"If you're going to slice me up again..." Astafa snarled, his voice gravelly and clinical. Slowly, he lifted his gaze to meet him, a wry smirk curling on his lips—primal, predatory.
"Make it clean, alright?"
His voice cut sharp through the air—like a scalpel mistaken for dull beside a cleaver—his gaze now edged and pointed. At the fringe of his vision, something blindingly fleet whisked across the shattered abodes, its motion fluid and precise.
"Cleaner than this?"
Austrad's voice followed, icy and flat—only after his blade had already lashed out, raking Astafa's skin with a feathered rasp. The sword's edge hissed past Astafa's eyes, its point glinting at them, shearing away only a sliver of flesh.
He had barely dodged the blade. And when he did, something behind him crumbled—shockwaves thundering outward. He turned, slow and unhurried, the monster before him slipping from his mind for the span of a heartbeat... as if granting him just enough time to glance back.
The crumbled husks behind him were riven seamlessly, flawlessness etched into their cleavage—a quiet reminder that the enemy could summon such precision at will. The splintered wreckage hung in place like a mirror, reflecting not only who he was dealing with... but also questioning why he still stood his ground in the face of such staggering disparity.
He can pull this off... without even using Rage?
A blank stare settled on Astafa's face, lost in thought—as if he'd just seen multiple clones of himself struck by the slash, the sensation almost tangible. His stance remained unmoving, the silence slipping in like the slimmest respite he could possibly deserve.
Abruptly, the Partian hurtled forward with blistering speed, its howls ripping through the air. With gnashing fangs and a predatory glint, its gaze flickered wildly like a beast unhinged—ravenous, untamed, bereft of all control or conscious thought.
Before it could fix on its quarry, Mwvyck surged ahead with his trenchant halberd and struck a crushing blow—enough to send the Partian reeling.
"Are we seriously keeping this dragon alive just to feed it these kids?" he groused, voice threaded with irritation, jamming its head to the ground with the halberd's shaft-end.
"Of course—unless I can vaporize these brats down to atoms. Got any nukes for that?" Austrad riposted, his tone clinical and pragmatic.
"Tch! What a pain in the neck! Why not just bury them somewhere instead?"
"That is a pain in the neck."
Astafa's gaze flickered toward Kisatsu and Gnovic, who reimaned motionless on the blood-stained dirt. The blood had already crusted onto the fabric of their clothes—harsh, brittle, as if entombing them from even the faintest chance of revival.
"Why... why'd you do this?" Astafa bleated, his voice low, barely above a whisper. "It was their first quest... and this is how it ends?"
Austrad didn't speak immediately. He eyed Astafa like a statue carved in frost—so cold it felt as if the weather had frozen without a single flake of snow to prove it. Unruffled. Insouciant.
Then, in a flat, quiet voice, he spoke:
"Nothing personal."
Those words sank silence between them—stifling, unmoving.
"You're... you're completely unhinged, aren't you? You just killed them—and now you're saying it's nothing personal?!" Astafa groaned, his voice raucous, heavy with indignation. "Are you seriously fucking with me right now?"
His words echoed into the open, as if whispering to the clouds that even reason had no place here, that logic could never mend what had been done, that nothing could set this right.
Silence fell again, the kind that made time feel frozen. Then—
"Fine. I'll throw you a bone. We're doing this to make the quest look harder than it really is," Austrad answered, his voice dry and detached. "And if we're the only ones who make it back alive, the reward's bigger than if you tagged along."
"That's it? Just ascension? Is that all you care about?" Astafa shot back, his voice low and unwavering. "You really think my friends' lives are worth whatever reward you're after?"
At his words, an incisive expression streaked across Austrad's mien—blunt, deadpan, dismissive. The kind of look he wore when people hurled back the very words that had once spilled from his own mouth.
"I have my own goals... and your comrades' lives mean nothing to me—just as insignificant as whatever you think of me right now," he spoke at last, voice quieter than before. "Call me selfish, deranged, or whatever else comes to mind. I don't give a single shit."
Exactly. They didn't give a single shit about our people either. All I'm doing is taking the first step toward my goal. Our lives were treated like nothing—so why the hell should I value theirs? He reflected, brows furrowed slightly in contemplation.
"I see..." Astafa murmured, his countenance now gloomy and dim, weighted with something volatile—wild, provoked, almost biting. "Looks like you've just helped me unlock a whole new side of being a knight. Didn't take long to get there."
Almost as if baring his own fangs, his fresh wounds began to regenerate faster than before—an animal in his own right, had he become.
"I don't know if this is bad luck or some priceless knowledge... but either way, I'll have to thank you for it."
Without delay, he lunged at Austrad head-on, his body low in a near-crouch, legs driving forward with full force. His speed was stark contrast to before—every movement honed, methodical, precision. His gaze anchored forward—sharp, unflinching—as if forward was all he had left.
His arm, scaled in draconic armor, stretched toward Austrad's abdomen—desperate, grasping, as though reaching him could bring back the fallen. A flicker of regret swept over Astafa's visage, but time's cruelty vouchsafed him no moment to brood.
So my worst fears just came true. Killing this brat might as well be its own damn quest, Austrad thought, his face tight with shock.
"Mwvyck, keep the Partian pinned down!" he barked, springing backward in a practiced motion. "I've made up my mind—I'll handle these two myself!"
"Sure thing!" Mwvyck responded, ramming the base of his halberd deeper into the Partian's head—enough to wrench out a grating screech. "For a second there, I thought you were gonna ask for my help."
Handle the two? So the other brat's still alive? he mused, brows narrowing faintly. Hmph, good grief. Looks like you've had your fun after all.
In a blur of motion, Astafa and Austrad traded blows, each strike cutting through nothing but air. Their speed was moving in parallel precision as both tried harder to score a blow than dodge.
Keeping up? No... he's just relying too much on his reflexes—feints can throw him off, Austrad pondered quietly, a startled expression written across his face. So, you're one of them too, huh? Used as a vessel for a nonhuman entity. I'd like to talk more about it with you, but I doubt you'd understand everything going on, would you?
At long last, his blade slashed Astafa's torso in an arc, leaving a rending gash—blood besmirching his already wine-dark kilt. He stood gelid, unfazed, as if something like this was wonted. When the blade pressed into Astafa's heart, it halted—as if weighing the heart, still and steady.
As Austrad tried to pull the blade free, believing the kill was sealed, Astafa suddenly clutched it—his grip firm and uyielding. The laceration on his torso knit itself back together, snaring Austrad's sword inside his chest—as if full regeneration would snap it apart from within.
"I'll make sure this is the last time you ever try that twisted path to ascension!" Astafa bellowed, his voice tearing across the field like a jagged blade.
Next time I regenerate, I'm definitely going to pass out, he thought, visage strung taut with strain. Still, I'll buy us time for as long as I can stay conscious!
With a rasping scrape, the blade wrenched free from Astafa's chest, shredding away his skin like frayed, torn fabric. Austrad registered something—whatever it was—his gaze keen and unreadable.
I know you can't keep regenerating forever. Even if you've still got some juice left, I'll just keep cutting you down until you're crawling on all fours, he remarked, countenance veiled beneath a sardonic expression. Using his senses, he gauged Astafa's Rage, his gaze analytical.
His Rage pool hasn't dropped at all. So he's just regenerating naturally by boosting his physiological recovery? he pondered. Hmph, I'll take him out before he picks up anything troublesome from it.
Before he could advance, a sudden shift in the air snagged his attention—a ripple of burning sensation spreading across his skin. A flavor of burn he'd never felt before—foreign, queer, unfamiliar.
What is this feeling? My skin's suddenly burning, he hissed, gaze flicking to his hand, then back to Astafa. This brat's not even giving off that kind of energy—neither is the Partian Mwvyck's pummeling. If this keeps up, I'm going to lose my focus.
Outside his vision lingered something—vague, shadowy, something he didn't expect. It was as if fate was doing everything permissible—flouting rationality, stripping itself of laws—to break him, to cut him off before momentum could take hold, to reaffirm that the odds were never his.
Kisatsu stood up, his form unsteady—devoid of grace and composure—knees buckling under the weight of the air... and the chaos ahead. The gashes on his body had mended on their own. Unconscious. Unprecedented. Uncontrolled.
What... the hell? I'm standing? How? he breathed, voice barely a whisper. I should be down with fatal wounds right now.
His gaze flitted toward his own body, vision blurred and muzzy, inspecting the slashes that had vanished—as if they'd never been there.
Did I... heal?
A creased expression flashed across his face as he winced from grogginess, though his body felt intact—brimming with smothered Rage, as if he had just undergone evolution.
Austrad's gaze snapped to Kisatsu, his calm facade crumbling into a mien etched with barely held strain.
Tch! You've gotta be kidding me—we're up against two regenerating freaks now?! he screamed beneath his breath, teeth gritting in spleen. So they're the real monsters, not the Partian! Is he behind this feeling? Then I should kill him first!
Faster than the eye could track, he careened forward, hands tight on the hilt—set, unbending, steeled by a singular will to kill.
"Kisatsu—!" Astafa cried, his voice piercing the air like a serrated lance.
The moment Austrad arced his blade toward Kisatsu—its motion an echo of pure intent—it sliced through nothingness, as if it were the only solid thing. Kisatsu had evaded the attack, his movement delicate and airy. He wasn't aware—nor in control—of his movements.
My body feels weightless—I can barely control it... but I can see his attacks. And I'm dodging them? On reflex? he thought, features settled into bewilderment. No... these moves aren't mine. It's like my whole body's overflowing with Rage—is that why I can't think straight?
His hand lifted slowly, then swung through the air—aimed at Austrad. Austrad caught it—that unplaceable threat—veering aside on sheer instinct, his movement graceful and measured. His eyes stayed riveted on Kisatsu, a single thought creeping in: Whatever he's doing—I need to kill him before it spirals.
With a hoist of his blade, he struck—this time landing the hit. But the blade only skimmed, carving shallow.
He still blocked most of my attack? he wondered, asking it to no one in particular. Hmph. So he can react to me, but not enough to land a hit. His speed's gotten better—but that's all.
He adjusted his grip on the hilt—steely, unyielding. His gaze stayed fixed ahead, unswerving and staunch.
In that case, I've got nothing to worry about.
Once again, he blitzed forward—his movement sharper, more refined than before. Swifter. Murder etched into his stance.
From a distance, Astafa watched, helplessly—as if that was all he could manage in his state.
He's too fast—completely out of our league. We've got nothing on him. Dodging alone feels impossible, he contemplated, face wrung by despair. Landing a hit? That'd take a miracle. This is already a battle of attrition—and if it stays that way, we're screwed.
His gaze darted around, searching for anything that might as well have been alien. Maybe doing this would strip him of the thought that they were all going to die by the day's end.
We have to think of a plan... or at least some serious chemistry.
Then, his eyes landed on two more complications of the battle—handicaps even he couldn't see a way around. He glanced at Mwvyck, who was leaning against the Partian's hull in a leisurely fashion.
As long as he doesn't jump in, we've still got a shot—barely, but it's something. And that's only if we manage to escape... or someone shows up to save us, he pondered, hitching at the thought. At this rate, that's about as likely as my sister finding me out here.
Abruptly, Kisatsu was hurled into the air, his body rebounding violently across the floor. Each leg bore a noticeable, penetrating stab, saturated to the bone with blood. No more slashes. No more cuts. Just deep, rupturing, flesh-ripping impalements.
"K... Kisatsu," Astafa whispered, his voice barely a breath, taking slow steps backward in recoil—unconscious, involuntary, clinging to life. For the first time in this battle, he felt like retreating, surrendering, pleading to be spared.
Ahead stood Austrad, unfazed and unrelenting. He sliced through the air with his blade, flicking the blood away—as if shaking off the lives he had just taken. Flat. Icy. Impassive.
"I guess stabbing really was easier than slicing scums like you to bits," he remarked, voice low and dry. Silence returned—for as long as he willed it.
Then—
"Higher division, my ass..."
Kisatsu's voice fractured the lull, quiet but cutting. Slowly, he stood up—feet rooted, feeble, unsteady.
"You really think ranks and numbers are enough to make me believe you're stronger than me? So what if you are?" he growled, voice shrill with aggravation. "You think that's supposed to scare me? Like this is the first time I've felt fear?! 'Cause I'm damn sure there's someone out there way more terrifying than you!"
His gaze didn't waver, face knotting in wrath and resentment. A subtle twitch ran through his fingers, his teeth grinding frenziedly, posture straightening with grit.
Yeah, I'm hopeless. We're up against someone way out of our league. I should be scared—I should feel like giving up. But after everything I've been through... I don't think this world has anything worse left to throw at me.
A heartbeat.
At those words, a faint smirk curled across Austrad's lips—vile, accursed, like the devil someone sees right before their demise... or just after.
"Scare you?" he scoffed, voice muted and chilling. "Hmph, I see... So there is certainly someone out there who frightens you more than I do."
The silence that followed buzzed with menace—sharp and stifling.
"That's fine. I don't need to be the worst thing you've faced... just the last."