My sidelong movement paid off; the next two strikes from Crixus and Mersk missed, the former merely by a hair's breadth. I typically chastised those in training who favored acrobatics over proper fencing, but now, to escape the dangerous probability lines forming a spherical cage around me, I was forced to leap forward, performing a double somersault in mid-air.
Landing on my feet, I followed Metatron's guidance and moved my blades behind me, just in time to block the incoming attacks. The double chime of clashing blades confirmed my successful defense.
I assumed a lower stance and swiftly spun around one hundred and eighty degrees. Crixus' gross messer failed to follow my movements and swung too high. Mersk's golden bastard sword extended towards me, but a slight wave of "Purity" deflected it. My vision of my opponents was obscured by a multitude of red, orange, and yellow vectors. Yet, there were gaps in this colorful chaos.
"Word" rested along my forearm. Theatrical fencing was generally inappropriate for actual combat, but in this situation, one of its elements presented an opportunity. I performed a triple pirouette forwards. "Word", positioned along my arm, blocked the opponents' wide swings three times. Meanwhile, "Purity" slipped under the guard of the bastard sword and struck Mersk under the elbow.
It was a minor blow, taking off barely ten percent of the head of Masks' prana, but it was enough to make him back off and adopt a defensive stance. Crixus, unaware he was momentarily alone, continued his assault. I had trained him well; his lunge was nearly perfect. The calculation of both his own and his opponent's positions was exceptionally accurate; the movement of his palm fine-tuned to fractions of a millimeter. He would have hit me, without a doubt, and no degree of swordsmanship would have saved me. Unfortunately for the Corsican, I had foreseen the direction of his attack before he even began.
The edge of "Word" struck the broad blade of the gross messer in a seemingly feeble and absurd manner, yet it was sufficient to deflect the heavy blade a couple of centimeters. It was enough so that on my countermove, "Word", falling naturally, blocked the enemy's sword and then slashed him in the shin.
As I increased the distance between us, preparing for a new attack, the field of vision before me cleared. The probability lines had vanished!
Metatron!
My internal cry yielded no result; the Fan of Probabilities had deactivated and refused to turn back on.
I was incredibly fortunate, my opponents seemingly had planned a swift kill, but lacked a contingency plan. Having received minor wounds, they were in slight shock, exchanging bewildered glances.
"Stop, you underage idiots!" I yelled.
I wouldn't survive if they attacked now while the Fan is off. So, I aimed to buy some time with idle chatter while trying to reach the First Angel.
"Maybe we are idiots," Mersk admitted, falling into my conversational trap. "But we don't grovel to shapeshifters!"
"Aren't you the same?" "Word" pointed accusingly at the head of the Masks of Novilter. "The Heir told me that you work for him."
"Ha! Work!" Mersk laughed. "It was easy to convince that swaggering fool. To make him believe that I adore him and that he's my idol. And how delighted he was at my proposal to unite all those dissatisfied with the regime around me! Naive! I hate them, I hate them with every fiber of my being! But I'm a good actor..."
"Shut up!" Crixus growled through clenched teeth.
"He can't escape," Mersk dismissed him. "No matter how good he is, he won't get away. And I need time to strategize." He then turned to me. "The longer you hold off attacking, the better for me; this is my power. The longer I'm in a fight, the stronger I become! What are you waiting for?!"
No, I won't be fooled. I won't recklessly attack two fighters, one of whom nearly matches me in skill, and the other's level is unknown to me. More accurately, I won't do this until I can activate the Fan again.
"Keep talking. I'm interested," I encouraged him, circling slowly.
"Maestro, you must admit - it's simply delightful! To convince your enemy that you're his friend, and organize opposition to a government structure, all while being backed by that very government and funded by it!" Mersk's eyes blazed with fanatical fervor. "Are you surprised, Maestro, that the Heir wasn't as clever as everyone thought?!" A booming laugh echoed from beneath his helmet.
He was utterly pleased with himself! He took great pleasure in how well his plan had worked. And I had to admit, it had indeed worked out. Not only had the Heir been duped, but I had been as well. Mersk turned out to be not a double but a triple agent, working solely for himself.
This pair likely allied long ago due to their shared hatred of shapeshifters. They've been working together, perhaps for more than one week. Now, with more data at hand, the situation was becoming clearer.
As the head of the BKDW, Crixus could gradually win over all the raigs of the capital to his side. Any Break Knights who couldn't be convinced verbally might have mysteriously vanished or accidentally died while repelling a Breakthrough, left unprotected from the back in time. Halley, Maya, the twins, myself... Meanwhile, the Heir, lulled by Mersk's reports that everything was normal and under control, wouldn't have had time to react to the unexpected uprising of the raigs.
This theory does make sense as to why they targeted me. I'm the primary roadblock to their scheme. Additionally, the foundation of any conspiracy is to always commence the purge with the most dangerous adversary. Eliminate the main threat before they have a chance to suspect anything and can be caught off guard.
I have to admit, they managed to catch me off guard!
And they nearly succeeded in killing me instantly!
Nearly...
My gaze turns to Crixus. Mersk I can understand, but why the Corsican?! How could he? I saved his life three times! Is his loathing for shapeshifters so intense that he's willing to murder his comrades? His stance, his stare, his grip on the blade, they all convey a clear message - he is. It's a difficult decision for him, but he'll see it through!
But Mersk... That look is all too familiar. He's killed before, more than once. Yet his sword is spotless, implying his kills didn't violate his personal code. A fanatic. If Crixus is an adamant antagonist of shapeshifters and a proponent for a change in power, his co-conspirator is unhinged in his hatred!
Two kinds of revolutionaries. One is a genuine adversary of inequality who's prepared to sacrifice his life to overthrow what he perceives as an unjust system. Our local version of Che Guevara, damn Crixus. And the second: a calculating, cynical man driven by hatred rather than justice, a fanatical murderer - Mersk.
How many raigs has he slain already? Those who didn't stand with him? Those who declined Mersk's invitation to join his cause? I have no clue.
One name surfaces in my mind.
As "Word" vibrates, "Purity" yearns to charge into the fray.
Was Ungor's death really an accident?!
A surge of bestial fury nearly engulfs me. Mersk has to die!
But!
I don't want to kill Crixus. Even if he betrayed me, without the influence of the Masks' leader, I could persuade him.
"Naive fools," I retort, "You want to slaughter the crew and seize control of the ship, oblivious to the fact that this ship is sailing towards reefs and is doomed!"
"Naturally, it is doomed!" The Masks' leader grins. "We will annihilate it and construct a superior one!"
"No, you won't have time," I shake my head, lifting "Word" higher. I cast aside the Creators' warnings about secrecy - it's not the priority now. "This world is doomed, and if the escalating influence of the Break isn't halted, the End of the World will arrive in a month!"
"Ha-ha-ha!" Mersk erupts into uncontrollable laughter. "Do we look like gullible children?! The End of the World!! We're doomed! Ah! How terrifying! Now tell us that only you can prevent this end, and therefore we must spare you! We're living in reality, not an anime, and your tricks won't work on us!"
Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.
Crap! My entire negotiation strategy just fell apart.
"You know that my sword corrodes with lies!" I pushed forward my primary argument. "So, here it is," I asserted, thrusting the "Word" in front of me so that it was in clear view. "I am not lying! If I die, the End of the World will inevitably arrive in a month!"
"Do we know that?" The voice of the head of Masks of Novilter dripped with derision. "What do we truly know? That your sword supposedly can't tolerate lies?"
"Yes."
"And how do we know this?" A quiet chuckle seeped from beneath Mersk's lowered visor. "Only from your words. How convenient! 'I can't lie, my sword...' Blah, blah, blah. Once you've convinced everyone of this, you could lie to your heart's content! I must admit, I admire your strategy!"
"Max Kraas's ability was to determine the powers of raig swords, and he corroborated the power of 'Word'!" I threw in my last argument.
"The same Kraas who's been dead for a while now? Ha! How convenient! Do you really take us for 'underage idiots'?!"
He judges everyone by his own standards. If he were in my place, he'd have lied, wriggled, and survived at any cost, and he assumes the same motivations in me. There's no convincing him.
"Crixus!" I swiveled towards the Corsican. "You don't want this!"
"To kill you?" Something was off about him; he was barely speaking, as if his jaw was clenched shut. "I don't." The gross messer in his hand sliced through the air. "But I will. Because there's something more important than my desires and even honor. Yes, I'm acting like a scumbag. Yes, I'm a jerk and a traitor! But a new world can't be built with clean hands! Someone has to shoulder all this filth, all this blood, all this ugliness. And if that someone has to be me, then so be it!"
Damn you, Crixus, you damn Che Guevara! Why do you have to be like this?!
I'd love to sit down with him for a couple of hours and have a serious talk! But who's going to grant me that time? I should've acted sooner, instead of wallowing in self-pity for nearly two weeks. Two wasted weeks...
Metatron! Fan!!!
Only silence replied.
What to do? I could've still fought if I had full prana, not just a measly ten percent. In my current state, without the Fan of Probabilities, I stand no chance. One slight injury, and I'll be ejected from the Break, becoming easy prey. Besides, I don't understand Mersk's abilities, and what he's revealed so far doesn't exactly inspire optimism. Additionally, I'm unfamiliar with Crixus's talents, which could prove fatally surprising! The only option I see is to utilize the one-hundred-and-first karate technique: escape. The sea is close by, and I'm quite proficient at running on the waves.
"Crixus!" Mersk shouts, apparently guessing my intentions. "Issue a challenge! Now!"
Just as I was preparing to leap and use Sliding, the Corsican, extending his hand, declared:
"Auto-da-fé!"
A golden thread unfurled from Crixus to me, binding us together tightly.
"I accept!" The leader of the Masks of Novilter yelled.
Another slim thread connected all of us, ensnaring us within a golden triangle.
"Planning to run away, were you?" The fanatic chuckles. "That's not an option now! Only Crixus and I or you can walk away from this place alive."
The golden thread vibrates, and I just know he's right. So, this is the talent Crixus selected at level four! A challenge to fight that cannot be refused without dying. What else would a revolutionary planning to overthrow the current government need? A way to prevent his enemies from fleeing. And this talent provides the Corsican with just the right tool.
If a fight is inevitable, strike first!
Sliding. But not towards the sea. When faced with two adversaries, always take out the weakest one first.
"Purity" blocks the bastard, and "Word" lunges at the target. The jagged line shatters Mersk's pauldron for a moment, slightly depleting his energy reserve. I could continue the assault, and I would certainly land another hit, but even without the Fan, I know that Crixus will attack from behind now. So, I widen the distance.
The bastard sword of the head of the Masks of Novilter futilely slices through the air, unable to keep up with me. And for some unknown reason, the Corsican does not strike. I'm unsure as to what Crixus is waiting for, but he's making a mistake.
My next attack, "Purity" fends off the bastard again, and the blue steel slashes the enemy's shin. Mersk's swordsmanship is not only inferior to mine; it's significantly below what the Corsican displayed during our initial encounter. Furthermore, I discerned his power when I attempted to repeat a previously successful attack and was met with a flawless block. The head of the Masks of Novilter's ability is akin to my Fan of Probabilities, but it's less developed and operates on a different principle. The Fan is a form of foresight, while Mersk's power is the analysis of the opponent's fighting style. He's right: the longer the battle drags on, the more advantage Mersk gains. Besides, any technique used previously won't work against him the second time.
I remained on edge, constantly anticipating the Corsican's attack. I was well aware that my survival chances were slim. Crixus was at the height of his power and was hellbent on seeing me dead. I had trained him too well for the outcome of our impending battle to be any different under the current circumstances.
At this juncture, my sole focus was on eliminating Mersk. The mere thought of his lifeless body falling out of the Break and sprawling on the port asphalt was my sole driving force. I wanted nothing else!
His fanaticism was his undoing. He had placed too much faith in his ultimate ability. His overconfidence in it was his blind spot. He hadn't even considered the possibility of encountering an adversary with such a diverse range of techniques that they didn't need to repeat anything and could adapt their fighting style as naturally as breathing.
With a leap and a spin in mid-air, I executed a moulinet. My blades sliced through the stagnant Break air like turbojets of an airliner. Mersk's only hope was to evade my line of attack. Unfortunately for him, he realized it way too late. Almost half a second too late to be precise. Yes, he managed to deflect my sword partially with his own, but "Purity" met with no resistance as it plunged into his chest.
Crixus refrained from intervening. Perhaps he still clung onto some shred of honor and was unwilling to engage in a two-against-one battle. It was puzzling though, considering he had unhesitatingly struck from behind at the start of the battle. I didn't have the luxury of time to dissect the complexities of the Corsican's psyche.
"We fought until we matched[1]," I said, grinning as I realized that Mersk's prana was now on par with mine, at ten percent of the maximum.
"Crixus!" cried the head of Masks of Novilter.
To no avail. The Corsican stayed out of it. And then Mersk counterattacked. You could label him as a traitor, a killer, a fanatic. All true. But one thing he was not, was a coward. He displayed no ounce of cowardice.
I executed a double block with "Word" and lunged with "Purity."
Trouble. He dodged it, even though I hadn't used this combination before.
His blade traced a serpentine path. An unusual attack.
I managed to block it, but another one followed. Only a quick jerk of my head to the side saved me from his blade aimed at my eye socket.
What the hell?!
Mersk's attacks grew more aggressive.
And what's worse, most of them were bypassing my defense. The only reason I was still standing was due to the hand-to-hand combat training I had received from Zanh Kiem. It allowed me to dodge the attacks at the last possible moment.
I had underestimated Mersk.
His ability turned out to be far more ultimate and dangerous than I had anticipated. He had managed to read my moves, and now he knew where I would strike and where I would block. My new techniques and altered fighting style were of no help. The enemy was pressing me hard, forcing me back with every strike.
Metatron!
Silence.
Fan?!
Again, silence.
I had mere seconds left before death would claim me. Just as an ordinary man stands no chance against a specialized supercomputer in chess, which is capable of calculating all possibilities dozens of moves ahead, I found myself powerless against Mersk's overwhelming power. A desperate idea flickered in my mind, and with no other options, I decided to heed the seemingly ridiculous advice of the Legate of the Holy See. Specifically, I used sound reinforcement - I yelled out the name of my technique at the top of my lungs:
"Fan of Probabilities!"
It worked, albeit fleetingly! Only for two seconds, but it worked!
"Nothing will help..."
Mersk didn't get to finish his sentence. "Word" pierced his skull. All the calculations, all the analysis - all of it was futile against an opponent who could see the future! But just as quickly as my ability activated, it vanished, and Mersk's body fell lifelessly onto the pavement.
"You're going to need to put in a lot of effort!" I said, turning to Crixus.
The Corsican was behaving oddly, down on one knee and leaning on his sword. Hearing my words, he raised his gaze to meet mine, his eyes filled with unimaginable pain. His look was agonizing, or something very close to it. His arm twisted, and the gross messer turned, presenting the other side of its blade to me. It was entirely black, from the tip to the guard, without any gap! Eaten by rust almost halfway through. Crixus laboriously rose to his feet and slung his sword over his shoulder.
"They say..." His voice was raspy, as if he'd spent days wandering through a desert. "They say pain clears the mind... Now I know it's true. I believed that the end justified the means. That for the sake of justice, one could cross any line. Now I know it's all mere lip service. You can't sacrifice your honor and conscience on the altar of your desires! You can't trample over your beliefs, even for the noblest cause. You can't... You can't betray yourself and still remain who you are." He stroked his sword and looked at the blade. "Thank you for making this clear to me, Zhengyi."
Once he finished speaking, Crixus adopted a combat stance. His prana was full, but he swayed as if severely injured.
"Stop!" I implored him. "Now that you understand, we can rectify everything!"
"Impossible," he responded, stepping towards me like a condemned man approaching the gallows. "I can't cancel the Auto-da-fé."
"I don't want to kill you!"
"You will have to!"
His gross messer lunged forward.
I dodged.
"Stop!" I urged him again.
"No!"
I had trained him too well.
Far too well.
In less than a minute, he had forced me to meet his rusted sword with a straight, hard parry. If I hadn't, I would have died.
The crossed "Word" and "Purity" received a powerful blow from Zhengyi. It was such a forceful blow that my palms cramped momentarily.
With a loud clang, the gross messer shatters into pieces.
The lifeless body of the head of the BKDW falls out of the Break.
Large tears stream down my face, while I find it impossible to look away from the serene smile etched on Crixus's face.
However, as soon as I regain some composure, I spot the familiar spine of a book protruding from Crixus's shoulder bag. Perhaps it was the genius of the author of "Undefeated" that served as the final push, leading Crixus to fully align with Mersk and, in an act that trampled on his own dignity, stab me in the back. A fresh wave of icy anger sweeps over me, but it's immediately swept away by a deluge of energy that crashes into me.
The night sky of the Break grows even darker. Countless bolts of lightning strike the sea while living stars ascend into the sky. My prana replenishes at a rapid pace.
For the first time, I welcome the impending Breakthrough!
[1] TLN: The phrase is unusual, seemingly used humorously to describe a failed attack despite having superior numbers: "Five of them, twenty-five of us. We fought until we were evenly matched. They advanced, we retreated. We would have beaten them if only they had caught up with us!"
[2] AN: In this context, Zhengyi refers to the Chinese concept of justice.