Arc 2 Final: Begin Of A New Order (2/4)

  The prisons between the Realms. They were places beyond the known geography of Tirros, beyond mortal imagination. They did not exist in the vault of the Higher Realms nor in the depths of the Lower Realms, but were embedded within the void space itself—a distorted interface between heaven and hell, created by the raw, unbound force of cosmic mana. They were, literally, in-between spaces where the worst, most unstable, and most dangerous monsters and creatures were isolated and imprisoned to ensure the order of the mortal realms.

  For most inhabitants of Tirros, these places were nothing more than legends. They were considered fairy tales made up by bearded adventurers for entertainment in dizzy taverns, or absurd inventions of some obscure cult detached from reality. The concept of cosmic mana alone was generally treated by most established mages more like an unproven, esoteric theory, a mathematical axiom without factual evidence, rather than an actual, usable energy source.

  It was a denial born of necessity; for to acknowledge cosmic mana as fact was also to acknowledge the existence of forces far beyond human comprehension.

  But some beings knew better. Those who created such prisons—hidden from all eyes, shielded from any profane magical scrying, to maintain the secret order. One of them was Reyn. The Bastard of Shadow and Storm not only commanded the architecture of the mortal world but also that of the void space. And naturally, those who were imprisoned within these in-between spaces knew of the brutal existence of these places.

  In this case, that prisoner was I, Arik.

  I was now a prisoner in the void space, torn from the dramatic finale, in a moment of absolute, shameless calculation. The cell I found myself in was anything but ordinary. It consisted of an ominous mixture of solid Arcane Chalk and dense, dark gray Golem Steel. The Arcane Chalk was a man-made, magically inert substance designed to suppress the flow of mana, while the Golem Steel was meant to prevent any form of physical breakout. The walls were thick, massive, and they emitted no sound at all—they swallowed every noise, every vibration. I was trapped in this cell, right in the yawning blackness of the void space.

  My only task now was to be forced to wait until my friends—Luken, Maira, or Vin—were either dead on the distant platform, or until Reyn had surprisingly and improbably lost.

  Why hadn't the Bastard of Shadow and Storm used this method on all his enemies? Why not on Luken, whose demonic essence made him an elemental danger? Or on Maira, whose dark sacrificial magic introduced unknown variables into every fight? Or on the unpredictable Vin?

  The answer was probably simpler than the complex magic that separated us. The answer lay in my nature. I am an unstable being, like all other Ashbloods. We are a race afflicted by a certain volatility. Although we possess a physical, solid form held together by ash particles, we can transform ourselves at any time, by our own command, into a cloud of fine, barely visible ash or a gust of wind. In addition, a little ash occasionally trickles off me during strong emotion or exertion—a sign of my inherent instability. By no stretch of the imagination could this be described as stable.

  Reyn, in his calculated arrogance, recognized that I didn't need to be defeated or killed to be taken out of the game. I only needed to be imprisoned. With my ability to transform into a state of non-physical matter at any time, I was immune to walls, doors, and even most magical shields. But the material of this cell—the Arcane Chalk and the Golem Steel—was specifically designed to suppress the existence of beings like me. I was trapped in isolation specifically developed against Ashbloods. Reyn had simply removed me as an unsuitable factor without having to spend time on a real fight.

  Yet, I could not tolerate this captivity—this forced inactivity. The rage, the feeling of helplessness that my friends now had to fight without me to cover their flanks, ignited a fire in my chest hotter than any volcanic core. I was a product of the ash, and ash meant change. If my physical escape was impossible, I had to find another way. The cosmic mana was real; the energy of the void space was real. The rules here were different. I would have to break them.

  My hands scratched at the cold Arcane Chalk. They left no scratch, but the intensity of my determination grew. I closed my eyes, trying to feel the vibrations of the room. I was an unsuitable factor for Reyn's new order? I would make him regret it. I would rewrite the rules of cosmic geography if I had to.

  “Just you wait, Reyn,” I said determinedly, my voice a mere hissing whisper in the cell's dead silence. “I will show you the consequences of locking me up.”

  -

  Because cosmic mana was more theory than fact for most mages of Tirros, the logical consequence was that no one was trained to fight against it. Even in the highest ranks of the Paladins, confronting such elemental, transcendent energy was an unexplored field. And I was now experiencing this mercilessly in the brutal duel with Reyn.

  My demon form, as powerful and uncontrolled as it was, reacted to his attacks like a crude tool against delicate clockwork mechanisms. His attacks were both aesthetic and devastating. Between another hail of miniature stars and a bolt of pure mana that left a smoldering, black stain on a part of the Tharnite platform and filled the air with the smell of ozone, I found a tiny, fleeting gap in Reyn's exemplary defense. It was an opening that appeared for only a fraction of a second, and I instantly exploited it.

  My demonic blade, made of flesh and blood, shot toward his center with superhuman speed. But just before my weapon could strike, before I could even touch the outermost layer of his black armor, it was parried by another sword. A sword that had appeared out of nowhere in Reyn's right hand. It was not a fleshy manifestation like mine; it was pure, electrical energy. The blade crackled and emitted sparks in an incessant, lightning-like stream. It was not manifested mana in the conventional sense, but pure, concentrated, electrical energy—a lightning bolt in the shape of a sword.

  The impact was sharp and painful. The electric shock that transferred through the blade into my body was immediate and immense. I recoiled, the movement instinctive and necessary. I couldn't prevent a paralyzing electrical impulse from traveling from the claws of my hand, through my arm, deep into my shoulder. The pain was caustic, a mixture of burning and numbness.

  Reyn stood there completely unfazed, his smile gone, replaced by an expression of controlled, calm concentration. The electric sword remained in his hand, crackling.

  “What are you?” I whispered, my voice hoarse, my thoughts a chaos. Was he just the Chosen of a god, a mighty prophet, or was he a deity in human form himself?

  “A Chosen One,” Reyn said, and the answer came immediately, calm, though I hadn't expected one. His tone was factual, almost textbook-like. “The same as you. Although, no, that is wrong. We are completely different.”

  I shook my head, a gesture of vehement rejection that briefly ignored my pain.

  “Yes, I carry a demon within me... but I am not its Chosen,” I corrected him, my voice growing louder, more demanding. “We are one. We are a team. And now…” Deep down, I didn't know if that was even the truth, but the words came from a place of deeper conviction: “…friends.”

  In that moment, I felt Gravor nod inside me. It was not an audible confirmation, but a deep, weighty movement in my soul—a consensus.

  Then it happened suddenly. More of Gravor's essence settled over me. It was not a controlled extension of scales, but a flood of power, an act of mutual trust. My wings grew larger, the membranes stretched further, dark, fiery veins pulsed within them. My claws became longer, sharper, the curvature at the end more merciless. The scales on my armor became denser, the black plates sliding over one another to form an unbreakable, living carapace.

  Finally, the most interesting transformation since our deal occurred. Right in the center of my breastplate, exactly where my mortal heart was located, a glowing, fiery red eye formed. It was bordered in black, a gaze into the depths of hell. The pupil seemed to consist of liquid lava, while the iris was made of blood-red crystal. This eye was not just decoration; it was a third perception, a focus of the shared essence.

  In that moment, we were complete. I was not taken over by him, not thrown out of my body. We were one. Gravor's rage, power, and primal force flowed harmoniously through my muscles and my mind.

  And when I looked back at Reyn, his golden eyes reflected not only my new, overwhelming essence but something I had never expected from him: fear.

  -

  While Luken became one with Gravor, Vin learned for the first time in the face of total annihilation what she was fully capable of.

  Her tribe had banished her so many years ago—not out of hate, but with a cold, unmistakable command: so that she would find her inner strength. So that she would be worthy to be the next leader of the Wood Elves. She was to go out into the world and learn her limits, only to return with an indomitable will. Presumably, the Elders had long since chosen a new leader; her original mission, to end the exile and take over the leadership, had possibly become pointless. But if she returned one day, she might be able to challenge this new leader.

  She pondered all this—dignity, power, and return—during the merciless fight against Corven. The intensity of the confrontation was a catalyst. She felt herself growing stronger, not just physically, but in her magical range. The importance of the battle—the survival of Tirros, the future of her friends—changed something within her. And Luken... his brutal, symbiotic transformation into the winged monster was a loud, unmistakable permission for extremity.

  Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.

  She possessed more extreme means. And Vin now used them shamelessly.

  Mid-retreat onto the exploding staircase steps, as Corven tried again to close the gap between his cannon and his sword, Vin manifested a novel weapon. It wasn't a simple smoke bomb. She closed her palms and unleashed a dense, gray-green dust of microscopic nano-pollen. This veil was not intended to block sight—it was intended to torture. The tiny particles were whirled into the air by Corven's own movement and penetrated all the tiny crevices of his steel armor, the air filters of his helmet, and inevitably, his airways. The pollen did not cause simple allergic reactions; it attacked the mucous membranes and sensory balance, leading to immediate nausea and an unbearable, throbbing pain in his eye sockets and lungs.

  The knight, who moments before had been the incarnation of mechanical precision, abruptly collapsed in his advance. A muffled scream of pain pierced through the metal plates. The mist, which Vin had deliberately increased to maximum density, now also blocked her own view. Even Vin couldn't see him for a moment; she had to rely on the sound of his panicked retching and the irregular, metallic scraping of his movements.

  But Corven was a weapon with adaptability. With a wheezing, furious sound, he produced his axe and swung it in a horizontal motion through the fog. The strike was not aimed at Vin, but at physically sweeping the air away. The pollen mist scattered for a moment, long enough to see Vin for a second.

  “What you can do... I've been able to do for a long time,” he rasped, his voice raw and distorted by the pollen stuck in his throat, but his arrogance was unbroken. Without hesitation, he pulled a small, round bomb from his hip and threw it onto the step directly in front of Vin. The explosion was loud, and the pitch-black smoke immediately spread, thicker and more impenetrable than Vin's green pollen mist. Now he blocked her vision completely.

  “Take that, bitch!” a voice suddenly came from the side. The insult was Corven's stupidity—he had announced the attack even before he could strike. Vin knew instantly which direction he would come from.

  She reacted lightning-fast, sending two thorny vines through the smoke towards his predicted position. Corven, however, had learned the lesson. He dodged both, his position now directly above her vines.

  The cannon on his arm fired several times. It was not a volley of projectiles, but a series of four focused, high-energy mana shots in rapid succession. Vin had to wildly stumble and jump to avoid all four, with each shot ripping into the hard Tharnite stone beneath her feet with an aggressive hiss.

  Thereupon, Corven engaged in close combat with a long, slender dagger and the cannon itself. He now used the weapon as a brutal tool and not just as a ranged weapon.

  The knight's movements were cruelly fast and precise. He executed two slashes against her side, a scissor motion that Vin narrowly dodged, having to throw herself aside so that her left shoulder grazed the cold stone of the staircase wall.

  Then came the shot. He fired the cannon at point-blank range—so close that she almost felt the glowing muzzle at her temple. The shot missed, but the bang was apocalyptic, a powerful sound wave. Vin briefly heard nothing but a metallic, high-pitched ringing—tinnitus that paralyzed her senses. The world seemed to spin, and that was the moment Corven needed.

  He didn't use the blade or the shot. He rammed the back of the weapon into her upper body with full force.

  Vin flew in a painful, uncontrolled arc up the stairs, vertically, diagonally upward, her breath catching, the force of the impact knocking the air out of her. She was a helpless projectile. Corven, without losing a moment, aimed the cannon at her heart. In the next second, she would have a hole in her heart, she knew it—the trajectory was short, the target unprotected.

  But in the very last moment, Vin's subconscious magic reacted to the impending annihilation. Three small, stocky goblins made of living vines—barely larger than her palms, but terribly fast—shot out from the sleeve of her left arm. They were pure, instinctive protective spirits. They sacrificed themselves by blocking the knight's visor, throwing themselves into the viewing slits of his helmet, and briefly taking away his sight. Corven's shot thus missed the heart and burrowed into her shoulder with an ugly scrape.

  While still flying, Vin used the last remaining control. With a single, inner command, she created a blanket of flowers and dense, soft mosses on the hard stone. She landed as softly as possible on this blooming carpet, while the metallic screaming of the knight in her ears was slowly replaced by the rushing sound of mana. Vin took a deep breath, feeling the adrenaline in her veins. The fight had not destroyed her; it had shaped her.

  -

  Maira opened the fight with a disturbing precision befitting her role as a Plague Cleric. She gathered some of the dark essence of Erebos—the god-like entity of rot and corruption—within her, and charged this concentrated, disgusting power into her staff. The tip of the staff did not glow red, but with an ominous, dirty yellow that promised pure decomposition.

  Narla, the Dragonborn, used this brief moment of concentration for a sword strike with her massive greatsword. The blade hissed through the air, but Maira dodged effortlessly. It was not a hasty movement, but a smooth, flowing turn of the body. By doing so, the Dragonborn had already made the worst mistake in a fight against a Plague Cleric: to enter her range.

  Before Narla could even retract her weapon, Maira hurled the gathered, infectious energy at the Dragon-Woman's shoulder. The impact was invisible, but the effect was instantaneous and grotesque. Within seconds, thick, yellow, painful pus-filled boils grew on the red scales, instantly causing a nasty pain in the Dragon-Woman's tissue. That was just the beginning.

  Maira immediately followed up, her movements now cold and calculated. She stabbed her dagger into Narla's right side. The stab itself, executed against the thick dragon scales, barely injured the Dragon-Woman—a small, insignificant clash of steel and scale. But a secretion immediately spread over the scales, oozing from the blade. It was a magically amplified toxin that caused Narla's tissue to decompose at a molecular level.

  Narla stifled a scream and almost shed tears from the pain. The sudden, internal putrefaction was worse than any physical wound. She immediately recognized her predicament: close combat against this kind of opponent was suicide. With a passionate roar of agony, she ascended into the air, her wings beating violently to gain distance as quickly as possible.

  Immediately from above, she unleashed her fire breath. It was a column of blazing heat that forced Maira to hastily throw herself aside. She couldn't avoid minor burns on her exposed arm and gritted her teeth. The pain was there, but it was a price she was willing to pay.

  Narla felt falsely safe at altitude. She thought the distance would save her, but every disease, every magical infection Maira spread, also had residual effects.

  Maira raised her hand and gave a mental command. It was not a spell gesture, but a cold declaration of will. The pus-filled boils on Narla's shoulders burst with a disgusting sound. The thick, yellow pus—the same tearing secretion—sprayed out and immediately spread all over the right side of Narla's body. The corruption flowed down her shoulder, along her breastplate, and even reached her cheek.

  While the Dragonborn had a higher resistance to anything physically external due to her thick, red scales, mana-fueled infections were different. The toxin ignored the hard shell and attacked the living tissue underneath. The scales on the left side of her face dissolved and fell away, partially exposing the blood-red, raw flesh.

  Narla shrieked in pain. It was not a battle cry, but a piercing scream of agony that echoed through the massive hall.

  “You damned, disgusting monster!” she screamed downwards, pain-filled, her voice breaking with agony.

  But Maira only smiled. It was the cold, dark smile of self-recognized guilt.

  “I told you Tirros was right about me,” she replied gleefully. The provocation struck Narla to the core. Driven by rage and agony, the Dragonborn released a fireball that sped blindly toward Maira.

  Maira extinguished the attack effortlessly with a thick wall of corrupted water, which evaporated with a nasty sizzle.

  Diplomacy was no longer an option. Maira had unleashed her true nature. From now on, the fight would be a massacre of corruption.

  Narla, hovering high above the platform, was beside herself with pain and fury. The right side of her face felt like it was dissolving in acid. The boils on her shoulder left an unbearable, throbbing agony. She was a warrior, but her draconic biology was not designed to defend against this type of mana-based rot. The magic was so insidious because it worked internally, bypassing her external defense.

  She beat her wings, rising higher to escape Maira, and in her panicked rage, flung an entire swarm of smaller fireballs. Every single one exploded with a dull noise on the ground around Maira, but the Plague Cleric danced effortlessly around the impacts. The joy of chaos control was readable in her expression.

  Maira used Narla's distraction and desperation. She raised her staff and began to infuse the air with a thin, invisible veil. It was not visible magic, but an odorless, subtle corruption. The veil began to poison the breathing air above the platform. Anyone inhaling it would slowly but unstoppably feel miserable. Maira was immune; Narla, attempting to prepare her fire breath, inevitably inhaled the tainted air.

  Narla tried to concentrate on her next powerful fire breath, but the agony of her infection caused her concentration to crumble. The pain was not physical enough to kill her, but intense enough to drive her mad. She felt the rot beginning to harden her muscles.

  “Stop it, you bastard!” Narla snarled, her attempt at a fire blast ending in a pathetic cough of smoke.

  Maira merely smiled, her head slightly tilted. “I am not a bastard. I am a necessity. And you are a victim of the false order.”

  These words, this cynical reference to her own fate as a hunted being, hit Narla harder than any blade. She let out an angry, incomprehensible roar. Narla, who fundamentally sought only acceptance and security, now saw in Maira not an ally, but the perfect manifestation of the world she despised.

  She swooped down toward Maira in a wild dive, the greatsword raised above her head. The tactic was foolish; rage had obliterated her precision.

  Maira stood calmly and waited. In the final millisecond before Narla could strike, Maira raised her hands. A ring of blood-red, moist energy shot from the ground and trapped Narla. The Dragon-Woman was abruptly stopped, frozen in the air. It was not a binding, but an infection of the motor system. Narla was now immobilized; only her head could still turn, her eyes glowing with helplessness.

  “It's over,” Maira said with a sadness that contradicted her earlier glee.

  Narla looked Maira directly in the eyes. “Reyn will win,” she hissed, the hope of her conviction her last shield.

  "I don't think so,” Maira replied, raising her hand to utter the final curse.

  But before the curse could leave her lips, Narla, in one last, desperate act of defiance, shot off her golden breastplate. The armor detached from her body and flew toward Maira with brute force. It was not an attack with a weapon, but a distraction.

  Maira had to reflect and block. The discharged plate struck Maira's staff with a heavy, metallic clang. The distraction was enough. Narla, now unprotected, was able to free herself from the movement-inhibiting infection before it could take full effect. She fell a few meters to the ground, coughing and trying to regain control of her corrupted muscles while Maira re-stabilized.

  The two warriors now looked into each other's eyes with hatred. The pain in this fight would not subside.