you cleaned them correctly, else they would have rusted. I reckon they spend most days in their sheats, you’ll need wooden ones then,” he distractedly scolded Cel. “Corrin, please call up the stick.”
Corrin, his eyes maintaining their alluring, preternatural glow, moved over to a space on the wall where a miniature grid with red lines was imposed in a five by five box of the original. His finger waved over the panel as he muttered to himself, starting with a few unsure taps before gaining confidence as he input the end of the combination. When he finished, a practice dummy was shoved out of the west wall. As that developed, Othello finished sharpening the first blade and proceeded to arrange it like before.
“Kill it,” he said, offering the dull dagger’s handle. Cel took the knife, walked up to the dummy, and released a series of three blindingly fast slashes. Three corresponding gashes were visible in the neck and both shoulders, all deep enough to be a killing blow.
Othello reclaimed the blade and switched out of the sharpened one. “Try again.” Cel took the weapon, only to hesitate. He tested the dagger’s weight in his hand; it felt lighter. He manipulated it between his fingers, transferring between hands; it flowed smoother. Finally he caught it in a reverse grip, unleashing a single upward swing. A deep laceration spanning from the left hip to the right side of the collar bone was left in its wake. Corrin appeared beside the dummy, casually flicking the side of its head. The majority of its upper body fell to the ground after a small snap.
“I hope that display will serve to remind you in the future,” said Othello, not bothering to take his eyes off the dagger in his hands.
After he finished, and took a look at his pistol, Cel said,“Thank you.” He added a bow to show his sincerity. “I received your work as a gift from a close friend. He most likely assumed I knew all of this.”
“Yes, let’s hope he wasn’t similarly clueless,” was his response
That sounds like Eliot alright, Cel inwardly chuckled.
“Corrin, go fetch those cloud wood sheaths for our guest.” He diligently set off to follow orders before Othello turned back to Cel and said, “Now would be a good time to discuss why you’re here.” He went on to say, “Your weapons continue to serve you well; you’re young, but not ostentatious enough to be a noble, and this is the first time I have seen your face in the decade I have lived in Frost Born city. I presume it isn’t a coincidence that you have the skills of an assassin.”
Cel awkwardly apologetic smile turned rigid. “Them, you’ve seen through the real reason I’m here,” he confirmed his theory.
“Tell your masters that I refuse to sell them weapons. Enough of my creations turn up in underground auctions as it is,” he grumbled bitterly.
“I don’t serve Rex Mortem, the opposite in fact,” Cel corrected him. “I am here on behalf of Mayor Wilder.”
“Mayor Wilder was assassinated not two days prior,” he asked more than stated, his eyes narrowing and head lowering a few millimeters.
“You don’t need to know the details. But, I can assure you the mayor still walks among the living, and intends to strike back at his would be murderers,” shared Cel.
“He needs my help,” Othello concluded. Cel nodded gravely. In response, he let out into a short lived belly laugh. “I was starting to wonder when that desk lover would take action. I didn’t think he would be this daring!” A small smile sprouted on Cel’s face, a little pleased with himself.
“If I’m to communicate with the mayor through you, it would be best I know your name.”
“I’m Cel Verrus, although I’m sad to say that you’ll be given information from a guild mage here on,” he introduced himself with an appropriate bow.
“Aye, unfortunate,” Othello agreed with a nod before asking, “Your name, do you happen to know why it sounds familiar?”
“I’m sorry, I don’t,” Cel answered truthfully.
His frustrating search of memories was interrupted by Corrin entering with two pitch black genteel wooden sheethes. They had a dazzling varnish with dim silver panache grooves. Lining the inner edges were miniscule holes that continued shrinking past the size of a needle point as they continued down, and a modest, consolidated steel colored ring looped through the highest openings.
“As long as you keep Twin Flames clean, they shouldn’t rust in these,” said Corrin as he handed them over.
“I really can’t thank you enough,” Cel breathed in slight disbelief.
“The pleasure is all ours.” Othello offered his gloved hand. “I wish you well in your future endeavors.”
“And yours as well,” Cel bade goodbye.
As much as he wanted to-undercover work was taxing-he had one more stop before he could call it quits for the day. Deep in the brumal forest, there was a large chalet erected in a clearing measured exactly to fit the space, so wedged between the trees that the door wouldn’t open the entire way; gods know how anyone entered during heavy snowfall, or any environmental events. Unlike most of its kind, the capacious building was all one story, a small circle window embedded in the north facing roof.
Cel blew out a cloud of carbon dioxide as he landed on the branch of a tree near the entrance. That was when he heard the gunshot. As opposed to modern guns’ crack of thunder that could be heard for kilometers , there was muffled woosh that could only be heard in close proximity to the chalet, and a small snap of wood that Cel would have missed if his hearing wasn’t comparable to an owl bear’s.
He jumped and swung himself onto the roof, disrupting the layer of snow plastered to the shingles. Circling to the window, he saw the mayor with his hands in the air, and a mysterious figure wearing a baggy maroon mage’s cloak threatening him with a pistol- the mayor’s very own. He didn’t think of the implications, rather he immediately burst through the window. The mayor and mage turned in shock to see an airborne cel brandishing his daggers amidst thousands of glittering glass shards. Before anyone could react, an orange, form fitting forcefield flared to life around the mage, successfully deflecting the first dagger. As Cel grew closer to the ground, the mage used some sort of jump spell to launch himself to the side; Cel had calculated for that, in fact he was counting on it. The second dagger sunk into the armor around his leg, but that was the glaring flaw of mage’s armor. It protected from any attack, not taking into account where it hit or if it would kill.
As the mage flew backwards through the air, he realized what Cel was doing, and that their trajectories would intersect, too late to do anything about it. Once in range, Cel slammed into the side of his head with a roundhouse kick, shattering his mage’s armor and sending him reeling. His first dagger had returned to his left hand by them, and he accurately grabbed hold of the mage’s arm with the other. He started the roll mid air, distributing the force across his back before coming to a stop. Gritting his teeth through the jarring landing, he twisted the mage’s arm and shoved, dislocating his shoulder. Finally, he drew his legs together, flipping on top of the mage, and pressing a dagger to his throat.
Contrary to expectations, the yellow eyed mage smiled and his figure started to blur.
“Sorry for the scare, I felt a need to test your abilities,” apologized an even voice. The illusion Cel thought he was threatening faded.
“As long as you’re satisfied,” he said, picking up his right dagger and sheathing his weapons.
“Did The Smith agree to help?” Mayor Wilder changed the subject to the matter at hand.
“Yes, he was easier than we thought,” Cel told him.
“Good. Your actions have helped more than any others’ to save Frost Born City, however there is one more task you must complete,” Arcmhmage Lorand shared regrettably. “Are you familiar with Planar Theory?”
“I can’t say I am.”
“I’m not surprised, it’s only just been proven in the empire. Planar Theory postulates that reality is separated into planes that exist in parallel space. The mortal plane, also called the material plane, and the plane humans inhabit is thought to be the main one.
“Unfortunately, it appears the Kirlandhil Empire has more experience in this field than us. I’m certain that the Rex Mortem base is an artificial demiplane. That explains why they have Dimensional Authority and how they’ve been able to stay hidden for so long.”
“What is the significance of this information?” asked the mayor.
“I’m getting to that,” the mage told him. “Because of the nature of planes, we can’t affect it without there being a bridge between our plane and theirs.”
“You want me to make that bridge,” Cel finished.
“Yes, preferably in a previously specified location,” he confirmed. Noticing a cue, the mayor brushed off the glass shards littering the room’s dining table, and smoothed out a map of the city.
Cel looked it over for a few seconds before pointing to an alleyway. “I’ll open it there, at six thirty.”
“Alright, everything will be in place. I’ll see you on the battlefield,” said the mage before turning into smoke.
“I hope you’ll do something about the nobles next,” Cel told the mayor as he left. He had already been gone for a suspicious amount of time.
Luckily, Iter was too busy for training and let him off the hook. When he got to his dorm, Jill and Janet invited him to a game with other new recruits. It was a simple gambling game with six players, one dice, and a cup. Each player picks a number, the dice is rolled in the cup, and the one who guessed right gets the pot. Cel lost more than he won and he shared an embellished tale of how he assassinated the mayor. He couldn’t help but feel like the day had gone very well.
He woke at first light the next morning. He got equipped, but it was too early. For forty minutes, Cel sat at the foot of his bed. He played with his knives and stared at his pocket watch, counting along the seconds. Mostly, he tried not to look at his sleeping roommates. He wanted to give them some sort of warning, thought up all sorts of excuses he could use to wake then up, at least. I can’t risk it, he reminded himself. By the hundredth repeat, his words had the opposite effect. He tried placating his conscience by setting out their clothing and equipment, in case they were woken by his blood thirsty allies.
Finally, it was five minutes before. The half jog to the gate was the most nerve racking event of his life. Not surprisingly, there were other early worms, even morning people that greeted him on the way. He ran into a half asleep Cryo and nervously fidgeted through his ‘relax, stop taking so many missions’ speech, obviously a fan of doing the bare minimum. Cel half expected a team of armed guards or just implemented security measures, but the gate was as usual.
He did his best to make his actions fluid, his posture casual, as he input his preferred exit locale in arbitrary nocks and exact time gaps. He flattened his hand against the door, just a push away.
“What do you think you’re doing?” He flinched too dramatically and wheeled to see Iter, standing with hands on her hips.
“Going out… on a mission,” he said slowly, deliberately, praying to the gods that none of his panic was translated.
Iter crossed her arms. “No.”
Cel stared, his mouth refusing to open more than a few centimeters. “Why…?
A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.
“You have gone on one too many missions. How am I supposed to find time to train you when you’re never at the base?” she asked with exasperation. Cel let out a breath he didn’t know he had been holding, relaxing his muscles.
“I don’t need your menial labor,” he responded. Iter’s face shifted.
“Oh, so you think you’re above my training? You think I don’t know exactly what level you’re at?” she exploded.
“I wouldn’t know,” he said quickly, “You never bother to explain anything, you just expect me to figure it out.”
“Fine, I’ll cut you a deal,” she huffed. “If you can manage to touch me, just with the tip of your dagger, then I’ll let you go on as many missions as you want. And I’ll move on to the next step in your training.” Cel resisted the urge to look at the time. Even without it, he knew he didn’t have time for this.
He lurched forward without a shred of warning, daggers drawn. Iter laughed as she hopped out his range, and side stepped his follow up.
“I like your ferocity,” she encouraged with a light smile, limboing another strike. “Keep it up!” He did exactly that, chasing her around the same box of mud while she effortlessly dodged. It simply wasn’t fair, the speed differential was impossible to overcome. Iter knew it too, Cel could tell.
After failing to use mud to his advantage- she used her law to rewind its movements- he started to feel frustrated. He threw his daggers, one high middle the other low, following a horizontal parabola that would meet just behind Iter, and ran at her. If she sidestepped, he could suddenly pull either dagger. If she moved back, the daggers would hit her. If she jumped, Cel would grab his daggers and throw them. If she tried avoiding the daggers, he would get her. There was no way out, Cel was sure of it.
Iter realized what he planned with a cursory side glance at each dagger. She stayed glued to her spot, and Cel could lunged. His finger came centimeters close to her before he found himself half a meter short; she had messed with his trajectory. He face planted in the mud with a pitiful smack.
Cel lifted himself up with an angry grunt, “I’m done with this.” He stomped over to the gate and froze mid kick. The majority of his body was static, but he could move his neck and above.
“You don’t seem to realize just how powerless you are,” Iter laughed at him.
Cel turned to look at her supercilious smile. He didn’t bother suppressing his own budding sneer. His dagger shot out of the mud, speeding towards Iter from behind. When it was just about to hit her, she curved her torso, allowing it to nearly brush her shoulder. He forced his face to turn crestfallen, shifting to panic.
“I can’t stop it, let me go! It’ll hit me!” he shouted, a terrified tremor in his voice. Iter snorted and complied. Instead of dodging, he followed through with his kick. The dagger bounced off of a foamy white coating of mana, a pilfered medallion glowing the same color under his clothing. The gate burst open, revealing four fully equipped people standing in view.
The Four men looked as surprised at Iter, trading a moment of shock. Then, the spectre in red robes snapped his fingers. The entire Demiplane shook, the intensity increasing until Cel fell prone. It suddenly stopped for a split second before the Demiplane merged with the material plane, their surroundings switched from pine forest to urban infrastructure like someone had changed the channel. Looking back, parallel buildings had burst into shrapnel where they intersected. Cel could already hear screaming.
“You!” Iter snarled, absolutely livid. She appeared over him in an instant, a pitch black dagger already descending. But a gleaming white giant hammer momentarily materialized in the air and sent her flying like a golf ball.
Cel turned to the group of invaders with numb bewilderment. Corrin looked like he hadn’t left the shop. Neither was he armed with a weapon or wearing any sort of armor, in fact he looked exactly like when Cel had first seen him behind the counter
Archmage Lorand looked similar to when they met, only five levels more serious. His body was replaced with a billowing black smoke that caused his robe to softly undulate and appear as if it was floating. The only human feature Cel could make out were vague outlines of his forearms and hands.
Othello was well within expectations. He donned pale green mythril armor and wielded a pair of black and gold war hammers.
The last man Cel had never met before. He had a medium frame, crew cut black hair, and glowing silver irises. He was wearing simple chainmail with the hood down, but with no gauntlets or footwear of any kind. Strapped to his back was an overflowing bundle of weapons. Swords, spears, staves, halberds, war hammers, you name it. If it could be wielded two handed, it was there. Ironically, he had the blandest looking bastard sword gripped in one hand.
Lorand’s black mass shifted. Originating from his loose fingertip, a flare whistled into the sky, exploding into a brilliant red star once it reached its apex. From so far away that it looked to be from outside of the city, hundreds of pale neon red streaks entered the air space. As if in slow motion, the red lines arced through the air until they converged above the Rex Mortem base. Cel watched in mute horror as the artillery spells leveled the buildings in a cacophonic, raucous light show. That had never been part of the plan. He knew it was irrational, naive, but he couldn’t help feeling angry. They had no say in their deaths, no chance to fight back, no warning besides the abrupt plane shift.
To his relief, when the dust settled, there was a hastily erected neon red barrier protecting half of the dorm building and some of the mission center, wobbling above the rubble. The third wraith that Cel never bumped into was a mage, he had heard.
Hundreds of figures clad in black leather flooded out of the dorm and the shells of leaning foundations that were previously buildings. In turn, rivers of dull white armor poured from outside of the blast radius. In less than three minutes, the Rex Mortem base turned into a bleak battlefield hosting two rage fueled armies.
Three blurs of light- standard yellow, ice white, and dank brown- fused in the air above Cel. Each with outstretched wings, the three wraiths looked down upon their enemy’s leadership with malevolent gazes. Iter’s coat was splattered with dirt and debris, yellow hatred emanated from her mask’s eye sockets, trained on Cel’s unbalanced frame.
“You two trusted a traitor,” rasped the third wraith. Cel thought he could see Cryo ball his fists.
Iter raised her dagger and growled, “Cel Verrus… When this is over, I’m going to peel your skin off layer by layer, carve my wrath on your bones, and keep you awake for every blissful second!” The sheer killing intent behind her words grappled Cel like a hundred bony hands risen from the Abyss.
Around him, Corrin and Othello materialized their own mana wings and engaged the second and third wraiths respectively. They veered away as if everyone had previously agreed to fight separately. Only, Iter didn’t get with the program. She dove, hell bent on eviscerating Cel. The mail armored Demigod stepped in front of him, blocking her dash and drove her back with a few quick slashes. Lorand summoned a gale of rubble to keep her busy as Cel’s protector handed him a musket.
“You should make yourself scarce,” he advised in a gentle voice.
Cel nodded silently before taking off. He gripped the musket in his hands and tried to shake away the small tears gathering in the corners of his eyes. Eventually, he couldn’t stop the water works, no matter how many times he swiped his eyes . Stop running, the fairy in his soul whispered. His legs buckled at her words. His knees took the brunt of force and sent the residual as a reverberation up his skeleton. The Rex Mortem base was big enough and the armies small enough that Cel could peacefully have a mental breakdown kneeling in the outskirts of rubble.
“This is all my fault,” he whimpered. You did what you had to. If you hadn’t done anything, they would have made another attempt on your life.
“So I go murder everyone who could possibly kill me?” he retorted. “So what if they sent another assassin? Verline doesn’t have the money for a three star mission.” Listen, Feya’s voice took on an admonishing quality, I know that some of them weren’t entirely evil, but they were still bad people. Think of the number of lives you saved by stopping them.
“Then, I should kill myself to stop future murders,” he whined. He could feel Feya start to boil. Did you forget why you did this in the first place? Was a week all it took to forget your family? Her words were the equivalent of an ice bath. He did forget why, and it all came rushing back to him. Mebel’s adorable peculiarity, Travis’ inspiring perseverance, the way Delroy wore his heart on his sleeve, Yuri and Silica’s bond that ran deeper than blood, Roland’s lovable rebellious nature, Nile’s rampant curiosity, the effervescent squeal of the youngest three’s laughter, and all of their smiles. That is what he was fighting for. The ones that made life worth living.
A small smirk formed on Cel’s face. “Thank you, Feya. I needed that.” He raised his face, taking on a frown of steely determination, and stood up. In the sky, he followed blue and orange flashes to Corrin and Cryo’s duel. Corrin was doing whatever he could to try and grab Cryo, and Cryo was retaliating with a sleek pure white short sword. It looked evenly matched from his vantage, but intensity radiated from their close quarters exchange. After some thought, Cel understood why. He knew that Corrin’s law had something to do with heat, it wasn’t too far-fetched to assume he could turn Cryo into a human bonfire if he managed to grab him. On the other hand, if he managed to impale Corrin, Cryo could probably turn him into an ice sculpture. Cel needed to break the stalemate.
He spied a skinny spire of building corner that would provide a perfect sniping nest. It was out of the way enough not to be right in the middle of the fighting and put the Demigods’ fight within range of his musket. The only problem was the coterie of Rex Mortem members trying to break through a wall of guards, directly in his path. A suitable detour would take too long.
The guards with their spears should have had the upper hand, but there were a few assassins proficient in the crossbow and some were swift enough to pressure them. Judging from the guard’s horrible accuracy with their arrows, the assassins had successfully neutralized the guards that were trained for long range, at least in this squad.
Cel shouldered his musket and took a deep breath, preparing himself for human blood on his daggers. He crawled amidst the debris until the archers were within range. He eased himself to a crouch before accurately spiking through the farthest one’s eye and lunging at the closest, burying his right dagger in their neck. The assassins were understandably caught off guard, from someone wearing their uniform no less.
“He doesn’t have a mask, he’s one of them!” warned an assassin.
“Scatter!” someone shouted. With Cel flanking and the guards inching closer, the assassins ran in all directions. More than a little relieved, Cel let them go. He recovered his daggers and moved on before the guards could question his identity.
Rushing, he made it to the spire top within minutes and set his musket on the crumbled wall. Vaguely observing up its barrel, Cryo and Corrin entered his eye line. Their actual arms were moving much too fast for Cel to keep track of, but their leaning and dashing dance was enough for him to predict their actions. He waited with bated breaths for the right moment.
When Cel measured the distance, he might have been a little generous of his predicted accuracy. He could hit someone with his pistol up to three times its regular distance when in perfect conditions, so he assumed he could hit them from thirty meters away with a musket. Unfortunately, the bullet curved more than predicted, just grazing Corrin’s shoulder, and resulted in him getting a cold slash down his chest as a consequence of limited maneuverability. Cel recoiled at the nearly life costing mistake while Corrin hastily tried to gain distance now that Cryo was slowing his movement with a trace amount of frost.
Once recovered, Cel forced his brain into high gear. He visualized the curved trajectory, reloaded, remeasured the wind speed, and waited. Cryo launched forward with a left favored upper cut. Corrin spun the opposite direction and tried to grab him. He dodged his attack with a duck, along with a low transverse cut. Corrin flipped into a scissor kick that pushed Cryo back. They circled each other, gathering their breath, for some seconds before Cryo surged forward with a left sided stab. Corrin shifted right, and predicting his movement, Cryo slashed right. Corrin just avoided the gleaming tip with an unbalanced, short lunge backwards.
Cel let go of the breath he was holding, and squeezed the trigger. Right before Cryo counteracted the directional inertia to continue into a left slash, the bullet struck the base of his blade. It didn’t hurt the ice in any way, however Cryo’s arm was forced to linger longer than intended, having the same effect as a guard break. Corrin lunged forward and comfortably wrapped his hand around Cryo’s outstretched wrist. His pointed ears lifted ever so slightly as he showed off a victorious grin. Suddenly, Cryo started wailing.
His screams were horrified screeches, and he struggled desperately to pull out of Corring’s hold, to no avail. At first, Cel was bewildered by the turn of events. Surely Corrin’s grip strength wasn’t enough to achieve this. Then, Cryo’s uniform started to hang, taking on a dank sludged like quality. Almost like a snake shedding skin, his uniform broke and oozed off of his frame, falling out of view as one gathered mass of slime. Half way through this occurrence, Cel spotted a thin layer of ice encasing Cryo’s skin. It evaporated by the time his uniform fell, leaving behind smudged skin. But what was once skin quickly melted into liquid, dripping off drop by drop.
By then, Cryo had long since went limp. He was nothing more than a half melted-wax dipped skeleton hanging from Corrin’s hand. There was no sign of the numinous Demigod of Ice left. The only thing that betrayed his former self was the resilient mask that clung to the front of his skull, refusing to let go or melt. Corrin plucked the mask off and let the now wax tipped bones descend. He shoved the mask in his coat as he floated down to Cel’s location. There was a large sheet of ice covering his chest halted just before it overtook his shoulder joints.
“I don’t know whether to curse you for almost killing me, or thank you for helping,” he said. Cel had no idea how to talk to someone who had just melted someone else from the inside out, so he laughed awkwardly as his response. He hoped he didn’t imagine the slight upturned corners of his lip as he flew off to somewhere he was more needed.
Hmp, jerk! Feya insulted. Cel chuckled at her antics, picking up his musket. But as he leaned down to grab it, the building corner abruptly keeled. He jumped away from the impact site and immediately sprang out of his roll to face his assassin.
“The entire time it was you… you did this,” the girl whispered with barely contained madness. She was dressed in Rex Mortem attire, minus a mask. Her brilliant red hair was tangled with dirt, dust, and stone. Her dark face was tear ridden and her puffy eyes burned red with overwhelming emotions.
“Janet…” His voice was thick with emotion, his face turned down in shame. “Is Jill… is she…” He didn’t have the heart to finish.
“I woke up to her screams,” she answered, fresh tears welling up in her eyes. “She protected me from the exploded stone. I held her in my arms as she bled to death… She was in pain, so much pain.” She shivered vehemently as she was momentarily back in their dorm, reliving the experience in her mind. “Wh-y…” her voice broke, “Why didn’t you warn us?” He silently stared at his feet. Face your demons, Cel, his fairy urged.
“I couldn’t jeopardize the mission. I’m sorry.” He looked Janet in the eyes, hoping his sorrow would be communicated.
She raised the cruciform sword in her hand. “I think I need to kill you,” she concluded. “To let Jill rest in peace.”
Cel scoweld. “I can’t let you do that.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, gripping her sword with both hands. “I can’t jeopardize Jill’s peace.” He almost wanted to laugh.
Janet took a step forward. When her foot tapped the ground, a chain of quick afterimages sprang into existence. Each one was only a centimeter more forward than the last. They looked almost like stop motion, and ended with a sword cleaving at Cel. It was simple enough to lean back, but Janet took another step, sending another chain to attack him.
He deflected the attack the second time, and felt a stark peculiarity in its weight. It was almost as if the sword turned into an illusion after it made its attack, but before the image disappeared. As Janet took a third and fourth step, she turned right, beginning to plot a circle around Cel. With each step she took, the next came faster and faster. Afterimages came in pairs by the time she completed half a rotation. What exaggerated the difficulty was the fact that not all attacks were real. The afterimages were identical in every way, yet some of them could cut Cel in half and others would pass right through him.
Janet completed her first revolution. Cel stopped two swords on either side from chopping him into bits, while letting the fake directly in front of him harmlessly disperse against his head. Janet was half way around again. Cel ducked through the first one- he figured out that even the ones that posed a threat were all illusion besides the sword- deflected the second, spun around the third, and lucked out with the fourth. Janet suddenly jumped into a sprint, tens of afterimages rushed forward to attack him simultaneously. He managed so far with a few flesh wounds after burning through the mana in his medallion, but there was no doubt he would die here if he didn’t take drastic action.
Cel brushed his foot in an arc in front of him, launching a cloud of rumble into the air. His eyes hyper focused on their swords. The rocks passed through the ghostly facsimiles without any obstacles, they were all fake.
Believing that it would be the only opening he would get, Cel dashed through the afterimages, barreling towards Janet. But, as he came within range, an afterimage dug a sword into his shoulder. Though he pulled back the second he realized it was a false opening, he was left with a grievous gash stretching from his left shoulder to his right hip.
Cel slumped over, coughing blood and uselessly trying to stop the blood with his hands. Janet came to a stop, looking him over with traumatized eyes. Cel took in a quick breath through clenched teeth, flexing his legs, but Janet simply moved her sword in a cutting fashion. A laceration sprouted on the side of his left knee, forcing him into a half kneel and letting out a scream.
“They were all illusions,” he struggled through the blood gathering his throat.
Her face was fixed in a permanent frown. “Yes… I would distract and Jill would attack. Everyone who faced us fell to her blade.” She looked at the sword in her hands, ruminating. “You will be the last person we kill together.”
She lifted the sword up to her chest, parallel to the ground and facing left. With unnecessary flourishes, she hefted it above her right shoulder and tensed to swing. Cel took advantage of her mercy, practically throwing himself into a right favored roll. Pain was the furthest thing from his mind as he aimed his flintlock. Almost instinctively, it was trained on her with uncanny accuracy. I’m sorry, he confessed as he pulled the trigger.
The bullet plunged into her throat along with an airy explosion that was mute compared to the sounds of war. A gout of bone, cartilage, viscera, tissue, blood, and gore burst from the back of her neck. The sword flung out of her lifeless hands and clattered against the scattered stone. Janet fell backwards, a pool of blood quickly amassing under her.
Cel wished he would be able to disarm her without killing her. He wished that he knew the words to talk her down, comfort her even. He wished one of the first people he personally killed wasn’t considered a friend. He wished Jill and Janet didn’t have to die. He wished they weren’t in Rex Mortem at all. He wished, he wished, wished.
Tears blurried his vision. Now is not the time for mourning, Cel. As much as he wanted to tell her off and curl into a ball to bawl his eyes out, she was right. He rubbed away his tears with extreme prejudice. He didn’t come all this way to die now.
He crawled over to her sword. And, stabbing it into the ground, he lifted himself to a hunched stand. He hobbled next to Janet’s corps. He wished some more, but the best he could do to honor the twins in this moment was to make sure their favored items didn’t go to waste. Slinging the previously discarded musket on his back, he staggered away from the scene of their duel.
Trying to look over the surroundings, he collapsed due to a fit of overwhelming coughing. After, he pulled himself up with light, quick, and painful breaths. He knew then that he wouldn’t make it to a healer. He needed immediate first aid if he was going to survive this.
He made his way towards where he approximated Cryo’s corpse fell, a sense of grim urgency and adrenaline his only fuel. Cryo’s bones were strewn about the repulsive dark tan colored goo that used to be his skin and cloak. Cel stumbled past the grisly sight, his neck and eyes a hasty host of movement. Finally, he found what he was looking for.
He gasped while lowering himself to lean against a large chunk of foundation, a cloud white short sword in his gloved hand. Cel hissed as he carefully led its tip across both sides of his anterior wound. Now that the ice's controller was dead, it lost the ability to aggressively spread and grow to envelop his entire body. He finished up freezing the opening on the side of his knee with a sigh. Although he knew that it wasn’t a permanent fix, it would do for now. A stiff leg was ultimately better than a limp one.
Cel bore witness to the aftermath and final battle while shuffling through the desolate battlefield. Heaps of bodies, assassin and guard alike, were lying in the mud or buried in the rubble. Significant gatherings of injured guards were left behind to watch over the triple bound assassins that surrendered. The final group of Rex Mortem members that were resolved to fight to the end were hold up in the somehow still standing half of the dorm building, and the swathes of uninjured guards were storming in with their sheer numbers.
Bright flashes of light and occasional large diaphanous hammers or swords drew his attention to the overcast sky. Iter was still fighting, or rather dodging the combined attacks of all three Demigods on the city’s side plus Archmage Lorand. She controlled her limbs like she was a marionette and abused her law so much that it was a wonder she didn’t run out of divine mana. Of course, when facing four Demigod caliber opponents, she wasn’t unscathed, but prioritised evading Corrin’s grasp- a very good call- and Othello's hammers. Sword cuts ranging from small to medium, and bruises spotted her all over, sustained from the less lethal pair of the quartet.
In the end, her defeat was inevitable. It happened as Cel neared the ground space of the fighting. The three Demigods closed in on Iter from all sides, Othello on her right, Corrin her left, and the sword adept behind her. She turned sideways, under Othello’s hammer, and spun. She redirected Corrin’s arm, pushing him below her, with one hand and lashed out with the other. She hit the pommel of the sword adept's sword as he swung down, disarming him. But that was when Lorand struck.
Iter was too focused on the Demigods in her face and grew used to tanking his mortal level spells. She didn’t notice that his gaseous body was slowly filling with green sparks while shooting out novice level spells that even Cel would disregard as a cover. Before she finished spinning, and too fast to slow down with her law, a fluorescent green lightning bolt arced from Lorand’s finger shaped miniature storm clouds. It blasted her before Cel could realize what was happening, smacking her a few meters through the air and seizing her movements.
Othello followed up with a heavy overhand strike that sent her smashing to the ground. But the real finishing blow came from the sword adept. He hefted a human sized broadsword above his head, blade pointed at the ground, and slammed it down with all the power of his law. An ornate, monolithic sword descended from the sky, parting the clouds as it dropped. It pierced the ground with a cataclysmic wash of air that buffeted Cel like the shockwave of an explosion. He desperately scrambled to maintain his balance, forcing his eyes shut against the winds. Then, it winked out of existence like it never existed at all. Left in its wake was a new ravine, a piece of Iter on both sides of the chasm.
A tunnel of light from Paradise itself highlighted the scarred landscape through a gaping hole in the clouds. Allowing Cel to watch with perfect illumination as Corrin made absolutely sure Iter was dead.
He let out a listless sigh. The Rex Mortem outpost was no more, and the blood was on his hands.