Chapter 455 - The Most Cruel

Their clash of blades only continued to accelerate in speed; both unable to pierce through the other's defense. 

The Stormfallen champion furthered himself into the aquatic element he shifted in, elongating his limbs as they propelled like perpetual beams of water, slashing from unorthodox angles. 

It was an inhuman sword style he was put up against; instead facing swordplay that more resembled how one would fight with a whip. 

The more he amplified his speed, reinforcing his limbs, all to match the flurry of curving attacks from the frosted greatsword, his body screamed at him to stop. 

--But instead of giving in, he continued to double-down. 

There…! He thought. 

While shrouded in 'Dusk Waltz', he engaged in a step through the shadows, bringing himself to an advantageous position just as he predicted the trajectory of the wildly-swinging greatsword, allowing himself to counter with a slash. 

A sharp trail of his blade's edge embedded itself in the champion's flesh, piercing his armor, though his counterattack came at a price. 

Tha-dump. 

His heart echoed in his ears as his brain felt as if it was being clenched by a giant's abrasive hand; the warm sensation of blood leaving his body oozed out through his ear canals, dripping down the sides of his head. 

It wasn't a side-effect of draining himself of every last drop of mana--in that regard, he was still fine. The problem laid in the spells he used, and the simultaneous casting he used continuously, despite being inexperienced in that field. 

But, there was no time to keel over in pain as his mutually-injured foe retaliated with more watery-whip strikes of his massive hunk of steel. 

"Particle Shade", "Dusk Waltz", "Shadow Step"--in unison, he used all three spells: a suicidal feat. There was no other choice, he realized; his opponent was just that much faster, stronger, and more skilled than himself. 

With his usage of 'Particle Shade', he was able to feel every, miniscule movement the champion made; the slightest twitches of the goblin's muscles allowed him to preemptively make his next move. 'Dusk Waltz' bestowed him with speed, reflexes, and overall agility far surpassing his normal limits--allowing him to evade the assault with acrobatic maneuvers, and retaliate properly. 

Even with those two spells active, 'Shadow Step' was necessary every so-often as the Stormfallen champion's natural skill and overwhelming speed led to breaks in his elusiveness. 

It was a necessary advantage as he danced around the riptide of strikes; with the cover over his foreign, right eye, half of his vision was compromised in battle. 

Each swing of the greatsword, as it lashed like a raging tentacle, swept through the mud like a natural disaster, sending waves that traversed the trail. The wind pressure alone that followed each curving strike caused the looming branches of the neighboring trees to flutter and bend. 

A rare occurrence came as a strained yell echoed from the metallic helm of the champion. The pained growl that sounded as if being forced from clenched teeth manifested itself in an unknown spell that gathered an abundance of spiraling water in front of his great sword. 

Propelling violently with a clear, azure malice, an aquatic tornado rapidly departed towards the bloodied adolescent. 

He couldn't evade it by delving into the shadows; the range wouldn't bypass the width of the howling whirlpool that encompassed the wide trail. 

Not good…He thought. 

Quickly, he found the option of running in the opposite direction to be futile as the spiraling force of the colossal tornado of liquid reeled him in, dragging his feet against the mud, unwillingly closer to its center. 

…It's now or never…I have to rely on it. If I mess up my timing by a breath, or a heartbeat, I'm a goner. But, if I can do it—I will! He resolved.

Planting his feet against the mud as he relinquished his 'Dusk Waltz' he focused all of his intent on something nebulous; a magecraft foreign, even to himself. 

As he held the handle of his sword with a trembling, weak grip, he corrected his breathing while the coppery smell of his own blood flooded his nostrils. 

It's not something I can do with one hand, not yet…the precision needed is nothing less than a surgery; dissecting the attack of my enemy, he thought.

"…Araphel: Inverse Hand!"

Yelling out, the blood that cradled his lips fell to his teeth, dying them in crimson.

As he commanded, a shadowy limb sprouted from his compromised, left hand, accompanying his right hand's grip on Belus' handle. 

Match its direction, force…mimic the tempo, and feel it brings, he told himself.

Pivoted with his left foot as he gritted his teeth through the pain of his diced calf muscles, he began to spin himself around, building momentum like the tornado he faced. 

He moved counter-clockwise, as opposed to the clockwise spin of the aquatic storm approaching him; even the simple act of spinning put immense strain on his body as he replicated the tempo of the roaring whirlpool. 

Rhythm: set. Motion: set. Flow: set, he thought. 

Internalizing the inner flow he mimicked from the tornado of razor-sharp water, he closed his eyes to focus on that feeling, and only that feeling. 

As he spun around, he was less than a meter from direct contact with the wall of shredding aqua, stomping his foot against the mud as he swirled with more strength, one last time. In that moment before an impact that would shred him into mincemeat many times over, he could feel the coldness of the whirling water as the torrent could be heard like a whisper of the sea. 

--Just as the two forces braced for impact, a flow of rampant shadows flooded from the base of his sword, coating it in a layer of outreaching darkness that hissed sharply. 

"Araphel: Dead Man's Reversal!" 

--It was the moment of truth, just as the shadow-clad edge of his blade approached the spiraling form of the aquatic torrent; millimeters away--the meeting of steel and water would spell either his victory, or defeat. 

Fwoosh. 

Just as the dark-clung silver of Belus made contact with the violent torrent, a reservoir of shadows blossomed from his position, twirling and extending as it overwrote the azure existence of the whirlpool--halting it in its tracks during the process. 

"Dead Man's Reversal", a spell that earned its name from the overwhelming likelihood of death that comes with attempting to use it in practice. It requires flawless accuracy in mimicking the flow of the targeted attack, otherwise the spell will not activate, resulting in the user taking the attack head-on, ala "Dead Man's Reversal". 

However, this is not one of those cases. 

As the shadows engulfed the torrenting aqua, they settled to reveal the whirlpool had been transformed from one of water, to one of spiraling shadows, now launching towards the Stormfallen champion. 

What was left from the success of his magecraft was a reversal that completely shifted the tide of the battle; it had turned to a natural disaster of his own effort. 

Everything about it was doubled: its size, the torque, and the speed in which it burrowed through the mud-formed trail. 

"Heh...I did it," he celebrated quietly to himself. 

After forcing his body to endure the stress of 'Dead Man's Reversal', both mentally and physically, he relinquished the shadowy limb that assisted him as both of his arms hung limp at his sides. 

Standing there, he watched the shadowy tornado formed by his counter as it howled, spinning as it reeled in nearby pebbles and branches into its brutal form. 

Though he could feel his consciousness wanting to flee from him as the blood loss he suffered throughout the battle caught up to him; it continued to pour from his nose and ears, as did the bleeding from the dozens of small cuts left over his body. 

His thoughts stayed silent as he witnessed the shadowy whirlpool come to a halt the moment it caught the Stormfallen champion within its grasp; it spiraled into full-force, generating a howling wind that even tugged at his balance though he stood a dozen meters away. 

...I would've died for sure if that hit me, he thought. 

The sound of metal being torn accompanied the banshee-like yells of the ferocious, dark winds; it was a bone-crunching, brutal spell that he could only be glad he wasn't the one on the receiving end of it. 

After it settled, dissipating into air that continued on its quiet path, the Stormfallen champion didn't fall limp onto the mud--he landed firmly on his boots, much to his surprise. 

"...Why am I not surprised?" He sighed quietly. 

Most of the goblin champion's armor had been torn away, revealing his lacerated, blood-soaked skin of a verdant, bruised complexion. 

They both stood opposite of one another, barely clinging to consciousness as their own blood dyed their skin, huffing with their arms limp at their sides. 

Before their final clash could commence, they both froze at the sudden existence of slow, casual footsteps sounding out in the mud. 

"How vile; to have me march through the sewage of this world." 

--It was a foreign voice to him, but it seemed to strike fear in the eyes of the goblin champion, who began to tremble at the approaching entity behind him. 

A pale hand gripped the top of the goblin's round, verdant scalp, squeezing it with little effort, though the fracturing of the champion's skull resounded painfully. 

"The weak shouldn't stand in the way of the strong," the nebulous man spoke, "Die." 

Huh? He thought. 

A moment before he could process what was transpiring before his eyes, he witnessed the champion's head be popped like a watermelon in front of his eyes; exploding into an abhorrent mass of red. 

Fragments of the goblin's skull sank into the mud, alongside the fleshy bits before the headless corpse of the once, tall-standing champion fell lifelessly forward into the mud. 

"Ren Nakamura, right?" The man asked with a tone unfit for one of such gruesome actions. 

The mysterious man casually walked across the fallen champion's limp body as if not even recognizing the existence of the one he just slaughtered, approaching the adolescent who was frozen in perplexion, and inexplicable fear. 

He finally recognized who the man was: wearing an unbuttoned, spotless, white coat without a tunic beneath to cover his bare chest, two blades stationed on his back in an "X" formation, and wild, pearlescent hair. 

"Andraste," he muttered through trembling lips.