From out of the corner of his eye, Jun caught the telltale flash of ruby red. And although he made sure not to draw attention to it, he just couldn’t help, nor seem to get rid of, a lopsided, self satisfied grin.
Took you long enough.
BANG!
Even having the smirk literally wiped off his face couldn’t ruin his mood completely.
Right then! Time to get serious.
Jun took in a deep breath and held it there, cheeks puffed out and brow furrowed in concentration. Although, even feeling like an unbearable pressure were building behind his temples, bear with it he did—not daring to falter for even a moment, lest he come to regret it for, oh, i don’t know, say zero point two five seconds give or take? Conviction unwavering was an unforgiving mistress.
Only when it felt as if he could hold on for no longer, did he release everything in one go. It was as if a bomb had gone off in his skull. And with that flare of mind numbing agony came a sudden conflagration of cleaving mists—tearing out of him with the ferocity of a raging cyclone.
It was so sudden, so unexpected, and so violent in the extreme that it even had their resident skull-crusher fleeing for safety—sporting a few new bone deep gashes by way of going away presents. Just his little way of saying thanks. Also goodbye, and good riddance.
Not that he’d torn into the big guy on purpose, mind you. Heavens no! Perish the thought! The clumsy fella just had this way of being in the wrong place at the wrong time was all. Completely innocuous and not at all planned. Honest!
With an effort, Jun took control of the swirling cyclone, redirecting its fury forward with a thrust of his arms—veins bulging at his temples, muscles trembling with the strain. The roaring winds matched the ragged cry that burst from his own throat unbidden.
Feeling like he was holding up the weight of the world, he grit his teeth and persevered as the cyclone shot forth—forming a protective tunnel of light and sound which charted a direct course towards the object of his ire.
Once the tunnel was formed and could be maintained with relatively minimal effort, he began to pick up the pace. Hands blinked into existence with flashes of golden light—forming from tendrils shorn from the cyclone itself. A series of interconnected platforms forming a bridge in the sky.
A bridge that actively wanted him dead albeit, but, beggars can’t be choosers. Jun ran. Ignoring the miniature digits that hungrily tore into his calves, his ankles. Cuts which didn’t heal nearly so fast as they had been. His regeneration having taken a sizable dip after that stunt he’d pulled with the muscle monster. A bit inconvenient now, he supposed, but so totally worth it. Well, probably.
Slipping on his own blood, what felt like gallons of the stuff, swooning from fatigue, mind pushed well past its limits, he kept on keeping on—fixated on one thing and one thing only. The finish line. The end of this interminable trial. The body snatching shrew that’d started all this in the first place.
It took his overtaxed mind some time to notice holes were being punched in his aura tunnel. The howling of something other than the ever present winds. It would appear someone desperately wanted in, and was willing to bloody their knuckles to do so. He caught the telltale flash of crimson eyes before the plate sized hole in the cyclone was quickly filled in. Jun would’ve snorted if the thought didn’t make him so queasy.
Apparently it didn’t matter that it was futile, or that all it was doing was hurting itself. The further in he went, the closer to its matron he became, the more frantic the blows that rained down on his sanctuary. Until…
BANG!
That last one actually gave him pause. There was an aura coating its fist that time, hazy and indistinct, that somehow nullified his aura, if only momentarily. Not a problem, except the cyclone was unnaturally slow to recover.
Well… that wasn’t good.
He ran even faster—legs pumping, breath rasping, eating up the distance in record time. The blows kept on coming—raining down like a hailstorm. Red eyes periodically glinting from gaping holes in his defense. The cyclone began to shudder, tilt ominously—disperse.
He was so close now. So close! A couple dozen paces at most. Ivory’s body was held as still as it had been since the battle had first been joined. Arms crossed, stance regal, gaze fixed straight ahead. Calm. Collected. Cold blooded and self assured.
They locked eyes briefly.
She raised her chin up a degree, brow raised in unspoken question. No doubt wondering why it was he was so keen on serving himself up on a silver platter. Twenty paces, fifteen paces, ten. There was a greedy gleam in her eyes now. Jun was panting with the exertion, barely able to stay upright, to put one foot in front of the other.
His attention was so focused, so intent on the thing in front of him, that he almost missed it. The bare instant when the streaming black comet swooped in from the side. Turning his head ever so slightly, for that was all the time he was given, he was greeted with a very familiar sight.
Bloodied knuckles, worn down to the bone, suddenly eclipsed the totality of his vision. It was an ambush so swift, so perfectly timed and well executed, that if he hadn’t been expecting it, he might have even been caught off guard.
Cutting Evasion
No matter how fast the brute was though, he wasn’t faster than the speed of thought. His body dissolved into a stream of crimson mist. Mist which tore away in an instant, outpacing the brutes swing as if he were moving through syrup. He shot forth like a thrown javelin, flitting up to the unperturbed goddess, and then, well past.
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Just behind.
Reforming over her shoulder in a swirl of crimson mist—legs a shredded mess, brow glistening with sweat. Without even turning fully, she looked up and over, curiosity writ large on those stolen features. As if asking:
“Oh? Is this what you’ve been building up to? Well, get on with it then. I don’t have all day.”
Jun was only happy to oblige. Without his even needing to ask, just as they’d planned, something long and sharp came hurtling upward from below—bursting through a cloud bank, trailing tails of grasping vapors.
The very air made to sing with the speed of its passage.
The fabric of the realm seeming to part before its ascent, only to nauseatingly collapse—ripple shut in its wake.
Without even looking, he reached out a hand, using [Blade Manipulation] to subtly alter its trajectory. With a meaty thwack, the sword hilt slapped into his palm. He shrank in on himself, allowing the momentum of it to spin him around. Once, twice, three times before uncoiling his body like a loaded spring, and bringing the blade down in one final diagonal arc—putting all the force and momentum he could manage into a single, perfect cut.
With that ruby red radiance reflected in her eyes, Jun got to see the exact moment when she realized just how much cutting aura he’d managed to pack onto the blade.
When this not quite goddess registered that it wasn’t merely a futile gesture he was making—a defiant last stand in the face of insurmountable odds—but a genuine attempt at cutting her down. Not the vessel she’d stolen, but the creature itself.
The parasitic soul that resided within.
My will is honed; my skill unrivaled—in all ways, in all worlds, I am precision incarnate.
UNPARALLELED CUT
She tried to move. Tried to shift out of the way. But, just as Ivory had predicted, was far too slow in her appropriated frame. The flat of his blade gleamed, reflecting a look of growing horror. Then it flashed, reflecting his own face, openly grinning in triumph.
His muscles flexed.
The blade came down. The air shrieked. And then, strangely, a sudden numbness came over him. A shock of apathy from out of nowhere. An impact barely felt in the small of his back threading tendrils of indifference all throughout his nervous system.
It didn’t last but for a second. A mere moment to cast off the artificial malaise. It didn’t matter. In the end it had achieved the intended effect. A wall of chiseled muscle abruptly obscured his vision—grasping arms outstretched, as if to block the descending blade.
The swing could not be halted however. It came down hard, shearing through the sturdy Cthulle with ease. Passing through skin, muscle, and bone alike to split the soul spark within—leaving not a speck of blood to denote its swift and lethal passage. It’s body, incredibly, entirely unharmed.
And yet, as the scar faced Cthulle went rigid in death, then slowly keeled over—the light gone out in its eyes. As it spiraled ever earthward on its long descent, Jun could only look on in mute disbelief. Wonder, almost. Perfect… It had been the perfect cut.
Exactly as he’d planned. Precisely as he’d hoped.
Etheric Concession: Curse of Perfection
The only problem was, he’d struck the wrong target. His chest spasmed with pain, blood fountaining from invisible wounds. His vision having gone blurry, the very last thing he saw before the world went dark, was an alabaster digit, plump and so very small, reaching for his forehead in painfully slow motion.
Nialla grimaced, feeling the long tentacles protruding from her spinal column twitch ever so slightly in sympathy.
Two new vessels in less than a week was not doing her soul’s equilibrium any favors. She rolled her neck, working out the stubborn kinks that only served to remind her she was once again mortal. Lifting her arms, both too heavy by far, she examined unfamiliar hands—each a mottled alabaster white, speckled quite liberally with unsightly flesh tones.
As if her own pristine complexion had been stricken by a virulent skin disease. Unpleasant, but she supposed she would manage. That their soul bond had allowed her to merge the two—both mind, and spirit—was more help than hindrance, and she reminded herself of as much. Even if it also came with certain… quirks.
No, what was of far more immediate concern was the absolutely atrocious state the boy’s spirit body had been left in.
Riddled with holes and torn in too many places to count, she was left to wonder how he’d even maintained some semblance of cohesion all this time, let alone how he managed to fight her useless get to a standstill.
Pathetic though they might have been, there had been a fair few of them. A sight more than just a few, if she was being generous. As far as she could tell, the majority of his spirit had been held together by spit, prayer, and a monstrously stubborn will.
More worryingly, it was becoming increasingly apparent that if she hadn’t reflexively picked up the proverbial slack the very instant she’d wrenched away control, it was entirely too likely his ravaged spirit would have simply unraveled right there on the spot.
Was that his plan? To spit in her eye one last time before fading away into the ether?
She had to admit it was a bold move. And if she hadn’t foiled it at the first opportunity, she might have even been miffed. As it was, what she mostly felt was irritation.
It would take time to repair the damage he’d sustained.
Time that she wasn’t entirely sure she had. There was still the question of who had been helping him after all. As well as whatever devil’s bargain he’d struck to empower his mantras so.
Shaking her head, she set her many, many questions aside. Deciding there would be time to sift through his memories later. Right now, it would best serve her needs to see to the worst of the damage first. At least to the point where she could once more use spirit techniques without risking irreparable harm.
Then…? Well, then this world would be hers. This world, and all the ones that came after.
Her daydreaming was interrupted by two burning lines of pain. Turning sharply, she immediately locked onto the culprit, and, upon spotting them, very nearly laughed out loud. It would appear the scattered remnants of this doomed anima weren’t quite finished with her yet.
She had to admit, allying himself with the soul shards she’d otherwise dismissed out of hand had been a stroke of genius on the boy's part. Not that it had, ultimately, amounted to much.
Perched atop a flying spirit mount was one such “ally.” Her golden locks billowed, whipped about by the fierce winds of their high altitude—a plain looking sword wreathed in gelatinous crimson aura held up in willful defiance.
She chuckled, the voice that emerged from her throat more feminine than she’d been expecting. It would appear no one had deigned to inform her that the fight was well and truly lost.
“What to do… what to do…”
