Chapter One Hundred Sixty-Two: ‘Embrace thy turmoil and observe...’
To say that Diego did not appreciate being unable to speak was an understatement, but it currently made no difference, as he was genuinely speechless.
“There is only one rule,” Malast continued, still not even standing up from his stone seat. “You win when your opponent either dies or admits defeat. All else is acceptable on the path to victory.”
They were not given an opportunity to respond.
Light distorted and consumed Diego’s vision, and he felt Yangéra grab his shoulder to make sure they didn’t get separated.
It was the same sensation he’d felt during their previous teleport, so it wasn’t as disorienting this time, but it still wasn’t exactly a joy ride, either. When his vision steadied itself again, he discovered a sight which he was not at all expecting.
Gold. Piles and piles of it. Chests spilling over with gems and gold and artifacts of presumably tremendous value, judging by everything around them.
This was a completely different room, Diego realized, which meant this treasure was also completely different from that which had surrounded Malast.
The treasure was arguably not what surprised him most, however. The sunlight was. And the grass. The temperature, too. Wherever this room was, Diego knew that he was suddenly much closer to the surface than he had been a second ago.
He searched the ceiling for the source of the sunlight and found many small ones. The rock above his head was porous, and he considered trying to break through it in order to get a better idea of his location, but the sight of Elise Garza standing there, looking confounded beyond belief, changed his mind.
“Diego!” she said upon noticing him as well. “What in the world is happening?!”
He scratched his brow, wondering how to--or even if he could--explain.
The room was clearly smaller than the last one, though it was still plenty large enough for a fight, which he supposed was the point, unless he’d misunderstood what Malast was saying.
Should he tell her that, though?
Eh, she could probably handle it. Servant or not, she was a Rainlord, same as him.
“I think we’re supposed to fight now,” he told her.
“Excuse me?!” She looked horrified.
“Didn’t you hear what Malast said? We’ve been drafted into a tournament.”
“Why?!”
“He wants us to compete for godhood, I guess. And that means fighting.”
“I can’t fight you!” she said. “You’re a monster!”
“A monster with feelings, thank you.”
“You know what I mean! I can’t possibly defeat you!”
“Ah, hmm.” He tilted his head at her. “Well, you could just surrender without actually fighting, I think.”
“Okay! I surrender! Now leave me alone and go fight somebody else!” She looked up at the ceiling. “You hear that?! I said I surrender!”
And it took a moment, but the distortion did indeed arrive another time, and Diego’s vision melted in on itself.
When it returned to him, he discovered another chamber, similar to the previous one but not identical, as the treasure here was different, and the temperature had risen again.
When he looked around for his new opponent, his eyes settled on the Hun’Sho man from earlier.
Seyos.
“I don’t suppose you’re going to surrender without a fight, are you?” said Diego.
Seyos had his swirling cloak drawn in front of his body.
There was no telling what other ridiculous artifacts of a magical nature the guy had at his disposal. And of course, Diego had never fought a Hun’Sho before. He had no idea what to expect, and neither did Yangéra, whom he couldn’t see but could sense clinging to his back, still.
“Before we get into this, I have an important question for you.” Diego’s mouth twisted, and he couldn’t stop his next words from becoming a snarl. “What did you do with Jasirok?”
Seyos didn’t answer him.
“It was you who took him, wasn’t it? Deny it, if you like, though I don’t think I’ll believe you.”
“Your concern for him surprises me,” said Seyos. “Is this, too, another one of your deceptions?”
“Deceptions?” said Diego. “What deceptions? You’re the one who’s been hiding out and snatching people through mirrors.”
“Proper guidance sometimes requires extreme methods,” said Seyos. “You would know that if you were ever called upon to protect your loved ones from a threat which was far beyond your own meager power to stop.”
That was a lot of words--and passionately spoken, as well--but Diego couldn’t say he understood where any of it was coming from. He wanted to keep Seyos talking, though. “That still doesn’t explain what deceptions you were referring to. I haven’t lied to you or done anything to harm you, have I?”
“Do not play at innocence!” shouted Seyos, his tone suddenly manic. After a breath, however, he settled himself. “The others all trusted him, but I knew. I knew Ettol would bring more of you here to claim my treasure. To take my place as a new god. You are all deceivers, every one.”
“Hold on a second here. We aren’t with this Ettol person. I’ve never even met the guy. In fact, I have a lot of questions about who the hell he is, myself. From the way Malast talked about him, it sounds like Ettol is a god, too, no?”
“Hah! Ettol is no god! A pretender is all he is! A manipulator of emotion and a thief of reason and faculty!”
“Alright, well, that’s a start. Can you tell me what Ettol looks like, maybe?”
Seyos merely stared back at him.
Diego smacked his lips. “Why does nobody remember what this jackass looks like, huh? I find that extremely suspicious.”
Seyos shifted behind his cloak. “...You are truly not Ettol’s kinsmen?”
“Kinsmen? Of course not! I’m a damn Rainlord--and proud of it!”
“Rainlord?”
For a second, Diego thought he saw the light of recognition in the Hun’Sho man’s eyes. And it made no sense to Diego’s mind, but still, he had to ask, “Do you know of us?”
“A proud and ancient group of surface-dwellers,” said Seyos. “Renowned for bringing trouble wherever they go.”
Diego nodded his head admissively. “Not inaccurate, I suppose, but now you’ve made me curious--where in the world do you hear all of that?”
Again, Seyos did not answer him.
Yangéra chimed in from over Diego’s shoulder, having still not let go of him. ‘You’ve been to the surface before, haven’t you, Seyos?’
“I have observed outsiders as a preventative measure for many years,” said Seyos. “I recently increased my efforts, though it appears to have been in vain.”
That made Diego squint. “Increased how?”
Seyos scowled. “Enough of your questions. You obviously have nothing of value to say.”
“I have plenty of value, if you would just listen!”
But unsurprisingly, he wouldn’t just listen, and Diego was prepared when he saw the rifle appear out from behind Seyos’ swirling cloak.
Diego didn’t doubt that it was ardor-infused, and so he dove to his right. ‘Pan-forma now,’ he told Yangéra as a flaming bullet sliced through his left arm like it was wet paper.
He felt her initiate the merge. It was like a somehow familiar moment of realization, a forced epiphany, prying his mind open and expanding it into her own. Not particularly pleasant, but not as bad as it used to be, either.
And the power. The surge of not only strength but thinking capacity. That was most welcome.
He didn’t have to care about dodging bullets now. The immediate and complete regeneration of pan-forma rendered Seyos’ weapon as deadly as a water pistol, ardor or not.
The only pressing concern in Diego and Yangéra’s collective consciousness now was whether or not they would be able take Seyos alive. Certainly, Diego’s nitrogen transfiguration ability did not lend itself well to restraint. They closed the distance at full sprint, aiming for a quick submission hold.
But then everything was wrong.
Diego lost all sense of himself, and he felt abruptly as if half his mind had been torn out of his head.
Because it had, he soon realized. He and Yangéra were separated again. Just like that, she was there on the ground in front of him, and he was struggling even to crawl. This was post-hyper-state exhaustion, he was fairly sure, but why? What the hell just happened?
Seyos had something in his other hand. Some kind of orb? It was so hard to tell. And Diego became immediately more concerned with the gun being pointed directly at Yangéra.
None of it made sense. There was no time. His reaper was about to die if he didn’t do something, and there was only one thing to do, as far he could tell.
“I surrender!” Diego yelled, as loud as he could muster.
It wasn’t fast enough to stop Seyos from getting another shot off. A bullet pierced Yangéra’s avian chest.
‘Agh!’ she cried out, shivering.
Diego grabbed her and wrapped himself around her. “Malast! I said I--!”
Seyos blinked out of existence and was gone.
Diego could see the ethereal smoke rising out of his reaper, the familiar indicator of a significant wound. “Are you alright?” he asked.
‘Yeah, I think so...’
He exhaled and rolled over, not intending to let go of her anytime soon.
-+-+-+-+-
Royo Raju understood the circumstances before the one called Manuel Delaguna did. He couldn’t tell what the man’s reaper was thinking, but it seemed apparent enough that his opponent didn’t realize that they were supposed to fight.
Royo could hardly fault him for that, though. Everything had happened so quickly. And Royo wasn’t eager to be aggressive, either. At the moment, this curious and confused camaraderie was certainly preferable to fighting a superhuman whose powers Royo didn’t fully grasp.
So he took his time and looked the new chamber over, paying especially close attention to the treasure here and encouraging the one called Manuel to do the same, ostensibly in hopes of finding a way out of here.
That might not have worked if the one called Manuel wasn’t so agreeable. Or confident, maybe. Too early to tell.
But the treasure helped. It was certainly captivating enough to keep them distracted--so captivating, in fact, that Royo had to be careful not to get too lost in it himself. He did still have a weapon on him, if worse came to worst, but he hoped to find something else that would be useful. Even if he did manage to get past the one called Manuel, there were still subsequent opponents to think of.
Fortunately, he had some idea of what to look for--or hoped he did, at least. He had held a passing interest in ancient artifacts a few years ago, toward the end of his formal education. At the time, he hadn’t actually put much stake in such things. It was more of a guilty pleasure than anything, but needless to say, the very recent past had altered his opinion. Having encountered so many superhumans and ghosts--and now even a “god,” supposedly?
He would be rather disappointed if none of the items around here were even a little bit magical.
The temptation, he knew, was to gravitate toward any object that was glowing, but according to an essay of dubious origin he recalled reading, that would be a rookie mistake.
While it was true that the emission of light could indeed be indicative of some manner of “power” stored therein, it was very unwise on the treasure seeker’s part to touch such objects without reserve. Even discounting the still-quite-credible threat of deadly radiation, there was another potential problem, according to the essay. Oftentimes, these “forces beyond mortal reckoning,” as the essay had dubbed them, would use the human body as a conduit--not unlike that of electricity, though potentially even more dangerous.
This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
Now, perhaps that was all nonsense, but Royo was of a mind to exercise caution, nonetheless. He knew, at least, that those glowing jewels which had surrounded Malast were safe to the touch, as those were simply akaridaiya, or light diamonds.
Well. Calling them “simply” akaridaiya was perhaps doing them a disservice. Akaridaiya had been tremendously valuable in the Undercrust since ancient times and had never ceased being so. Perhaps it was only natural they should treasure objects which could emit sustained, unfueled, harmless light.
The Hun’Kui weren’t particularly bothered by the darkness, of course, but other races could be, and Royo knew for a fact that surface-dwellers would pay absolutely absurd prices for those diamonds, if he could find the right buyer. Why, the volume that had surrounded Malast would be worth the GDP of a small kingdom. Possibly even a not-so-small one.
All of that was potentially wonderful news, to be sure, but it was far from his mind, presently.
Royo’s goggled and glowing eyes scanned his options, eventually catching upon a notably non-metallic object. A glove. It did have a silver metal lining, but the rest of it was some kind of cloth. He had to believe that if anything here would be safe to the touch, it would be a glove.
He slid his hand into the cloth and let his fingers stretch through it and get comfortable. It was rather loose, unfortunately, but he supposed--
He felt it move on its own, writhe against his flesh.
His impulse was to panic and tear it off, but he resisted. It wasn’t painful. If anything, it was more comfortable now.
Yes, he realized. It had tightened around his hand. Fitted itself to him, perhaps.
After a moment, he decided to remove it anyway, just to ensure that he actually could, and indeed, it slipped off his hand again without fighting him.
Curious.
He put it back on and waited.
It didn’t readjust to his form again. It didn’t need to. It still fit perfectly. The first adjustment had remained, even after removal.
Unless he was hallucinating, this object was clearly special in some way. He had to wonder about its origins, as well as what else it might be capable of. Convenient as it was, he didn’t see a whole lot of utility in it, so far.
Still, just having some level of protection for his hand made him feel immediately safer in handling these other objects. His eyes went to a shelf he’d seen earlier and stopped on a small metal container, the kind that might be used to house particularly precious stones.
He grabbed the container, and it crumpled under his grip. Whatever was inside, he heard it shatter and saw glassy dust trickle out onto the ground.
Royo pursed his lips to one side, set the container down, and observed his glove anew.
Hmm.
He deliberated for a second, then grabbed the ruined container again, this time employing strength deliberately, as much as he could muster.
He felt almost no resistance, hearing more crunching and seeing more dust. When he opened his hand again, the container was unrecognizable. The metal had not only lost its shape, but it had also taken new shape around his fingers. The force applied had been so great that the metal now looked like soft clay that had just been squeezed.
He hoped whatever he’d just destroyed inside that container wasn’t too valuable, but considering everything he was currently looking at, it probably was.
Oh well, though. No helping it now.
He wanted to try his glove out on another object before drawing conclusions, however. For all he knew, it could have been the case that the metal of the container was the abnormal thing, not his glove. So he picked up a gold coin next and pressed it between his thumb and index finger. It folded like rubber and stayed that way.
Interesting.
Just to be sure, he tried again on a couple of other objects of comparatively lesser value, and the results remained consistent.
This couldn’t rightly be called super strength, in Royo’s estimation--not like that of the superhumans, at least. No, this was limited to his fingers and wrist only. It would be immensely useful for gripping, twisting, and crushing; but it was not going to let him punch like the superhumans could or lift tremendous weight like they could.
A very good find nonetheless, Royo felt.
As he searched for something else of use, he practiced lifting other objects with the glove on. It was simple enough to avoid crushing something. He just had to be extra gentle. He could see this glove being a double-edged sword, potentially. A mad part of him wanted to test it on himself--to see if he would have to worry about unconsciously grabbing his own arm or hand, perhaps--but he decided to forego that experiment, at least for now.
His gaze eventually stopped on a pair of boots and a sword with a sequined hilt.
Now why did this sight look so familiar? He shut his eyes and tried to recall.
Yes, he’d seen a drawing of these items--or ones like them, at least. Those long, curving boot buckles with straps that went all the way around--that was a distinctive design. If the book he was thinking of was correct, then these were the Boots of Karugetti, and they supposedly had the power to “defy the heavens”--whatever that meant.
And the sword. That thin and faintly curved blade. That was the Sword of Hamenszoon, and it supposedly had the power to cast illusions. He remembered thinking how ugly it was and how unpleasant those sequins on the hilt would make it to wield.
Indeed, he was unfortunately proved right. It felt like reptilian scales against his flesh. He considered using his gloved hand, but it seemed a waste to occupy it with a weapon when it was probably more threatening without one. He instead decided to remove his green scarf and wrap it around the grip.
That was better.
He still had no idea how to wield it, though. He’d never trained in any manner of swordsmanship, nor did he know how to draw out its power. Assuming it truly had any.
But he knew something of ardor. The force and fuel of the planet. He knew of its debatably magical properties, and he knew of its extraction, refinement, and infusion processes as well.
Most importantly, though, he knew that to manipulate ardor required concentration in one’s very soul. It required a degree of focus and “oneness” with the planet itself. A sense for the world’s “pulse,” as some described it.
It required training, in other words--training which he had undergone many years ago, though he had not understood its significance until much more recently. Back then, it was still an experimental thing, one of many “cutting edge” forms of training which he had been forced to undertake, lest he lose his job as an iron miner.
There had been a span of nearly five years straight where it seemed like he had to go through some new type of training every week, and the vast majority of them were a complete waste of time--if not physically painful.
But that one. That one had been something. He still remembered that initial feeling, the first time he’d ever truly sensed ardor.
It was so unbelievably overwhelming and terrifying. Like suddenly finding oneself in the ocean that he’d read so much about. Not being able to swim or move, for that matter. Just being completely smothered from all directions at once. That experience alone had nearly converted him into a follower of the Heart of the World.
After that first time, it was much more manageable, though not particularly helpful in day-to-day life. While the sensing of ardor required training one’s mind and soul, the actual manipulation of ardor still required enormous industrial tools built by the hands of the supermen.
Sadly, even as revelatory as it was, there simply wasn’t much literal value in that training for the average Hun’Kui outside of the mining industry.
But he was not average, Royo knew, nor were these circumstances.
If anything was going to help him activate this sword’s power, it would be this training.
He concentrated on his breathing. On regulating it. And unifying his mind with it.
It was comfortable like an old set of clothes. Familiar, though perhaps not as easy to slide back into as he would have liked. But he managed.
His mind became his breathing. He moved with it. In and out of his own lungs. An extension of his very soul, his life force. And with that ebb and flow, he could begin to feel the rhythm of the world around him, seeing the heretofore invisible movement in perceived stillness.
It was the pulse of life itself. Asynchronous and all-encompassing.
Holy fire, there was way more ardor around him than he had realized.
True, it had been quite a while since he had performed this sensory technique, thus making it only natural that he would feel a bit overwhelmed by it all again, but even so--this level of power was ridiculous. Not just from the sword, either. It was everywhere. The sword, the boots, his glove, all of the ridiculous treasure--even the floor and walls were practically bursting with ardor, as if threatening to erupt at any moment.
His old bosses would have loved this place, iron or not.
He gathered himself and tried to focus. On the sword. That was all that mattered now.
Indeed, he could sense the ardor flowing through it. Burning through it. He couldn’t help feeling like it would scorch his flesh and swallow him whole. But he knew that wasn’t possible. Or he mostly knew it, anyway.
But now what?
He didn’t really know. There weren’t any industrial tools handy, and even if there were, how would he use them on a sword, of all things?
This ardor was unlike that which he had worked with, as well. It didn’t need to be extracted or molded in any way. It was simply there. Waiting.
On him?
Perhaps so.
Perhaps he needed only reach out with his own soul. He could do that much, he was fairly sure.
The Sword of Hamenszoon responded with a burst of ardor that knocked him clear out of himself, shattering his concentration and forcing him back a few steps.
He waited for his disorientation to go away again, but his vision didn’t quite realign properly. Or didn’t seem to.
Because he suddenly had four left hands, each holding an identical sword.
Royo moved his hand up and down, to and fro, marveling at the sight before him.
The duplicates faded after a moment, however.
He did it again. He bumped his soul against the ardor sword, and he was prepared this time, so he was able to sense the ardor resonate briefly, like a kind of invisible flash.
The duplicate arms and swords returned, but Royo wasn’t satisfied. It had to be capable of more than just this, he felt. He bumped his soul into it again and held it there, trying get a more complete feel of both the ardor and the blade itself.
He needed to know the sword, to see it completely and understand all of its components. Examining its ardor could help with that, potentially. Ardor adapted itself to whatever structure it dwelled within. More specifically, it was the “flow” of ardor which adapted itself, and to a trained mind like Royo’s, that flow was discernible.
It was a shame that ardor wasn’t more common in the Undercrust, Royo had always felt. This training would have been far more versatile and valuable, if that were the case.
He found it. The flow of ardor. He had to concentrate harder to see patterns in it, as if holding up an imaginary magnifying glass to reveal its secrets.
The smaller, jagged distortions in the flow indicated the material of the sword. Gold and silver made up most of it, along with several trace elements he wasn’t trained to recognize. There was, however, one long, thin vein of either iron or nickel running right down the middle.
Not terribly surprising. Ardor famously flowed through iron and nickel so smoothly and cleanly that the two elements were indistinguishable from one another, when judging solely from their flow patterns. No other elements acted as such perfect conduits, as far as Royo knew.
But that wasn’t all he was interested in, here and now. He wanted to know where the ardor’s “pressure points” were.
Any object crafted by human hands would have structural weaknesses. That was one reason why it was so desirable to place ardor into it--because the ardor would compensate for those flaws. But to do so, the flow of the ardor would have to be disrupted, which often left detectable “whirlpools,” as it were.
As far as the physical structure was concerned, these whirlpools balanced everything out, eliminating weaknesses entirely, but that was fine, because Royo didn’t want to destroy the sword. Far from it. He only wanted to know where it would be best to apply pressure from his own soul. And he immediately found one whirlpool in the hilt.
Sensible.
The designer had probably intended for it to be there. But Royo also sensed eleven more along the length of the blade, the last one sitting just below the tip.
He bumped his soul into the hilt a little stronger, and when it appeared to do nothing, he realized that it was the same whirlpool that he’d been using all along. It wasn’t that it did nothing. It was simply already in use, maintaining the duplicate images that Royo was currently seeing.
Royo used his gloved hand, careful to be extra gentle, and bumped his soul against the first whirlpool up from the hilt.
He sensed the sword respond again, and suddenly, he saw duplicates of not just his arm, but his entire body.
There were now three Royo Rajus, one standing on either side of him.
And they were convincing, too. He had to phase his hand through one of them to make sure they really were just illusions.
They were. The projection flickered for a few seconds before correcting itself.
That was a relief. As much as he might have been able to accomplish with full, thinking clones of himself moving and acting in the world, he didn’t think he would like that very much, primarily because he wasn’t sure they wouldn’t try to kill him and take his place.
It was a thought he’d had before, though never quite this seriously.
Regardless, he had a fairly good grasp of the sword’s power, now. The other whirlpools in the ardor flow simply adjusted the placement of the illusions, relative to where Royo was standing. Useful for masking his position from opponents who would otherwise know to attack the center image, he decided.
The final whirlpool, however, the one near the tip of the blade, was different, and as much as Royo tried, he couldn’t quite understand what it did.
It seemed to transform the whole world around him, making everything come alive in a kind of ethereal fire--a visual representation of all the ardor around him, he was pretty sure. But what did that mean? What actual purpose did it serve? Was it really just to help him detect the presence of ardor?
If so, then that ability was sadly redundant for someone with his training. But it would make a certain degree of sense, he supposed. If the sword was designed for use by someone who couldn’t sense ardor on their own, then that pressure point would likely be very helpful.
At least, this was what he was thinking until he heard the one called Manuel’s voice again.
“Eleyo?” the man said. “Where did you go?”
Royo was looking right at him, and the one called Manuel should have been able to see him. Granted, the lighting was a bit poor, and these surface-dwellers seemed to have rather bad eyesight, but still. This was abnormal.
Royo supposed he should answer. “I am here,” he said.
The one called Manuel looked around, still apparently not seeing him. “Where? Even my reaper can’t sense you.”
Royo understood and smiled to himself. The Sword of Hamenszoon’s final illusion was to render its wielder invisible.
It did make him wonder, however, what the designer had been thinking. Why would he ever not use the invisibility? It was clearly superior to all the others in just about every way imaginable.
Almost as soon as he had the thought, he got an answer. The ethereal world all around him diminished, and the one called Manuel spotted him.
Royo bumped the final pressure point again, but it wasn’t doing anything now.
It had some sort of hard time limit, he realized.
How unfortunate.
“Where did you go, just now?” said the one called Manuel.
“I am not certain,” said Royo, which was technically true. He didn’t wish to explain his still-increasing understanding of the Sword, but neither did he wish to lie to this person.
The one called Manuel appeared to be conversing with his ghost.
Which was dangerous, Royo felt. If they finally realized that they were supposed to be fighting, they might begin to see Royo as a threat.
The Sword’s invisibility would have been extremely helpful here and now, if only he hadn’t just wasted it all. He could sneak up and subdue them before they knew what was happening.
He wondered if the invisibility would “recharge” on its own. He knew that ardor was similar to electricity insofar as being able to accumulate as a “charge,” but unlike electricity, ardor had the potential to generate its own charges, without outside input. And indeed, he could sense that the ardor within the Sword itself had not diminished in any way, so it clearly didn’t need to be “refueled” with fresh ardor like the modern firearms of the Hun’Kui did.
It was far from guaranteed, but Royo had an inkling that he only had to wait.
Time was precious, in that case. He turned and picked up the Boots of Karugetti in order to examine them more closely while he still could.
The one called Manuel spoke up again before Royo could detect anything new. “Do you have any idea how to get out of here yet?”
Well, there was fighting one another, but Royo didn’t want to mention that. He did have an alternative in mind, though he’d barely given it a moment’s thought so far. He pointed across the room to a tall pile of treasure. “There is a monument under there similar to the one we used earlier.” He didn’t know for sure, of course, as he hadn’t seen it, but he’d noticed its larger, ardor-laden presence amidst all the other, smaller ones.
That seemed to distract the one called Manuel and his ghost, as Royo hoped, and they wandered toward the buried object.
“Another one?” said the one called Manuel. “Now that you mention it, I thought I saw more of them back in that room where we found Malast.”
Royo knew what he was referring to. Most likely, they were all part of some sort of network which allowed travel between many different treasure chambers. He might have bothered to mention all of that, if it wasn’t more desirable to keep the two of them occupied with figuring it out for themselves.
It wasn’t proving all that helpful, however. He’d slipped the Boots of Karugetti on and begun testing their pressure points, but if they truly did harbor some kind of magical ability, it wasn’t nearly as obvious as the Sword’s was.
But even if he disregarded their apparent fame, Royo did think there was something special about them. The pressure points were in the soles of the boots, right below his toes, which struck him as very deliberate placement.
Still, he wasn’t making any progress, so he decided to just keep the Boots on and move toward the one called Manuel. If he was going to land a decisive surprise attack, his odds would be better at close range.
He kept bumping the final pressure point of the Sword, hoping for the invisibility to reactivate, but as of yet, he was having no such luck.
“I hope the others are okay,” the one called Manuel was saying. “I can only imagine what the Water Dragon must be thinking, after we all disappeared like that. Lorios can’t even sense him, anymore.”
As Royo drew nearer, the one called Manuel turned to face him, as did his ghost.
Heh.
Trusting, but not too trusting, eh?
Royo could appreciate that.
Truthfully, he liked the one called Manuel. Quite a lot.
The fact of the matter was that this man had done nothing to deserve Royo’s ire--and indeed, the exact opposite was the case. Immediately following the fight with the greatworm by the train, when the ground had collapsed beneath everyone’s feet, it was the one called Manuel who had saved Royo from falling to his death.
And that was no trivial deed.
While Royo did not believe that it made the one called Manuel trustworthy in all regards, Royo would not be forgetting it any time soon, either. He fully intended to repay this man tenfold, one day--perhaps one day soon, if he really did manage to become a god.
It was rather unfortunate that the one called Manuel was Royo’s first opponent in this tournament, but such were the idiosyncrasies of life, he supposed.
Nothing in all of creation would prevent Royo Raju’s ambition.
So when he again bumped the final pressure point of the Sword of Hamenszoon, and it actually responded this time by cloaking the world in ethereal fire once more, Royo did not hesitate.
He didn’t know how long the invisibility would last this time, so he went for the ghost first, needing to test the most crucial thing to his mind.
Could he touch the ghost?
He knew of their ability to phase through physical objects. He had seen it with his own eyes, thanks to these goggles, but he had also seen them avoiding the worms earlier, too, which suggested to him that ardor was the key factor. And he had a glove with ardor in it.
He grasped the ghost and held on. Yes. It worked exactly as expected.
The one called Manuel was clearly startled by his disappearance, and now even more so, as the ghost was probably yelling.
Royo slipped the Sword of Hamenszoon back into its sheath on his waist. The invisibility dispersed the second the hilt left his grasp, but Royo was already drawing his pistol instead.
He didn’t know much of the superhumans’ powers, but he knew of their immortality, and he knew that even this would not be enough to truly kill them.
Royo locked eyes with the one called Manuel just before pulling the trigger and said, “Forgive me.”
The man’s head exploded as the flaming bullet tore through it.
Royo holstered his weapon as the “dead” superman’s body hit the ground, blood splattering and sizzling against the uneven stone.
The ghost squirmed in his grip, but the glove allowed him to maintain his hold. Its horrific face almost made him want to destroy it, but he knew that to be his own, unjustifiable impulse. As he understood it, the reason the supermen existed in the first place was because these ghosts retained no powers or potency of their own.
“Lorios, was it?” said Royo, and the ghost stopped moving. “I cannot hear anything you are saying, but you needn’t worry. I will not hurt you. You may not believe me, but I hold great affection for your Manuel. I promise to reward him for his heroism as soon as it is within my power to do so.”
The reaper could not respond, of course, but Royo allowed a moment for it anyway, just in case some new revelation occurred. He took the opportunity to look over the treasure on this side of the room, and though there was certainly plenty to admire, nothing in particular caught his eye or sparked a sense of recognition. He wished he had devoted more time to studying such artifacts.
“However,” Royo eventually continued, “I do not know if this qualifies as a victory in this tournament, so I would like you to voice your surrender to Malast, if possible. I believe he can hear you, no?”
More silence as he waited.
He decided to release the ghost, if only to build back a modicum of trust. He still kept his eye on it, though. He’d only heard that they were powerless. He still wanted to be prepared for any unpleasant surprises.
But when his vision began to distort in that familiar way, Royo knew that he had indeed made it through the first round.