Owls and Souls, Witches and Resonance

by Jarl of the North

We all know the story. The Witches held a nigh unbreakable sway over the world, abusing their magical powers with reckless abandon until the Grim Reaper led a war upon them with humanity, breaking their hold and defeating their evil... but, perhaps, the tale is not so clear cut as the history books say. This is the story of a Death Scythe's daughters, and the people they love.

26. Black Blood and Gleaming Gold

Sorry for not posting much this summer. A lot's been going on on my end, family wise, school wise, and just personal wise. It's a bit of a mess, but I hope this chapter makes up for it. Hope you enjoy!

I do not own Soul Eater or Owl House.

If I did, I'd almost certainly have a fixed deadline for these chapters.

---

He hadn't intended to intervene.

The staff's low hum stood in stark contrast to the high pitched ringing of Dainslief's blade, a grounding sound and sensation in his palm as the Golden Guard stood between the pink-haired Meister and their quarry; the grey-haired child knelt over her bleeding, broken Weapon, staring up at him through wide, imploring green eyes, their Souls only barely developed beyond the pale blue spheres that marked them as humans, bearing hints and colour and shape that would grow more defined as they grew in strength and bond.

Despite himself, the Witchling couldn't help the grimace that spread across his lips as he looked away. Chiding chastisements streamed through his mind, a flood of frustrations rising in his chest too quickly for him to identify which ones spurred him to berate the brats behind him - they were young, sure, but anyone with a halfway developed Soul could see what kind of monster they were up against - and which ones were directed at himself.

They only grew more prominent when the girl, caught somewhere between shock and confusion, stammered out a question, "W… who… who are you…?"

He didn't answer.

He was too preoccupied with the sudden incoming lunge, Dainslief suddenly inches from his face, mouth open and howling with enough volume to make his ears sting.

The Golden Guard didn't even flinch. Despite his frustrations, he quashed his initial instinct to sidestep, to let the blade simply sail past his side so he could grab the wielder's arm for all manner of holds, submissions or breaks; doing so ran the risk of allowing the Demon Swordsman to feed the Palisman Blade two more Souls.

He absolutely could not let that happen. Dainslief was already contaminated, possibly beyond any hope of repair - and beyond that, both it and its wielder were already amidst the throes of a terrible, murderous Madness, one that would only get worse if left unchecked.

If there was anything that the Reaper was right about, it was that another Kishin absolutely could not come into being.

Instead, he spun the staff in his hands, deftly hooking the eagle's wing under the Sword Meister's wrist and yanking it upwards; the malnourished child let loose a startled yelp, eyes wide and staring with all momentum lost, the Sword's scream coming to an abrupt stop as their Resonance was interrupted. The Guard wasted no time in shifting closer, driving his heel into the back of the Meister's knee; they immediately toppled, the heavy sword in their hand doing nothing to assist their broken sense of balance… and before they hit the ground, he struck again, driving his palm into their solar plexus.

On impact, he let his Soul pulse, 'Soul Force!'

He saw as much as he felt his own Wavelength, sunset gold tinged with purple, rippling down his arm and into his hand in a wave of pure physical force.

He felt the hardened shell under the thin fabric and thinner skin fracture and give under the impact.

And then the Demon Swordsman was hurled backwards with another screech that seemed more startled than pained, flipping and rolling back across the floor before finally skidding to a halt before the altar.

The Guard knew, however, that blow wouldn't be nearly enough.

After all, his heel and palm now ached from their respective impacts with the Meister's skin. And moreover he could feel their combined Wavelength.

It was far more powerful than anything a human of that age should have been capable of, even with the help of an ancient Palisman.

The pale Swordsman groaned as they slowly pushed themselves up, coughing and turning their manic, suddenly fearful gaze back on the masked teen, "... nobody's ever hit me like that before…"

"You're takin' too long again, Crona!" Dainslief's horrid voice echoed through the chamber, sneering, "Pull yourself together and feed me those Souls already!"

They grimaced, but slowly stood, shifting their weight from foot to foot, trying to resettle their balance.

"... they can still stand after that?..." the grey-haired girl managed, a fresh wave of fear causing her words to waver.

He ground his teeth, "What were you expecting? This isn't exactly a fresh Kishin Egg; that thing is a bona-fide Demon Sword."

"... a… Demon Sword?" she stammered.

"The foetal stage of a Weapon-type Kishin!" he snapped, "Didn't the DWMA at least teach you that much!?"

"... foetal stage…?" she asked, "... so that thing's… the next level of development?..."

The snark that threatened to fly from his tongue was cut off before it could fully form by that same shrill scream, this time loud enough to make him flinch.

"Ragnarök…" the Swordsman plunged Dainslief into the already scarred tile and concrete, sending a wave of force rippling through the stone, "Screech Alpha!"

The Golden Guard was forced to redouble his stance at the tremble that ran through the stone and marble beneath his feet, even before the fangs of black iron rose to meet him; dredged from the earth and surrounding constructs and likely from the very blood of the Demon Swordsman themselves and shaped by their grotesque Wavelength. Empty eyes stared listlessly above an equally empty abyss, rimmed by irregular teeth in a grotesque mockery of a skull. Its wide yawn only served to amplify the initial burst, and a lesser Witch would have buckled, even an instant of physical weakness enough to allow the jaws to snap shut around them-

But the Guard was no lesser Witch.

He raised his staff, feeling the Magic in its gleaming red jewel pulse and roil, a veritable bolt of lightning fighting to break free from its prison. He felt its sear on his Soul as he reached out to it with his Wavelength, the staff practically a red hot iron rod in hands, but he held firm, driving its tip down into the iron skull as he recalled the very basics of the Construction Coven's Magic.

On contact with the metal, the spell immediately took effect; the crystalline lattice of the brittle black iron, conjured and held together only by a maddened Wavelength, began to crumble, the forehead cracking and caving in entirely before the entire skull splintered into slivers, exposing the deep blue eyes of the Demon Swordsman - their approach from directly behind their iron bulwark entirely exposed, expression utterly uncomprehending as to what precisely had just occurred.

Despite himself, the Golden Guard smirked.

There was always something gratifying about completely baffling an opponent.

He tightened his grip, using his Wavelength to further guide the staff's Magic. The splinters of iron disintegrated further, the arcane flow grinding them from slivers to powder; the iron dust then danced through the air, forming into long, thin, and perfectly sharp needles, then enlarging into heavy iron stakes before being launched forwards with incredible force, too close, too fast and too many for the Swordsman or the Sword to reliably counter.

He could tell it wasn't enough to cause significant damage; the tip of each stake blunted and bent on contact with the Swordsman's body or blade, unable to inflict anything beyond superficial wounds. But each impact bought breathing room, forcing the Swordsman further and further back with each strike to their shoulders, their hips, their chest, until one finally caught them under the jaw; they stumbled back with a startled yelp, then a scream of confused terror as the final six struck them all at once, hurling them back across the bloody temple once again, collapsing in a heap on the floor.

But they wouldn't stay down long.

And he couldn't waste any more time.

"... that's… that's not…" the Scythe Meister stammered, disbelief in her voice, "... no way… are you a…?"

The Emperor's young champion ignored her question. Instead, he took a step forward, spinning the staff in his fingers trying to keep his tone neutral as he issued an order to the girl behind him, "You two are in the way. Take your Weapon and leave."

To the Scythe Meister's credit, she didn't pursue her prior question. Her actual response, however, did nothing to improve his impression of her, "I… I can't! Soul is losing way too much blood! If I move him, he might die!"

The Guard grit his teeth, resisting the rising urge to turn and glare her down, although he could not keep the bite out of his words, "And if you stay here, the both of you will die."

Immediately, he heard teeth click painfully against teeth as the girl's mouth fell shut, her protests abruptly drowned by her terror.

The Guard did not look back, but he did allow himself to settle, "I can't fight them with everything I have with you two here. You're in my way."

"But-!"

"No buts! You don't have time for this! Take your Weapon and get him to a Healer!" he snapped, finally craning his neck to glare down at her, "Or do you want whatever equivalent you humans have to the El-Melloi Award!?"

The girl jolted in place, his words finally seeming to have the desired effect. She scrambled for purchase on the filthy tiles, pushing her hands under her Weapon's torso and carefully lifting, pulling the crumpled, hideously dressed boy up and onto her shoulder, heedless of the blood that would undoubtedly stain her long, ragged trenchcoat. She rose to her feet, her green eyes meeting his briefly before turning tail and pulling the door open with all her might, speeding out into the night beyond and letting the heavy wood slam shut behind her.

The Guard released a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding, finally turning his attention back to the remaining Meister and the Demon Sword.

"Dammit, Crona! They're gettin' away!"

The Demon Swordsman had pushed themselves up again, weakly reaching up to bat away the giant white hands that were driving their knuckles into the child's temples; a pair of white eyes sneered down, the fury in its voice palpable in every word, "You just cost me a meal, you stupid wimp! If we don't catch them, I'm gonna stick needles under your fingernails!"

"Stop it, Ragnarök!" they whined, "I've never fought a Witch like this before! I don't know how to deal with floaty spikes and glowing red rocks!"

The Guard made absolutely no effort to remind them of his presence. Instead, he breathed, and closed in, the staff's Magic surrounding him like a cloak that carried him forwards all at once in a motion so quick it was almost a teleport. Before he was even in position, he had begun his swing, Soul poised to pulse in tandem with the impact of the staff upon the simpering child's skull-

But the ring of honed steel, and the ache that ran up through his hands, completely interrupted his motion; he only had a fraction of a second to see the Demon Swordsman complete their parry, flinging him away with another pulse of their discordant Wavelength. Their eyes were fixed on him now, and he heard the parasitic giant behind them sneer before pulling itself back under their skin, smothering its wielder's Soul under its own.

And yet, as the child pushed back, their power redoubled, Wavelengths resonating and beginning to rise; before the Imperial could even touch the ground, they were on the attack, leaping up and cleaving down with unnatural speed, the Sword once again screaming - this time directly in his face.

No time to conjure a spell.

No time to try and dodge.

No two ways around it.

This was going to hurt.

That thought in mind, he raised his staff again to block, pain lancing up his arms upon contact with the sword; the next thing he knew, his back had hit the floor, jagged gravel all but embedded into his skin even through his thick cloak and shirt. His head swam, his arms ached, he could feel the blood trickling from his nose and hear the painful ringing in his ears. A thousand different parts groaned and ached with protest as he forced himself to move, flipping back and up onto his feet over his shoulder before he'd lost any sort of momentum, forcing his eyes to fix upon his target even as they throbbed in tandem with the rest of his body.

"... okay, I'll admit it," he muttered, "This might be harder than I thought."

"I don't know how to deal with you," the Swordsman whined, the crazed, murderous, terrified glint in their eyes never fading, "Just stop it! Stop not dying! People are easier to deal with when they're dead!"

"Sorry," the Emperor's Young Hand scoffed, then straightened, widening his stance and holding his staff at the ready, "But I'm not dying to give you some peace of mind."

With that, he threw himself forwards, already conjuring his next spell.

---

Even with the cold night air practically searing frost into her lungs, Maka could still feel them burning.

Her body had long since gone numb as she ran through Venice's streets; all around her, people were laughing, cursing, crying, and everything in between, paying her little if any heed as she shoved her way through the crowds. Her legs had lost all feeling from the effort of running, her shoulders ached under Soul's weight, and she could feel her shirt and coat sticking to her back as his blood continued to seep into her clothes.

But she didn't stop.

She didn't even consider stopping. Not even to catch her breath or adjust her grip on her unconscious partner.

The only thing that she could think of was getting him to safety.

Anywhere would do, as long as it was far away from that horrible little monster, and the black sword that they carried.

"-a-!"

A hospital. That was what she needed, right this second.

"-ka-!"

She briefly let go of Soul's arm, violently digging in her pocket for her phone; she pulled it out, eyes scouring the now bloody screen as she clicked it on, struggling to keep Soul slung across her shoulders as she ignored the myriad of missed calls in favour of the emergency call screen. What was Italy's emergency number again?

"Maka!"

The voice finally snapped her out of her trance as a pair of hands gently, but firmly, clutched her shoulders; she found herself staring into eyes of brilliant electric blue, the mop of red that accompanied them reminding her too much of the blood…

"Maka, you need to breathe," the voice instructed, the hands keeping her from twisting out of their grip, "Come on. Breathe with me. In… out… in…"

Wordlessly, the grey-haired girl obeyed, captivated by the words as they gave her something else to focus on, something else to cling to. She hadn't realised she had been hyperventilating; already, she could feel the fog from her mind clearing, the world around her coming back into proper focus. She kept staring into those electric blue eyes, and slowly, her words came back to her horribly dry mouth.

"... Papa…?" she managed, voice wavering.

"It's me, Maka," he nodded, "I'm here. I'm right here."

The dark, searing flood of resentment that should have overwhelmed her the moment she recognized him never came. Instead, the young Meister felt her whole body go weak with relief, only barely able to keep herself standing, and Soul's weight on her shoulders redoubling as if he were turning to solid lead. Her exhausted Wavelength no longer fed her muscles with the effortless strength and stamina they were so accustomed to, and she could feel herself starting to buckle under the strain.

But even so, she kept her grip on her partner, refusing to let him go - some irrational part of her believing that if she clung hard enough, she could keep Soul firmly anchored from drifting away from his body. She could practically feel something tugging at him, trying to pull him from her grasp…

"... you gotta let go of him, sweetie."

"... no," she tightened her painfully numb fingers as best she could, "If I let go, he'll…"

"You need to let go," Papa gently repeated, "Stein can't exactly treat him while he's on your back, now can he?"

It was only then that she registered the doctor's presence; indeed, he was the one tugging on Soul. He gave her that practiced, gentle smile, "It's alright, Maka. You've done well. You can let go of him now."

It took a moment for the stitched man's words to fully register; but slowly, she managed to loosen the grip of her fingers just enough for Stein to coax Soul free, laying her partner down on the cobblestone street. She felt her stomach churn as the doctor began peeling away the ruined coat and shirt, examining the damage…

"Maka," the Death Scythe prompted, gently guiding her attention back to him; she had to force her eyes to meet his rather than drift back down to the maimed, unconscious boy behind her, even as he spoke again, "I need you to tell me what happened."

"I…" she swallowed the dust in her mouth, forcing the words out one by one, "... I… saw dozens of human Souls, in the Chiesi… Santi Geremia. They all just… disappeared. There were only two left. We went to investigate, and…" she couldn't help but clutch her own arms, trying and failing to stop her own trembling, "... there were so many bodies… they were all dead, and… that… that…"

"... a Meister and a Weapon, right?" the red-headed Scythe queried.

The younger Meister bit her lip, "A Meister, but… the Weapon was… it was their blood," she shook her head, still disbelieving, "I don't know how, but… that Weapon was part of them. And they were strong - way too strong, we kept up at first, but… normally, Soul and I can cut through steel no problem, but nothing we did worked! They overwhelmed us entirely, and every time we clashed, Soul got more and more wounded! We tried to fall back, but…!"

Again, she had to fight the impulse to turn back to her partner. Instead, she clenched her hands tighter around her elbows, "... it's my fault… it's my fault he's…"

"... you did the best you could, Maka," he did not smile. The Death Scythe simply kept his tone even, his voice comforting as he patted her shoulder, "Soul is alive because of you. He protected you - that's his job as a Weapon. And you got him out of there. It's not your fault that he's in this condition."

"But I…" she sniffed, unable to get the image of Soul shooting up from the floor, arms splayed protectively as he took the blow meant for her…

Then she stiffened.

"... he's still in there," she murmured.

"Maka?"

"The boy in the gold mask!" she reached out, grabbing Papa's suit by the collar, only distantly aware that her voice was rising into a scream, "He's the only reason we got out alive! He's still in there with those monsters, all by himself! He needs help!"

At that, his expression hardened as he looked to the doctor, eyes sharp like knives, "Stein? How is he?"

For the first time, the preteen was allowed to look; the whole of Soul's upper body was wrapped in thick white bandages that somehow weren't stained all the way through yet. His breaths came in slight, shallow huffs, the blood from his nose, eyes and ears gently wiped away, his jacket discarded entirely, instead laying silently on the stitched man's lab coat, Stein himself still kneeling at his side, expression grim.

"I've managed to stabilize him, and stop the worst of the bleeding," he started, adjusting his glasses, "But Soul needs medical attention as soon as possible. Medical attention most doctors can't give him - he's got several severely damaged organs, a split ribcage, sternum and collarbone, and he's lost a significant amount of blood. He'll need multiple simultaneous operations to make it through the night - his Soul Wavelength is the only reason these wounds didn't outright kill him."

"Will he last long enough for you to treat him?" Papa asked.

"With this first aid? He'll last half an hour on the outside - maybe an hour if he's taken to a hospital and given a blood transfusion," Stein turned his attention to Maka, "You know Italy's emergency number?"

"Wh…" she forced herself to swallow again, "Y… yes. One one two."

"Call them. Tell them the address. Give them your ID, tell them it's a DWMA related emergency and that you need an ambulance. Provided they're not overwhelmed, they'll send one immediately."

"... and if they are?" she managed, "Overwhelmed?"

"Worse comes to worst, search the nearest emergency center and carry Soul there yourself; it'll at least buy him time. We'll catch up with you afterwards, and hopefully I'll have an actual operating theatre to work with," Stein rose to his feet, dusting off his hands on his pants before turning to his own Partner, "Spirit?"

"I know."

She hadn't even seen him transform; one second, Papa was there. The next, he'd been replaced entirely by a spinning sliver of midnight, the black blade catching the light of the street shops and windows around them before Stein reached out to grip the cross-shaped haft, stopping the massive Scythe in place, its razor's edge only visible because of the light glinting off it.

Briefly, Maka saw those cyan eyes again, her father's face staring at her in place of her own reflection.

"We'll be back soon, Maka," he promised, "You just stay safe, alright?"

Wordlessly, she nodded.

As soon as she had, the Death Scythe and his Meister were gone in a pulse of Soul Wavelength that made Maka flinch, her eyes only barely able to chase their shared Wavelengths as they dashed down the street from whence she came.

Hands shaking, she pulled off her gloves, and picked up her phone, only barely aware of the spectators that were starting to gather around her.

She could only stew in the reality that all she could do for Soul in this moment was type three numbers into a keypad.

---

He could feel the pain getting worse.

Every joint in the Witchling's body was ratcheting every time he moved, like all the muscle and cartilage and connective tissue had been scraped away, bone grinding on bone as he rapidly stepped through every defence and evasion he had practiced in the Emperor's Coven. His lungs were the bellows of a furnace, somehow letting him force his muscles and tendons to move; his muscles burned, his bones ached, and every vein in his body throbbed with each of his heartbeats.

Nonetheless, he pushed through it; sheer focus formed a thick miasma at the forefront of his mind that dulled the pain enough for him to ignore it, though it did nothing to dull the quiet terror building in his chest that he kept firmly shoved into the pit of his stomach. He fought to keep his Soul Wavelength steady, to keep its pulse even throughout his body to maintain as much of his strength and stamina as possible.

The Demon Sword had already shredded most of his cloak; his mask was only barely staying on, at times proving more of a hindrance than a help, its beak having been severed entirely; he had small cuts all across his body from strikes only barely parried or dodged, blood seeping into his clothes and sticking to his skin and only making each movement he made more difficult.

And all the while, the Swordsman still wasn't giving an inch.

They swung as he was halfway through his backspring, closing the distance and trying to disembowel him, Dainslief's blade screaming as it arced up towards him.

Again he parried with the staff, the sear of Magic travelling from his hands to his spine to his feet, to finally form footholds in the air surrounding his boots; with his newfound purchase, he twisted, smashing the Sword aside before letting the staff's Magic carry him away in another flash-step, once again aiming to smash both the staff and his Wavelength into the child's skull like a club.

And once again, the Sword dragged itself up of its own accord, dominating and contorting its wielder's body to achieve movements the meek Meister simply was not capable of on their own. He could see the veins in their hand and wrist violently throb as the staff and the Demonic Weapon collided, their neck craning to look at him only after the impact.

They broke the clash with yet another violent swing, the force launching the Witch up and away towards the roof. Gracefully, he flipped back, coming to a halt midair as he invoked the staff's Magic once more.

"Ragnarök," the Mad child murmured; immediately, the sword in their hands began to warp, enlarging with their Wavelength. The blade took on an entirely new shape as they swung, the edge transforming into yet another ghastly skull, "Screech Beta!"

It was a sloppy movement, to be sure. But it was a fast one, accompanied by yet more of that horrible screaming.

That was the worst part; even beyond the physical pain of constantly being battered with the sound - with enough force that he could feel it leaving yet more aches in his bones and muscles because of the temple's acoustics and his proximity - the Guard could feel the Madness Wavelength tinged within it, chewing away at the corners of his mind with a thousand tiny, rabid maws and making it all the more difficult to focus.

But focus the Witchling did.

Instinct took over as he dodged the first swing, keeping his eyes travelling back and forth across the length of the blade, between the Meister and the skull at the end of their Weapon. It stretched and warped, seeming to chase him as much as the child swung for him, a serpent on a sword hilt, jaws snapping closed just short of his heels every time.

But those twisted teeth never made contact; he bobbed, weaved, rose and dove through the storm of strikes, spinning amidst the artificial wind that whipped him with every passing second.

The Demon Swordsman was strong, there was no doubt about that.

But raw strength was all they had. There was no finesse to anything they did, only wild flailing and a fundamentally frightened ferocity, occasionally reinforced by the puppetry of their own Weapon. They probably hadn't even been taught anything beyond the very basics of proper swordplay, as they could barely hold the sword right, much less maintain any sort of proper duelling stance.

All the Guard had to do was lay the bait.

He zoomed to the far end of the temple, hovering over the broken visage of the crucifix…

As he predicted, the pink-haired child swing too deep, stumbling forwards with the movement and only barely staying steady.

But it was enough.

The skull's movement was clumsy, slower than the ones before.

Slow enough for the Emperor's protege to dismount, swing-

And smash his staff into the black iron.

"Disperse!"

It was more a reminder for himself than any need to declare the spell, keeping himself steady as the staff's Magic burned; like before, the iron disintegrated under the staff's influence, crumbling into pieces…

… no, not pieces…

… droplets?

"Bloody Needle!"

The Guard's heart skipped a beat as he realized his mistake too late; unlike before, he hadn't been able to disrupt the paired Madness Wavelengths of the Weapon and Meister that had been interwoven into the shaped iron. The resulting black droplets immediately sharpened into needle-thin spikes, each locked onto him with an eye and driving their sharpened tips towards him.

He only barely managed to dodge the first barrage, but he could still feel the sting as they tore through his clothes and into his skin, leaving razor-thin cuts behind with each one and adding to the myriad of wounds that were already criss-crossing his body.

But still, they came. Thousands of black droplets, swiftly sharpening, swiftly closing in, all of them aimed to pierce his body at every point…

And behind this great wall of iron needles was the Demon Swordsman, eyes cold and lips downturned, the mouth of the Sword curling into a horrid bared grin…

And the Witch reacted.

Magic flared through his whole body as he plunged forwards into the needles; it formed first into a shell, then into an outwards wave, breaking through the torrent of sharpened iron and scattering it to the corners of the temple; a few still managed to pierce the wave and into his skin, blood trickling down his cheek from a fresh tear, but he pushed on, rapidly closing the distance between himself and the now shocked Meister.

They made a panicked swing as soon as he was within reach; he deftly parried, using their own momentum to throw them to the side, driving his elbow into their back just under their ribs in the same motion. They staggered forwards, then spun, turning their momentum into a stab, trying to plunge Dainslief through his chest.

He caught the Palisman Blade's tip on the wing of his staff; he shoved it down into the dirt, then reached out, snaking his arm around one of the Swordsman's, their Weapon locked under his armpit and his hand on their shoulder, ready to drive his arm up and snap their limb at the elbow-

And then he let out a scream as his arm was pierced; a dozen black needles had run themselves through his forearm and bicep, sticking out of his sleeve and dying the fabric an ever darker red.

"Doesn't feel too good, does it!?" the Demon Sword cried with sadistic glee, those red lips twisting with every word as it turned to liquid, sinking back beneath its wielder's skin before erupting out of their other hand like a steel geyser.

"Just die already! It'll be easier to deal with you that way!" They cried, driving the Sword up, trying to run him through-

Only to cry out in shock and pain, nearly dropping the Sword entirely as the Golden Guard completed his manoeuvre, yanking up with his perforated arm and pulsing his Soul Wavelength with every ounce of force he could muster.

Even with the Demon Sword's black blood reinforcing the Swordsman's arm and the needles that had pierced his own, the Witch's line of force was perfect; he felt the bones in the child's elbow snap before he heard them, and a dark, roiling blaze of satisfaction flooded him as they fell to their knees. He reached out, gripping their hair in his free hand.

"Too bad for you," his voice was a low, furious hiss as he glared down into their watery eyes, "I've always preferred doing things the hard way."

With that, he drove his knee into their face with a viciousness and vindictiveness he knew hadn't been present before, the needles in his arm only serving to keep the pink-haired child in place as the tide shifted. Once, twice, thrice more he drove his knee up and into his opponent, Wavelength pulsing on every contact, the ache in his bones redoubling with every blow.

The fifth time, however, the Meister coughed, then choked - the sole warning the Guard had before Dainslief's blade erupted from their mouth. A fresh wave of pain erupted through his stomach as the blade slashed open his side, making him stagger as another scream caused the wound to rip and tear.

But he did not let go. Instead, he drove his knee up once more, this time into the child's chin, making their teeth clash with the metal of their Sword and dislodging it from his side, allowing him to drive it back into the stone.

Only when he felt the sword and needles retract did he finally release his grip - raising his foot and driving his heel into their throat in one final, vicious kick that sent them sprawling across the floor. The young Swordsman gasped for breath, caught somewhere between trying to push themselves back up, and clutch at their neck and face, black blood pooling from their nose and lips and dripping from their chin, one eye already horribly swollen…

The Witch, however, did not halt his assault.

Gripping his staff in both hands, the Golden Guard once again drove its tip into the floor; the ground beneath his feet immediately liquified, stone and soil and glass and tile flowing as easily as water and as quickly as rapids.

The first strike was not intended to further maim; only to wind, a pillar rising and slamming into the Swordsman's stomach to keep them from regaining their breath.

The second was to sweep them up, layers of earth binding their arms to their sides and encasing their Weapon in stone, finally silencing its infernal screaming.

The third was to further tighten the grip of the bindings, more and more material wrapping around them in an ever spiralling prison that rose around them like shifting sands, sucking them down inch by inch.

"What are you doing!?" they would have screamed if it weren't all they could do to wheeze, "It's too tight! I don't know how to deal with-!"

"I should've just done this from the beginning," the Guard ignored their ramblings as he raised his staff, the stone at the tip gleaming a bloody crimson, "Even a monster like you needs to breathe!"

With that, the earth and stone raised once more, wrapping around their mouth and nose before enclosing around their head entirely like the petals of a phoenix-lily closing into a bud amidst its own flames; the last thing he saw of the Swordsman were those terrified blue eyes, before those too were hidden from view, the coffin coming to a complete and utter close.

"... and by the way," he managed, "I've felt worse."

It took a moment for the pain and exhaustion to finally hit the Witchling. He staggered, the only thing keeping him from falling entirely being his grip on the staff. The throb throughout his entire body rose to a fever pitch; he could barely think past the agony as the fog of focus faded from his mind, and was left to swim amidst jumbled thoughts. His vision blurred, he clutched at his side, and he stumbled over a broken pew as he tried to step forwards, looking for a wall, a pillar - anything to catch his weight.

He finally found it against a broken section of wall, leaning his shoulder against it.

"... losing too much blood," he murmured, "Or used too much Magic… can barely… I… Titan… okay… just…"

He forced himself to take a breath, tried to force his thoughts back into order. His weakened Wavelength called upon the staff again, and the faint blue glow of the Healing Coven washed over him, soothing his wounds and slowly knitting them back together.

"... just gotta wait for the brat to suffocate, then I can take the Sword. That's… that's all I gotta… all I gotta do… mission accomplished-"

The stone cracked.

He felt the vibrations in the floor before he heard the high pitch whine that was leaking through the hairline fractures in the prison he'd created.

He could only stare, his mind grinding to a halt as the stone, the tile and the concrete began to break away, layer after layer reduced to another coating of pebbles and dust. The whine rose to a screech as it began to tumble away, and then finally, it all shattered, crumbling to what remained of the temple floor and exposing its occupants.

Dainslief only stopped screaming when the last of the stones hit the floor, teeth finally slating closed and taking a moment to breathe; the Demon Swordsman that wielded it idly tested the motion of their broken arm, wincing with every flex.

"... you've gotta… be kidding me," the Guard managed, "Just what… does it take… to put you down!?"

"My arm wants to bend the wrong way," the Mad Meister whined, seeming completely oblivious to the Witchling now, "Arms don't bend like that… they're only supposed to bend one way. I don't know how to deal with it bending the wrong way…"

"I've fixed it, Crona," Dainslief hissed, "I'm holding the bones together for you and keeping the swelling down so you can move it. Now what do you say?"

"It hurts-!"

"No!" a massive hand clapped the child upside the head again, the giant forming once more, "You say 'Thank you very much, Ragnarök! Now I can feed you that pathetic weakling Witch!' Say it, Crona! Say 'thank you!'"

"Okay! Okay! Thank you, Ragnarök-!"

"No, say it like you mean it! 'Thank you very much, Ragnarök!'"

The two began to squabble again, the Meister meekly trying to fend off their own Weapon; before the Witch's eyes, their synergy began to waver, their Wavelengths coming apart, their Resonance failing, the single great Madness they formed prior now splitting into two…

It was now or never.

Despite the pain, despite the exhaustion, he pushed himself to his full height once more. The staff burned in his hands, so hot he was sure it was searing his gloves to his palms. But even so, he called upon the Magic that wasn't his, cloaking himself in it once more, and rushed, hand outstretched.

If he could just reach them-!

The giant's eyes turned to fix on him.

They were just out of reach.

A gigantic hand clenched, rose, fell-

And the doors smashed open.

The ink giant let out a roar of outrage as its hand fell to the floor, completely severed.

The Meister stared blankly, as if completely unable to comprehend what was unfolding.

And the Witch himself had come to a complete halt, staring in numb horror at the cross-shaped haft and black blade that had interposed itself between them, and the sheer magnitude of the Soul Wavelength that it emanated - a brilliant blue, most certainly human, but unmistakably tinged with a Witch's Magic.

The Soul Wavelength of what he could only assume was a Death Scythe.

---

He hadn't been prepared for the magnitude of the massacre.

Granted, he never had been; no matter how many collections Spirit had gone on, with Stein or Makoto, he'd never been able to fully compartmentalize, to separate his feelings from his job as a Weapon. He brought his emotions into his work, whether he wanted to or not - and those emotions were almost always somewhere between sympathy for the grief brought by the lives that were lost, and furious outrage towards the ones who had taken them in the first place.

But even considering that, the mere sight of the bodies, having been swept to the side amidst the skirmishes, was almost enough to stagger his mind entirely; although it was sadly easy for Kishin Eggs to devour many, many victims if they went undetected for long enough, it was rare that they went on such brazen killing sprees. From the undesired glance the Death Scythe took, he was assaulted with the visage of dozens of Soulless bodies, twisted and vivisected and broken, the familiar tang of blood and the reek of dawning decay only confirming that they were far, far too late.

To his right, a maimed boy knelt, soaked in his own blood and gasping for breath, clutching the crimson-jeweled staff in his hands like it was a lifeline. His thick grey cloak was shredded, his odd dark clothes perforated with dozens of holes and exposing sickly pale skin that was lined with just as many open cuts and wounds, his birdlike mask missing its beak and askew on his brow beneath a mop of messy, pale-blond hair.

To his left, stood the Demon Sword.

The towering mass of black that extended from the diminutive child's back was howling, not from any actual pain, but from fury. Its severed hand had already regenerated, and the Death Scythe could feel its Madness washing over him in a tide, threatening to pull his mind into the abyss with its chaotic undertow.

"Damn little PRICK!" it retreated back beneath its Meister's skin, the mouth on the black sword throwing itself open in a scream; Spirit winced, even as his Soul Wavelength rose in pitch to defend him from the sheer noise. The child was dragged forward and down by their arm, the Sword looking to cleave clean through his own blade, "I'LL SWALLOW YOUR SOUL!"

This, however, wasn't Spirit's first showdown against a Demon Weapon. He had already gotten a feel for the Demon Sword's Wavelength from the screaming alone - a reckless tactic that would gradually tear at anyone who didn't know how to alter the frequency of their own Soul Wavelength to match another's… but to anyone who was experienced in such things, it was a dead giveaway as to the precise frequency one needed to completely cancel out the enemy's attacks.

Despite how much the primary Death Scythe disliked working with Stein, he had to admit - he'd picked up some handy tricks from his old Meister.

Their blades clashed; on impact, Spirit unleashed his Soul Wavelength, a precise countercurrent to stand against the Demon Sword's reckless flood. The vibrations that were intended to utterly maim him came to a halt, the Demonic Weapon choking, unable to maintain its scream, its Meister stumbling forwards with no way to stop themselves.

Face-first into Stein's open palm, fingers curled into claws, small bolts of lightning playing between them as he flared his Soul Wavelength.

Soul Force.

The violence of the burst was entirely at odds with the cold calm of the Doctor. The pink-haired child was suspended in midair for a brief moment, eyes wide between Stein's fingers, before they were hurled violently back across the room with enough force to partially embed them in the far wall. They stared blankly from where they lay, halfway sunk into the marble and wood…

"I don't suppose that got them," Spirit mused, even though he already knew the answer.

"No," Stein's voice was cool as ever, "They've already taken quite a beating, and I doubt the Meister will be able to handle much more," he glanced back over his shoulder, glasses glinting in the light as he looked upon the boy behind the Death Scythe, "This one must be quite the capable fighter to have lasted this long and inflicted this much damage."

He seemed to flinch, trying to shuffle back and gain some distance. But the instant he tried to rise to his feet, he let out a painful wheeze, nearly collapsing entirely.

"Hey, easy," Spirit changed his tone, trying to soothe the pale blond back into a state of calm, "We're not gonna hurt you. We're here to help."

"That remains to be seen, Spirit," Stein stated.

"Well, sorry for not wanting to scare children," the Death Scythe snapped, turning his glare upon his partner.

"That's no ordinary child you're looking at. Take a look at his Soul."

He snorted, but obeyed, refocusing his eyes to peer at the boy's Soul…

And felt his heart nearly leap into his throat.

If he didn't know any better, he would have assumed the child was a Two Star Meister at the very least; the golds and purples that made up his Soul were more vibrant and robust than most DWMA students in their final year, much less students that should have only been halfway through their training. Despite his wounds, the intensity of his Wavelength was intensely focused - fearful, yes, but focused nonetheless, his attention almost entirely fixed upon the Death Scythe…

But what got Spirit's attention the most was the boy's staff.

Not only was there no Soul within, but the entire thing was absolutely seeped in Magic. It poured off the staff in waves like the warning lamp of a lighthouse, shining crimson in the dark and pouring up through the boy's palms…

"... you're a Sorcerer," Spirit finally realized, his eyes wide from where he peered from his dark inner world.

As soon as those words left the Death Scythe's mouth, the boy bristled; his Soul abruptly flared with rage, rage that swallowed his fear almost entirely. He tried to rise again, only halted by his wounds, but that did nothing to halt the violence and venom in his voice as he spat, "Call me that again and I'll break you over my knee and hurl what's left of you into the Boiling Sea!"

The redhead blinked, startled, as Stein gave an unreadable smile, idly adjusting his glasses, "Well, now… it's not very often that word gets a rise like that. Like it's an insult. I wonder where you got that from."

Again, the boy flinched, as though realizing he'd made some sort of mistake. He shrank back, his anger swiftly replaced with equal parts terror and frustration, his Wavelength turning on itself…

But before anything more could be said, the Demon Sword stirred once more.

Limb by limb, the Swordsman pulled themselves from the wall, falling into a slump when their feet finally touched the floor. Slowly, they pulled themselves up to their full height, tightening their grip on the Sword; the pinks and purples of their Soul struggled under the mass of their Weapon's, a hulking shape of black that encased them entirely in a thick, swampy mire, bristling with blades and a heavy white X through the center…

And all the while, a dark serpent coiled around them both, its length crackling like lightning as it glared into his eyes, hood unfurled and flicking its tongue with an almost bored curiosity.

"... as I was saying. The Meister may have taken significant damage, but that Demon Sword isn't going to stop until it's fully incapacitated; with how their Souls are imbalanced, the Weapon won't let them stop until it has what it wants," Stein frowned, "And the longer that takes, the more likely it is that someone else is going to end up dead."

"What the Hell do you think you're doing, Crona!?" the voice of the sword again, echoing with ever-growing rage, a pair of dark arms grabbing the child's skull and pulling at a bloody cheek, "Standing there all limp, staring off into space, taking stupid hits like that! If you don't get your scrawny ass into gear, I'm gonna start feeding you spiders in your sleep again!"

"No!" they wheezed, "I don't want to swallow spiders! They'll spin webs in my stomach and my food will get stuck in there! I don't know how to deal with that!"

Spirit glanced up at his partner, lips pursed as the Doctor reached out, gripping the iron staff and pulling his blade free from the floor; already, he could feel Stein's casual calm, his focus on the battle before them rather than the situation at hand, 'So, we'll have to end this quickly then.'

A wry smile from the Meister, the thought bouncing back, 'We'll need an opening.'

'Then let's make one.'

"Just KILL THEM ALREADY!" the Demon Sword howled. One last heavy strike from the inky arms before they vanished back under the black dress, and the Swordsman rushed forwards, gripping the Sword with both hands and swinging it with every ounce of might their damaged body could muster.

Stein's hand, however, was deft as ever.

He barely had to lift Spirit in order to catch the Sword's blade, trapping it between his own blade and the top of the cross.

He yanked upwards, pulling the child up and off their feet entirely; he raised his hand, ready to strike-

Only for the surrounding pools of black to writhe.

'Stein!' Spirit urged, pulsing his Wavelength protectively through his partner an instant before the attack could land.

Dozens of black needles erupted, from every pool and droplet of black that dotted the chiesa; they closed in from every direction, forcing Stein to break contact with the Sword, to leap back. But even with the Meister's speed, even with the Death Scythe reinforcing every part of his body to increase his reaction time, the strength of his launch and the durability of his skin, it wasn't enough to avoid every needle.

Sharp flashes of physical pain emanated from Stein and into him as the black liquid blades tore through his shirt and skin, as immediate and vivid as if the wounds were his own. He felt something flare in the depths of Stein's own Soul, something familiar, stoked by the pain and rapidly rising to the surface as his Wavelength started to grow more and more erratic. He felt Stein's lips stretch into a grin as his curiosity grew, warped, twisted-

'Hey.'

At his word, at the pulse of his Wavelength, the curiosity, the desire, the emotion all halted halfway through welling up in his partner's chest, a bubble in a pot about to boil that had spontaneously frozen.

'... settle down, Stein. You gotta keep it together,' Spirit reminded gently, reaching out tentatively with another pulse, 'Remember what we're here for.'

… a long moment passed before his partner's Soul acquiesced, the curiosity settling once more into the back of Stein's mind, like an oddly well behaved tiger - but a tiger nonetheless. The Doctor's focus was still firmly on the Demon Sword and its Meister, the grin settling into a grimace and the vicious violence in his eyes settling from a wildfire to a tightly controlled torch. Finally, he let out a long, slow breath that Spirit hadn't realized Stein had been holding, his heartbeat finally starting to slow again.

And all the while, Stein hadn't stopped moving; he'd still been dodging the needles through that entire exchange, his movements briefly threatening to become wild before settling back into practiced calm.

'... using their own spilled blood as a weapon,' Spirit fumed, 'This is part of why I hate Demon Swords. There's always some sort of catch or trick with them!'

'Weren't you the one telling me to settle down a moment ago, Spirit?' the amusement in Stein's thought was palpable.

'You know that's not the same!' the Death Scythe snapped, though he could feel the smile pulling at the edges of his lips.

'Whatever you say. Are you ready?'

He felt the experimental pulse from his Meister; had he been in human form, Spirit's breath would have hitched, his heartbeat redoubling its pace.

He had known this was coming. But even through all the hours he had spent with Stein over the course of the past week, the prospect of performing a Soul Resonance with Stein hadn't gotten any easier.

It was one thing to have Stein hold him, the familiar loose, but firm grip that tightened with every swing amidst a Basic Resonance… but a proper Soul Resonance was something else entirely. Something with an entirely different meaning; performing a Soul Resonance meant letting someone in, meant letting your Soul blend with someone else's; experiences became shared, and the line between where one Soul and and the other began began to blur.

Doing that with Stein again… the prospect made his stomach churn.

On the other hand, it wasn't as though he had another option.

They had to stop the Demon Sword, here and now, before it became a Kishin.

That meant he had to put his personal feelings aside.

'... as I'll ever be,' the Weapon took a 'breath,' then bounced the pulse back in affirmation.

Affirmation that they were, indeed, partners again.

Immediately, the Wavelength began to bounce back and forth between them in a deliberate back and forth flow. The world seemed to slow as Stein finally came to a halt, the bloody needles closing in around them, the Demon Swordsman finally having regained their footing, their own Wavelengths flaring.

But that didn't feel concerning; if anything, the prospect of seeing more of what the Demon Sword could do was an enticing prospect. The way the blood flowed and sharpened, the way the sword itself emanated that piercing noise, it was all so exceedingly fascinating; the temptation to just rip the sword out of the child's hands was growing. He wanted to examine it, to test its weight and balance, to clamp its mouth open and count its teeth and cut into its blade to peer at its grain and see how it had been constructed, to dissect-

Stein's feelings, blending with his.

It had been so long since he'd felt these impulses that it had taken him a moment to recognize them, a moment that had almost been enough to overwhelm him. He steeled himself, then pushed back, once again gentle but firm as he brought his own emotions and values to bear.

His concern for his daughter.

His fear for Soul's life.

His protectiveness of the boy behind them, Sorcerer or no.

His determination to protect people, to save lives, even at personal cost.

The fierce curiosity retreated - not so much vanishing as it did simply shift aside, giving his emotions room to sit. Suddenly, he was seeing the Demon Sword, the Swordsman, the black blood and the chiesa from two distinct points of view, his lower position from the blade, and Stein's own eyes; he was running through Wavelength calculations he couldn't hope to do on his own even with a calculator, much less this quickly as the needles closed in. Spirit saw what Stein wanted to conjure, and despite himself, he felt himself grin.

No words were spoken as their Wavelengths finally became one.

No words were needed, after all.

He felt Stein's muscles burn as they spun the Death Scythe.

He knew Stein felt the impact of the steel against the stone floor as he plunged the tip of Spirit's haft into the floor.

From the both of them, a wave of white erupted, a physical manifestation of their paired Wavelength.

'Experimental Spirit Body!'

The whitish grey mass was practically a balloon filled with molasses in how it moved; it exploded briefly in size until it towered over the Weapon and Meister, its translucent white body flowing and warping with every subtle movement. The needles bounced off the gigantic screws that stuck out of its form, or pierced its surface and came to a halt, unable to truly reach the pair.

Finally finished that technique?

Of course not. Research is never truly finished.

But it worked.

Of course it worked. I have you to thank for that.

So how is it still experimental now that you know it works?

How can it be improved?

That is a fair point-

"Screech Alpha!"

Snapped out of their reverie by the Demon Swordsman's wail, they looked up just in time to see the giant skull closing the distance, jaws thrown wide. It bit deeply into the fleshy defence, tearing through it like marshmallow, getting closer with each fraction of a second that passed…

You still know what to do?

Break through.

Together, they redoubled their Wavelengths.

Together, they tore through, emerging from the safety of the ectoplasm.

His blade gleamed, losing its physical shape, expanding into something altogether more jagged as Stein leaped. He felt stitches run through his form, Wavelength on Wavelength, his blade sharpening to its finest point.

'Witch Hunter!'

His blade made contact with the iron skull.

And iron parted as easily as water.

Stein kept his grip steady as they rushed forwards, cleaving through the black metal.

"CRONA, MOVE!" the sword urged, finally seeming to recognize the threat and trying to force its wielder to dodge.

But the child had no time to react as the Death Scythe's blade severed the skull entirely, and the pair loomed before them.

They could only stare, uncomprehending, as Stein's hand smashed into their chest, this time bearing both of their Soul Wavelengths.

'Paired Soul Force: Reverberation!'

The reaction was far, far more violent this time; Spirit could feel several of the child's ribs shatter under the force of their shared blow. The armour-like quality of their blood dissipated, along with the sword, turning to liquid in the child's hands as they were taken entirely off their feet, and hurled back across the chiesa. They landed in a crumpled heap, their body twisted and broken on the floor, a puppet with its strings cut left in the corner of some horrific carnival. Their Soul Wavelength sputtered, no longer in sync with the Sword's…

And the Rejection commenced.

---

Her eyes fell half lidded as Crona's and Dainslief's Wavelength flickered, and then exploded in an erratic storm; even without the serpent she had planted in them, she could hear the paired screaming of the Demon Sword and its Meister as their Souls Rejected each other, forcibly trying to escape from one another of their own accord, regardless of the wishes of their owners.

Even through the chiesa's walls, she could see the black spikes bursting through Crona's skin and swaddling dress by the dozens, lifting them up and off the ground or piercing through the wood and stone and marble with wild, uncontrollable violence. They struggled to grab at the spikes, to regain control, only to be pierced again and again for their troubles as Dainslief's face and body bulged and bubbled both in and out of their skin, trying and failing to break free from the prison of flesh that held it.

But of course, there was nowhere for either of them to go, body or Soul; Dainslief had long since been melted down, and there was no separating Sword from Meister at this point.

"It seems I've found their limit. Such a shame," she mused, taking the time to properly finish each letter in her stack of papers, "But I suppose that was the most I could ever expect from Crona and Dainslieft in the short term. I will have to punish them later."

'Venice, July 7th, 2020.

'Souls devoured: 83.

'Subject and Palisman have experienced another case of Soul Rejection. Although they faced a Golden Guard of the Emperor's Coven (something to investigate further), and then a Death Scythe and Doctor Franken Stein in combat, this finding is not promising. Development of Demon Sword is within predicted parameters and will continue to be monitored, but will no longer be my primary project.

'Madness Wavelength Experiment Results: Failure. I am abandoning this project. Perhaps I will return to it at a later date, but for now, the Subject and Palisman are incapable of developing the Madness Wavelength necessary to become a Kishin. I will need to consider other avenues.'

"Oh, well," she sighed, concluding her notes for the evening before gazing back down at the ruined church, "Soul Protect, Release."

---

The Soul Wavelength was like an eruption.

It was enough to knock Maka completely out of her chair in the waiting room, her whole body going numb as she stared blankly at the floor from where she knelt on her hands and knees. It washed over her in a tidal wave, an utterly oppressive force that she could only recognize by its pulse, so disconcertingly like the heartbeat of some unfathomably massive giant.

"Signorina? Stai bene?"

She looked up, eyes wide as she struggled to focus on the nurse, to process the Italian.

"Miss?" the nurse tried again, brown eyes wide, "Are you alright?"

"I…" she swallowed, then accepted the woman's hand, letting her pull the Meister to her feet, "... I need some air."

She received no further questions as she rushed outside and into the street.

It was like a second moon had risen into the sky, shining a baleful purple against the midnight blue sky, hovering over Venice in a beacon of malignance. Somehow, it seemed to writhe in place, a distant hissing ringing in her ears with every pulse of its Wavelength, putting the entire city under its oppressive pressure, so much so that Maka had to find a wall to lean on in order to stay standing.

She had never felt such a powerful, malicious Soul before.

Nor had she felt the secondary Wavelength that underscored the first, not as immediately obvious, but significantly more powerful, a riptide that threatened to take her off her feet entirely every time it washed over her.

But she knew what it was.

Magic.

"... is that… is that a Witch?..." she murmured meekly, unable to so much as bring herself to blink, "... Mama and Papa… killed something like that?..."

She knew, vaguely, that the people around her couldn't see it, but her rational mind couldn't process it; she couldn't understand how everyone could just walk around with that monstrosity hovering overhead in a none-too-subtle death threat, suffocating everyone and everything that could perceive it. How could they not perceive that? How could they not feel that overwhelming power and malice? How could they just go about their nights and not even be aware of the monster that was now floating overhead?...

… but even if they could… what would they do about it?...

… what could she do about it?... she was a Meister, wasn't she? Wasn't it her job to kill these things? To protect people from them?

In the distance, she felt another, more familiar pair of Wavelengths flare. Stein and Papa's Wavelengths rose in tandem, in challenge, and she felt a fleeing relief wash over her…

But it wasn't enough to completely assuage her fears.

"... what do I do…?" she asked, "... I'm a Meister… I'm a student of the DWMA… but I'm not strong enough to fight that…"

She got no response.

All she could do was stand and watch as the Soul Wavelengths of her teacher and father prepared to clash with the horror that hovered above them.

---

The Guard had finally managed to push himself to his feet, ready to mount his staff and fly, fly as far and as fast as he could away from this battle. Dainslief was beyond his reach, and beaten and exhausted as he was, there was no way he was any match for a Death Scythe - much less a Death Scythe with such a powerful Meister.

Beyond that, this mission now had far greater importance than the recovery of a lost Palisman Blade.

Someone was deliberately trying to make a Kishin.

He didn't know who, he didn't know why. But that was the only way that the sudden emergence of such a powerful Demon Sword could possibly make any sense.

He needed to escape, to return to the Boiling Isles, to tell the Emperor, to tell Lady Clawthorne - he'd even take Kikimora at this point. The Empire had to be warned.

The Witch's sudden reveal had distracted the Meister and Death Scythe, forcing them to focus all of their attention on them…

His eyes locked on the Demon Swordsman.

They were beaten and broken, utterly unconscious.

One final opportunity. Proof of his claims - or at the very least, a way to end this.

All he needed to do was time it.

He mounted his staff, calling on its Magic-

Only for the air to fill with black arrows.

He hadn't even sensed the Witch readying the Magic for a spell; whoever they were, they were fast, far too fast for him to predict. The arrows twisted and writhed in the air as they closed in, and he only barely had enough time to throw himself to the ground lest he be impaled. He felt several of his formerly closed wounds reopen on impact, the pain throughout his whole body redoubling all at once…

And that horrid technique shone again.

The Witch Hunter, jagged, stitched, and glowing a brilliant white-blue in the evening light.

It cleaved through the arrows right as they changed direction to run him through; looking up, he now saw the Meister swinging the Death Scythe with equal parts speed and precision, slicing through each and every one before they could even touch the pair. Arrow after arrow fell to the ground and disintegrated, severed from their source, before abruptly regrowing and closing in again, each trying to run them through…

Only to stop just as abruptly as they had begun.

The Witchling raised his head; a gargantuan serpent's head extended from the Witch's body, fading into scale-patterned ink as it rose back into the air. It held the Demon Swordsman in its jaws, the pink-haired figure quickly becoming less and less distinct, soon no more than a silhouette to join the figure on the broomstick framed against the golden grinning Moon.

With that, the Witch's Soul slipped back into its Soul Protect, disappearing between one second and the next and only leaving two black figures against the backdrop of the night sky; the two all but vanished, speeding off into the darkness far too quickly for his eyes to keep up with.

Gone, without so much as a hint as to where…

"... well. That's unfortunate," the Meister huffed, releasing his grip on the Scythe.

"It really is," the Death Scythe grunted, returning to human form with a grimace, "We shouldn't have gotten distracted by the Witch. I'm no fan of killing kids, but… we should've ended that when we had the chance."

"It's alright; it's likely we'll get another chance soon," the stitched man tapped the side of his head, "I can't quite speak for the Witch, but I've memorized the Wavelengths of the Demon Sword and its Meister. With some luck, we'll be able to properly track them now."

"I suppose that's a win."

With that, the Death Scythe finally turned to the Witchling; slowly, he stepped forwards.

Immediately, the Golden Guard was on the defensive, raising his staff and rising to one knee despite his wounds, hoping he sounded more fierce than afraid, "Stay away!"

"Hey, hey, hey," the red-headed man raised his hands, as if to show he were unarmed - for all that was worth from a Weapon, "Easy. I'm not gonna hurt you."

He grit his teeth, trying to call upon Magic, any Magic at all-

"Don't bother."

Now the stitched one was behind the Death Scythe, idly adjusting the screw that was sticking out of his skull. He stared down, eyes cold, detached where the Weapon's were warm and concerned.

"... I can tell from looking at you that you've got no cards left to play, kid," he intoned, "That staff of yours is powerful, but it responds to your Soul Wavelength and takes a toll on you physically. Right now, you can barely keep your Wavelength steady, and you're so beaten up that trying to cast any sort of spell is liable to render you unconscious - if not worse."

The Guard said nothing, but he felt his jaw set. He glared up from behind his mask, unwilling to say anything that the two men before him could use to their advantage.

"... you need medical attention. And you need it now," clickclickclickclick, clickclickclickclick - the sound of that screw was almost as bad as the sensation of their Soul Resonance, "Luckily, you have a doctor right in front of you. I have a patient that's in need of more pressing treatment, but at the very least I can help you with the worst of the damage on the way."

Still, he said nothing, biting his tongue - the moment he said anything, it would be monumentally more difficult to remain silent.

"... you have a choice here," the screw finally stopped, and the man gave a facsimile of a smile, "It's just a matter of the easy way, or the hard way."

"Stein," the Death Scythe scolded, glaring at his Meister.

"We can't exactly just let him roam free, Spirit," 'Stein' noted, "He's not a normal kid. We can't just let a soldier run around unchecked - that puts everyone he comes across in significant danger."

"I know, but you don't have to threaten him!"

"It's the only thing he's going to respond to from us," he took out a small white stick, lighting the end; he seemed to breathe through it for a long moment, the cinders at the end searing their way up the length, ash scattering in the faint ocean breeze before he finally exhaled a cloud of smoke.

"... so. You're exhausted, You're wounded. And you have nowhere to go. You can either be reasonable - give us your staff, and come along with us for the moment…" the grey-haired Meister placed a hand on his chest… then gestured out towards the city, "Or, you can take your chances."

For a long moment, the only sound was the gentle breeze.

The clammy man's hand fell, sliding back into his pocket, "So what's it gonna be, kid?"

If his jaw wasn't already in pain from the battle, it certainly was now from how tightly he was clenching it.

Nonetheless, he forced it to loosen, letting out a sigh, and holding out the staff without a word.

"... there," the Death Scythe started, voice low and quiet. He smiled, kneeling, reaching out, "That wasn't so bad, was it-?"

As soon as he touched the staff, the Guard flared his Wavelength.

"Spirit-!" the Meister called, but it was too late.

An explosion of crimson lightning hurled the Death Scythe back, but the Witchling couldn't see where the Weapon landed; his head was swimming, his vision blurred and mind a fog as the borrowed Magic took its toll. Nonetheless, he tried to push himself up, tried to rise to his feet-

Only for a swift strike to the back of his neck to send him crumpling back down.

The Golden Guard was unconscious before he hit the ground.

---

Spirit let out a pained groan from where he lay on the cobbles.

That burst of Magic hadn't been particularly powerful, but it still hurt; he could feel the burn marks on his hands, as if he had gripped an iron rod fresh out of the forge, and he could smell burned hair and fabric in the air.

"I guess that means he chose the hard way."

He ignored Stein as his partner loomed over him, the boy slung over one shoulder, the staff in his free hand. Instead, he stared up at the starless sky, expression as blank as he could possibly make it.

"... so. What have we learned?"

"No."

"Come on, Spirit."

"No. I'm not playing this game with you, Stein."

A distinctly amused smile crept across the Doctor's face as he adjusted his glasses, "You seemed to like it plenty when you did it to me."

"That was always to teach you a lesson," the Death Scythe insisted petulantly.

"And this isn't?"

"Screw you."

"Sorry, Spirit," he tapped the screw on the side of his head, "You're a bit late for that."

The Weapon groaned, dragging the backs of his hands down his face, "I don't suppose you have some aloe vera?"

"Not for people who don't play the game."

"Fine," he snapped, "'Don't recklessly approach potential enemies who offer you their weapons.' Happy?"

"Very," Stein finally knelt, gripping him by the shoulders and pulling him up.

He grunted as he steadied himself, then looked at the boy that now lay unconscious on his partner's shoulder; his mask had been dislodged, exposing a face that was startlingly young, even considering his voice and the blood that had dried on his cheek and forehead. Dark circles had formed around his eyes in clear signs of insomnia, and between his open lips, an open space suggested a missing tooth, though how or why, he couldn't tell.

"... he can't be much older than Luz," Spirit murmured.

"And yet, he's got all the hallmarks of a soldier," Stein's smile faded, "Vicious to the last. I don't think he expects to wake up."

The Death Scythe sighed, then looked at his partner, "So. Hospital?"

"Call your daughter. We need to know where she's taken Soul," the Doctor's lips were drawn thin, "Right now, he's the priority. We've taken longer here than I would have liked as it is. The sooner I get to him, the greater his chances are."

He nodded, taking out his phone and dialling without another word, ignoring the pain of the burns in his hands.

"Papa?"

"It's me, Maka. Where are you?"

"S-SAEM Provincia," his daughter managed, "They sent an ambulance… they still won't let me see him."

"Okay," Spirit started, "You did good, sweetie. It's gonna be okay. I promise."

"... Papa?... was that… a Witch's Soul?..."

"... we'll talk when I get there, okay?" he managed, unsure of the real question that lay beneath the query, "Just stay put. Stein will get to work as soon as we get there."

"... okay."

With that, the line went dead.

He pocketed his phone, "We need to go."

Wordlessly, his partner nodded.

They set off, rushing through the streets of Venice.

---

Lilith knew where she was.

That was the sole pervading thought that had through the Owl Lady's mind through the entire night, and continued to plague her thoughts as dawn broke over the Boiling Sea beyond the Toes, racing through the forest around her home and Bonesborough.

She'd rushed through the forest, checking the glamours that kept the Owl House hidden.

Lilith knew.

She'd checked the wards that kept her from being scried.

Lilith knew.

Even the runic barriers that physically protected her home.

Lilith knew. Despite all her precautions, her sister somehow knew where she was.

She was already in Bonesborough, and she was here for her.

Eda came to a halt at the edge of the cliff, breathing deep of the salty sea spray, eyes closed as she rocked back and forth on her heels, trying to steady her thoughts.

The particulars of how Lilith knew were not important; it wasn't the first time someone had taken information to the Emperor's Coven regarding her location. Whether it was a bitter rival or customer, or someone who thought they could get a reward for assisting in her capture, rats were an unavoidable risk no matter where she went - almost more of an inevitability, really.

Besides, it wasn't as though she had been particularly low profile in her recent activities. Far from it, her flea market stand had attracted a decent amount of attention, and her attack on the Conformatorium had undoubtedly reached the ears of the Emperor's Coven mere moments after it had begun. In a way, she was lucky to have escaped before any of them had been mustered.

She knew better than anyone else just what even the weakest Witches in the Emperor's Coven were capable of, after all.

But she had been careful; she had made sure to make her appearances in multiple cities and strongholds at once over the past several years, setting traps, making feints, all in hopes of throwing off the Coven as to her precise location. She liked where she had settled down, and didn't much feel like moving now.

Now, though, her feelings on the matter may have been rendered entirely moot.

After all, Nevermore Countess Lilith Clawthorne was the Head of the Emperor's Coven.

The most powerful Witch in Belos' armies, and the highest ranking noble in the entirety of the Boiling Isles.

There were precious few reasons for her to come to Bonesborough herself - certainly not to make a personal appearance to collect a stray human or personally oversee a Covention. No, her sister would only be in the city if she had a reason to make an extended stay.

And the Wild Witches of Bonesborough had been hunted down a long time ago.

"... Titan Damn it, Lily," the Witch whispered, the words dissipating into the wind, "Why can't you just let this go?..."

The only silver linings to this that the one-woman Parliament could think of were that Lilith's presence might disrupt the local nobility - honestly, if there was anyone who deserved to be stuck catering to the Countess' meticulous obsession with order and propriety, it was Terra Snapdragon - and that Luz had, through her own misfortune and missteps, managed to warn her that Lilith was here.

"... and of course, that's the other issue, isn't it?" she sighed, turning away from the rising sun as the light began to sting her eyes.

On the one hand, the human's escapade in Hexside had landed them in a colossal amount of trouble. At the very least, she would have to reschedule deliveries, pickups, heists, virtually everything in the foreseeable future, and lay low in the Bonesborough area. Perhaps making an appearance in Dermicity or in the Ankle Archipelago might draw some attention away long enough for things to settle down…

But Lilith was smarter than that. With her leading the investigation, it was almost certain that more drastic measures would have to be taken - possibly even uprooting entirely and moving up to the Knee or the Talon Mountains, or if worse truly came to worst, leaving the Isles entirely. And that was the last thing that Eda currently wanted.

… on the other hand, though… Luz's misadventure was the only reason Eda even knew Lilith had arrived in Bonesborough. Yes, there would be significantly tighter security in the city as the Emperor's Coven tightened the net, but that was preferable to any possibility of Lilith somehow getting the better of her, of a surprise assault she couldn't do anything about. In a strange turn of events, the only reason Eda had any warning that her sister had arrived was because the Latina had gotten distracted, and wandered off.

But none of that changed that Luz was now in significantly more danger than she had been before.

It wasn't as though the child was particularly hard to pick out, even in the strange crowds of the City of Bones. She stuck out like a sore thumb, in both the human world and the Demonic Realm - and worse, she was now identifiable as the Owl Lady's property.

Property that would no doubt be confiscated if she were spotted by Imperial Guards or whoever wanted to make a few snails off a human's captivity.

The silver vixen wasn't certain what the Emperor's Coven did with humans - especially not with the Emperor's firm ban on the trade of humans for slavery, sacrifice or ingredients. But the fact that any that weren't registered were shipped off to the Cavitol told her more than enough about what it might mean.

The amount of danger Luz was in would only grow with every day she spent in the Boiling Isles.

Really, the smart thing to do would be to get it over with, to send her home and remove her memories. At this point, it would be as much for her own safety as it would be for Eda's, for King's, even for Hooty's and Owlbert's…

… and yet… the idea of forcing the human back through that door…

"... Damn it…" she rubbed her itching eyes, gritting her teeth, "... why is this so much harder than it should be?..."

A gentle hoot from her staff; the tiny claws of her Palisman dug into her skin as he hopped up the length of her arm, coming to a rest on her shoulder.

"... you don't want to either, do you?" she asked, finally looking down with a smile.

A hoot of affirmation.

"We'd be better off if I did," she mused, "It'd be safer for her, in every way. I don't know how much longer she can keep lying to whoever's on the other end of that scroll-thingy she has."

An annoyed crooning noise, this time.

"It's not a phone," she insisted, an annoyed note creeping into her tone, "Phones are boxes you step into to call someone a long ways away and require coins to operate. What she has is small, compact, and takes pictures that move. I'm not calling it a phone."

A more insistent hoot.

"I am not deflecting!" the Witch snapped, "If anyone's deflecting, it's you! You're the one who sidetracked us on her little box!"

A particularly strong hoot.

"..." she sighed, "Yeah, you got me there. I should've just pushed her through the first time… now look at where it's gotten us."

Owlbert's golden eyes never once broke contact with her's; he nuzzled her cheek with his head, letting out a more comforting croon.

"I know. I know," she admitted, "She's the only reason we have time to prepare. I get that. But that doesn't justify keeping her around, and you know it. I can't keep my eyes on her every hour of every day, and she's already proven that she'll wander off if I don't keep her under some sort of supervision."

Owlbert tilted his head, quizzical.

"No, I'm not going to make Hooty her babysitter," Eda wrinkled her nose, "That's just plain cruel."

An acquiescing hoot.

"So, what do you suggest I do?" the Owl Lady asked, "I'm open to suggestions."

Again, a quizzical tilt, the other way this time as the tiny wooden owl let out another croon.

"... 'keep my promise,' huh?... you want me to genuinely try teaching her Magic?"

Hoot.

"You know that's a long shot. Even if she does master Soul Wavelength in a day somehow, you can't expect her to just spontaneously develop skill with Magic - that's not how it works."

Hoot.

"... I hate it when you're right," she reached up to pet him, smiling despite herself, "I should at least try."

Another suggestive hoot.

"'Let her choose'?" she raised an eyebrow, "Owlbert, you know who we're talking about, right? Luz isn't exactly the model of decision-making-"

She was interrupted by the distant roll of thunder.

She scanned the horizon; in her exhaustion, somehow, she hadn't noticed the gathering clouds that were now hovering over the sea, the steam rising and condensing into a storm. She could already see the long strikes of lightning that arced down from the dark, heavy clouds and pierced the roiling waters, and the dark, thick fog that was the telltale sign of rainfall.

Owlbert let out a distressed screech, rapidly flapping down her arm to attach himself back to her staff, twisting in place until he was firmly locked in place and unfurling his wings. The winds were starting to pick up, and they carried with them a familiar, almost painful heat with them as the mist-like steam washed up from the shore.

"... oooooh, Damn it all," she hissed, mounting her staff and quickly rising into the air, "This is just what I needed.

"Boiling rain."

---

Forty. Four. Pages. Almost forty five.

I just kept finding more scenes to add to this. If I'd gotten one more in, this monster almost certainly would have been fifty pages, but as it is, it's almost 14,000 words. That's almost twice as long as my rough goal for these chapters.

All I can say is that I hope you enjoyed the battles! Lots of fighting happening in this one as Hunter and Crona battle it out, and then Crona even manages to hold their own decently well (or as well as they can, at least) against Spirit and Stein! This was a LOT of fun to write.

And... yeah, I think with how I ended this chapter, you know what's coming next for Luz.

Thanks for giving this a read, everyone, and thank you so much for your patience and understanding with me. I hope you enjoyed the twenty sixth chapter of Owls and Souls, Witches and Resonance!