Chapter 75. Butterbeer and mead
Jeanne and Mordred strolled through the streets of London, feeling a surge of freedom from their owners. Wanting to celebrate their legends, which, although different, were still so similar, they decided to have a drink. They were heading to the Leaked Cauldron. Jeanne wanted to have some creamy beer there, while Mordred planned to order a whole barrel of mead for both of them. Jeanne regarded this idea with disgust - she didn't like strong drinks. She didn't even try the creamy beer right away, fearing that her stomach would not accept the new drink without joy.
"How do you like this city, Jeanne?" Mordred asked with a smile. "I think it's interesting here. There are so many people and all sorts of things. And magic too. Don't forget about magic."
"Magic?" Jeanne interrupted him with a cold tone. "You mean the very magic that got us here? The one that makes us serve unworthy Masters, endangering this world and its inhabitants?"
"Well, yes, that too. But not only that. There is also the magic of friendship, love, and adventure..." Mordred listed thoughtfully.
"Friendship? Love? Adventure?" Jeanne repeated mockingly. "You speak as if we are here just to have fun. But we are here to participate in the War for the Holy Grail. A war that arises from our own desires."
"Don't you want to step aside for a while? Forget about all your sufferings?" Mordred asked seriously.
"Forget? Never. I won't forget my calling. I won't forget my sins. I won't forget my repentance. I won't forget what I have received," Jeanne replied decisively.
"I don't want to give up everything that belongs to me. I want to live a full life, on my own terms," Mordred said cheerfully. She stretched her arms wide and spun on her heels, not slowing down.
"You don't understand, know, or feel anything," Jeanne replied contemptuously.
"And you don't see, hear, or even think," Mordred provocatively answered.
They continued to argue, like two locked souls, oblivious to everything happening around them. As long as the words clashed, breaking through all their senses. But amidst the raging war of words, they didn't notice a tall, muscular figure planning to visit their path. In his intense eyes, red mad sparks burned like unwavering stars in boundless darkness. And there was no expression on his face, just a rough mask of stone, a face capable of concealing streams of truth like a demon waiting for his moment. He was the embodiment of Hercules, intoxicated by Berserker, whose presence made Jeanne and Mordred feel the metallic taste of threat on the tips of their tongues and the pulsation of fear.
Suddenly, the dark figure sensed the presence of other servants lurking in the shadows, like predators in ambush. Climbing to the peak of his passionate madness, he stopped, as if a puppet on a sinister string, and turned his head towards them. As if the existence of a team entirely enclosed in his dark mind, commanding him to tear them to pieces, began to penetrate through unknown rifts in the universe's fabric, and his rough hands almost palpably drew out the hot sharpness of a sword. It glimmered in the darkness like a snake ready to bite its prey at the height of consciousness. The colossus' muscles flinched. With unwavering determination of the Berserker, he lunged at Jeanne and Mordred, and his roar pierced through this damned place, like a cry penetrating through the swampy-green surge and whispering with the icy breath of beings from other dimensions.
Darkness engulfed the entire street, giving the battle a sinister hue. Hercules' grip was relentless, his hands moved so fast that the defending duo only saw a flash of his blade. But Jeanne and Mordred didn't give up, they had already experienced too much to let the enemy win.
Each strike was filled with fury, and every parry highlighted strength and skill, as expected from such experienced warriors. Drops of sweat poured down their faces as they embodied all their mastery in battle. The sound of sword clashes filled the air, like a sinister symphony of death.
The dark creature, dwelling in the cave of its own madness, possessed inhuman strength and cruelty. It attacked like a fighting robot, cornering the two warriors. But in their eyes burned the flame of determination, and they were not going to give up. It was futile to break through their defense - they stood firm, like stone walls, not allowing the enemy to penetrate even through the tiniest cracks.
His fury doubled when his sword was struck and shattered into pieces. The warrior had to retreat to inspect his wounds and gather his thoughts. A burst of fire covered part of his body, but even that didn't slow him down for a second. Darkness distorted his appearance, filling his eyes with flaming fire.
But Jeanne and Mordred were not afraid of this twisted threat. They laughed with diabolical glory in the face of death. The ancient swords in their hands grew darker and more inhuman. A bloody crown of revenge adorned their foreheads, proclaiming the absolute victory over evil.
The screams pierced the city block, tearing through the air. Bodies collided, the wind whipped, and bones cracked, but no one loosened their grip. The war, which had engulfed this cursed place for so long, found its limit in this battle.
Finally, Hercules became possessed by rage. He tore and slashed everything in his path.
Jeanne and Mordred embodied ancient heroic souls, as if resurrected from the pages of ancient legends. Their eyes burned with the fire of passion and determination, like a cedar tree ablaze in the silent night, and their hearts beat like a drum announcing the onset of a deadly clash. They were not ordinary mortals, their weapons became a great Mozart in this situation, and the battle, unfolding before the bloody gaze of invisible angels of death, sounded like a dreadful symphony of unknown.
Hercules engaged in battle, delivering confident blows with his devastating fists, even though Hercules himself knew he had become a curse, a monster practically invincible. His sweaty elbows struck the air like a spark igniting the depths of eternity, and Jeanne, as a selfless victim of the unknown, absorbed the probing strikes, just to solidify her victory over the demonic madness that had captured her world, filled with anger and horror. Mordred, rising as the curse of a warrior defiled by the soul, revealed the confident motion of her sword, resembling a snake's tail ready to strike at the pulsing heart of Hercules.
Thus, one after another, mortals and immortals, like dice thrown into the pre-eternal void, fought for their place under the sun, and not a single drop of blood in their veins remained indifferent to the outcome of the battle. The noise of the battle reached every corner of the earth, as if a cosmic echo filled the void of the boundless universe.
It seemed that hours, days, and weeks had passed. And only when the souls of the heroes had expended their last ounce of strength did they all feel that the time for the decisive clash had come. The final sword of Mordred unfolded like a snake freed from captivity, and Jeanne swung her sword, La Pucelle, as if covering her faith in victory. Hercules stood on the brink of a cataclysm, preparing an internal whirlwind of power, sparkling in his ruthless eyes.
And now, the moment of truth arrived. The battle on the edge of the universe reached its climax. Hercules, thirsting for immortality, was unaware that the universe behind him was lurking. In every speck of dust, in every breath of wind, in every stone buried in the ground, death's mother hid, and Hercules found himself on the brink of the madness that lay in the heart of intangible shadows. The last drop of blood, trickling down his forehead, foretold the death in which even the gods had to bow. He saw them, heard their cries, felt the gaze of their empty eyes, but there was nothing else to do - someone had to die in this battle.
Silence. The world and the universe held their breath. And suddenly, death, like the teeth of a beast, clasped the skillful fingers of its infernal hand around the burning, exuberant nest of Hercules' life. His loud cries turned into the raging whisper of the night, with each breath, stars went out one by one, like sinister numbers, illustrating the destruction of the universe. And Hercules, the powerful hero, transformed into a blazing figure, carrying the indescribable mark of his own burial. And Jeanne and Mordred, two ships in a raging whirlpool, were forever engulfed by the gates of infinity.
Only the trembling Earth, after the storm it had endured, turned into enchanting silence when the bodies of the heroes merged together on this land they looked upon from the heights of the heavens. Jeanne and Mordred left murky traces of their presence, leaving behind only darkness, which iron strength and the whip of sinister intentions had engaged. And nothing could answer the most important question anymore - who won this battle, who subjugated the other with their uncontrollable will.
Thus ended the story of the battle, where bravery faced merciless force, where their courage stood majestically in the face of chaos, where two invincible fires met simultaneously in the dark abyss of possibilities. But let these names remain in the minds and hearts, for in their deaths lies their essence.
However, in Jeanne's dark eyes, a fiery passion for life ignited, as if she was enchanted by the billions of flickering sparks of lightning erupting. In immediate proximity, the unseen but palpable Mordred stirred, a blurred shadow in a bronze bag of threats and danger. As if prophesying a predestined future, after several long, agonizing moments, the telescope of natural selection erupted with Hercules' deafening roar, resonating across the vast expanse of the sinister forest like a moonshine still ready to explode. In the desolate souls of freedom fighters, the thought of surrender didn't awaken, for their souls were filled with fearlessness, like a raging ocean of defiance.
Three distorted figures, moving with terrifying slowness, as if locked in resurrected corpses in their final moments of life, rose from the ground. Alienated faces gradually pieced together, returning to their complete forms. Someone who witnessed this battle couldn't contain a scream. The sound pierced through the weariness of the night, echoing among the circles of emptiness. But who could have imagined such a thing? The spectacle was so horrifying that another person caught in this gruesome scene simply screamed as if calling for help from this nightmarish display, which resonated with the fantastic descriptions of the most famous horror artists.
Jeanne, barely moving her legs in partially shattered armor, slowly raised her face to the abyssal sky and let out a resounding, thunderous laughter that pierced the air like a hunting call. Her left hand was clothed in timid flames, bright and rebellious. Lowering her gaze, filled with grave determination and unwavering desire to overcome this fateful enemy, Jeanne tightly gripped her sword as her last support in life. At the same time, Mordred standing beside her raised the sword Clarent, and its blade ignited with crimson fire, symbolizing her unyielding spirit. Coldly flicking her fingers, touching her chin as a sign of challenge to Hercules.
Hercules, howling with a primitive voice, pointed at both warriors with his feverish eyes filled with animalistic hatred. Once again, he erupted with a ferocious scream that stretched through the darkness, spreading like a mad bell of this absurd performance. The cry of all three echoed in the air, like impurities of existence, attempting to erupt from the consciousness of accumulated fissures.
Mordred and Jeanne surged forward, like animals in fury, their bodies filled with a exhilarating battle energy that seemed to momentarily freeze the air. Their movements were so fast and precise that it appeared as if they had mastered the magic of time. The swords shimmered in the darkness, casting ominous glimmers onto the surrounding buildings.
Hercules, the giant with mighty muscles, even raised an eyebrow in surprise at the unexpected challenge. But his face remained hidden behind an eternal mask of impassiveness. In a burst of particular cruelty, he emitted sounds that seemed impossible for a human - dark growls of ancient dreams and scorching spiritual cries, woven from the images of bloodshed battles of the gods of old myths.
The battle raged against the backdrop of sharply emptied and abandoned streets of London, where massive shadows played on the walls of the houses, evoking melancholy and anxiety. Around these figures armed for battle, tall buildings that Hercules demolished crumbled like shards of a hapless past. Every sword strike echoed with a dull echo in the depths of the deserted streets.
The dread blade sparkled and trembled in Mordred's hands, becoming an instrument of true vengeance. Her confident movements and professional skill unleashed a deadly dance, in which each strike was a deliberate assault against an unproclaimed enemy. Jeanne, enveloped in a hot fiery flame, revived the besieged and cursed legacies in her memory. Around her, a stunningly deadly whirlwind of fire burst forth, like an embodiment of hell, expelling light and life from the blazing capital.
They stood shoulder to shoulder, like brothers in arms, and their battle cry broke through the night, filling the silence with a resounding and sparkling echo. The enthusiastic and persistent sounds of their battle cry and the loud clash of bronze against bronze wove together a mythical symphony of eternal struggle.
The surrounding buildings became witnesses to this extraordinary battle, pouring forth from the origins of the most ancient times. The whirlwind of death and magic enveloped them on its nervous waves, penetrating every crevice of this dark city.
Thus the battle continued, until the surrounding world and its inhabitants became witnesses to these three relentless fighters merging in a single point of contact between reality and nightmare. As blood flowed from their broken bodies and mixed with past technologies and unfathomable powers, absorbing their world and existing reality into one fragile entity.
In their grand battle, living and dead flesh, horror and absoluteness, took shape in a carnival of history, where humanity teetered on the brink of uncovering the greatest secret. Fire, steel, and will clashed in an apocalyptic dance, with scorched stones on the sidewalks awaiting destruction.
And not one of the mad stars watching this could remain indifferent to the great bloody battle that threatened to engulf everything that had been created.