The mysterious opponent’s stature was small, but swift. His twin daggers, though lacking the reach of swords, were no less deadly.
The Blacksmith was visibly winded from having cushioned the assailant’s fall. That useless idiot.
But she had not expected to have to deal with such a swift fighter at this moment in time.
She leaned backwards, allowing her magic to help her go through with a somersault in midair as the dagger grazed her hair. Doing acrobatics was never her strong suit; but it helped when you’re several feet in midair and unafraid of falling unbalanced.
She summoned the magic within her, and pushed it out with force, as the flames heeded her call and roared into existence. The attacker visibly balked at the heat, trying in vain to block the fire with his daggers, and dropped back a few steps. Those daggers were as good as gone.
And then she felt the terrifying roar. One that could be felt within her very being; the primal, unbridled roar not unlike the Legionnaires that made up the ranks of the Legion. It must have affected her senses and memory; she was seeing one charge right at her. If she could rub her eyes she would; it appeared that Prince Jereziah and the Priestess Ophelia were also there.
They seemed to be followed by a fairy. Riding on top of a bunch of moving rocks.
Obviously, she had probably taken a blow to the head.
The agile attacker was back, menacing her defenses. She had no weapons besides her magic; but she was even more surprised at the continued existence of those daggers. Her eyes narrowed. Few were skilled enough to imbue weapons with the strength to be capable of standing up to a Pyromancer’s flames.
And a familiar voice rang out, “Stop! She is garbed in the robes of a Pyromancer!”
Funny, she thought. He also sounds like the Prince.
But the assailant paused his movements.
And she realized, he was wearing the clothing of a Scout. She turned around, eyes coming into focus, as she realized the person in front of her was not an illusion. It was the Prince. They had some explaining to do.
“Why are you here? I recognize you: Lina Inverse, from the Order of Pyromancers. The Quartermaster had informed me of your following after the rogue Summoner.”
She bowed to her Prince. “We tracked him and cornered him, but he summoned a daemon and escaped. Then we decided to find you, as our mission was not complete, and we thought it a good idea to help you, my Lord.”
The Prince seemed to be deep in thought, with a frown on his face. Masamune had worked with her on how they would convince the Prince that they were not disobeying orders to stay and guard the Sefir Tree.
“And…is that Masamune?”
The Blacksmith in question groaned visibly, getting up from his spot, clutching his head. He tried to stand at attention, but almost keeled over instead.
“Yes, my Lord,” Lina answered for him.
“And both of you travel in the companion of…?” the Prince gestured at the Silencer questioningly.
The Silencer removed his hood, closed his book, and extended a hand. “I am a Silencer.”
The Prince was obviously taken aback by the mark on the Silencer’s forehead. Both Lina and Masamune has been aghast when they first saw it, as well. But the Prince kept his composure, extending a hand, and shaking the Silencer’s proffered grip.
“In my time at the monasteries, one of the elder Chaplains told me stories of your kind,” said Jereziah, “Guardian of knowledge, you are not one of us,” Jereziah stated, eyeing the Silencer.
“No,” was the reply, “But I seek to join. My late Master’s last wish is now with me,” said the Silencer while tapping his head, “And I too do not wish to see the fall of Man or Newerth at the hands of these daemons.”
“Your companionship is most welcome,” replied Jereziah, “and even more so if the stories I heard were even half true.” Jereziah eyed the book in the Silencer’s hand.
The Legionnaire shouldered his axe with a grunt, saying, “Now there’s more to take care of.”
Ophelia smiled, saying simply, “There is no harm in company.”
Lina and the Scout stared at each other, with some respect. Then they nodded.
The Blacksmith only got up, and immediately sat down. Jereziah looked at him with worry. “What ails you?”
The Blacksmith knocked his head gently, while staring, “It seems I got hit harder than I thought,” he said, “I’m seeing a moving mountain, with a fairy on top.”
“Yes,” said Lina carefully, “Can someone explain?”
And the introductions were had.
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She breathed heavily, greedily sucking in as much air as possible during this small break, as the Gladiator glanced at the wound in his left arm with wonder. It was a small wound; the tip of Yasha had just nicked the Gladiator’s arm. A superficial wound. It would not hamper him in the slightest, and she knew it.
To her surprise, the Gladiator threw his head back and roared with laughter. The crowd and the arena announcer fell silent, as his laughter echoed throughout the stadium.
“How many years,” he bellowed with uncaring mirth, “has it been, since I have seen my own blood?!”
She was unsure as to whether or not she was supposed to answer his question.
“Look at you!” the Gladiator gestured, “just as unmarked as I am.”
She did not take his eyes off of him, but she knew it was true that she also suffered less wounds than any normal arena competitor.
And he lunged, hacking away at her with his cutlass. She sidestepped the downwards swing, and sliced into his side with Yasha. She was not disappointed when the whip’s handle stopped her strike.
“I won my freedom, years ago,” said the Gladiator, as he forced her to duck under the whip’s reach, “but I stayed. Do you know why?”
The cutlass drove deep into her circle of defense, batting away Sange as though it were nothing more than a leaf in the air, as she was forced to put Yasha against her chest, using the flat of it to prevent the tip of the cutlass from driving into her body. The force of the blow knocked her back a meter.
“I wanted to become the strongest!” he continued, as the whip caught a hold of her left wrist, yanking her back towards his own circle of influence, “And here, this is where the strongest are bred!”
The cutlass swing in a wide arc, and she was not able to dodge it in midair. Contorting her body, she spun and blocked with Sange instead, being blown to the right by the force of the blow. The whip around her wrist cut off her flight, however.
“Long I have held this position!” he bellowed, “and long have I been disappointed!”
And she was again pulled back into the range of his weapon.
“This time,” he grinned, eyes full of battle fervor, “do not disappoint me.”
And with a swing, he blew Sange out of her grasp, as the crowd watched the blade spin in the air, to land tip down, buried into the ground again. But she had countered in that split second, and for the second time this fight, blood was spilled. Deeper, this time. The red gash on the Gladiator’s right quadriceps was quite visible, as the blood flowed freely. Except, he seemed unfazed by the wound.
The Gladiator bellowed with laughter, as the cutlass swung about again, slicing through the air at an angle where she could not dodge. Yasha blocked it, but the lighter weight of the blade meant that she was still at a disadvantage. She needed to get Sange back.
But she was still held by that whip. And this time, Sange was out of reach.