Little Celah, Tseludia Station, Pantheonic Territory, Sixthmonth, 1634 PTS
Juen cursed as the bullet grazed his flesh, the wound generating a new sanguine infusion inside of him. All Celan firearms caused a dash of sanguine miasma to well up within a martial artist’s flesh on contact, but in his current state, it was but a drop in the ocean, unworthy of any attention.
His eyes narrowed as he saw the man who had shot him. Triezal, one of the enemy force’s highest officers. This Celan was difficult to forget, as he was far smaller than the other Jobu, and it was uncommon to see someone with their hair dyed such an artificial color. Juen was surprised to see him, having been under the impression that he was the sole survivor of the forward base’s collapse.
Unlike the previous time the two had met, Juen was not in a good mood. With a snarl, he launched himself towards the Celan. The seismic leap brought him close to the alien, but Triezal kicked off of the giant stack of ingots he had been hiding behind, sliding across the metal floor as if it were waxed.
Just like he in their previous fight, the Celan’s boots emanated thin trails of orange mist, slicing grooves across the ground in his wake. It was an annoyance, particularly so because Juen now had to deal with not only the gunfire from the enforcer and the soldiers, but also from this wildcard. He sighed, his migraine only growing.
Just why was this facility so much better defended than the previous one, he wondered? After seeing the poor state of the previous factory’s defenses, Juen had assumed the Heirs had simply moved most of their troops to the border, but this… there was no reasonable explanation for this much defense unless something very important was being built here. Could this be one of the facilities constructing enforcers?
Either way, as Juen charged towards the fleeing Triezal, by pure force of habit he activated his cerebral technique, hoping enhanced senses would help him to avoid the projectiles flying around him.
It was only when his migraine greatly intensified that Juen realized his mistake. Despite the thoughtlessness of the action, however, Juen did not feel that the choice was wrong. He needed to do what he could if he wished to
Juen’s sense technique flared with the full power of genesis, and immediately, he realized that he was sensing far more than just the souls of those around him. He sensed the currents of the universe, the spots where the currents were tapped into to enter reality. Juen was sensing the sources of miasma. Each martial artist was a beacon, each gun resplendent, each enforcer a blazing forest.
This was not worse than his former cerebral technique. In fact, perhaps it was even better. Operating with old, well-trained instincts, Juen brought his newfound information source to bear, applying it to his motions and reactions. This ability would not be so effective against the Staiven or another race, but every weapon the Heirs used seemed to utilize flickering miasma in some way, and he could sense all of it well before it approached him.
With a burst of energy, Juen dashed past a wave of bullets that might have hit him, slamming heavily into a heavy duty fabricator with a pained grunt. He rolled off the machine, which now sported a large dent in its side, and attempted to continue some of his momentum towards his target. As his new senses did not emerge from his physical body, he had never lost track of Triezal, and knew exactly where the squirrely man had dodged to.
As if he was using a forbidden technique, Juen was more powerful than ever, his current senses just as powerful but more specific than those he was used to. The lack of information overload aided Juen in reacting faster to every occurrence around him, as if he had finally grown wings and taken flight. But like always did in the films, this came at a cost, he knew. Still, Juen felt greater than ever before. So this was the seduction of the unorthodox, he thought. Juen understood why so many were attracted to such dangerous paths, though he still wished to free himself from the condition.
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Such meager power was not worth its cost, but maybe, he thought, it wasn’t quite so bad.
Triezal pointed his arm back, the pistol in his hand firing a short burst, two of which collided with Juen’s shoulders and dug deep within. He hissed as he lunged forward, finally catching up to the other man.
“I remember telling you that I would save your death for later. It seems that later is now,” said Juen, his staff coursing through the air mere inches above Triezal’s head. His shoulder throbbed painfully, but Juen allowed the sensation to pierce through the cloud in his head, allowing for his full attention to be drawn to the condition of his body.
As the man ducked out of the way, Juen noted that he was missing the chest armor that had exploded during their last meeting. That was good. The explosion would be quite dangerous in such a confined area.
The Celan made no response, merely grimacing as his pistols attempted to fire on Juen once again. This time, however, there was no such luck, as the base of Juen’s staff slammed into his left wrist. The attack had not used Juen’s full force, as he had to move swiftly, but the weapon still skidded away from Triezal’s hand, toppled out of his weakened grip. Taking the opportunity, however, his other pistol barked, the bullet tearing into Juen’s abdomen at near point blank range.
At this point, the pain was nothing, and Juen’s physique allowed him to ignore such injuries for quite a long time. So long as he received treatment within two hours, he would be entirely fine. Still, the impact was heavy, and it forced Juen to take a step back, far enough for Triezal and his ruined hand to dive further out of the way, headed straight for the middle of the firefight.
Juen leaped past him, hoping to cut the man off before he ended up in the thickest part of the hail of bullets, but failed to account for the enforcer, whose fire shifted to point at him. Juen cursed, giving up on catching Triezal, and was forced to dive for cover again.
Even a spirit refiner, he thought, could only take so many bullet wounds before they fell. Forced to back up, Juen narrowed his eyes as he questioned the luck of the man before him. He was either the luckiest person Juen had met, or was simply an expert at grasping opportunities to disengage. Juen watched as he ducked low to the ground, sliding almost directly beneath the battle to take up a more comfortable position on the other side. Not a single bullet impacted him, though a number had come extremely close, including one which had dove right past his hair.
Temporarily free from the practitioner’s assault, the azure-haired Celan glanced down at his waist, then back at Juen, muttering something to himself in a language that Juen did not know, before running off, ducking into a side hallway. Juen did not follow, knowing that dealing with the enforcer was more important for the time being. Just like before, Triezal had fled the moment that the tides turned against his favor. Juen huffed a breath from his nose in disdain. What a coward. He should expect no less from a Celan. The race might have powerful technology, but their culture was primitive and dishonorable.
Though he was not quite sure why, Juen found himself strangely angry, his emotions in turmoil, perhaps due to the stress or exertion of the sudden, unexpected situation. The emotion felt strange, however, almost disproportionate to the situation, however. Still, he had a task to do, and had the firmness of mind to retain control of himself and do what he must. Everything, he thought, was for the Mother.
Juen frowned. He must be distracted, as such thoughts were unlike him. He decided that he had simply spent too much time talking with the Cierrans of late. He had more important business to take care of. Juen returned his attention to the enforcer, who was still facing off with Keitel.
The factory was already essentially destroyed, so once the forces here were destroyed, they would be able to move on to the final target. Regardless of what was being produced here, there was little the Celans could do to stop them. He would fulfill his mission, and then he would kill Triezal. The man had gotten in his way one too many times, and Juen knew better than to allow someone like that to live. That was a one way journey to both a weakened reputation and an inner demon.
Juen was a man who refused to live with either.
Conduit: [Associated with sanguine miasma but not restricted to it, a conduit is a bridge between spacetimes, and unless there is a lesion, miasma cannot enter Telles without passing through a conduit. Artificial conduits are considered one of the vital inventions necessary to develop ashatic and miasmic technology, though in theory, such technology could also be created using biological conduits such as the specialized organ located within the eye sockets of the Staiven race. It is theorized that perhaps the reason why humanoid bodies are capable of generating sanguine miasma when damaged by miasmic effects is because humanoid blood contains an inherent capacity to become a conduit. Recent testing has only increased the support for this theory.]