Wilhelm faced the undead horde with an unsettling calm. Tension crackled in the air, a harbinger of the storm to come. Bloodmask extended his hands and curled his fingers into claws. With a commanding snarl, he ordered the frontline of zombie puppets to march forward.
“First things first, then,” Wilhelm muttered. He raised his swordstick high, holding it aloft, while placing his other hand behind his back. The wings on his walking stick handle extended outward as magic enveloped it. “Glow, Red Aura.” He spoke the words with quiet authority.
A crimson light coated him. It cast eerie shadows across the cobblestone as it concentrated on his legs. Ben felt almost giddy. He checked Sybil’s expression for approval, but she seemed less impressed. She must have seen him in action countless times during their training, he surmised.
Wilhelm moved without warning. The world flashed as he dashed forward, a red streak slicing through the zombie puppets’ rank and file with unparalleled velocity. His speed was otherworldly, surpassing even sorcerer standards and anything Ben had witnessed with Quicken.
He became a lethal whirlwind, striking down the zombie puppets one by one. Ben struggled to follow his movements, his eyes barely keeping up with the afterimages that trailed in his wake. Each thrust of his slender blade was a decisive blow, yet the zombie puppets’ bodies remained intact.
Ben also noticed something else. Every time he struck a zombie puppet down with his swordstick, it stayed down. Unlike before, when the fallen continually rose again, they now lay motionless. Wilhelm coursed through them with fluidity, every step calculated, every strike true to its mark. He blended swordstick flourishes with swift kicks, incapacitating the undead with ease.
Leaping above the fray, Wilhelm delivered a spinning kick that shattered their defenses. He followed through with a forceful thrust to another’s solar plexus, the blade piercing it with minimal resistance. The intensity of the glow around his legs grew with each movement, the momentum generated by friction augmenting its potency.
Ben marveled at the sight, realizing this was the legendary Lightfoot in action. This is what I’m aiming for. His mouth went dry as he observed the fight. The zombie puppets, once an overwhelming tide, now resembled the practice dummies back in Sweeney Manor. Wilhelm was a tour de force, a seamless combo of physical prowess and sorcerous might.
Engrossed as they were, they didn’t notice Sam sneaking up on them. He huffed and puffed from all the furtive crouching involved in his unseen arrival. “What did I miss?”
Sybil greeted him and proceeded to explain. “Wilhelm is single-handedly dealing with the undead,” she said, pointing a finger at the unconscious figures sprawled on the floor. “And they’re not getting up.”
Sam immediately became caught up in thought, examining the scene. “Hmm, yes. I see. His light sorcery must be disrupting Bloodmask’s necromancy. He’s effectively exorcising them, if you will.”
“He’s got a natural advantage on cursespells?” Sybil asked, incredulous.
“It looks like it,” Sam replied. “That’s some awfully convenient magic.”
“He might be dispelling the cursespell’s influence, but the blood tendrils lingered, a visible reminder of the danger—look over there.” Ben warned. “We need to remain cautious.”
They turned their attention back to the battlefield. Wilhelm had not lost his edge. The last remnant of Bloodmask’s once menacing army came at him in a desperate rush. He flowed through them, an uncatchable scarlet blur. The thin swordstick flashed and whirled with virtuosity.
With a sudden burst of speed, Wilhelm slid low to the ground and swept his leg in a wide arc. The powerful kick knocked all of his targets off their feet, except for one. He sprang up and delivered a crushing elbow to its face, and it crashed down with the rest of its cohorts.
The cobblestone beneath his feet glowed from the intense heat that Red Aura emanated. As the last zombie puppet crumpled to the floor, Wilhelm turned his attention to Bloodmask. He brandished his swordstick in a defiant motion as the stones below him cracked and sizzled.
Bloodmask, for the first time since his arrival, seemed genuinely worried. The sorcerer’s mask remained stoic, yet his tense body language revealed a different narrative.
“I have to hand it to you,” Wilhelm said, his voice highlighted by the sudden silence that had befallen the street. “I’ve been saying it all this time. Your ilk has truly become more audacious. The Brigid Festival. Right smack in the middle of the day. Right from the get-go. Couldn’t let the people have some well-earned enjoyment first, could you?”
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Regaining his bearings, Bloodmask sneered at his opponent. “I don’t need necromancy to dispose of you. I will show you the power of my birthright, Lightfoot.” He removed his mantle with a flourish and prepared himself for close-quarters combat, just like he had done with Orangier.
The Solomonari’s hand went to his belt, and he retrieved a small, ornate ampoule filled with a dark substance. He held it aloft for all to see, a silent threat that spoke volumes in his stead.
Ben swore under his breath. “He doesn’t grow tired of cheating?
“That potion really seems to take a strain on him, though,” Sam chimed in as he swept his brow. “I wonder if he’ll be able to stomach more of it.”
Wilhelm fixed Bloodmask with a knowing stare and assessed his adversary thoroughly. “How many of those have you had today? Your heart’s going to burst, boy.”
“DON’T CALL ME BOY!” Bloodmask roared, his voice distorted by fell magic. Its rawness was almost tangible. “YOU DON’T KNOW ANYTHING AT ALL!”
He lunged forward but faltered mid-charge; he dropped to one knee and clutched his chest in pain. The contents of the third ampoule were taking effect, making him convulse in agony. The blood-tendrils, dormant up to that point, contracted back to him, but not before they had drained their victims of their vitality.
Captain Roguenoir seized the moment and commanded the 6th Regiment into action. “Alright, enough theatrics. Get him while he’s down, gentlemen!”
“Rais, wait!” Wilhelm implored, but it was too late. The warlocks closed in on an incapacitated Bloodmask.
Wilhelm watched helplessly, his expression grave. As the sorcerers advanced, Bloodmask’s muscles swelled unnaturally. Out of nowhere, a shockwave of magic erupted from within him—it scorched those on the frontlines severely.
Cracks of light spread across his body like fissures. Bloodmask looked like he was about to blow up. He was effectively self-destructing in a burst of amplified magic.
After a moment of arduous strain, Bloodmask reined in his newfound powers. Two ethereal horns of solid magic protruded from his forehead. He stood there, wheezing, his gaze locked on Wilhelm with an odious intensity. Captain Roguenoir ordered the 6th to stand by again, setting the stage for a one-on-one confrontation.
Wilhelm sighed. “Why exert your body to such lengths?”
Bloodmask, now transformed, hovered slightly over the cobblestones. One leg hung lower than the other, giving him an unsettling, predatory stance. The ethereal horns shimmered menacingly under the dim light of the fae-lamps, which had just flickered to life—dusk had fallen on Dool.
“Warlock Corps, Grigori Society... I don’t care who or what you are. You’re not the only ones fighting for the sake of another, so let us mince words no further,” he retorted, his voice hoarse beyond recognition. He stretched a hand in front of him and uttered an incantation. “Bleed, Sanguine Hardening.” Blood slithered from his injuries into his empty palm, where it enmeshed itself into a razor-sharp Messer sword.
He swung the blade to measure its weight and charged at his opponent without warning. Bloodmask was a vermilion thunderbolt, and their clash was swift and terrible. Wilhelm braced himself, his swordstick ever at the ready. As their blades met with explosive force, a good portion of the street crumbled into a crater.
Their clash erupted into a frenzied exchange of lightning-quick movements, a whirlwind of flourishes and spells. Wilhelm strategized to seek an opening amidst Bloodmask’s unrelenting assault. His swordstick wove arcs as it seamlessly danced between defense and offense; his opponent, who was presently less composed, endeavored to break him through sheer brute force.
Swoosh! Their blades sang through the air, leaving afterimages in their wake. As As the sky darkened, Ben struggled to follow the fight due to the diminishing light, making it challenging to track the combatants’ movements. One moment they clashed under the fae-lamp’s light, the next they blurred into a chaotic dance across the street.
Wilhelm sidestepped a lunge and riposted, the edge of his blade grazing Bloodmask’s shoulder. Out of nowhere, a blood-tendril reappeared and shot straight at him, catching him by surprise. He dove backward, barely evading a fatal hit. More tentacles reentered the fray, bombarding Wilhelm with a storm of lashes.
Sweat glistened on his brow as he spun away from one sweep after another. His footwork remained graceful despite the ruined street underneath. Bloodmask, however, pressed his advantage and advanced. Wilhelm parried a vicious thrust with a flick of his wrist, staggering momentarily.
Bloodmask seized the opportunity to hover backward and out of his reach. He cut a nick on the palm of his own hand, the forthcoming blood welling up in place as he chanted a spell. “Bleed, Arrow Divergence!” Six razor-sharp projectiles of solidified blood shot forth in a deadly spread, aimed to pierce Wilhelm from every angle.
Left, right, up, down, back, front; he could not block them all in time. Wilhelm flung his swordstick to the side and pressed his hands together, harnessing a vast quantity of magic instantly. “Shine, Refractive Mirage.”
His red aura flared brightly as he finished pronouncing the incantation. The sanguine projectiles struck him with violence, a cloud of dust and smoke that concealed the outcome, blowing up as a result.
Ben’s heart sank. There’s no way he evaded that one, is there? The trio continued to watch with mortified apprehension as the smoke screen dissipated. His mouth slanted open, agape in confusion. “What in Fortune’s...”
Four identical Wilhelms emerged from the haze, all of them unscathed. One of them yawned as he sat on the floor; another cracked his knuckles with earnest eagerness; and another one watched the battlefield morosely. In front of them, the original Wilhelm—at least, Ben thought that was the original—grinned boastfully at Bloodmask, arms crossed in defiance.
He cocked his head to the side and addressed his three replicas. “Fellas, buy me some time, will you? Gotta teach this child some manners.” He turned his attention to Bloodmask and pointed a thumb behind him toward the 6th Regiment. “I’m sorry, but I promised the good ole captain over yonder that I would go all-out. You’ll experience firsthand the spell that earned me the glory-name Lightfoot.”
As Wilhelm channeled an uninterrupted stream of magic, Bloodmask burst into desperation. “I won’t let you!” The blood-tentacles surged forward once more, a preemptive attempt to cancel his casting.
His replicas intercepted the assault before they could reach him with astounding coordination. The yawning one stretched lazily as he held one with his bare hands. “You’ll need to do better than that.” The knuckle-cracking replica grinned eagerly at Bloodmask. “Bring it on!” The morose Wilhelm remained silent but shook his head in disdain at their opponent’s vain endeavor.
Bloodmask was beyond enraged. He gipped his Messer tightly and, with a single motion, split it into two exact copies. Dual-wielding the blood swords, he launched himself at the Wilhelms with all his might. Both combatants keen to be the victor, the battle drew nearer to a close.