The Dragon of great ebony bale.
When the Angel comes—scale in tow,
They shall be purified in ivory pale.
For in finality, only judgement sows.
***
Amiya was sitting at a chair, her jacket taken off as Medic hovered a wand with an embedded black crystal at its tip—safely sealed away with some sort of transparent material. All the Operators were present and gathered around, along with Jugram.
In tandem with the events, Nearl was providing Jugram with the needed information to aid for his "amnesia."
"Originium is used to power Arts. All technology relies on it, from cars, to the kitchen, and the Arts Unit that Casters use," Nearl explained. "The Infected can use Arts by utilizing the Originium in their body... But it is dangerous and ill-advised. Doing so would only hasten your Oripathy stage."
"Oripathy," Jugram repeated.
"It's a disease," she continued. "Overexposure to Originium can infect you, and as a result, contract Oripathy. As it stands, it is unfortunately incurable, and all current medical knowledge only knows how to temporarily halt or stall Oripathy progression."
"Much more digestible, thank you," he said.
Nearl wondered if he had been left in the dark about the terminologies for a lengthy time now.
"So then this organization, Rhodes Island, wishes to cure this Oripathy?" Jugram asked.
"Mhm," Amiya said, "we're all trying our best efforts to do so, especially when the Infected around the world are facing unfair treatment because of Oripathy." She moved her right arm to let Medic's Healing Arts more effective space.
"Well said, Amiya," Nearl said. "Took the words from my mouth."
"Seeing how commonly Originium is used, it must be nigh-impossible to fully prevent Oripathy without any cure." Jugram closed his eyes. "Is that correct?"
"It's used in all forms of technology and power you can imagine," Dobermann answered. "There's no replacing it with how much we've come to rely on it. Alternatives are also scarce, barely existing."
"Nonexistent," Nearl corrected, "let's not sugarcoat it."
"Hm..." Dobermann solemnly nodded.
Jugram's eyes shut, telling something Nearl couldn't quite put her finger on.
"That's why... we'll try our best in curing it." Amiya said, Nearl agreeing with her from the side. "And, that's also why we need your help, Doctor."
He remained silent.
"Um... no pressure," Amiya almost stuttered, but regained her words with her expression falling to guilt.
"We'll see." He waved her off.
"We'll burn that bridge when we get there," Dobermann added. "As it stands, the decision is all yours to make, Doctor."
"Can you all stop talking so ominously?" Medic complained, pulling back her Arts Wand from healing Amiya.
"Eh? I don't think it was meant that way, or... what she's thinking." Amiya turned to Dobermann. "Right, Miss Dobermann?"
"I believe she understands what she implies, Amiya." Nearl's gaze flickered between Jugram, whose attention looked to be drifting amongst the clouds—even if she seldom knew it was the farthest from that.
"...Whatever you say," Dobermann sighed, placing a hand against her forehead. She turned away, most likely growing weary of the topic.
Nearl mentally sighed.
Medic stored her Arts Unit with an audible click, acting as the sound to break the silence. "Anyways, you should be in better condition now, Amiya. Nothing to worry about for the moment."
"Thank you, Medic." Amiya smiled toward Medic.
"No problem," she replied. "Anyways, Doctor..." She stood up, turning to Jugram. "Are there any more complications with your heart so far?"
Heart problems? Nearl found herself piqued at what she had heard, and she was confident it caught the interests of both Ace and Dobermann.
"None notable," he said.
"Are you sure? You exerted yourself back then, in two instances I'm pretty sure." Medic looked at him skeptically. "Have you... been using Arts without an Arts Unit?"
Everybody regarded Jugram, hearing the woman's words, looks varying.
The weight of their gazes rested on him with silent judgment, yet his posture remained unshaken. If anything, he looked more resolute—maybe he had already anticipated this line of questioning.
"Arts... yeah, you've come to develop some Arts along with your amnesia." Ace looked up, as if recalling something. "Don't know how it happened, but it certainly has helped you defend yourself. Nearl, any thoughts?"
"Enhanced physical capabilities from what I've observed," Nearl responded. "But if you've been using it without any Arts Unit, then that is... very troublesome." She became uneasy with that thought. Disastrous, even...
"...Utterly reckless." Dobermann shook her head, tone sharp. "So have you been using them without any Arts Unit? And, if I haven't been deaf, this is the first time I've heard about these heart problems."
"...Goodness, Doctor..." Nearl turned toward him with a complex look.
Amiya was about to answer the second question, but was interrupted.
"The situation back then did not call for a clear explanation for my condition. I believe the words were lost upon us all when conflict was begotten." Everybody agreed to his words within a millisecond of thought. "As for your first question... I wouldn't know how to answer that question," Jugram admitted. "What qualifies as an Arts Unit?"
"I assumed your Medallion, the one we found in the Sarcophagus, was your Arts Unit?" Medic piped up again. "Amiya, Guard, and Defender know what I'm talking about."
"A Medallion?" Nearl perked up. "That would work as an Arts Unit. Far smaller items have been used as conduits before."
"Oh—! I remember that." Amiya's worries for the Doctor were dispelled, putting her jacket back on, the article of clothing having been removed for her checkup. "You still have it, don't you, Doctor?"
"I do," he confirmed, reaching for the object inside of his cloak and bringing it out for all to see. "Here it is." A silver object with a five-pronged symbol emblazoned on it, stretching out thin arcs at the end.
It had brought everybody's attention, all Operators shifting from their position, slightly standing up, or letting out hums when glancing at it. Nearl in particular wanted to know what it symbolically represented, but kept it to herself.
"That... high possibility it is an Arts Unit." Nearl placed a hand under her chin. "Perhaps you have been cycling your Arts through it unconsciously, but due to reckless control because of your amnesia—and your inexperience in using them—complications have sprung across yourself. This is especially common for Arts that enhance your body's physicality." It was the best theory she could come up with.
"Yeesh," Ace breathed out. "I don't know firsthand what the feeling is like, but I've heard some pretty gruesome stories. Are you hanging in there alright, Doctor?"
"Of course. I needn't become a broken record to repeat the same words." Jugram rolled his eyes.
"Thankfully, we've come to a potential root of the problem, so we can remedy it." Nearl walked closer to the Doctor. "Please, Dr. Haschwalth, I'm sure you've already been told, but you should refrain from utilizing your Arts until we've come to a fuller understanding of it; and until you've become familiar with activating it safely."
"...Your concerns are acknowledged," Jugram replied without a hitch. "There is no need to fret." He adjusted the collar of his white uniform.
Nearl couldn't help but compare him somewhat to Kal'tsit.
She spoke again. "Of course, in dire situations, I won't fault you if you're forced to use them. They are powerful Arts, after all. I've seen them firsthand." She patted his shoulder.
"Duly noted. I will take your words into consideration." He sounded almost too agreeable. "However, these abilities come as naturally as breathing. Abstaining from combat will be... difficult."
"You don't have to tell me that twice..." Amiya could be seen pouting, perhaps because of how many times the blonde-haired man must have disregarded that notion.
Adorable, Nearl noted. "You wouldn't want to disappoint Amiya, do you, Doctor?" she tested. A cheap tactic, mayhaps, but one she couldn't resist.
"...I don't believe any of my actions have warranted disappointment, thank you very much."
"Your voice walks a fine line between poshness, sincerity, and monotony. I can't distinguish between the three," Nearl placed a hand on her hip, feeling the weight of her plated armor. "But I do know—you mean well."
Dr. Haschwalth ruffled his brows. "...I'll take it to heart."
For whatever reason, and Nearl was sure she was the only one she saw his reaction, but... he looked troubled? Did she say something wrong?
"Will you?" Amiya jumped up. "You don't sound like you will."
Jugram shut his eyes with not a single word. She was not going to give him puppy eyes.
"I've been saying," Dobermann raised a hand, lazily glancing elsewhere. "You should put more emotion in your voice, Dr. Haschwalth."
"...I will sincerely, and wholeheartedly take it to consideration, my sister-and-brother-in-arms." He opened his eyes. "Was that emotional enough?" A blank stare was all they had received from him.
"No," Amiya deadpanned.
"Not at all," Dobermann confirmed.
"Apologies, but it wasn't," Nearl joined in.
Jugram's gaze turned toward Ace.
"...Well." Ace stared at him, feeling the gazes of everybody else fall upon him. "...Can I abstain?"
"You must have stolen that idea from Kal'tsit." Nearl huffed amusedly.
"Hey, don't expose me like that." Ace looked exasperated.
Jugram almost resignedly shut his eyes. "Amiya, I'm sure you may recall what you suggested to Dobermann and Ace before. What was it again, back in the park...?"
"That they shouldn't bully you?" She tilted her head.
"Precisely so."
A small chuckle escaped her lips. "Ehe, I'm just feeling a bit more teasing today. Sorry~ Doctor." Amiya shut her eyes with a joyful look, pressing her index finger against his arm.
"...Fair play, Amiya. Fair play," Jugram shut his eyes for the umpteenth time.
Chuckles were heard across the room, the serene mood acting as a ripple in a silent pond. But, unfortunately, just as quickly as it came—it died out—for the weight of their current situation once more dawned upon them when a low rumble was heard from far away.
A thunderclap, that was what it sounded like, and what it felt like, was a low earthquake.
A pause occurred.
Eyes tensed. Fingers twitched, almost reaching for weapons, and some Operators nearly sprung from their positions, standing in half-postures of muscle memory-induced panic.
"What's going on out there?" Nearl creased her brows, staring at the wall from where the sound waves had pierced through, as if willing herself to see past it. "A Catastrophe?"
"Can't be a Catastrophe—doesn't sound like one—and we're not due one for any time soon," Ace refuted. "Sounds like artillery fire... is it artillery fire?" He racked his brain. "Could be... but the reports didn't mention anything about that..." His fingers cupped his chin, as if attempting to recall something.
"If it's not a Catastrophe—" Dobermann came up with her own theory "—It's more likely to be a band of artillery fire. Either the Ursus Guards are finally gathering up their forces seriously, or Reunion has gotten their grubby hands on them."
"Yeah...that seems the most likely." Ace grimly agreed.
"Then that means we're in for a hellish one if we cross paths with them again." Dobermann heaved a coarse sigh.
Nearl nodded. "Be that as it may, this is our cue to leave Chernobog immediately. I'd have liked another moment of rest, but circumstances demand otherwise." Her hand traced the edge of her shield, a profound sense of grit overcoming her muscles.
For everybody, they felt the same sense of foreboding.
***
The skies were dim, no light bleeding through the clouds. Their entire surroundings had become darker, something that was a blessing in disguise, but so could it easily be used against them. It was a single proclamation to them, that the fiery breath of a Catastrophe was about to be unleashed, and they needed to step up their efforts in evacuating.
Once more, they pressed their backs against buildings in order to keep themselves as invisible in the shadows as possible. Jugram in particular had thought of using the Quincy Shadows in order to make the process faster by storing their bodies inside, but he eventually dismissed the idea.
Hand signals, head motions, and nods were given amongst the Operators as they moved down the street, keeping close to buildings.
It was all going well for their departure.
Very well.
Too well.
Jugram blinked and stopped, Amiya stopping as well to look at him.
His eyes were closed, eyelids twitching.
"Doctor?" Amiya asked, "oh, no... if you need me to carry you, then—"
His eyes converged, a different world revealing itself, a soon-to-be occurring future in the foreseeable moment. The same area they were in, the same shadows they were attempting to hide in, and the same structures surrounding them.
In an instant, it all vanished, in a bath of flames which tore apart the Operators, tore apart Nearl, tore apart Ace, tore apart Dobermann, tore apart Amiya...
...The only one who stood amongst the onslaught, was himself. The cries of the damned became silent, and he alone stood in hell.
"Everybody." Jugram's voice was amplified by Reiatsu, reverberating the entire area and causing all to halt in their steps.
"D-Dr. Haschwalth?" Nearl hushedly whispered to him from her position, worried that his volume would alert any nearby enemy. "What are you—?"
"West. An enemy. Powerful Arts. They will disintegrate you if you don't get into formation." Jugram pointed toward the west, white cloak waving. "Do not hesitate for a second."
The Operators looked at each other for only a second before wordlessly taking his warnings to heed, gathering into formation at where he stood. Amiya could feel her rabbit ears twitch around, reaching her hand up in order to direct it west, an effort made to see if she could hear any discrepancies.
Murmurs became prominent.
Confusion was starting to rise.
Heat was climbing.
What was that? Heat? For many, they wondered why heat—
A cascade of flames blasted through the buildings, melting it entirely.
The inferno devoured everything in its path, the structures offering no resistance as they liquefied under the sheer intensity. The Operators barely had time to react before the wave of flames reached them.
Jugram moved first.
His blade was already unsheathed, his white cloak whipping violently as he stepped forward, standing between the Operators and their impending death. His free hand extended outward, and in that instant, the flames distorted, bending around his palm
His Reiatsu vaguely surged in the Soul King's black, an almighty force.
Amiya's eyes widened. The force radiating from him was overwhelming and suffocating, more than even the flames. It spurred great confusion, but she squashed the feeling, knowing that it wasn't the best moment for awe.
"Everybody, scatter!" she ordered, her voice barely cutting through the roaring flames.
The Operators moved, retreating into positions behind Jugram.
From within the vaporizing fires, somebody had emerged. A single figure, unbothered by the raging heat. She was its embodiment, the vessel clad in a black dress ripped and torn at the edges. Her presence was heavy, the air around her warping with the distinct haze of heat.
A low chuckle resonated from the burning landscape.
"You blocked my attack?" The voice was smooth, laced with amusement. "How... intriguing." Her curious attention was fixated on one person: Jugram Haschwalth.
"It's her, those flame Arts...!" Dobermann coughed, arm over her mouth as fear overcame her eyes, a desolate gaze following the blown buildings. "But, the reports didn't say it was to this extent...!"
"Everybody, stand strong!" Ace called out in mixture with Dobermman's, raising his sledgehammer for all to see. Despite this, nobody missed the beads of sweat, whether it be from nervousness or the heat, flowing down his forehead. "Gather together, we can't break formation, especially not now!"
His commands were heeded as the Operators, in spite of being stricken by pandemonium, scurried themselves to their feet.
Amiya gasped, seeing something underneath the billows of ashes swaying by the western gale. "The Tyrant of Reunion... Talulah!" Her voice drawled out, terror prominent. "Doctor, please... stand behind me. We're against an enemy—"
"An enemy which you cannot defeat," Jugram stated plainly.
Amiya's ears twitched. She turned to him, startled, but quickly tugged her head back toward the fire-laced battlefield.
A figure stood at the front, flanked by numerous soldiers dressed in white. Compared to them, she was a stark black, ashen in all her sacrilegious fervor. A charcoal longsword rested at her side, sheathed and undrawn, as if her foes were unworthy of seeing its darkened gleam.
"Rhodes Island," a cruel monotone voice breached out of her lips, bearing a calm amongst the raging fires. "Meager idealists..." Her hand reached upwards, all five fingers spread, palm pointed their way.
FIre burned with immaculate intensity, unrivaled by many in the face of Terra. Each step melted the ground, leaving it a molten and sludging mess, raising the heat of the environment further and further. Any flammable source close by was immediately immolated, with the sound of cracks and pops ringing across everybody's eardrums.
"No...!" Amiya's eyes widened, her hands raised upwards in preparation for something, charging her Arts to a degree she would have thought impossible.
The disorder did not settle—it climbed—reaching the pinnacle of the latter in just seconds.
The dragon bespoke, "Fall." A sovereign command.
The blistering heat continued to bite at their skin, waves of flames washing over like cruel tsunamis battering the Operators bit by bit, with as many shieldbearers taking the front in order to stop the heat. Even that proved fruitless, as their shields melted just as any steel would, despite the complex alloys reinforcing their gear.
Cries of despair and ruin wreaked the scene, the perfect picture of hell having been dropped upon all of them. They felt as if they were standing between two suns, drafting their body in the greatest pain imaginable.
Nearl rushed to the forefront with a warcry, raising her shield toward the oppressive fires, ready to burn her spirit forevermore. Golden light shimmered off of her form, spreading out in a conglomerate of lines gathered together to materialize a whole shape—that of a glorious Pegasus galloping through the dark sea under night—all the while the forthcoming Catastrophe loomed over.
Standing as the undisputed lead of defense, she pressed on, unwavering, unstilted, unabashed toward ruin. The paragon of knighthood bore her instruments against the dragon, allies and friends at her side—yet...
"Is that it?" Talulah tilted her head, unamused. "You show more resilience than most. But this is as far as you go." Whether it was sarcasm or not did not matter toward those being ravaged by the parade of flames, as she clenched her fingers into a hardened fist.
One thing remained constant throughout.
She was still focused on Jugram.
The flames, once flowing like a river—burst outward wildly—burning from a ghastly orange to a dreadful red; becoming searing needles of the profaned. Behind her, Reunion's soldiers cheered, their voices rising in celebration.
Where Talulah stepped, nothing remained.
"Mister Ace! Miss Nearl!" Amiya called out with panic, and rushed in with reckless abandon. She could see it, she could see their deaths, turning into nothing but charred corpses onto the ground by the wake of devastation.
"A-Amiya!" Nearl panickedly yelled toward her, body twitching almost to a spasm with the barrage of flames slamming into her and the formation. "Y-You shouldn't—!"
Ace was about to say something, but felt a cluster of pain from his arm. "S-Shit!" His grunts steadied themselves, unable to break his attention away from Talulah's unbidden malice, her merciless advance.
"I won't stand to the side..." Amiya stood side-by-side with them, raising her two little arms in resistance, a spark of vermillion and black cycling in a pirouette. "...And let you all die!" She closed her eyes, Arts output climbing to its peak.
Burning, burning, it all burned. Flashes of light hit the prism that was conflict, spreading an innumerable amount of colors as their efforts continued to be apathetically torn apart. Talulah stood there at a rest, letting her Arts reach a crucible.
Each burning moment, slowly but surely, a resolution came to pass in Jugram Haschwalth's mind. They were at uneven odds, completely so, and Rhodes Island would be trampled underneath the scaly feet of an opponent far above their league.
A blink of his eyes, and he heard a chorus of pain and stress, Nearl, Amiya, Dobermann, and Ace broken under the force of the tyrant. Nevertheless, their actions proved to be successful in halting the advance of the flames, the singed and melting landscape becoming clear underneath the eyes.
They fell back, the turmitious laughter of flames lessening, yet still ready to burst once more into fiendish mockery.
For a fleeting moment, Jugram closed his eyes.
What he needed was a counterbalance to the overwhelming chaos. True order demanded a force that was neither tyrannical nor blind, but a perfect other half to restore something... and that something, he was well aware of what it was.
...
He was not the Divine Authority of God, who wrought victory wherever he waltzed.
He was not the Masterpiece of God, who smote His dissidents wherever he flocked.
He was not the Poison of God, who spread plague and illness wherever he crossed.
He was not the Abomination of God, who ushered evolution wherever he clawed.
No.
He wasn't so inferior as to be them.
He was His Other Half.
And that was all Jugram Haschwalth needed to fathom.
With his blade in hand, the road was set clear, for one purpose.
To restore Balance.
...
Amiya found herself on the ground, heaving bated breaths while she stood up, shakily. Without reprieve, she could feel the smoldering heat of a fireball barrel her way without any warning, bringing her to a world of incandescence.
She shut her eyes.
Hot... hot... hot...!
It burned, it burned, it—
It didn't burn.
She felt nothing. She didn't feel the burning sensation, she didn't feel her flesh melting off of her muscles, and she didn't feel any pain.
Hesitatingly, she opened her eyes, eyes immediately jolting open as her mouth hung low, tears spilling.
Her words became lost.
Before her was the Doctor, standing with his cloak lifted over, knelt as he had been shielding her from the flames.
The flames still consuming everything in Rhodes Island's path had diminished, as if becoming uncertain. The battlefield, still strangled with heat and ruin jolted.
Wordlessly, Dr. Haschwalth stood on his two feet, his cloak becoming coal at the edge, a large portion starting to fade. He was in opposition to the dragon, a single mission in mind.
An equation was set, the scales... had begun to tip.
Drums tolled, feet stomped, cloaks billowed; as ivory breached darkness. Bellowing in unison with the sound—was the march of the Sternritter—racketing to heights unseen.
The Operators, struggling, felt it from bone to marrow; the pounding of drums. Some shivered despite the heat, some gritted their teeth, an unexplainable weight pressing down on their spirits, and then—
Amiya's scream cut through the charged stillness. "Doctor—!" Her voice wavered as she moved to protect him, tears continuously spilling, but she was immediately stopped.
"Amiya, don't!" Nearl rushed forward, desperation coming across her face. "You can't, not when—!"
"Please, I have to...!" Amiya struggled, but Dobermann and Ace grabbed her in tandem, pulling her back. "The Doctor—!"
"Amiya, this isn't—!" Dobermann called.
"Amiya, please!" Nearl pleaded. "The flames will tear you apart!"
Amiya wasn't having it. "If that's what it takes to protect the Doctor, then I'll—"
Ace cut her off. "Amiya, calm down." His voice was measured, steady, even amidst the chaos. Smoke curled from the corner of his mouth as he exhaled sharply.
"Look at him." Ace pointed. Everyone followed his gaze. "That look on his face... I know it. I've seen it before." His grip tightened around his sledgehammer.
Silence overcame Amiya, yet the tears caressing her cheek still remained.
Ace took in a deep breath, concluding his final statement:
"He knows what he's doing."
***
The Catastrophe had arrived. Black clouds were its prophet, cycling thunder was its might, and the shrill cries of the deceased were soon to become its eulogy—just before it had come to life's end itself. A hail of meteors followed, a glittering trail of molten stardust following from behind, each advance burning its life piece by piece.
The environment was under ruin, the air saturated with suffocating heat. The battlefield, razored beyond belief, was thrown further into turmoil. The meteors carved jagged scars into the earth, each impact sending shockwaves rippling outward, spewing debris into the air—not too far off from grotesque confetti.
Talulah stood at the center of it all, with unshaken form, a figure of black in the boiling inferno. The ghost of a smirk graced her lips, her eyes gleaming. She turned her gaze toward him, the man who stood before her.
"The Doctor of Rhodes Island."
Any and all meteors that dared to fall near her were instantly annihilated, reduced to nothing but guttering embers before they could even touch her. Yet, the same mercy was not extended to her own allies. Reunion soldiers cried out in terror, their bodies crushed beneath falling rock, their desperate pleas for salvation vanishing into the roar of the storm.
Jugram stood unabashed, the edges of his coat fluttering against the shockwaves of distant impacts. A meteor crashed nearby, its shrapnel careening through the air, yet none of it dared to touch him. He met Talulah's gaze with measured calm, a man unshaken neither by the firestorm she commanded, or the Catastrophe engineered by nature.
"You are aware of me." His voice was steady.
"Of course."
"Should I feel privileged?"
"That depends." Her smirk deepened ever so slightly. "As a standing body, or as ashen smoke?"
Jugram tilted his head slightly, "Please, I implore you not to insinuate a future that is impossible."
Talulah let out a quiet chuckle, a rare flicker of amusement amid the carnage. "A presumptuous tongue. Mephisto told me about you."
"Anything that involves that child is disinteresting," Jugram dismissed, barely sparing the name a thought.
"Hmph." A single, amused breath. Was it humor? Or condescension? "Rhodes Island and its lofty views," she mused. "Have you ever postulated how naive they are?"
"If you're attempting to make me question my resolve" Jugram drew his blade, sheath lifting up, dismantled cloak drifting. "Then you've wholly misplaced my purpose here. I am in your presence to behead you—nothing more, nothing less."
"Oh?" Talulah drew her own weapon, whisking it to the side as a wasp of flames cruelly licked the ground, scraping it.
"After all," he continued, his voice level, "the scales need balancing."
A swirling mound of chaos surrounded the both of them, ashen dragon and golden angel. A scene of the apocalypse in the making.
At the center, the eye of the hurricane, order remained untainted by the wayward flows; for it was the weight to tip the scale toward balance.
A duel.
Blades at the side, enemies and allies alike roaring in pain as the world around them was bedridden with disaster, sleeping as injustice ran its toll across the lawless city.
A shift upwards, one pace forward, the instruments of war were now pointed at destined foes.
Let slip the hounds of war.
The gaping maw of the dragon opened in the form of Talulah's palm, the same gesture she had utilized to blow away all opposition.
A blast of flames. For Jugram, it was easily dodgeable, even if it struck those memories.
He maneuvered about, strafing around with blistering speed, Hirenkyaku leading him with a fleeting blind side against Talulah.
She raised her sword, blocking a deceptively light blow, a look of recognition to the attack.
A firestorm formed around them without any command while locked in place, Talulah giving him a smirk, faces an inch away from each other.
A blue blur surrounded Jugram as he broke off from the woman, braving through the circling fires which tore apart the ground, rending flakes of shattered meteors into ash.
His white cloak continued to bear the brunt, but his Blut Vene kept himself safe—the same technique which braved through a certain Shinigami's fifteen million degree celsius flames.
That thought left him wondering if he should pull out the medallion he had, but Jugram knew it would cause more harm for himself and his allies more than anything else.
Talulah gave chase, blade shooting forward.
Jugram parried it, letting the tip slide off of his cheek, blood drawn at the location after he deactivated his Blut Vene... purposefully.
"You aren't normal." Talulah did not miss the glow of his veins, and how it would disappear or reappear.
"You're less than I thought," Jugram said, twisting his body and disengaging the woman.
"Bold words" She taunted. "Will you keep on the defensive?" The Draco pointed her weapon toward Jugram, both hands on the handle, flames intensifying like a localized tornado.
Meteors continued to fall. Rhodes Island remained strong. Reunion's current squad was broken.
Jugram brought his sword in front of him, pointing it skyward. "If you wish to flaunt your flames so much..."
He concentrated.
Blue Flames, the epitome of the Quincy passion and drive, immolated on Jugram's blade. Cycling the minimal Reiryoku in his body and expressing it into any form of Reiatsu would have proven negligible without absorbing Reishi, but for something as small as this, it was just enough. A thin string erupting into a canvas.
Just as it was the passion and drive of the Quincy, so too was it their pride of slaughter, sending the realm of Hueco Mundo alight once before.
"Blue flames?" Talulah tilted her head. "So many tricks up your sleeve. And for what? To delay the inevitable?"
"If you are suggesting I'm delaying your death, then you would be half correct." Jugram let his blade fall by his side.
"Humorous," she dryly said.
Another wave. Another fireball. Another clash. Another dodge. Another weave.
They continued crossing blades, two different colors mixing with each other, leaving themselves traversing the barren lands devastated with the growing escalation. The Catastrophe rain unfaltering.
Jugram took another step forward, waltzing through the inferno, his expression unshaken. His body screamed at him—he had deactivated Blut Vene in select places, allowing Talulah's fire to lick at his flesh, to carve through the pristine surface of his white uniform. The smell of burnt fabric and seared skin filled the air.
Another cut. Another burst of fire. Another ember seared into his flesh. He felt the wounds, acknowledged them—but did not resist. Instead, he embraced them.
Talulah narrowed her eyes, the storm raging in her gaze. Why?
Jugram could see the question forming on her lips before she even voiced it, but she didn't need to speak for him to understand.
"You misunderstand," he said, parrying another flaming strike, allowing the searing edge to graze his shoulder, cutting deep, burning deeper. The pain was nothing. "My form was never meant for defensive measures."
Talulah's instincts flared.
Jugram moved, faster, heavier, his blade descending with enough fervor that it carved a fissure in the ground beneath them. Talulah barely managed to intercept the strike, her knees buckling as her sword clashed against his with a resounding crash.
The air cracked. Flames scattered.
What—?
She pushed back, using the force of the impact to propel herself into the air, avoiding a sideways slash that shaved the earth where she had once stood. She landed in a crouch several feet away, eyes sharp, studying him.
And then she saw it.
His wounds—they were gone.
No blood dripped, no burns remained. It was as if every injury he had sustained had never existed.
"Don't you see it?"
Jugram declared, his mouth carrying the sublime words. An imaginary scale appeared behind him, lined with silver and standing as an imposing totem, a scarecrow to ward off all that was unholy.
Do they fear what they do not understand? Some have called it judgment, a fair verdict, but I do not wield this power as they believe.
Am I an executioner? Humorous, it's nothing as their twisted views demand. I am merely the fulcrum upon which fate corrects itself, all in favor of myself.
"The scales.."
Golden streaks of light gathered from ubiquitous places, sending the scenery alight with a divinity, traveling like glowing moths to a fire. They all uniformly settled upon the cradles; beaming it with perdition's flame.
Once, I thought balance was fairness, like symmetry, in a mathematical sense; where fortune and misfortune would walk hand-in-hand. But for those who are under fate's qualms, there is no such thing as fairness or equality.
It is more akin to... a correction bent by my hand.
"They are tipping."
It twitched, the scale did. A cosmic force beckoned forth World Harmony, and with that, the chains snapped into position, sending the hanging plates careening toward Jugram's direction.
There is always a moment before "judgment," where the world must enact its will. Even the guilty believe themselves spared for an instant longer. But the scales do not heed to their vices, they do not grant reprieve, they only tip when the weight commands it.
With its final movement, a harsh cracking sound was heard as the interlocked metals binding it together split in half, revealing the Quincy Zeichen from underneath one of its plates.
I understood it a thousand years ago, when He spoke these words to me.
"This is called..."
They were a prophecy during the Eucharist ceremony, a prediction of my purpose:
"The five blades who hath turned against the Soul King.
The Original Sin gesticulated by their edge.
The sacred scripture, which shalt bring upon them thy righteous judgment.
It is called..."
His voice lingers still, an allegory across time, an echo from an age where I was given no choice but to bear my given duty. So, I must not defy it, I must enact it for God. For His Majesty.
The voice of the past, and the voice of the present, combined.
"Schrift B, The Balance."
It is not my own will that shapes the world, it is only the weight upon the scales, for God does not need man, He needs tools. I have come to the conclusion eons ago, that I must become that weight.
"Come forth, my Son Born in Light, for it is in you my Other Half shalt be formed."
And here, misfortune shall be born. Redistributed—raining down—like heaven's artillery.
The blare of a vigorous bell heralded a grand rapture cascaded across the almost barren hellscape, dousing the undying inferno, passing its verdict. Reunion stared at it, defying it, pronging blades toward it.
How foolish. They believe misfortune can be evaded and resisted. Mortal acts cannot halt it, therefore it will only continue to shift.
I am the counterweight which shifts it.
Turmoil struck the land, wounds unnaturally forming, equilibrium flashing its fangs toward the ones who stood against its dictatorial wielder.
Talulah's eyes went agape, gashes and burns suddenly scourging her body from head to toe, all in the same manners she had once upon a time inflicted against Jugram. Her form became unstable, the grip on her weapon faltering just ever so slightly as the wounds had finally transferred.
"Do you understand now?" Jugram stood as he always had, clear of wounds, clear of scrutiny, clear of worldly afflictions. His eyes stared at the flaming beast, Arts uncontrollably spilling from her body with no aim or direction, becoming a chaotic hodgepodge of spewing heat.
I envied Bazz-B. I envied his talents. I wished the boy from the past could have stood side-by-side with him, blade in tow, pointed toward all enemies. Yet I always felt as if I were insignificant, as if I had always been insignificant. Even when I was etched as the Wandenreich's symbol, the infallible Right Hand of The Almighty, even when I had everything.
A single regret.
"Do you defy it?" He watched the Reunion troops around Talulah attempt to regain their footing from the grievous injuries afflicting them, their leader brought to the same level as them. "Do you rally your spirits in resistance?" His allies were far too gobsmacked to recall him back, running commands amongst themselves to determine what was to happen next.
"Ah, I see..." Talulah coughed, "I see what I stand before..." Her gaze turned deathly toward him, a dab of inconsistency afflicting it. Uncertainty—breaking from the defiant and cold visage—became prominent.
Even at the end of his life, he waged war against the world, he raged against fate, he let his heat burn the brightest amongst a universe who cared naught for him. True in defiance... burning, brilliant defiance.
Jugram let his own glare deepen in response. "I've listened to you long enough."
A blade from the Draco was directed toward him, a spirit of fight still igniting her soul.
Bazz-B, you stood against me. You stood against the scales. You stood against all which I had held myself as—you, and that Uryu Ishida—were the antithesis to me. I apologize, I am sorry... my friend.
A Cautus, he knew who she was, quivered, grasping her head.
I will pass judgement once more.
Aureate motes continued to materialize from above the barren heavens, swimming across the Catastrophe clouds and converging into one single point. They would sink down, falling tremendously onto the scale's dishes, once more tilting them solemnly. The second derelict bell was heard, erupting after the cacklish fervor of snapping chains unable to hold the boundless tonnage.
Here, the closing ceremony. To be dismissed from God's ceremonial halls.
"For all opposing forces in the universe—that opposes me—an equal and opposite echo will banish them astray." The Sternritter Grandmaster raised his sword upwards, pointing it toward the false firmament for its ascent. "A Catastrophe is no exception."
Known fidelity buckled under strain.
A stilted brush, a resplendent motion. Even then, he did not simply turn his blade, for it was a heave against eternity itself. The laws of the world faltered, bending to his will, letting creation watch in breathless anticipation.
All heads turned heavensward.
A gaping wound in the skies, expanding and rippling, forming a tableau of revelation. A single gentle motion, and light divulged itself through the shattered heights, a crevice of azure unfolding right before everybody's eyes. It was reality twisting.
The Catastrophe fought, it screamed, it reviled, burning the last vestiges of defiance present inside; all to claw at the saintly force beckoning its entropy. By then, it was too late, the will of the imperial judge—his dominion over fate—had already been carved, declaring its existence to be sheer folly.
War came to a staggering halt.
Warriors, once locked in blood-spilling combat, found their blades losing resolve, their words caught in their throats. The battlefield, a place of carnage unending had ceased to be. Knees buckled against the ground, all filled with immense clarity as God's witnesses, weapons slipped from numb fingers, the clang of steel against stone ringing out the tune of their funeral.
Others recoiled, staggering backward, their faces pale with horror that couldn't be spoken. Beheld in the pupils of their eyes was a correction, a force beyond mortality's reach.
A few still clung to their resolve, grasping at their weapons; yet trembling, and full of dread. A question racked their brains: could they truly stand against this enemy?
Above, the Catastrophe's remnants still screamed silently, its final dissent bleeding into the sundered firmament. Below, all who bore experience to its seamless death found themselves questioning their position, and of the one who had declared conquest over providence.
Not just witnesses of the impossible.
But the ones judged by it.
The once Sternritter Grandmaster who conquered territory after territory for The Almighty stood before them, weapon held, pointing its shimmering edge—soaked in a thousand years of blood—forward. They were his enemies, his demons to lay waste to, his land to conquer.
Rhodes Island had long since held their breaths, losing clarity of who they knew the Doctor was.
"Now... Talulah..." Jagged huffs escaped him, chest heaving up and down. "I can see... your other allies... await." A question, but also a threat. His blue eyes continued to glare daggers, a faint tremor reverberating across his body.
He was the Quincy King incarnated. Though a mere shadow, he was still all that it stood for. So with pride, he deemed it necessary to stand straight, no matter the pain that came from it.
Talulah's eyes were wide in her prone position, any response becoming naught. There were incomprehensible emotions dwelling underneath, swimming through the ocean of pure, unadulterated bafflement.
"Know this is not over," Jugram panted, the crippling sensation in his heart intensifying. "Don't ever forget this day..." With those words mustered, he could hear his ears start to deafen due to tinnitus.
Raising his sword for the last time, he executed the last application of The Balance possible.
His consciousness was fading. It was unfortunate.
Therefore, an equal amount of fortune would be distributed, in benefit for his and Rhodes Island's escape.
The last scale, silver in its glory, appeared—the Reunion troops still alive shirking back away from it, bodies quivering at the hallmark of unfairness.
"I bid you farewell," he uttered, breath leaving in a final heave.
With that, the sound of a church bell could be heard pounding, the scale loosening itself in his favor.
The ground quaked along with it, the Reunion troops having long since turned around and ran away, along with a group barely bringing Talulah back on her feet, the Draco having seemingly come to reason that she would need to retreat along with them.
Jugram could hear Rhodes Island calling out to him from behind, their words lost in a cushion of mumbles due to his condition, but he could not care about that right now.
The ground erupted in front of him, an unnatural barrier forming the shape of his Freund Schild, tall enough to block any enemies from walking through; and large enough for anyone to rethink an attempt to flank around it.
Just before his consciousness came to pass, he let his mannequin arms hang limp, his golden hair washing over his face like a waterfall. When he stumbled back, he could feel hands frantically grab onto his back, the cry of a certain Cautus the most distinguishable out of them.
In front of him, when his eyes dredged with a rise, Jugram found himself staring at something... transparent. A ghost, a phantom, a spectre, an apparition—whatever it was—he was sure nobody else saw it.
She was leaning forward, a sorrowful look dressing her features.
He didn't like it.
He hated it.
Yet, the glint of appreciation under her orbs, barely veiled by her luscious pink hair.
...
It felt strange.
***
There was a time and place for everything, and confronting what has set his mind to be at a state of unease was the best action he could take. The loss of consciousness due to the aftereffects of Auswählen plaguing him was the best time to do so, especially after he had set the scale to tip in the favor of Rhodes Island's retreat.
So, amongst plasters of greenery and a kaleidoscope of flowers, he was going to confront something that kept appearing in his mind.
The one directly in front of him.
It was the perfect hour.
"I've glimpsed you for long enough, and finding no answer to this has been an unending bother." Jugram's eyes slotted in place, in a direction of his current vices. "In my dreams, in my visions, and within that elusive amber realm; you have always been there. Explain yourself." His left hand rested on his blade's handle, a red cloak throned atop his shoulders drifting in the passing breeze as his divine regalia.
The woman, pink hair, fading into a hue of white, gave him that same smile he remembered. Soft, understanding, almost sorrowful. "I apologize if my presence has been a bother... Every time I try to reach you directly, your dream fades into dusk before I can." A guilty expression adorned her face—serene and beautiful.
"...So you aren't solely a figment of my imagination." Jugram closed his eyes. "I can't say I am surprised." He wouldn't hallucinate somebody he didn't know, after all.
"Jugo, right?" The woman teased, but the way the blonde-haired man had almost twitched with discomfort alarmed her. "Ah... Jugram, then?" she corrected herself, Jugram's expression returning back to monotony. "My name is Theresa."
"Theresa," he repeated. "I take it you've been accessing my memories."
"Not entirely." Theresa shook her head in denial. "Not without your consent, of course."
"...Don't." Jugram narrowed his eyes, a warning toward her. He attempted to see if he had access to The Almighty, but its supreme power still lay dormant, out of his reach. His eyes narrowed.
"I know the thought of me dwelling inside your mind might gnaw at you," Theresa took a measured step forward, emerging closer to Jugram. "But please, there's no need to be alarmed."
He could feel a hand rest on his own, the one on his sheathed blade's handle. Her hand was both reassuring and probing, an uncanny mixture. A brief moment came to pass as he stared from underneath his brimmed hat, wariness clashing with the soothing expression of Theresa. Complacency was never his forte, and he had become too jaded to afford such a luxury—after living a thousand years honed by War's looming whisper.
"Then why are you here?" Jugram let his left hand soften, but the other hand holding it never released. "This isn't an arbitrary place for you to wander."
"I wish I could say, I truly do." Theresa's thumb caressed the back of his hand. "I would have never thought this to be the result after my bold actions, but..." A flash of guilt. "Did I go too far...?" she whispered.
"You speak in riddles," Jugram mirthlessly said, feeling the flowers churn underneath his feet, the floral whites gyrating like fluid. At least he knew she had some involvement with this body.
"You're from another world," Theresa stated concisely, whether prompted by his words or not.
"So you've already come to that conclusion." There was no need to mince it.
"It was a surprise, but with how vast the world is—and what lies beyond—it wasn't difficult to come to terms with." She pressed a thumb against his palm. "But how you've come to be in this place, is what befuddles me."
"Did you bring me to this world?"
"Not of my own volition, no. This... seems to be a miscalculation on my part. Completely out of my control."
"If you are unaware yourself, then finding a reason as to why I'm here would be a fruitless endeavor." He received a restrained nod from Theresa. "Figures."
"I think you should know, I shouldn't be here either." Theresa held a tender sadness. "Where was it? Where did it begin? Was it when I was separated from those crying souls?" She looked at him. His soul ached, and she couldn't help but be drawn to it, the person inhabiting—
"Then that means you truly were amongst those ilk of broken spirits," he noted. Disgust became barely prevalent when coming back to their macabre form. His mind lingered on her being separated from that amalgamation and only one conclusion had come to him; his Soul Distribution Powers.
"...It's not their fault they've come to such a state," Theresa countered. "They are restless, burdened with hurt, caught in an endless cycle of anguish—a cycle that tore them apart before they could even mend."
"They're no different from animals." Jugram observed the vast expanse of flowers, delicate petals swirling. "They harbor nothing but hate in their hearts, compelling an endless cycle. I dare say their existence is more of a travesty than Reunion. The only reason why I hadn't eradicated them was because they haven't inflicted harm worthy of my intervention."
"And if they had?" Theresa pressed.
"I would have fulfilled my duty as a Quincy," he answered, but immediately came to a pause, word becoming lost in his throat. Duty... duty... he had a duty. Key word, he had a duty, where had it gone now?
An impasse was formed, silence becoming the mediator between it.
That was before Theresa had decided to break it after a quiet observation, "You hold a great deal of regrets."
"Cease your rummages through my mind." Jugram flinched his eye toward her, noticing something had breached his fortress.
"I'm afraid I've already seen enough," she murmured, a note of guilt lacing her words. "I know your emotions, even if I cannot claim every memory." Her confession was gentle, a small concession meant to soothe his inner storm.
Jugram glanced back. "I implore you. If you persist with your probing, then I won't hesitate to banish you from here." He held sovereignty in this sacred realm, after all.
"I wonder why you haven't done so?" A faint smile played on her lips.
He paused. "...Well, of course. It's because you hold value, information I could put to use. Whatever you provide it—if you can provide it—I would balance the scales back to equilibrium."
Theresa thinned her lips. "I don't believe I've provided any that you speak of?" She pondered the reason why she hadn't been attacked by him for that.
"The only reason why I haven't dismissed you, despite only receiving trivial information thus far, is because of the remaining prospect," Jugram coldly remarked. "You and I both know, you still hold a great deal of information that can be functional to my needs. Tribute toward the scale can still be offered."
"Balance, scale, equilibrium... That's a rather crude way of thinking, no?" Theresa rebuked, a hint of concern lacing it.
"It doesn't matter." Jugram flicked his head back toward the ivory flowers, blonde hair shifting. "Everything in the world has an equilibrium, and it will do anything in its power to reach it. No matter the length." To bring everything back into balance, as swiftly and precisely as possible; all in favor of The Almighty.
Theresa studied him. "That's your purpose?" She already knew the answer.
"I didn't come here to argue or validate purpose," he deflected.
She let his deflection pass. "...Balancing the scales, hm?" She came back to what he had said, looking upward and mind flashing through what she knew of him. The gigantic scale, the divine blade, the strength to split Catastrophes. "If that is so, then could I make a proposal?"
Jugram turned toward her with his full body, raising an eyebrow. "Go on."
She smiled, the same easing one. "If you believe that balancing the scales is a necessity—even if I may not share your conviction—then why don't we balance it right now? Together."
"Elaborate."
"I seek your help, and in return, I offer my own." She placed a hand over her heart, sealing sincerity.
Jugram kept silent as if urging her to continue.
So she did, speaking, "Amiya... She's grown a great deal."
At the mention of the name, Jugram's expression shifted.
"But the world is still cruel to those like her. Could her dream ever be accomplished with the many dangers poised to come her way? Ready to mercilessly drag her into a sea of despair?" Theresa's eyes wandered, taking in the spiritual skies of the Schatten Bereich. "She cherishes the Doctor dearly, so very dearly... and that means you, Jugram."
Jugram's lips thinned, gaze hardening.
"She can't face the storms alone, I fear she'll break without your guiding hand. I believe you have the strength to do so—to provide her with that warm hand." Theresa stretched both of her hands toward him, palm facing upward, as if gesturing for something. She was disappointed when he just stared at them, blankly, leading her to retract them. "Well, I believe I've dithered long enough. So please, I ask of you, will you be the guiding hand she needs?"
"...You said you would balance the scales, you should know a vow such as that is not light." Jugram shut his eyes, murmuring, "What could you offer to tip it?"
"You're lost in this new world, correct?" She didn't receive a response, but the silence was enough. "As you said before. I could provide you information, I could guide you across these ruined lands—all as you guide little Amiya." Her hands folded over each other. "But then again, could I truly make this suggestion? I unwittingly brought you to my world, after all, even if I hadn't known how—"
"I was upon my death when I was brought here," Jugram interrupted. "In truth, you could say you have saved my life by drawing me to this world." He didn't know how it happened or how it worked, and neither did Theresa. "Therefore, despite being brought here against my will, the factor has already been restored to equilibrium. Don't trivialize yourself over it."
Theresa stared at him, her eyes searching his face. For an extended, quiet moment, her expression remained unreadable; until a spark of amused delight broke through. She slowly brought her hand to delicately cover her mouth, as if surprised by the earnestness in his tone. "Oh my," she murmured, a soft huff—a thinly veiled giggle—escaping her.
"What?" Jugram asked, his tone gruff.
"My apologies," she said, her amusement mingling with genuine warmth. "It's just... you take this role, this duty, so seriously. It's almost like a shackle, but at the same time, a badge of honor—to treat it so fairly and hold strict adherence in spite of unfavorability. It's both tragic and, if I'm honest, rather endearing."
"...My patience wears thin," Jugram warned. Although it missed him, his voice had unknowingly become softer.
Theresa's serene composure returned as she clasped her hands once more. "And so, how does my proposal find favor with you?"
He replied without a hitch, "I've already come to my conclusion. I'll accept it." Jugram glanced around the memory once last time, before giving his last regards to Theresa. "As long as you do not dip your hands where they do not belong, such as my memories, then I care not if you can perceive my emotions."
Theresa nodded, giving him an understanding look. She had considered doing so, but his words were enough affirmation that she wouldn't, despite her boundless curiosity in the man.
"Then, I believe that is all that needs to be said. I will ask you questions the next time we meet." Jugram's body started to fade, turning into blue wisps of Reishi dispersing through the air. He stared down, furrowing his brows as he was not used to such an experience.
The dream was flaying at the boundaries, the edges trickling away piece by piece for him. His body felt as if it was being destroyed into nothing, but even then, the embrace of "death" was less agonizing than when he had been struck by the Holy Selection.
Theresa gave a parting gesture, ever the gentle soul. "Till we meet again." She gave him a faint smile.
The last thing she saw before he had completely vanished was the azure world of his eyes, the many emotions hidden underneath. She wished she could reach it, but refrained herself from doing so.
She halted.
The cires of the souls, the unceasing anger, their influence attempting to pry her way in her body... It was tormenting. However, she persisted on, softly clenching her hand and swore one day she would release them from their bondage. Even if it had plastered itself on her, needling into her skin, she would keep the threads from reaching too far.
"The Almighty, is that what you call it?" She felt her eyes enter a half-lid, remembering those three split irises in both eyes. "The Balance and The Almighty. What peculiar names." Whoever was brought into this world... they held grave implications.
Accessing the Myriad Souls, and tearing her away from it—all done accidentally. "My time is fleeting..." She closed her eyes, softly clenching her fingers, before releasing them.
Theresa glanced to the side, seeing an image pass by. It was also then she realized that she was no longer inside the memory—or dreamscape—of Jugram Haschwalth. There was a new environment surrounding her, the one she knew as Chernobog, and there was somebody who she recognized.
White hair, red horns, and a short stature, holding articles of weapons that would bring great destruction. On the other side, she could see a crying brown-haired Cautus with a dash of fury, palm extended outward defensively for a blonde-haired man's unconscious form, raging sparks pulsating.
Heaving a small sigh, she took a step forward, toward the white-haired Sarkaz. Within a moment, she was by her side, the crazed woman hovering her thumb over a detonator, before Theresa settled her hand on the Sarkaz's own.
"There's no need for such violence." She softly spoke to the Sarkaz. "I know you bear great resentment toward the Doctor, but this isn't the one you loathe so."
Though she was just a spirit—words and actions unable to directly influence the material world—the white-haired woman seemed to have felt... something from it. Frantically, the woman glanced around, as if attempting to find something which had grated her familiarity. She found nothing, and glared back at the blonde-haired man, this time with hesitance in her viscera.
Time passed, words were thrown, the rest becoming a blur as the Sarkaz woman had retreated along with her troops, frustration evident.
Theresa glanced back at the group, watching as Amiya cried while embracing the unconscious Jugram, a fleet of emotions finally breaking through the dam. She wished she could say something to her, she wished she could embrace her, but Theresa knew there was not much she could do other than comforting her with immaterial hands.
To the periphery, the former Lord of Fiends could see Jugram's eyes just barely flutter, perhaps even catching a glimpse of her. She granted him a reassuring look, just before his consciousness faded again, his mind bordering between two states at once.
Her hand touched his own, a thousand shades present.
"Please, Jugram..."
Together, so that they might mend the balance of a broken world.