Shit. Shit.
It had been quite some time since he had cursed. It felt oddly liberating to utter such foul language. If it were at any other time, he would probably feel embarrassed and try to laugh it off nervously. Saying those words were rather unbecoming of him. Rarely was he ever the type to be outspoken enough to use such strong language, and even if he did happen to find himself riled up, he always made it a point to censor himself.
But he could care less about that now. His right arm was missing, and he had three angelic assailants to deal with. He could let a few 'shits' slip out in his mind. It helped to get the adrenaline flowing, at least.
Isaac was left barely clinging to any semblance of defense. The angels were far too quick for him to try and go on the offensive. His absent limb didn't help in that matter.
The best he could do was try to slip in counterblows to their initial attacks. It at least guaranteed that they would be within striking distance. The strategy had already worked previously on the now scorched statue of the angel that stood before him. However, the dire crux of the tactic meant that he would inevitably be forced to take a hit.
It all came down to the question: could he outlast all three angels?
The first strike landed on his throat. A firm grip smothered his Adam's apple as tears began welling in his eyes. The angel was fast, barely leaving a blur of movement in its wake. Isaac only noticed it had moved when he felt the painful pressure on his neck and the angelic face mere inches from his own.
It seemed to be their favorite spot. It was the most strategic and logical place to target. Without the ability to speak, he couldn't enact his magic—losing all his firepower in one swift blow.
Despite bracing himself for the unavoidable attack, he still found himself briefly stunned and panicked. He let out a gurgled growl as he fought for access to oxygen. Feeling himself being forced onto his tiptoes as he was gradually raised into the air, Isaac did the same move he had done before. He raised his leg to his chest before kicking it forward, striking the angel square in the chest. The angel was sent flying back a good four feet away.
The soles of his feet barely touched the ground before he felt an intense, focused pressure on the right side of his rib cage. Isaac was immediately launched to the side, knocking some wind out of him. Reflexes took over as his left arm acted as a crude spring to bounce off the floor. The momentum carried into his arm and ran through his shoulder, forcing his body into an awkward half-cartwheel, half-roll.
Finesse was never really his strong suit. Not that the cracked and fractured ribs helped.
Crouched down, Isaac took a brief moment to look down at his missing arm. Fresh blood still spilled from it, splattering and splashing onto the marble floor. He wasn't human, thankfully. He could survive a little longer with the constant state of blood loss. If anything, he was more concerned with surviving the angels' assault than succumbing to the consequences of his missing limb.
Priorities.
He looked back up to see the charred angel extend its hand to the side. Its movements were eerily stiff and rigid. Isaac swore he could make out the sound of rocks grinding on one another as it moved. It was so faint. So much so that he thought it was just a figment of his pain-induced, adrenaline-running imagination.
As the angel's arm became fully extended, it flexed its fingers to faintly resemble a loose fist. A brilliant, holy, white light suddenly flashed from the angel's hand, briefly blinding Isaac. As he blinked away the afterimage, Isaac could see that the angel now held a claymore in its hand.
His eyes widened as it brought the fuller of the blade to its nose, bringing its other hand onto the hilt as it did so. The blade's tip pointed toward the ceiling, a posture and pose akin to knights of nobler times. The angel parted its lips and began whispering a prayer.
"Le↔dob^q↔lkb+↔J^v↔vlr↔_ibpp↔qefp↔pbos^kq↔tfqe↔qeb↔pqobkdqe↔kb`bpp^ov↔ql↔pi^v↔qeb↔qo^fqlo↔qe^q↔pq^kap↔_bclob↔jb+↔Fk↔qeb↔k^jb↔lc↔vlro↔afsfkb↔grpqf`b)↔j^v↔vlro↔eliv↔tfii↔_b↔alkb+↔jbk+"
The words were incoherent as if Isaac's mind could barely seem to perceive them, let alone comprehend they were words. It was like the pitch and tone were reverberated and remixed to be in a frequency utterly undecipherable in his mind. At best, he could only describe them as foreign and alien—the tongue only spoken by angels.
In his peripherals, Isaac caught two more flashes. His eyes darted to see the other angels holding their own set of blades in their hands, holding them in the same pose as their brethren.
Isaac visibly grit his teeth. The odds of his survival dramatically nose-dived. His mind scrambled for a solution of any kind. Slowly, the angels lowered their blades, pointing the tips toward Isaac, formally declaring that he was their mark.
Shit—shit!
He could feel it. He only had milliseconds before his body would be pierced by one, if not all three blades at once.
Think—think!
As he stared trepidatiously at the blades, his eyes shaking in their sockets, an idea finally manifested in his mind. He internally winced as he ran the strategy in his head.
Was it bold? Absolutely. Was it borderline suicide? Most definitely. Did he have any other opinions? No.
There was no guarantee that he would survive long enough to enact his plan. They could immediately target numerous vital organs and end his life before he could even blink. However, there was also a pretty good chance that they wouldn't.
They were sadistic. His missing arm was proof enough. At any point, they could have simply bashed his skull in with their bare hands or broken open his chest and ripped out his heart. But they chose not to. They instead decided it best to prolong the fight—prolong the pain. A sword didn't change their intentions. At least, that's what Isaac's plan banked on. But that would be assuming he had changed his original plan at all.
"If it isn't broken, don't fix it," he grimly thought.
He took a short, deep inhale, bracing himself for the pain. Sure enough, he felt the flesh on his belly being split apart as the foreign steel was shoved into his body. Immediately, he felt blood hurtling from his gut up and into the back of his mouth. He fought the urge to puke it out, but some traces managed to leak from the corners of his lips.
Shit. It burned so badly. He wasn't sure if the blade was made of metal or pure fire. Nevertheless, he stood his ground and enacted his plan.
Swiftly, Isaac hooked his arm around the angel's neck and locked it with all his strength, seizing it in his grasp. He felt the blade push itself deeper inside him, but it couldn't be helped. He clenched his eyes closed as he fully embraced the angel. Gripping onto it for his very life, he uttered his magic.
"Infernum."
Flames burst into the fabric of reality. Amidst the twisting and swirling of the inferno, Isaac thought he could feel the angel struggle and wrestle against his grasp. But it was far too late. He could feel its marble flesh begin to crack and crumble in the heat of his fury.
But fire, the equalizer in all things, did not discriminate in its wrath.
Hot. It's hot. It's—
.
T̷̡̧̬̲̭̦̘̩̊̉͛̓̓̌͌̕ḥ̸̨̧̗̮̖̽̂̓̀̍̋͋́̅̃͘͜͝ë̸͓̮͉͈͇͍̖͎̩̞͈́́́̋̇̾͋̈́̾͆͑͘͘͜͠͝ B̶̨̛̺̤̱̾̀́̋̔̆̏̎͘͘ŏ̸̡̼̺̫̥̻͈̞̍͆̏̓́͜͝ͅy̶͔͗
.
Warm.
He felt a sudden, familiar warmth wash over his body. A rejuvenating energy surged through his nerves, invoking him from his slumber. He slowly opened his eyes to see a mermaid. Marie.
"Bell!" she called out.
Wisps of crimson red tainted the water around them. Confused, Bell looked at the mermaid girl and felt his eyes widen. Deep cuts and lacerations marked her body and were still streaming out fresh blood. She had slashed herself to save him. He looked at his arm to see it reattached to his body. Still dazed, he flexed his fingers slightly. It felt good as new.
Marie placed the blade she had borrowed from him to slash herself back into his grasp. She smiled, hiding the pain she had put herself through to return him to the waking world. Bell swam to her and hugged her tightly. He couldn't talk, not like her, not while underwater. But the act of physical affection should suffice.
They held one another for but a few moments. Both wished that they could stay like this for just a while longer. But that wasn't an option.
Above, the Juggernaut still slaughtered and maimed whoever it laid its accursed gaze on. Few remained, but it wouldn't be long before they met the same harrowing fate as the others before. Bell could still hear the cries of battle from the elf girl he had sworn to protect. He still had time. He still could save her.
Marie fought the urge to cling to the boy as she felt his grasp loosen. She knew this would happen; she knew that he couldn't help but return to the fight. But Marie couldn't bring herself to admit it. She looked at him, her eyes begging and pleading for him not to go, for she did not dare to say it to his face.
Don't go! Don't go—!
Even without words, he understood and could only apologetically smile.
"I'm sorry. But I have to go."
She nodded, understanding that he was a hero who desired nothing more than to save others. And so, she let him go.
Bell cupped and kicked the water, propelling his body upward. He could feel his chest growing tighter as he hurriedly swam to the surface. Despite his level increase, he still needed oxygen like any other person. As he emerged from the murky depths, he could see it: that thin veil that separated the world of the terrestrial and the world of the aquatic.
More. Just a bit more. It's so close. He reached up and—
.
T̷̡̧̬̲̭̦̘̩̊̉͛̓̓̌͌̕ḥ̸̨̧̗̮̖̽̂̓̀̍̋͋́̅̃͘͜͝ë̸͓̮͉͈͇͍̖͎̩̞͈́́́̋̇̾͋̈́̾͆͑͘͘͜͠͝ M̶̧͚̪͉̯̜̰͎̘̀͋̇̀͗̍́͆̑̏͂̿̊̚y̶͔͗t̸̫̫̤͕̳̻̰̣̭́̌̉͝ͅḥ̸̨̧̗̮̖̽̂̓̀̍̋͋́̅̃͘͜͝i̶̡̹͈͎̳̞͙͖̾̂̀͑̀͆̑̓̽̉͐͘͘ͅc̵̛̥͊
.
Gasped.
The claymore clattered to the ground as the angel crumbled to cinder and dust. Isaac let out an estranged mixture of a wheeze and a sadistic snarl, his breaths manifesting as a black smoke that permeated the air. As the last bits of the angel cracked and toppled, bits of its ashen remains swirled around his wounds. The specs of burnt marble clung to his severed flesh, acting as slaps of scabs, closing the open wounds. Around his arm, however, the ash began forming a prosthetic. Swirling, churning, twisting, and suturing, they formed a grotesque, crooked, and elongated arm. He flexed his fingers.
Crude. Homespun. But given the circumstances, it would suffice.
Isaac bent down and picked up the claymore with his biotic arm. He twirled his wrist, making himself accustomed to the weight of the blade. He thought it best to wield it with just one hand. The elongated physique of his prosthetic would make it too awkward to feasibly brandish the sword. Finishing whirling around the blade, he silently hoped he wasn't too out of practice.
He pointed the tip towards one of the angels and then to the other as if to taunt them, to dare them into striking him. The angels did not move. Isaac didn't know if a reaction would have given him more comfort than not.
But as the trivial thought crossed his mind, a deep stinging pain caused his nerves to surge and spasm. He felt the fiery, gnawing pain trace from his right shoulder blade down to his left hip. Reflexively, he spun around, barely managing to deflect a second strike with his sword. Quickly, he brought his ash hand around the angel's neck, gripping it fiercely. Before he could even recite his magic or strike back with his brand, he felt another stabbing pain in the center of his back as something thrust itself into his flesh.
Blood—fresh, crimson blood. It swelled up in his chest before he hacked it up from the back of his throat. He did nothing to stop it from spewing from his mouth and onto the floor.
Morbid curiosity took hold as he slowly lowered his gaze. He could see a blade sticking out of his chest. His eyes didn't widen. He knew exactly what it was he would see. There would be no point in feigning shock at the sight. Instead, it only served to spurt him on. A newfound sense of rage began coursing through his body, his very soul, as the grip he had held onto the angel before began to tighten. A sadistic thought manifested in his mind.
There was no need to waste his breath.
Slowly, he began pulling the angel into his embrace. He locked eyes with it as the claymore's tip grazed against the marble flesh. Isaac stared; his eyes were alight with bloodlust as he began pressing the metal into the angel.
Curious.
The marble seemed to feel more akin to skin than stone. The way it folded and squelched as it was pierced.
The angel gave no reaction as the blade began sinking into its body. It was only when they were fully entwined together that it began writing against the blade's grip. Its face was contorted into a look of utter agony.
Good... feel what I feel.
Isaac only tightened his own grip further. Its squirming brought him a twisted sense of pleasure. Finally, it began to crumble away to dust, leaving only the Mythic and one final angel. The first to arrive and the last to stand.
While its face had no change in its stony, stoic appearance, Isaac could sense an unbridled rage emitting from it. His vision began to blear as he could feel his adrenaline running dry.
Shit.
He had spent too much of it on the last angel.
Before he could adjust his strategy to compensate for his rather reckless actions, the angel teleported directly in front of him. It raised its hand and smashed the backhand of it into his face, cracking his cheekbone and sending him flying. More blood was spat out as his feet flew off the ground. The moment before he was sent spiraling and twisting in the air, the angel gripped the hilt of the blade in his back and ripped it free.
Isaac couldn't cry out in pain as his body crashed to the floor. The wind in his lungs was knocked out once more, leaving him gasping for air. Dazed, he pulled his neck up to see the angel bending down, picking up its fallen brother's claymore.
Using his own, Isaac drove the blade into the floor, propping himself back up. He sputtered crackled wheezes as he rose back to his feet, just managing to keep his balance.
He barely even had time to take a stance as he began to feel slits and slashes carve themselves all over his body; first, it was his hands and wrists; then, his forearms, then up to his shoulders; even more hacked itself onto his chest, then back; another series of attacks left gashes on his right thigh and left shin.
Isaac found himself spinning around and around, trying to block with his sword but to no avail.
This assault was different than before. The angel had slowed its movements ever so slightly. It was so the Mythic could see it move but still not be able to appropriately react to its attacks.
It wanted this. It wanted him to know true helplessness. There was no pleasure in slashing at someone who couldn't even retaliate. But to see him try to fend for himself only to fail time and time again. That brought it great delectation.
On and on it went. With every passing second, Isaac's movements grew more sluggish. He could hardly stand, much less grip his sword properly to block the onslaught. Isaac's ears rang as pain flooded his senses. But soon, even the agony became all but dull. Every nerve in his body grew cold and numb. He couldn't even feel the grip on his blade loosen, causing it to clatter onto the ground. The sound of the metal clanging with marble sounded warbled and drowned. He could feel his legs give out, the muscles holding his body cut and reduced to pitiful ribbons.
Not needing to dice its opponent further, the angel halted its assault. It stood solemnly in front of the Mythic.
Issac was left barely standing. Blood smeared and trickled down every inch of his body (save for his ashen hand). His vision began to darken as his consciousness waned. He staggered forward, a pathetic attempt to struggle against fate and strike back against the angel. But with each step, he simply staggered towards his demise.
The angel did not move, choosing instead to merely point one of its swords towards him, fully knowing he would fall upon it himself.
Was it an act of cruelty or an act of mercy? The angel did not indicate either.
Stip-step. Stip-step. Stip—
Isaac felt his balance slip from beneath his feet. He tried summoning any bits of energy he had with himself, but it was futile as he tipped over and fell. A cool breeze ran through his hair as he spiraled downward to his doom. It felt nice, the soft puff of air. Even if it were just for a few moments. But as he was beginning to feel soothed by its touch, it was squashed by the feeling of the blade's tip piercing his chest. It mercilessly tore through his skin, splitting and cracking his rib cage before finally piercing his heart. A soft whimper of a sigh escaped his lips as he slumped forward. His false arm began to crumble and blow away in the wind, the magic holding it together withering away. An erratic, rapid thumping pounded against his eardrums—the sound of his heart beating.
Odd. His mind must be playing tricks as if it has yet to come to terms with his impending demise. All of time froze around him. His thoughts became but a series of incoherent whispers in his head. They were contradictory, clashing and clattering with themselves.
It's over. Abandon hope and make peace with yourself. Nonsense, we can still make it through! How silly, we're on borrowed time. But time is time, no matter how small it is. Fine. One last go? Let's burn it all down. Yes. Let's.
The angel stood, holding the blade tightly in its hands, propping up the slumped corpse of its prize. It was over; the traitor had been slain. As it was about to remove its sword, it noticed that the wound was glowing a faint but brilliant hue of blue. The angel peered down slightly, curious at the strange sight. But as he bent down, an intense heat burst from the Mythic's chest, surging forward and trailing up the sword and onto the angel.
Flames.
They looked as though they bore teeth, furiously gnashing and gnawing at the marble flesh, fully intent on devouring everything in its reach. Despite its supernatural speed, the angel barely had time to pull away as its blade was swallowed whole and consumed by scorn.
A look of horror was plastered on its face. It could not dare bring itself to move as the Mythic's body was entirely engulfed in flames. It grew higher and higher, reaching the ceiling in just a few moments. The flames formed a grotesque mouth with fangs of pure fire. It roared, demanding sacrifice to satisfy its carnal hunger.
BURN, BURN, BURN, BURN! LET IT ALL BE CONSUMED IN FIRE, FIRE, FIRE, FIRE—
.
T̷̡̧̬̲̭̦̘̩̊̉͛̓̓̌͌̕ḥ̸̨̧̗̮̖̽̂̓̀̍̋͋́̅̃͘͜͝ë̸͓̮͉͈͇͍̖͎̩̞͈́́́̋̇̾͋̈́̾͆͑͘͘͜͠͝ B̶̨̛̺̤̱̾̀́̋̔̆̏̎͘͘ŏ̸̡̼̺̫̥̻͈̞̍͆̏̓́͜͝ͅy̶͔͗
.
"Bolt!"
Bell heaved a heavy exhale as he fired the seventeenth consecutive shot of his magic.
He hadn't had to rapid-fire so many shots like this. The last time he did was when he first obtained the ability to cast his fire magic. It predictably ended with a mind down. Thankfully, he was now at a higher level and far more adept at invoking the spell. The vigor he felt from the mermaid blood earlier certainly helped as well.
Gods. He could use some again.
As soon as he burst forth from the watery depths, he immediately hared towards the Juggernaut, a fiery resolve ablaze in his crimson eyes. Hestia knife in hand, he pounced at the Juggernaut, slashing furiously, catching it completely off-guard. It veered its attention away from Ryu and back onto the boy. Indeed, he was the greatest threat it had ever faced thus far.
Using his knife in tandem with his Goliath scarf, Bell managed to parry away every vicious swipe away from his person, while still delivering quick and calculated blows himself. But despite his strength being restored, the sheer shockwaves from the blows Bell parried still caused his body to radiate pain and his pores to bleed. Before, he would have backed away and distanced himself before casting his firebolt magic.
But that had cost him an arm last time.
Instead, he chose to go entirely on the offensive to try and overwhelm through the sheer volume of his attacks. It worked, causing their roles to be reversed and the Juggernaut forced back. Exactly what he wanted. Moving as a white blur, he cast seventeen firebolt shots directly toward the Juggernaut. In response, it raised its magical barrier, causing the shots to ricochet back to its caster. But Bell was ready this time.
He rushed into the heat of his own magic, capturing one in his dual charge while using the others as camouflage. The Juggernaut lost track of him amidst the haze of ash and smoke. Until it saw a glimmer of pure white light peering through the smoke, shooting toward it.
The Juggernaut froze, unsure if the attack could be reflected by its shield. It saw the light growing closer and closer without hesitation. Eventually, it decided it best to dodge the incoming attack, magic-based or not, but it was far too late. It felt its tail snagged by some cloth, snuffing out any chances of escape.
Very well. If it could not escape nor differentiate if it was a physical or magical attack, then it would respond with its own blow in kind. It brought its right claw in the air before swiping with all its monstrous might. But it was all in vain.
"Isaac… watch over me."
Nine seconds. Bell had charged his Agro Vesta skill for nine whole seconds. As soon as his blade made contact, everything became engulfed in pure, blinding light. He found himself staggering for a few moments, dazed by the brilliance of his magic. His ears rung from the sheer blast of the explosion. After the dust settled and his eyes readjusted, he could see the Juggernaut missing its entire right arm. Bits of its tail were crumbled to soot and blew away from its body. Its exoskeletal shell was cracked and compromised.
Bell could see it. The end was near, and victory was nigh.
Just as he was about to dash forward and smite the monster down, Jura emerged from the rock and rubble he had tucked himself behind.
This was it! This was what he was waiting for! His dreams were coming true!
Ever since the day he had witnessed it massacre nearly all of the Astrea familia. Save for one elf, of course.
Such terrible, delectable strength. Yes, he wished to claim it for himself. To tame such a monster to heel to whatever wicked plans he had. None would be able to stand against him.
Pulling out the collar of his whip, he sprinted forward, tossing it into the air. The collar sprouted out tendrils that latched onto the Juggernaut's body, burrowing itself in its side. Jura began laughing hysterically as he claimed his prize. So sure that it was under his control, Jura feverishly demanded that it slaughter the boy and the elf.
"Now go! My ultimate slave! Go on! Butcher them!"
The Juggernaut paused for a few moments as if it were processing his words.
Too enthralled by his bloodlust and newfound, powerful slave, Jura failed to notice the Juggernaut looking at him as it raised its tail in the air.
"Grab them with those claws an—"
Before he could spout another power-crazed word, the world in front of him flipped upside-down. His face was frozen in a perpetual stare of insanity and fear as his torso flew from his lower half. It clattered onto the ground a few feet behind Bell, splattering and sputtering fresh blood from its gaping wound. Bell did not dare to look.
Freed from such a pest, the Juggernaut set its sights back on the boy. No more interruptions. But fate had a bitter sense of irony.
Much to Bell and Ryu's shock and the Juggernaut's vexation, the Lampton writhed awake, seemingly in a hypnotic trance.
"—! The Lampton?! It's still alive?!" Ryu gasped.
Bell cursed their luck. The Lamtpon must have heard the last orders croaked out by Jura and rose to heed its master's call.
Even though he had pulverized the Juggernaut's right arm, tail, and outer shell, he could still barely keep up with it. He was in no condition to take both it and the Lampton at once. Unlike before, he had Ryu to rely upon for aid against the Lampton, But that was before she had a broken leg.
Ryu could only stare as the snake-like creature towered over her. Her leg, bent and broken, twitched as she reflexively tried to get up and flee. But it was all for naught. She gritted her teeth and cursed under her breath.
Seeing Ryu in peril, Bell immediately rushed to her with all his might. He didn't think; he didn't hesitate. He couldn't even hear Ryu's pleas for him to stay back over the sound of wind rushing over his ears. Just as he reached out his hand to her, they were both consumed and swallowed whole.
Inside the Lampton's mouth, Bell grasped onto Ryu and pulled her close to his chest in an attempt to shield her. A foreign liquid sprayed and splashed on him, causing his clothes and skin to burn.
Hot. It's so hot. It burns. It—
.
T̷̡̧̬̲̭̦̘̩̊̉͛̓̓̌͌̕ḥ̸̨̧̗̮̖̽̂̓̀̍̋͋́̅̃͘͜͝ë̸͓̮͉͈͇͍̖͎̩̞͈́́́̋̇̾͋̈́̾͆͑͘͘͜͠͝ M̶̧͚̪͉̯̜̰͎̘̀͋̇̀͗̍́͆̑̏͂̿̊̚y̶͔͗t̸̫̫̤͕̳̻̰̣̭́̌̉͝ͅḥ̸̨̧̗̮̖̽̂̓̀̍̋͋́̅̃͘͜͝i̶̡̹͈͎̳̞͙͖̾̂̀͑̀͆̑̓̽̉͐͘͘ͅc̵̛̥͊
.
SHOULD ALL BURN—!
The fire cackled as it scorched the room, hungrily feasting upon whatever it could claim. It spread at blazing speeds, fully intent on consuming everything.
The angel did not move. It would be pointless even to try. Its speed, no matter how great it was, was useless and worthless if there was nowhere to go. Instead, it clasped its hands over its eyes, attempting to feign ignorance. It looked like it was weeping.
For what—it wasn't sure. For its life? No, it was but a mere tool. For this throne room? No, it did not belong to it. For the Eden that came before? Yes, that seemed to make the most sense.
The flames, such terrible things they were. Razing such beauty to pitiful ash. The angel could feel the heat course over its marble skin. Soon, it would all be over.
Meshach groaned as he awoke. He had been knocked cold from his fall off the throne's arm. He groaned as he hoisted himself upright. He shook his head, causing it to reignite as he looked around.
"—!"
He gasped as he saw the brilliant blue flames once again. Magic. His magic—the magic that had caused so much pain and suffering. It was there, spreading wildly, writhing in delight as it feasted.
No, no, no, no! This had to be a nightmare. Please, let it just be a nightmare. But it was real. The heat, the roars, and the ash it left in its wake.
Meshach felt his eyes widen as he saw an angel, the one who had caused him to fall, melt, and be devoured without a second thought. He could feel his body shivering despite the intense heat.
No, please, stop—! But the flames merely cackled at his pleas.
Mustering the courage, he shakily stood up. He dug his feet into the floor and held his hands in front of his face, trying to fight against the flames forcing him back. But as he stood his ground against the violent current, Meshach could sense that the fire did not come from a place of anger or hatred. It was desperate, sorrow-filled, but most of all—cold.
As odd as it may be, the heat and ferocity were just a facade. In truth, the Mythic in the eye of the storm was just a scared, lonely boy who had lashed out in spite to scorn the universe that hated him so.
Meshach had to do something. The flames had to be stopped! He was the only one who could do anything.
Taking a deep breath, he braced himself and dove headstrong into the fire. They would not harm him. They couldn't. He had to find Isaac, to stop the flames from spreading.
Where? Where was he?! He frantically scoured the firestorm, looking for him. All sense of direction was lost as soon as he plunged into the inferno. He wasn't even sure if he wasn't running straight anymore.
While the flames blared at him, threatening to consume him for daring to enter its maw, Meshach knew they were fibs. In some strange, twisted sense, he felt comforted by the fire. After all, it was these very flames that brought him into existence.
Panting heavily, Meshach chided himself to press on in search of the Mythic. But the task seemed more and more daunting as each second passed. Eventually, he would find him, right? It was like trying to find a needle in a blazing haystack (though, due to his stature, he would more closely resemble the needle). Suddenly, his foot snagged on something, and he tripped forward, tumbling onto the ground.
He scrambled back up and clasped onto whatever it was that tripped him. It felt like a finger.
There! That had to be him!
Quickly, he clambered atop the digit and began trailing up toward the hand before reaching the arm and continuing up to the shoulder. Finally, he reached the face. He pushed on Isaac's cheek, trying to nudge him awake. It was cold to the touch.
Meshach fell to his knees. He was too late. If only he had been there for him. If only he had gotten up sooner. But these were just cruel, fruitless ramblings of guilt. What would he have even done if he wasn't incapacitated? His heart ached as he thought of what could have been.
Heart. Ached. Heart…
"—!"
Meshach snapped his gaze to the rest of Isaac's body. It had been gored, slashed, and gouged apart. But Meshach could see it. There, he spotted it. A gaping hole in Isaac's chest where his heart would be. Though, now it was a geyser, the source of where the flames were spewing from.
He didn't know if it would work. But he had to take that chance.
Was it risky? Yes. Was it reckless? Kind of. Would he ever forgive himself if he at least didn't try? No, never.
Clambering back onto his feet, Meshach bolted toward the cavernous wound. He stopped just short of it. Second thoughts began to plague his mind as he stared at the slash.
What if he winds up killing him? How silly. He's already dead. What if you get blown away by the force of the fire? Then he would just run back to try again. There was a chance that he would die trying to save him. Then at least he would die knowing he had tried to do the noble thing.
And so, he took a deep breath and plunged himself into the gash.
In the flames, he was given life. Perhaps he could do the same for the Mythic.
One, two, three, four—
Just as abruptly as they burst into existence, the flames dispersed into nothingness; their hunger satiated. Nothing but ash and smut and silence was left. Not even the throne had been left unmolested. Charcoal and cinders sprinkled the base of the stone seat. The arms had singe marks scarring and streaking along their edges. As for the angels, not a single speck of dust gave indication they had even been there.
For a few moments, the throne room had been returned to its quiet, isolated peace. It was nice. There were no banners hung on the wall portraying a righteous zeal; no majestic carpet unfurling on the ground leading to the throne; no prestigious lords and ladies dressed dainty-like; no clandestine plots of assassination. Not anymore.
Then, a soft, almost inaudible beating sound emitted around the room. It came from the Mythic.
Thu—thump. Thu—thump.
Isaac suddenly gasped awake as the fires of life coursed through his body. He jutted forward, clutching his chest. This fire was different from his magic.
"Meshach…?" His voice was as rough and coarse as sandpaper.
"Yeah… I'm here."
The voice of the little light rang in his mind as he weakly hoisted himself up. It was over. He had won his fight against the angelic assassins! No, winning implied that he would recover and live on. But as it stood, he was indebted to time, and he had nothing to give to repay the deed.
Meshach's solution was all but temporary. Isaac could feel it, his essence ebbing away with each passing second. His light was fading.
In a delirium, he drunkenly stumbled toward the throne, nearly tripping over himself with each step. He could barely even hold himself up against his own weight.
He wasn't sure why he was moving at all. Each movement only sped up his imminent end. The act of breathing alone threatened to snuff out his life. It was as if he was in some kind of trance. He could see himself, his half-dead body, dragging itself to the throne. It beckoned to him.
Finally, he reached it. He collapsed onto the throne. Ah, yes, this felt right. This is where he belonged. After all these years, he had forgotten this feeling.
"Meshach…" he whispered. "Thank you but… this is it."
"What? No. No, no, no, no, no—!" Meshach cried. "I… I just got you back!"
Isaac bit back tears as he heard the desperate pleas. He wanted to cry, but that didn't seem right.
He deserved this terrible fate, this punishment he had avoided for so long. His life would be the only price truly worth the sum of his sins. His death was the ultimate form of repentance. This was fair to all but Meshach.
Isaac wouldn't cry to further spurt the little flame's heartache. That would not be the last act he would be remembered for. So instead, he smiled. It was a genuine smile. Soft, kind, and warm. He hadn't smiled like that since before the Great Scorching.
"It's okay, Meshach. We'll see each other again. I promise."
He could feel his eyelids growing heavier with each word. Unlike before, he felt calm and tranquil. This wasn't the worst way to go.
But he wasn't. Not truly. For him, there existed only life, and life alone—his life, moving from one dimension to another.
"Bell… I'm sorry… forgive me for being so selfish… this is the only way…"
He could feel himself slipping, and yet, becoming whole again.
"Be strong, be brave, and carry your dreams on your shoulder. You can bear this burden. I know you can."
He let out one final sigh as he slumped into his throne.
"Bear it, for our sake. Please... don't let the fires of our hatred consume you."
The light in his chest flickered as it wept uncontrollably. The flame was left alone to sob on the ashen, hollowed throne.
Cold—it feels so, so cold. So very, very—
.
W̵̰̻͍̉̔̅̀̐͐͒͆̒̚ḥ̸̨̧̗̮̖̽̂̓̀̍̋͋́̅̃͘͜͝ŏ̸̡̼̺̫̥̻͈̞̍͆̏̓́͜͝ͅl̶̬̞͎̖͉̹̝͕̝͖̣̉͆ë̸͓̮͉͈͇͍̖͎̩̞͈́́́̋̇̾͋̈́̾͆͑͘͘͜͠͝
.
Hot.
Bell let out a guttural cry as he blasted out of the Lampton's stomach. Wisps of steam arose from his body as he collapsed onto the ground, fresh acid pooling out beside him. He could still feel the stinging, burning pains of the acid on his flesh. He took a moment to heave out some bile of his own, the result of accidentally swallowing some of the Lampton's stomach contents.
After his initial shock and reaction, he quickly moved to tend to the elf girl who had been swallowed with him. But as he cradled her in his arms, an inexplicable pain suddenly surged from his head. He dropped her as gently as he could before gripping his temples trying to quell the pain, but to little effect. It was like someone or something had taken a hammer and nail and was pounding at his skull.
Sporadic and disconnected thoughts began to flood his mind. Images of people and places he had never seen and yet fully knew of seeped into his subconscious. Voices and names rapidly rang out in his psyche. His very soul writhed in anguish and confusion until a single name made everything come to a stop.
Cain, Abel, Seth, Adam, Eve, and—
Eden.
He looked down at his hands. His hands—their hands.
Ryu stirred and slowly opened her eyes. Her vision was still clouded and blood-soaked. But as she looked at the boy who had saved her, something immediately caught her eye.
"Cranel-san…?" she weakly called out.
She shakily brought a hand up to him. He bent down slightly to meet her, lessening the pain she felt as she reached out. Curiously, her fingers brushed against the top of his head.
Black.
On the top of his head, his snow-white hair was now stained with strands of black.