Chapter 9
Solace
Sigma's Note: I like this chapter. It's got a good dichotomy of action and romance. I wonder if I'm overdoing it with the sap, though. Sometime I have trouble discerning that.
The wooden training room stank of sweat and blood. It was no wonder, as there were no less than thirty fighters siting on the benches around the expansive square arena, nursing their wounds and concussions. A Paladin cradled an arm that was most certainly broken. Two nurses attended to a Defender that had been knocked out cold, wrapping an ice pack around his bruised forehead. It was a veritable massacre.
In the center of the facility, Marche stood panting from exhaustion. His upper body was bare, his numerous scars exposed to the bright sunlight that poured through the open ceiling of the arena. He wore a pair of billowing white pants that gave him total freedom of movement to perform his devastating acrobatic attacks. He clutched a pair of wooden training blades that were hard enough to give an opponent a concussion, but couldn't do any permanent damage. His entire body was drenched with sweat.
To double doors at the end of the Training room opened, and a Bangaa entered. His only clothing was a loincloth and a white sash across his chest. Like Marche, he wore no armor that would soften the blow of the fierce wooden weapons. The Bangaa motioned for the Moogle attendant to throw him a sword. The diminutive creature jumped on a tall stool and removed one of the larger wooden weapons from the shelf. Teetering on the pedestal, it took all his strength to heave the hefty sword to the Warrior. The Bangaa grabbed it with one hand and swung it around a few times to get the feel for it. It was carved from a single piece of Dabunkwood and was extremely hard. A blow to the head would deliver a major concussion.
Marche and the Soldier bowed respectfully and they assumed their individual fighting stances. At least, Marche did. He had been trained by dozens of Martial Arts masters in his numerous times in Ivalice as well as in the real world. He had come to realize that his enemies were becoming stronger and began to prepare accordingly. The end result was that Marche was a lethal fighting machine with almost any part of his body. Unfortunately, the Warrior wasn't aware of this. Seeing the lean human standing before him with only a pair of wooden blades the defend himself had driven the poor fool to overconfidence. He rushed at him with his sword raised over his head, determined to break through his pitiful defensive stance in a single, bone-crushing swing.
Marche easily side stepped the over-powered attack and swept his foot under the confused Bangaa's legs. His momentum combined with his surprise at Marche's dexterity and skill set him of balance and catapulted him into the air. Without resting, Marche lept into the air and delivered a screaming round-house kick to the prone Bangaa's ribs. He let out a guttural "oof" as he was knocked off to the side. The warrior hit the ground hard, sliding several yards from the mind-boggling force of Marche's kick. His head spinning, he slowly brought his eyes into focus, only to see that his assailant had not moved three feet from his original position. He simply stood there, staring him down coldly.
That made his blood boil. He had never faced a human with that kind of skill with his body. The Bangaa felt a twinge of pain in his side. No doubt that kick had cracked on of his ribs. He was determined not to let such a disgrace go unpunished. Struggling to his feet and wincing through the biting pain in his side, the Warrior raised his sword again, preparing for a second run. Marche sighed. He had come to the training gym to try and work of his emotions, but so far it was not proving to be as therapeutic as he had hoped.
Howling like a mad dog, the Warrior rushed in with even more ferocity than before. Marche admired his determination, but pitied his lack of technique. Leaping into the air, the Bangaa prepared to drop Marche in a single, massive attack. But he had other plans. In the blink of an eye, Marche whipped his wooden blades into a defensive position, catching the falling sword before it connected. Marche noted the surprise in the Bangaa's expression. That was soon replaced by anger and then shock again and Marche pushed forwards, throwing the massive lizard back and off guard. He drove a second kick into the Bangaa's scarlet body, this one to his leviathan jaw. There was a loud slap as bare skin struck scales, but all the Bangaa heard was the loud pop of his jaw was dislocated. Before he could react, though, Marche struck with a devastating Scorpion Blow to the head with his right blade. The weapon shattered on impact of the thick bone plating of the Bangaa's scalp, but not before delivering the brunt of its force into his skull. His entire body shook as he reeled for a moment before crumpling to the ground. Of course, he was not dead, but the strength of the Scorpion Blow combined with the strength of the wood would leave him unconscious for several hours.
.....
Ivan stood in amazement at the sight before him. He was in the spectator area of the Training Room, over looking Marche's stunning feats of physical hardening. Strife sat with him as well, likewise astonished at the Soulvetar's skill. He and Ivan were aquatinted from when he first abandoned Archemis's service and the Megalomancers.
"It's amazing. I have never seen anything like it," Strife said as Marche jumped four feet straight up in the air and knock a Fighter out cold with a flurry of kicks that seemed to mock gravity itself.
"He's been at it almost since dawn. I've only been here for the last hour, but I've already seen him beat twenty people to a pulp. He's used variations of almost a dozen totally different fighting disciplines. Everything from Jujitsu to Aerial Kali to some sort of Drunken Kung Fu that I've never seen before. I don't know how he could have learned all those skills by his age," Ivan said.
"He's been through a lot. I've read through his clans files, and I must say that he'd need those skills to take on the tasks that they did. I don't know of any clan that could have done what they did over and over again," the young Judgemaster responded. Marche struck a Defender in the side of the head with his wooden blade, shattering it completely and sending the Defender to the floor. He motioned for a replacement blade as he threw the splintered weapon into the pile of damaged arms that had been rendered useless.
"I cannot imagine what kind of emotional turmoil he must be experiencing. That's why he's down there, you realize," Ivan said. Strife nodded. "To learn that everyone you've ever known has been wiped from existence, it must be utterly devastating." They sat silently for several minutes whilst Marche blew through combatant after combatant with devilish strength and agility. The sound of splintering wood and cracking bones and the moans of those that lay defeated echoed through the training arena.
"Archemis is on the move again," Strife said solemnly. "He's wiped out more of our troops to the north. He seems intent on taking Baguba, and by the looks of it, he's going to succeed."
"If Baguba falls, then he'll have access to the Airship Port. His naval force will be strengthened ten fold. Then we'll never be able to stop him," Ivan pondered.
"Do you know what his plan is?" Strife asked, calling upon Ivan's knowledge of his former commander's tactics.
"I'm willing to be that he'll dispatch one of the Megalomancers to take the city. His forces are trained for fighting large numbers of enemy soldiers, and are less adept at securing towns. That's what he formed the Megalomancers for. Well, that and Clan warfare. I can't tell you for sure who he'll send, but I have a pretty good idea," Ivan answered. In fact, he knew exactly who Archemis would send out, but he was having trouble bringing himself to accept it. He looked back down to Marche, still fighting like a demon.
"We'll need him and Ritz to stop Archemis from taking Baguba," Strife said. "None of your forces have the ability to stop a Megalomancer. I've seen them do terrifying things on the battle field. Things I did," Ivan continued. "I can't handle them alone."
"If that's the plan of attack, then the first order of business is to get Marche out of this self-destructive depression," Strife noted.
"I think I know a way," Ivan said.
......
The great doors to the training arena creaked open again. Ivan walked through them. He was clothed in a loose fitting gi that would give him the same range of movement as Marche had. A wooden katana hung from his satin belt.
Marche stood in the center of the room again, his back turned to the Black Monk. His breath was long and heavy, but his body did not show any hint of fatigue. He had tapped into some bottomless well of stamina that drove him to fight and fight and keep on fighting until he was completely disconnected from what he now saw as his world. Mirabo's taunting words still rang through his head
"There is no way you can possibly leave Ivalice!" Thinking of his maniacal laughter made his blood boil.
"What are you doing here?" Marche asked the Bangaa. Ivan drew his katana from its sheath. Marche heard the sound of wood running against wood, and prepared himself.
"Well, then. Have at me!" he snapped. Ivan charged Marche, he feet moving with astonishing speed and grace. Marche had not fought the Black Monk and was momentarily surprised at the speed of his attack. He quickly got over it and noted the technique of Ivan's strike. His wooden katana was held behind him, but not in a sweeping position. Ivan was going for a single piercing attack that would put Marche down in one hit. It if were a real sword, then it be an instant kill.
As the attack drew closer and closer, Ivan began to wonder why Marche still had his back to him. He had only looked over his shoulder once to see his method of attack, but then turned around again, as if he wanted Ivan to strike him with the Black Skill. But it was too late to change his stance, as his momentum carried him straight into the point of no return.
A fraction of a second before the attack connected, Marche lept into the air and somersaulted over Ivan's head, avoiding the blunted tip of the katana. He body spread out in the air as he gracefully sailed over his assailant, landing smoothly on the ground behind Ivan. Immediately he whipped one of he blades against Ivan's neck, stopping a hair short of striking him.
Ivan stood stunned. The Black Skill 3 was supposed to be unavoidable once it entered terminal range. Yet, Marche had moved with acrobatic speed the likes of which the monk had never confronted before.
"That was quite remarkable. You are the first person I've ever faced who has been able to avoid that attack at such close range," Ivan complemented.
"That sword is made of wood. It doesn't move as fast as a steel one. If it were real, I would have been skewered," Marche informed him. His face showed no visible emotion as he held the wooden blade against Ivan's neck.
"Very good," Ivan said, surprised that Marche had the insight to notice a drag so insignificant and exploit it to such a degree. He was not prepared for a fight that challenging.
Viper like, Ivan spun around and launched into an all out assault. The katana swept through the air with a clearly audible sound, clanking against Marche's blades that he held to defend himself. But he wielded them with such dexterity that Ivan's attacks were negated almost from the moment they were launched. His mind saw the movement of the katana before it struck and swung his weapons at just the perfect angle so as to redirect the force of the swing and knock Ivan off balance a little each time. By the time Ivan realized that he had fallen into a trap, it was too late. One final strike and one final block, and Ivan stumbled. As he fell to the ground, his face met Marche's foot rising to kick him square between the eyes.
In a miraculous display of mind over matter, Marche's foot withstood the impact of the Bangaa's thick skull, and sent Ivan flying through the air at least 15 feet across the room. Ivan hit the ground at a tremendous velocity, his muscular body cracking the wooden slats upon impact.
"That was pathetic. I'm beginning to wonder how you managed to cut a meteor into gravel it you can't even hit me once," Marche said. His voice was stained with distaste. His training session was not proving to be as therapeutic as he had hoped it would.
"Marche, you need to stop this," Ivan said as he struggled back to his feet. He noticed a small stream of blood dripping from his long jaw. "I know you're here to try and find some kind of solace, to escape whatever mental hell you must be in. But there are people in this world that need you. They need this ferocity, this power that you're venting." Marche turned his back on Ivan again.
"You have no idea, do you? To lose an entire world? To lose everyone you've ever known? How can you tell me how to feel?" he snapped angrily. "Now go. You're wasting my time." Ivan managed to get to his feet, but had accepted the futility of his actions. He didn't have the skill to beat Marche, and he knew that was likely to only way to bring him back from the dangerous precipice that he was teetering on.
"Fine. I'll go." Ivan walked towards the door, returning the wooden katana to his belt. As he passed the Soulvetar, the two of them locked eye.
"One more, thing," he said as his fiery red glare met Marche's icy gaze. "You can't keep running from this anymore than I could. I came to terms with my life. Can you?" Marche was stone faced as Ivan passed him, preparing to open the double doors that led out of the arena. But before he could, they swung open on their own accord. Soft footsteps echoed through the corridor beyond them. A figure, lean and feminine appeared in the dimly lit hallway. It was Ritz
In her right hand she carried a wooden rapier that had been carved from flexible terriwood so that it would bend in the same manner as her Vent de Dieu but would retain its strength. Like Marche, she was unamored, clothed only in a similar pair of billowing white slacks and a band of cloth that streched across her breasts. Her upper body was sharp and toned and exhibited the same scars as Marche's. Her crimson hair fell down her back like a ruby waterfall.
"I'll take it from here," she said to Ivan. The monk nodded as he walked through the doors. The shut behind him.
The arena had already been cleared of all the people that Marche defeated, and it was only him and Ritz in the center of the expansive chamber. Strife looked down at the two warriors, and decided that they needed to be alone for this. He calmly stood up and exited the viewing area to go meet up with Ivan in the infirmary. So Ritz and Marche were truly alone.
For what seemed like an eternity, they were content to stare each other down, not moving a muscle. Marche had been training for several hours already, but his body refused to quit, and was easily on par with Ritz.
"I suppose you're here to show your sympathy," Marche said.
"Unlike Ivan, I DO know what you're going through. Because I'm going through it too," Ritz responded. Marche did not answer, but he did assume a defensive position. The nature of their respective weapons would lead to Ritz leading the attack, with her superior range. She and Marche had never fought like that before, and they both did not know what to expect.
"I don't want to hurt you, Ritz."
"What hurts me is seeing you like this. Trying to fight your way through your feelings alone," Ritz said kindly, at the same time raising her rapier. She recognized Marche's stance and knew that the first move was hers,
"I'm not going to go easy on you," Marche said.
"I don't expect you to," she said as she launched directly into the attack. The wooden blades lunged toward Marche, it's blunt time lancing towards his defenses with perfect accuracy. Marche countered with a perfect block, clasping the rapier between his two blades. Their first stalemate. Ritz could not penetrate Marche's crossed blades, but Marche could not break the cross to attack, lest he would be struck.
"Why are you doing this?" Marche asked, grunting against the force of the rapier bearing down on him.
"Because I care about you. I don't want to see you just breakdown like this," Ritz answered as she lept back, breaking the stalemate with her retreat. She lunged again, this time aiming at Marche's shoulder instead of his chest. That way he would have to rearrange his body to use his cross block again, and he didn't have room. Marche parried Ritz's attack, which was met with another that was also blocked. But she didn't give up, and instead thrusted her blade again and again, with perfect force and aim. Each one was blocked, but Marche found that he was unable to draw her into a vulnerable position like he did with Ivan. Ritz maintained her focus and balance with the zen-like calm of the Viera.
With his defensive strategy nullified, Marche realized that he would have to take the offensive, a dangerous move to make when Ritz had a range advantage. He blocked a strike and used use the force from the blow to spin him around and bring his left blade down on Ritz in a cutting motion. The spin brought him well into attack range. But Ritz was no amateur. Her skills surpassed that of even Ivan, and she was motivated. She was trying to save Marche from himself. She swung her rapier against the falling blade, causing a cataclysmic knocking sound as the hard woods met each other. Both felt the force of the confrontation flowing through their bodies like a tremor shaking a building to its foundations. They continued steadfast though, and reached another stalemate.
"Do you really think that you're the only person who lost loved ones?" Ritz said as Marche broke the stalemate with his retreat, followed by his immediate retaliation in a blur of slashing blades.
"You've always hated the real world, and you know it," Marche said, frustrated that Ritz had managed to counter his barrage with her slender weapon.
"I hated the world, but that doesn't mean I didn't have people I cared about there. I had a family too you know! Did you know that?" Marche was silent, and responded only with his blades. "I cried for hours that night that you me about what happened! My mother, my father, my friends, all dead!" Ritz had whipped herself into a fervor, making more and more aggressive moves in response to Marche's growing offensive. The odor of each other's sweat filled the air, and sensing their bodies only led to the heat of their combat increasing. It was as if the air around them had burst into a raging hellfire merely from the passion of their conflict.
Suddenly, both of them slipped. For a fraction of a second, they had become distracted with their own internal battles and had their defenses failed. In the blink of an eye, Marche and Ritz found the faces mere inches away from each other, their weapons pressed against each other's necks. They had not struck at full power, but had reached the ultimate impasse. Each of them could feel the heat of bare skin pressed against their own.
"Do you know what got me through it?" Ritz asked quietly, looking deep into Marche's troubled eyes. It was not the tacit stare of a warrior. They were the sad eyes of a man in pain. "I realized something. That I could lose everyone I've ever known and be left out in the cold, but as long...as I had you, everything would be all right. You asked me in Lutia to never leave. Now I'm asking you the same. Because the only thing that keeps me together is that you're here."
"Ritz..." Marche said, but could not find any words to say. That epiphany struck him like a load of bricks. Suddenly, his mind was flawlessly open.
They both dropped their weapons as they were engrossed in a passionate kiss. Marche took in the full sensation of the woman that he loved, from the softness of her skin to the scent of her perfume masking her sweat drenched body. All that he could feel and think of was her, his heart in flames. As Marche lost himself in Ritz's lips, it became fully clear that he had finally found his solace.
Somewhere in the north......
"Lord Archemis, our forces are prepared to take Baguba. In another two days, the enemy lines will be breached and we can move in."
"Excellent, Sagaro. I trust that our losses have been negligible?"
"Indeed, especially when compared to the damage that has been dealt by out troops."
"Has Raphael arrived as well?"
"He is well on his way."
"Good, but I also want you to send Kreiger as well."
"The Destroyer? That seems a little unnecessary, Lord Archemis. Raphael is perfectly capable of securing Baguba by himself."
"I do not share your confidence. I do not believe that Raphael will be able to fulfill his duties in the presence of the Black Monk. Send Kreiger to make sure that it is done right."
"Of course, Lord Archemis
Sigma's Note: I like this chapter. It's got a good dichotomy of action and romance. I wonder if I'm overdoing it with the sap, though. Sometime I have trouble discerning that.
The wooden training room stank of sweat and blood. It was no wonder, as there were no less than thirty fighters siting on the benches around the expansive square arena, nursing their wounds and concussions. A Paladin cradled an arm that was most certainly broken. Two nurses attended to a Defender that had been knocked out cold, wrapping an ice pack around his bruised forehead. It was a veritable massacre.
In the center of the facility, Marche stood panting from exhaustion. His upper body was bare, his numerous scars exposed to the bright sunlight that poured through the open ceiling of the arena. He wore a pair of billowing white pants that gave him total freedom of movement to perform his devastating acrobatic attacks. He clutched a pair of wooden training blades that were hard enough to give an opponent a concussion, but couldn't do any permanent damage. His entire body was drenched with sweat.
To double doors at the end of the Training room opened, and a Bangaa entered. His only clothing was a loincloth and a white sash across his chest. Like Marche, he wore no armor that would soften the blow of the fierce wooden weapons. The Bangaa motioned for the Moogle attendant to throw him a sword. The diminutive creature jumped on a tall stool and removed one of the larger wooden weapons from the shelf. Teetering on the pedestal, it took all his strength to heave the hefty sword to the Warrior. The Bangaa grabbed it with one hand and swung it around a few times to get the feel for it. It was carved from a single piece of Dabunkwood and was extremely hard. A blow to the head would deliver a major concussion.
Marche and the Soldier bowed respectfully and they assumed their individual fighting stances. At least, Marche did. He had been trained by dozens of Martial Arts masters in his numerous times in Ivalice as well as in the real world. He had come to realize that his enemies were becoming stronger and began to prepare accordingly. The end result was that Marche was a lethal fighting machine with almost any part of his body. Unfortunately, the Warrior wasn't aware of this. Seeing the lean human standing before him with only a pair of wooden blades the defend himself had driven the poor fool to overconfidence. He rushed at him with his sword raised over his head, determined to break through his pitiful defensive stance in a single, bone-crushing swing.
Marche easily side stepped the over-powered attack and swept his foot under the confused Bangaa's legs. His momentum combined with his surprise at Marche's dexterity and skill set him of balance and catapulted him into the air. Without resting, Marche lept into the air and delivered a screaming round-house kick to the prone Bangaa's ribs. He let out a guttural "oof" as he was knocked off to the side. The warrior hit the ground hard, sliding several yards from the mind-boggling force of Marche's kick. His head spinning, he slowly brought his eyes into focus, only to see that his assailant had not moved three feet from his original position. He simply stood there, staring him down coldly.
That made his blood boil. He had never faced a human with that kind of skill with his body. The Bangaa felt a twinge of pain in his side. No doubt that kick had cracked on of his ribs. He was determined not to let such a disgrace go unpunished. Struggling to his feet and wincing through the biting pain in his side, the Warrior raised his sword again, preparing for a second run. Marche sighed. He had come to the training gym to try and work of his emotions, but so far it was not proving to be as therapeutic as he had hoped.
Howling like a mad dog, the Warrior rushed in with even more ferocity than before. Marche admired his determination, but pitied his lack of technique. Leaping into the air, the Bangaa prepared to drop Marche in a single, massive attack. But he had other plans. In the blink of an eye, Marche whipped his wooden blades into a defensive position, catching the falling sword before it connected. Marche noted the surprise in the Bangaa's expression. That was soon replaced by anger and then shock again and Marche pushed forwards, throwing the massive lizard back and off guard. He drove a second kick into the Bangaa's scarlet body, this one to his leviathan jaw. There was a loud slap as bare skin struck scales, but all the Bangaa heard was the loud pop of his jaw was dislocated. Before he could react, though, Marche struck with a devastating Scorpion Blow to the head with his right blade. The weapon shattered on impact of the thick bone plating of the Bangaa's scalp, but not before delivering the brunt of its force into his skull. His entire body shook as he reeled for a moment before crumpling to the ground. Of course, he was not dead, but the strength of the Scorpion Blow combined with the strength of the wood would leave him unconscious for several hours.
.....
Ivan stood in amazement at the sight before him. He was in the spectator area of the Training Room, over looking Marche's stunning feats of physical hardening. Strife sat with him as well, likewise astonished at the Soulvetar's skill. He and Ivan were aquatinted from when he first abandoned Archemis's service and the Megalomancers.
"It's amazing. I have never seen anything like it," Strife said as Marche jumped four feet straight up in the air and knock a Fighter out cold with a flurry of kicks that seemed to mock gravity itself.
"He's been at it almost since dawn. I've only been here for the last hour, but I've already seen him beat twenty people to a pulp. He's used variations of almost a dozen totally different fighting disciplines. Everything from Jujitsu to Aerial Kali to some sort of Drunken Kung Fu that I've never seen before. I don't know how he could have learned all those skills by his age," Ivan said.
"He's been through a lot. I've read through his clans files, and I must say that he'd need those skills to take on the tasks that they did. I don't know of any clan that could have done what they did over and over again," the young Judgemaster responded. Marche struck a Defender in the side of the head with his wooden blade, shattering it completely and sending the Defender to the floor. He motioned for a replacement blade as he threw the splintered weapon into the pile of damaged arms that had been rendered useless.
"I cannot imagine what kind of emotional turmoil he must be experiencing. That's why he's down there, you realize," Ivan said. Strife nodded. "To learn that everyone you've ever known has been wiped from existence, it must be utterly devastating." They sat silently for several minutes whilst Marche blew through combatant after combatant with devilish strength and agility. The sound of splintering wood and cracking bones and the moans of those that lay defeated echoed through the training arena.
"Archemis is on the move again," Strife said solemnly. "He's wiped out more of our troops to the north. He seems intent on taking Baguba, and by the looks of it, he's going to succeed."
"If Baguba falls, then he'll have access to the Airship Port. His naval force will be strengthened ten fold. Then we'll never be able to stop him," Ivan pondered.
"Do you know what his plan is?" Strife asked, calling upon Ivan's knowledge of his former commander's tactics.
"I'm willing to be that he'll dispatch one of the Megalomancers to take the city. His forces are trained for fighting large numbers of enemy soldiers, and are less adept at securing towns. That's what he formed the Megalomancers for. Well, that and Clan warfare. I can't tell you for sure who he'll send, but I have a pretty good idea," Ivan answered. In fact, he knew exactly who Archemis would send out, but he was having trouble bringing himself to accept it. He looked back down to Marche, still fighting like a demon.
"We'll need him and Ritz to stop Archemis from taking Baguba," Strife said. "None of your forces have the ability to stop a Megalomancer. I've seen them do terrifying things on the battle field. Things I did," Ivan continued. "I can't handle them alone."
"If that's the plan of attack, then the first order of business is to get Marche out of this self-destructive depression," Strife noted.
"I think I know a way," Ivan said.
......
The great doors to the training arena creaked open again. Ivan walked through them. He was clothed in a loose fitting gi that would give him the same range of movement as Marche had. A wooden katana hung from his satin belt.
Marche stood in the center of the room again, his back turned to the Black Monk. His breath was long and heavy, but his body did not show any hint of fatigue. He had tapped into some bottomless well of stamina that drove him to fight and fight and keep on fighting until he was completely disconnected from what he now saw as his world. Mirabo's taunting words still rang through his head
"There is no way you can possibly leave Ivalice!" Thinking of his maniacal laughter made his blood boil.
"What are you doing here?" Marche asked the Bangaa. Ivan drew his katana from its sheath. Marche heard the sound of wood running against wood, and prepared himself.
"Well, then. Have at me!" he snapped. Ivan charged Marche, he feet moving with astonishing speed and grace. Marche had not fought the Black Monk and was momentarily surprised at the speed of his attack. He quickly got over it and noted the technique of Ivan's strike. His wooden katana was held behind him, but not in a sweeping position. Ivan was going for a single piercing attack that would put Marche down in one hit. It if were a real sword, then it be an instant kill.
As the attack drew closer and closer, Ivan began to wonder why Marche still had his back to him. He had only looked over his shoulder once to see his method of attack, but then turned around again, as if he wanted Ivan to strike him with the Black Skill. But it was too late to change his stance, as his momentum carried him straight into the point of no return.
A fraction of a second before the attack connected, Marche lept into the air and somersaulted over Ivan's head, avoiding the blunted tip of the katana. He body spread out in the air as he gracefully sailed over his assailant, landing smoothly on the ground behind Ivan. Immediately he whipped one of he blades against Ivan's neck, stopping a hair short of striking him.
Ivan stood stunned. The Black Skill 3 was supposed to be unavoidable once it entered terminal range. Yet, Marche had moved with acrobatic speed the likes of which the monk had never confronted before.
"That was quite remarkable. You are the first person I've ever faced who has been able to avoid that attack at such close range," Ivan complemented.
"That sword is made of wood. It doesn't move as fast as a steel one. If it were real, I would have been skewered," Marche informed him. His face showed no visible emotion as he held the wooden blade against Ivan's neck.
"Very good," Ivan said, surprised that Marche had the insight to notice a drag so insignificant and exploit it to such a degree. He was not prepared for a fight that challenging.
Viper like, Ivan spun around and launched into an all out assault. The katana swept through the air with a clearly audible sound, clanking against Marche's blades that he held to defend himself. But he wielded them with such dexterity that Ivan's attacks were negated almost from the moment they were launched. His mind saw the movement of the katana before it struck and swung his weapons at just the perfect angle so as to redirect the force of the swing and knock Ivan off balance a little each time. By the time Ivan realized that he had fallen into a trap, it was too late. One final strike and one final block, and Ivan stumbled. As he fell to the ground, his face met Marche's foot rising to kick him square between the eyes.
In a miraculous display of mind over matter, Marche's foot withstood the impact of the Bangaa's thick skull, and sent Ivan flying through the air at least 15 feet across the room. Ivan hit the ground at a tremendous velocity, his muscular body cracking the wooden slats upon impact.
"That was pathetic. I'm beginning to wonder how you managed to cut a meteor into gravel it you can't even hit me once," Marche said. His voice was stained with distaste. His training session was not proving to be as therapeutic as he had hoped it would.
"Marche, you need to stop this," Ivan said as he struggled back to his feet. He noticed a small stream of blood dripping from his long jaw. "I know you're here to try and find some kind of solace, to escape whatever mental hell you must be in. But there are people in this world that need you. They need this ferocity, this power that you're venting." Marche turned his back on Ivan again.
"You have no idea, do you? To lose an entire world? To lose everyone you've ever known? How can you tell me how to feel?" he snapped angrily. "Now go. You're wasting my time." Ivan managed to get to his feet, but had accepted the futility of his actions. He didn't have the skill to beat Marche, and he knew that was likely to only way to bring him back from the dangerous precipice that he was teetering on.
"Fine. I'll go." Ivan walked towards the door, returning the wooden katana to his belt. As he passed the Soulvetar, the two of them locked eye.
"One more, thing," he said as his fiery red glare met Marche's icy gaze. "You can't keep running from this anymore than I could. I came to terms with my life. Can you?" Marche was stone faced as Ivan passed him, preparing to open the double doors that led out of the arena. But before he could, they swung open on their own accord. Soft footsteps echoed through the corridor beyond them. A figure, lean and feminine appeared in the dimly lit hallway. It was Ritz
In her right hand she carried a wooden rapier that had been carved from flexible terriwood so that it would bend in the same manner as her Vent de Dieu but would retain its strength. Like Marche, she was unamored, clothed only in a similar pair of billowing white slacks and a band of cloth that streched across her breasts. Her upper body was sharp and toned and exhibited the same scars as Marche's. Her crimson hair fell down her back like a ruby waterfall.
"I'll take it from here," she said to Ivan. The monk nodded as he walked through the doors. The shut behind him.
The arena had already been cleared of all the people that Marche defeated, and it was only him and Ritz in the center of the expansive chamber. Strife looked down at the two warriors, and decided that they needed to be alone for this. He calmly stood up and exited the viewing area to go meet up with Ivan in the infirmary. So Ritz and Marche were truly alone.
For what seemed like an eternity, they were content to stare each other down, not moving a muscle. Marche had been training for several hours already, but his body refused to quit, and was easily on par with Ritz.
"I suppose you're here to show your sympathy," Marche said.
"Unlike Ivan, I DO know what you're going through. Because I'm going through it too," Ritz responded. Marche did not answer, but he did assume a defensive position. The nature of their respective weapons would lead to Ritz leading the attack, with her superior range. She and Marche had never fought like that before, and they both did not know what to expect.
"I don't want to hurt you, Ritz."
"What hurts me is seeing you like this. Trying to fight your way through your feelings alone," Ritz said kindly, at the same time raising her rapier. She recognized Marche's stance and knew that the first move was hers,
"I'm not going to go easy on you," Marche said.
"I don't expect you to," she said as she launched directly into the attack. The wooden blades lunged toward Marche, it's blunt time lancing towards his defenses with perfect accuracy. Marche countered with a perfect block, clasping the rapier between his two blades. Their first stalemate. Ritz could not penetrate Marche's crossed blades, but Marche could not break the cross to attack, lest he would be struck.
"Why are you doing this?" Marche asked, grunting against the force of the rapier bearing down on him.
"Because I care about you. I don't want to see you just breakdown like this," Ritz answered as she lept back, breaking the stalemate with her retreat. She lunged again, this time aiming at Marche's shoulder instead of his chest. That way he would have to rearrange his body to use his cross block again, and he didn't have room. Marche parried Ritz's attack, which was met with another that was also blocked. But she didn't give up, and instead thrusted her blade again and again, with perfect force and aim. Each one was blocked, but Marche found that he was unable to draw her into a vulnerable position like he did with Ivan. Ritz maintained her focus and balance with the zen-like calm of the Viera.
With his defensive strategy nullified, Marche realized that he would have to take the offensive, a dangerous move to make when Ritz had a range advantage. He blocked a strike and used use the force from the blow to spin him around and bring his left blade down on Ritz in a cutting motion. The spin brought him well into attack range. But Ritz was no amateur. Her skills surpassed that of even Ivan, and she was motivated. She was trying to save Marche from himself. She swung her rapier against the falling blade, causing a cataclysmic knocking sound as the hard woods met each other. Both felt the force of the confrontation flowing through their bodies like a tremor shaking a building to its foundations. They continued steadfast though, and reached another stalemate.
"Do you really think that you're the only person who lost loved ones?" Ritz said as Marche broke the stalemate with his retreat, followed by his immediate retaliation in a blur of slashing blades.
"You've always hated the real world, and you know it," Marche said, frustrated that Ritz had managed to counter his barrage with her slender weapon.
"I hated the world, but that doesn't mean I didn't have people I cared about there. I had a family too you know! Did you know that?" Marche was silent, and responded only with his blades. "I cried for hours that night that you me about what happened! My mother, my father, my friends, all dead!" Ritz had whipped herself into a fervor, making more and more aggressive moves in response to Marche's growing offensive. The odor of each other's sweat filled the air, and sensing their bodies only led to the heat of their combat increasing. It was as if the air around them had burst into a raging hellfire merely from the passion of their conflict.
Suddenly, both of them slipped. For a fraction of a second, they had become distracted with their own internal battles and had their defenses failed. In the blink of an eye, Marche and Ritz found the faces mere inches away from each other, their weapons pressed against each other's necks. They had not struck at full power, but had reached the ultimate impasse. Each of them could feel the heat of bare skin pressed against their own.
"Do you know what got me through it?" Ritz asked quietly, looking deep into Marche's troubled eyes. It was not the tacit stare of a warrior. They were the sad eyes of a man in pain. "I realized something. That I could lose everyone I've ever known and be left out in the cold, but as long...as I had you, everything would be all right. You asked me in Lutia to never leave. Now I'm asking you the same. Because the only thing that keeps me together is that you're here."
"Ritz..." Marche said, but could not find any words to say. That epiphany struck him like a load of bricks. Suddenly, his mind was flawlessly open.
They both dropped their weapons as they were engrossed in a passionate kiss. Marche took in the full sensation of the woman that he loved, from the softness of her skin to the scent of her perfume masking her sweat drenched body. All that he could feel and think of was her, his heart in flames. As Marche lost himself in Ritz's lips, it became fully clear that he had finally found his solace.
Somewhere in the north......
"Lord Archemis, our forces are prepared to take Baguba. In another two days, the enemy lines will be breached and we can move in."
"Excellent, Sagaro. I trust that our losses have been negligible?"
"Indeed, especially when compared to the damage that has been dealt by out troops."
"Has Raphael arrived as well?"
"He is well on his way."
"Good, but I also want you to send Kreiger as well."
"The Destroyer? That seems a little unnecessary, Lord Archemis. Raphael is perfectly capable of securing Baguba by himself."
"I do not share your confidence. I do not believe that Raphael will be able to fulfill his duties in the presence of the Black Monk. Send Kreiger to make sure that it is done right."
"Of course, Lord Archemis