A dim, twisted version of the Boiling Isles, shrouded in fog and surreal, distorted imagery that reflects Boscha's heavy guilt. The air is thick with an eerie, pulsating glow from the decaying flora that seems alive, their whispering predatory voices jeerimg and mocming her.
As Boscha drifts deeper into her restless slumber, the fog thickens, and the landscape shifts violently. Trees twist into grotesque shapes, thorns curling maliciously. The air grows cold as faint cries can be heard in the distance.
Plant Humanoids with skull face and woodedn antlers looking at her with hallowed black eyesockets from behind the twisted trees of the forest
The twisted forest morphs, revealing a harrowing sight—two horrifying figures emerge from the shadows: Amelia, her body torn and grotesque as a blood-colored spruce tree looms over her, and Cat, lifeless and impaled, reduced to a desiccated husk.]
"Boscha... why weren't you there?*
As Ameia spoke, red branches and roots writhed around her, pulsing with a sinister life of their own, as if they are drawing power from her suffering.
Boscha panic-stricken exclaimed."I-I tried! I didn't know—everything happened so fast!:
The figures shifted, their faces twisting into unnatural expressions of hatred and sorrow
"You didn't try hard enough, Boscha. While you sat in your throne of insecurity…" Cat's voice was low, dripping with disdain.
The shadows around her writhed, encasing her husk in thorns that seem to thirst for suffering.
"While we screamed for help turned into literal puppets by the Collector, you reveled in your power, lording over the survivors—"
"I didn't mean to! I just wanted to be… better!" Boscha's voice trembled.
They did not sympathise, apparent by Amelia's sneer "Better? You mean better at being a sadistic tyrant? You could not accept that there are those more powerful and better than you so you hid in a hole and bullied the weaker ones to feel better about your shallowness!" As she mocked, tendrils snake towards Boscha, wrapping around her wrists, pulling her closer to her dead eyes.
"You left us to rot while you basked in your own glory... How much did it hurt to feed your ego?"
Boscha's heart raced, the burden of guilt weighing her down like lead, when her friends were taken by the Collector and their horrible deaths played around her like a sadistic mix-tape.
"Look at us, Boscha! Look at what your selfishness has caused."
Cat gestured towards her own impaled body, the remnants of life nowhere to be seen.
"You were too busy to notice... too caught up in your need for validation to see the truth—that real strength means standing for others!"
"I didn't know! I didn't know what I had to do! until... until you—" Boscha stammered as she struggled against the vines that held her.
Amelia's head turned showing a red tree branch on her cheek and hollow eyes that accused her.
"And what did you do, Boscha? Hide behind your facade of power while we became puppets? And let us die?"
The pain of their words pierces through her, echoing in her mind, mixing with the images of their gruesome fates, driving her deeper into despair.
Boscha's voice cracked as tears came from all her three eyes "I'm so sorry! I never wanted this! I never wanted to lose you! Either of you!"
"It's already too late, Boscha... .YEARS too late…" Amelia's hauntedly vocalized.
Cat added in "But don't worry ... .you'll join us soon!"
Dark vines twisted around her, their growth unnaturally rapid, as if fueled by a hunger of their own. Boscha's screams echoed through the air, desperate and primal, until they were swallowed by the thick undergrowth that engulfed her, the hungry bushes pulling her into their verdant maw.
Boscha jolted awake, sitting up in a cold sweat, her heart racing as she scanned her surroundings. She expected to see plants closing in on her, but instead, relief washed over her when she found nothing but darkness. 'What a nightmare', she thought, just a bad dream while sleeping in her room—
"Where is this? What dump am I in!?"
This wasn't her room. Not even her house.
It was a cave.
She reached for her palisman, but it remained stubbornly inert. Panic surged as she shook it, hoping for a reaction, but it felt like nothing more than a useless stick in her hand.
"Come on! Come on, Maya! This is the worst time for you to stop working!" She continued to shake it, frustration mounting. Then a thought struck her. "Wait! Where's my Scroll? My Penstagram and contacts are on there!" She rifled through her pockets but found nothing.
"ERK!" She looked up, startled to see a figure that hadn't been there a moment before.
Before her stood a small, spectral green figure resembling a human child. Its glowing green eyes were devoid of pupils, and it wore a stereotypical witch's hat, as if it had stepped out of one of those strange human holidays that Gus and Luz had shown everyone—holidays she'd never admit to finding somewhat interesting and would rather die than admit that not all of human media are terrible.
Boscha quickly masked her fear with a stoic expression, crossing her arms defiantly. "What dump did you bring me to?"
The ghost opened its mouth, but no sound emerged.
Boscha scoffed. "Of course ghosts can't talk normally. If Amelia and Cat—" Her voice faltered as the memory hit her like a punch to the gut.
Her friends… were dead.
By plant magic, of all things! The irony wasn't lost on her; the very magic she had once mocked had claimed their lives, and nearly hers as well. The thought of those grotesque creatures and the spruce that had haunted her dreams sent shivers down her spine, memories of her friends' graphic deaths flooding her mind.
Not even Terra Snapdragon, the former head of Plant Magic, had wielded such insidious power.
"That plant magic… it's wrong," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "It's an abomination of nature." she shivered. "They… they're really dead, aren't they?" The words slipped from her lips, laced with disbelief.
The green specter's expression shifted to one of sad sympathy. Normally, Boscha would have bristled at anyone's pity, but her mind was too turmoil to care. The five stages of grief swirled within her, a tempest of emotions.
She didn't cry, didn't react outwardly, yet a single tear escaped from her middle eye. The specter floated closer and wrapped its arms around her. Boscha felt nothing but a chill—a welcoming chill, like a gentle summer breeze, rather than the coldness of the cave.
For minutes, she remained shell-shocked, lost in her grief, until she finally gestured for the specter to stop hugging her. Normally, she would have hated such an embrace, but in that moment, she found it oddly comforting, even if she couldn't and would not reciprocate.
As she gathered herself, her gaze caught a flickering ember of light deeper within the cave. She decided to investigate, wary of the specter's intentions.
The ghost attempted to block her path, hands outstretched, shaking its head in a silent plea for her to stay.
Boscha frowned. "My friends are dead, kid. I will find my answers one way or another." With that, she stepped past the alarmed spectre, literally.
Cautiously, she moved forward, her palisman still at the ready, even if it felt dormant. She approached the light and saw disturbing figures made of wood—some male, some female—each marked with names: Seth, Azura, Aclima, and the largest figure, named Eve and Adam. The last one bore no name, only countless dagger cuts, some still embedded in the wood, making it impossible to discern its gender.
For some reason, those names felt familiar, tugging at the edges of her memory.
In front of a crackling bonfire sat a savage man—her supposed savior. He had black hair, red tattoos, and was half-naked, seemingly unbothered by the cold. A shaggy cape made from Slitherbeast hide draped over his shoulders, accentuating his tanned skin and rugged demeanor. Boscha grimaced as she watched him slurp the marrow from a bone, remnants of some creature he had hunted, its meaty remains dripping down his chin.
She cleared her throat with a deliberate cough, trying to get his attention. No response. She coughed again, louder this time, but he remained fixated on the dance of the flames, captivated by something beyond the fire's enchanting flicker. What Boscha didn't realize was that the savage man was not merely lost in the moment; he was deep in thought, haunted by memories intertwined with the shadows of the firelight.
He was in the Necropolis of Steel—no mere city, but a Living Factory of processed meat and metal, where the gray air hung heavy with pollution. Towering black buildings and twisted architectures dominated the landscape, designed not to inspire awe but to instill fear.
A dragon of metal loomed above, shooting beams of energy from its hateful maw—a creature born from the ambition of a man who had ascended, twisted by a vengeful god.
Nearby, a colossal dark monolith of a warrior, exiled by his king, swung his sword with unforgiving might.
The Black Knight and the Cyborg Child clashed—the former wielding a black sword, the latter armed with scissor-like talons for fingers and wings that glided effortlessly without the need to flap.
And there he was, a whirlwind of chaos, slaughtering armies left and right with two medium-sized daggers attached to his arms by chains. He hurled his weapons with precision, circling them through the throng of enemies—abominable intelligent machines, twisted beasts, monstrous abominations, and crazed madmen. In that cacophony of violence and chaos, he had never felt so alive.
He cackled madly, a primal sound echoing through the carnage, blood splattered across half his body, invigorating him with every crimson drop. This was his world, a savage landscape where he thrived—a testament to the bloodlust that fueled his very existence.
Annoyed, Boscha called out, "Hey, I'm talking to you—" She halted as the savage man turned to face her, his red pupils glowing with an intense focus. He dropped the bone and stood, revealing a muscular frame and towering height.
Flustered, Boscha quickly averted her gaze, a blush creeping across her cheeks. "Oh, for Titan's sake! Why are you half-naked!?" she exclaimed, raising a hand to shield her eyes from the sight. Though oddly, the savage man did not seem to notice the spectral girl.
The man let out a low-pitched mumble. "Titan… Nethak'tal… Graveyard of Gods…" His voice grew more animated, gradually shifting from incoherent muttering to what Boscha could only perceive as laughter. Disturbed, she took a step back but held her ground, glaring at him. "Is my friends dying funny to you?" she asked, her tone sharp with accusation.
The man turned his gaze fully toward her, his expression unreadable. Meanwhile, the green ghost tugged gently at Boscha's shoulder, the chill of its spectral hands serving as a warning to leave.
Boscha glared defiantly at the man, her voice laced with sarcasm. "So, what's your deal? You just sit around in your little cave, playing with bones and mumbling? Real impressive."
The savage man narrowed his eyes, a low growl rumbling from his throat. " You don't know what you're dealing with, girl."
She rolled her eyes, undeterred. "Oh please, enlighten me, oh wise savage one. What's next? A prophecy about how you'll conquer the Demon Realm with your… bone marrow?"
"Nethak'tal…Tithanax…Ultharak…Thragothar…" he muttered again, his voice growing more intense, his eyes rolled up, as if the words held some dark power.
"Yeah, yeah, keep mumbling. It's not like anyone takes a homeless caveman's mumbling seriously," Boscha snarked, crossing her arms defiantly. But deep down, she felt a growing unease, creeped out by this. There was something about the way he spoke—like he held the weight of centuries in his words, a history she couldn't even begin to fathom.
Abel's expression darkened, and he leaned closer, his voice low and menacing. "Silly girl. I have watched the rise and fall of great empires. I was there when the city of Audapaupadopolis was built, when the Flood ended the Antediluvian Age. I witnessed the Nations of Plant, Meat, and Machine wage war, only to be defeated by the relentless march of time."
He paused, letting the gravity of his words sink in, his red pupils glinting with a feral intensity. "I am the Smitting Blade, the Butcher of the West. The only reason I saved your sorry hide from the creations of the Daevites was that hunting down mindless beasts had become boring and predictable. I saved you so that I could finally hunt a prey with intelligence—someone worthy of the chase."
The chill in his voice sent shivers down her spine, and she realized that he was not just a madman; he was a predator, a force of nature who thrived on chaos and bloodshed. The thought of being his prey made her stomach churn, and she fought to maintain her composure. Then she without thinking said it outloud "Cain?" Boscha suddenly uttered, realization dawning on her.
"What?" He demanded flatly, his expression shifting.
"Gus once rambled about human mythology—two brothers, one killed the other. Are you Cain, the first murderer in human history?" She glanced back at him, her eyes widening in shock.
Immediately, his expression contorted into a furious snarl, a primal rage igniting in his eyes. "What!? I'M NOT!" He seized her hand with a grip that felt like iron, and she struggled in vain, her attempts to escape futile against his inhuman strength. The green ghost surged forward, desperate to intervene, but her spectral form slipped through him like fog, utterly powerless.
"Do you dare to think I'm some self-pitying, accursed, pathetic wretch? Look at me! Do I look like a farmboy with metallic hands!? Cain is NOTHING!" He unleashed a savage blow to her shoulder, a brutal strike that sent shockwaves of agony coursing through her body. She cried out, disbelief and pain merging as she stared at her dislocated arm, her world spinning in a haze of torment.
The savage man feigned an apology, his voice dripping with venomous sarcasm. "Oh, I'm so sorry. I'm sure it'll fuse back together with the right snap. But let me make this crystal clear… DON'T YOU DARE COMPARE ME TO MY BROTHER!" With that, he unleashed a brutal kick against her shoulder, forcing the dislocated joint back into place. The excruciating pain made Boscha scream again, collapsing backward onto the icy ground.
Panic surged through her as she scrambled to crawl away, clutching her shoulder like a lifeline while the madman continued his frenzied tirade. "Cain is a pretender, a pathetic coward known only for his one moment of jealousy in killing me! Yet no matter the rivers of blood I spill, I'll forever be branded as Humanity's First Victim!" He lunged forward, fingers wrapping around her throat like a vice. She struggled, even biting at his hand, but he remained unmoved, his baleful gaze sending icy terror spiraling down her spine.
The violent man growled, his voice a low, menacing whisper that dripped with malice. "Listen closely, you miserable mongrel Triclops, or I'll gouge out every single one of your disgusting eyes! I'm Abel! Hated and feared by all who dare to see my true nature! And mark my words… I'm not the First Victim, I'M THE FIRST WINNER, YOU WRETCH!" His roar shattered the air, and with a vicious kick, he sent her hurtling across the cave, her body crashing into the snowy ground outside, her face burying into the frost.
Hot breaths escaped her lips, mingling with the blood trickling from her mouth as she lay half-buried in the snow, the cold biting through her skin. His words struck her like a sledgehammer, a brutal reminder of her own justifications—her desperate need to be feared rather than liked, the hollow victory she clung to.
'You may be hated, as long as you are feared. Most important of all, you are a winner.'
But in that moment, she felt anything but a winner. She had never felt so powerless, not even during the Collector's ruthless takeover. Here she was, a proud witch, a champion of Grudgby, the popular girl, reduced to nothing more than a plaything for a man who embodied every ounce of disdain she had ever harbored. He looked down at her with a contempt that made her feel like a cockroach beneath his boot, squashed and discarded.
"I would sooner rot in this frozen wasteland, a carcass of a dead god, before I spent EVEN a second living among you… weakling animals!" Abel spat, his disdain palpable as he advanced toward her. When Boscha lifted her head, she saw him conjuring a black spear from the void, its ominous presence sending a chill of dread through her veins. The ghost beside her gestured urgently for her to flee, but when she attempted to summon her magic, it fizzled out, muted and powerless, leaving her to curse under her breath in frustration and fear.
"Don't worry, Triclops, your powers will be back. Your staff? May not." Abel taunted, his large spear making sparks as he dragged its blade across the cave's wall, creating a shriek that echoed ominously through the darkness.
Boscha didn't want to know why he had a spear with him, so she turned and ran.
"Go ahead and run, prey, make it more fun!" he shouted, giving her a head start. She sprinted madly, one hand clutching her palisman while the other cradled her injured shoulder, pain shooting through her with every frantic step.
As she burst into the woods, the chill of the air hit her like a slap, but the adrenaline coursing through her veins kept her moving. Her heart pounded in her chest, each beat a reminder of the danger nipping at her heels. She dared a glance back and caught a glimpse of Abel's shadow—massive and menacing—slicing through the underbrush like a wolf on the hunt.
Panic surged within her as she took a sharp turn, narrowly avoiding a low-hanging branch. The sound of breaking branches and heavy footsteps signaled that Abel was not far behind. She could hear the whoosh of his spear slicing through the air, barely missing her as she yelped and ducked just in time.
Suddenly, a Slitherbeast emerged from the snow, growling ferociously. Boscha's instincts kicked in, and for a fleeting moment, fear gripped her. But she quickly shook it off; Abel was the real threat here. She had no time to cry surprise. As the furry beast lunged, claws outstretched, she ducked low and darted past it. The creature hesitated, sensing the danger behind her. It turned its attention to Abel, who was barreling toward them with terrifying speed.
The Slitherbeast made the last mistake of its life, charging at Abel with a roar. With a swift, brutal motion, Abel swung his spear, and the beast's growl turned into a pained yelp as it was dispatched in a single strike. Blood sprayed against the snow, painting a gruesome scene as he continued his relentless pursuit.
Boscha ran on, her breath coming in ragged gasps, the forest blurring around her. She could feel the weight of the trees closing in, their branches clawing at her as if trying to hold her back. Abel's laughter echoed through the trees, growing closer, and she could almost feel his breath on her neck. 'This isn't happening. I can't let him catch me!'
After what felt like an eternity, she stumbled into a clearing, only to find the green ghost hovering in front of her, gesturing urgently for her to stop. She skidded to a halt, her heart pounding in her chest, and took a moment to catch her breath. But when she looked up, her blood ran cold.
Spruce trees loomed around her, their dark silhouettes stark against the blood-red sky. Beneath them lay the husked bodies of animals, all of them drained of life, just like the tree that had killed Amelia. The sight sent a chill down her spine, and the realization of where she was hit her like a punch to the gut.
"No, no, no…" she murmured, casting a spell circle instinctively, but only a few sparks flickered to life. She tried again, desperation clawing at her throat, but still, no fire. "Come on! I don't have time for this!" she hissed in frustration, feeling the weight of her powerlessness.
Abel's laughter echoed through the trees, and she could hear the crunch of snow behind her. He was closing in. The ghost's spectral form pulsed with urgency, urging her to move, but she felt rooted to the spot, paralyzed by fear and the haunting memories of her friends.
"Think, Boscha!" she whispered to herself, scanning the clearing for any escape route. The trees seemed to close in around her, and the oppressive atmosphere made it hard to breathe. She needed to act fast.
Just then, a rustle in the underbrush caught her attention. A flicker of movement. 'What if it's another beast?' But she had no time to hesitate. The ghost gestured again, more frantically this time to another direction away from the blood spruce., and Boscha steeled herself, deciding to take a chance. She dashed toward the sound, hoping for an escape route.
As she moved, the ground beneath her shifted, and she stumbled, catching herself just in time. The rustling grew louder, and she felt a surge of hope. She pushed through the underbrush, her heart racing, and burst into a narrow path that wound deeper into the woods.
Behind her, Abel's voice boomed, filled with dark amusement. "You think you can hide? I'll find you, little witch!"
Boscha's breath hitched as she sprinted down the path, branches whipping at her face. She could hear him crashing through the trees, relentless, like a storm bearing down on her. Every instinct screamed at her to keep moving, to not look back, but the fear of what he might do if he caught her fueled her desperation.
The path twisted and turned, leading her deeper into the forest. She could feel the shadows closing in, the trees looming over her like silent sentinels. The ghost floated beside her, urging her on, and she clutched her palisman tightly, willing her powers to return.
"Come on, come on!" she gasped, pushing herself harder. The sound of Abel's pursuit echoed behind her, a constant reminder that she was not safe yet. She needed to find a way out, a way to escape this nightmare.
Just as she rounded a corner, she spotted a faint glimmer of light in the distance. Hope surged within her, and she raced toward it, her heart pounding with a mix of fear and determination while making sure she would not hit the red trees knowing what they will do to her. The light grew brighter, and she could feel the warmth of magic pulsing in the air.
But just as she reached the edge of the clearing, she heard Abel's voice, low and menacing. "You're almost there, little witch. But it won't save you."
With a final burst of energy, Boscha leaped into the clearing,
The green ghost pointed frantically at a hollowed-out tree lodge, and Boscha quickly assessed the situation. Without hesitation, she tore a piece of her clothing and dropped it onto a pile of bones, hoping that Abel would think she had fled into the blood-red spruce jungle, leading him to an untimely demise.
Just in time, Abel appeared, covered in fresh blood from the Slitherbeast he had slain, two sickles gleaming ominously in his hands. He scanned the area with predatory eyes, analyzing every detail like a hunter on the prowl. When he spotted the piece of fabric, he crouched down for a closer look, a sinister smile creeping across his face.
Boscha could only see his legs as he moved menacingly, gradually closing in on her hiding spot. 'Come on, come on… take the bait, you psychopathic caveman!' she thought, her heart racing in her chest.
His legs disappeared from view, and for a brief moment, silence enveloped her. Had he taken the bait? Then, without warning, the lodge she was hiding in erupted open as a sickle sliced through the wood, sending splinters flying. Boscha cried out in shock, adrenaline surging through her veins. In a desperate response, she tried her magic again, and this time it worked. Her nails elongated, sharp and deadly, as she aimed to plunge them into Abel.
But he was faster. With a swift motion, he grabbed a piece of wood, and her nails became stuck, the sharp edges embedding into the timber. Panic surged as she struggled to free them, but it was futile. Before she could revert her nails back to normal, Abel seized her by the throat with one powerful hand, lifting her effortlessly off the ground until they were face to face.
"How disappointing! Did you really think I didn't know about those plants? I've lived here for ages, you Triclops! Clearly, you have more eyes than brain," he sneered, disappointment etched across his features.
"LET ME GO, YOU PSYCHO!" Boscha screeched, her voice a mixture of fear and defiance. Despite the terror coursing through her, she refused to beg, her spirit commendable in its resilience. Her rage sparked something in Abel, a flicker of recognition that oddly reminded him of someone he once knew.
"MURDERER, LET ME GO!" The voice echoed in his mind, and he froze, momentarily distracted. It was Iris Thompson, the blonde woman he had once held in a similar grip, her eyes wide with betrayal as he butchered their comrades.
Abel recoiled, releasing Boscha as she dropped to the ground, gasping for breath and clutching her throat. The memory of Iris flashed before him, her face shifting between tears of betrayal and the wrathful glare she had given him after everything had fallen apart.
"WHY DO YOU CARE!?" Iris's voice rang in his mind, laced with anger and pain. He could see her clearly, the optimistic young girl she used to be now transformed into a figure of cold hatred. "You… are an animal who lost his soul a long time ago."
The weight of her words struck him hard, a bitter reminder of the man he had become. He watched Boscha as she struggled to regain her composure, her eyes fierce despite the fear that had just gripped her. For a fleeting moment, he felt something he hadn't experienced in years—shame.
As Boscha scrambled to her feet, she felt the sting of pain in her throat, purple bruises blooming where Abel had gripped her. She could still feel the remnants of his hold, a reminder of how close she had come to losing everything.
Abel, meanwhile, was lost in a tumult of memories that surged within him, fragments of a past he couldn't fully grasp. Ever since he had been stranded in this forsaken realm of dead giants, his mind had been plagued by gaps, pieces of a puzzle that refused to fit. But Boscha's defiance, her fierce spirit, ignited something within him, forcing him to remember why he was here.
Images flooded his mind: the Necropolis, chaos erupting as legions of madmen and abominations clashed while the Black Knight and the one blessed by Mekhane fought valiantly. Then came the dragon of molten iron and a walking black monolith, and everything had faded to black.
From the darkness, two cold red eyes emerged only to merge into one, accompanied by the sound of unholy machinery. The eye belonged to the singular, hateful Thinking Machine of the Factory, its many limbs equipped with instruments of mutilation and experimentation.
Abel found himself in a dark room, paralyzed on what looked like a dissection table, the cold metal pressing against him. One of the infernal machine's limbs moved into his line of sight, and he felt a jolt of pain shoot through him.
Then, an explosion rocked the room. Flashes of light later revealed a man in a black coat, looking worse for wear, who carried him until he became sober enough to push Abel away. Seven Daevite warriors descended upon him, and chaos erupted as they fought like animals, blood and gore showering him until only one remained.
As Abel's vision blurred, he spotted the baleful dragon soaring toward him from the sky. A grin split his face as he propelled himself and the last Daevite into the vortex, where time and space lost all meaning.
The memories crashed into him like a tidal wave, and he growled in frustration, slamming his head against a nearby tree until cracks splintered the bark. It was inside his eye, inside him!
With a roar of pain and indignation, Abel summoned a black knife and plunged it into his left eye.
Boscha watched in utter horror, her breath catching in her throat. "What. The. Fu—"
Abel screamed as he gouged his eye out, revealing not flesh but a mechanical orb, more metal than organic. Its pupil stared back at him, and suddenly, mechanical tendrils shot out from it, writhing in a desperate attempt to escape. Abel seized it with a powerful grip and crushed it in his fist, blood and oil mixing as he nursed his bloodied socket.
The green ghost gaped at the grotesque scene, equally dumbfounded.
Then, the sound of gunfire echoed through the clearing—bang, bang! Abel instinctively shielded himself, forming a black barrier attached to his wrist. Each explosive kinetic round hit with the force of a grenade, and though his shield held, it was visibly damaged, burnt marks marring its surface as the shockwaves sent him stumbling back.
From the shadows emerged a man clad in brass and iron, holding a boltgun. He holstered it with a grim expression, his striking emerald eyes locked onto Abel.
Abel blinked, recognition dawning on him. "Arthur the Soldier?"
"It's King Arthur to you, animal," the knight growled, disdain dripping from his voice.
Instead of being offended, Abel grinned savagely, shaking off the pain in his eye. "Not an animal, High King… Emperor of Animals!" With that, he summoned a massive black obelisk sword while his shield dissapeared, launching himself at Arthur, who met the attack with Excalibur. The clash sent sparks flying, and the blade began to heat under the intensity of their struggle.
Boscha, feeling the tension rise between the two powerful figures, had had enough. "Screw you both!" she shouted, her patience wearing thin. She turned on her heel and began to run, desperate to escape the chaos unfolding around her. The green ghost floated ahead, guiding her through the trees.
'I swear to the Titan, if I survive this, I will slap Gus across the face for not being better at fact-checking on human mythology when THIS is supposed to be his area of expertise!' she thought, gritting her teeth as she darted deeper into the woods, the sounds of battle fading behind her.
As she ran, the forest seemed to close in around her, the branches clawing at her clothes, but she pressed on, the urgency of the moment pushing her forward. She had no idea where she was headed, but anywhere was better than being caught in the crossfire between a deranged monster and a metallic man.
As the clash of steel echoed through the darkened forest, Abel felt a tumult of emotions coursing through him. Each strike against Arthur's Excalibur reminded him of the whispers that had long lain dormant in his mind—teachings from the followers of Ion that had promised power beyond measure when at one time he was accompanied by a Sarkic tribe. He had always dismissed the idea of using such abilities as cowardly, a strategy for those too afraid to confront their foes with sheer strength. But this moment was different. Faced with a knight of legend, a figure who stood against him with unwavering resolve, he decided to make an exception.
With a primal roar, Abel forced himself to remember the training, the discipline, and the strength he could summon. Drawing on his latent abilities, black bony wings erupted from his back, unfurling like dark banners in the twilight as he roared from the pain. The transformation felt exhilarating yet unnerving and agonizing, but he embraced it, soaring above Arthur with newfound agility bolting upward.
Arthur's emerald eyes widened in surprise as Abel took to the sky, the immense wings giving him a feral grace. Masterfully, Abel dove toward the knight with his weapon, using his wings to create gusts that threatened to unbalance him. Each strike from Abel's sword pushed Arthur closer to the towering blood spruce trees that loomed like silent sentinels throughout the clearing. They both understood the danger; if one of them collided with the trees, the consequences would be dire. The trees had a gruesome method of reclaiming their victims—feeding on the blood of the slain before ripping them apart into a new, vibrant trunks.
"Is this all you've got?" Abel taunted, his voice laced with dark glee as he pressed his advantage.
"Enough games, beast!" Arthur countered, his demeanor fierce, despite the chaos surrounding them. "You will pay for your actions!"
Both fighters poured their energy into the confrontation, their techniques clashing like thunder, each aiming to force the other into the deadly embrace of the trees. Abel relished the thrill of battle, realizing the power he wielded, and yet, doubts flickered in his mind. He recalled why he had never relied on those tactics before, viewing them as beneath him, as tricks of a coward. But now, as he faced a knight who radiated authority, he felt an undeniable urge to seize any advantage he could obtain.
With a powerful thrust, he swung his sword, forcing Arthur backward. But Arthur retaliated with a devastating slash of Excalibur, forcing Abel to dodge with a flap of his wings. Abel's heart raced as he darted high into the air, desperate to maintain the upper hand. Their combat escalated, blows exchanged in a flurry of movements that threatened to send one of them spiraling into the clutches of the blood spruce trees.
Just as Arthur narrowly avoided a catastrophic collision—leaping aside to miss the grasp of a gnarled branch—Abel felt a surge of energy coursing through the air around them. It was as if the forest itself was responding to their violent clash.
Suddenly, a mysterious hooded figure emerged from the shadows, weaving intricate magical runes in the air. The runes glowed with ethereal light, and an impressive wave of magical energy surged forth, slamming into both Abel and Arthur with a force that sent them tumbling backward.
Abel hit the ground hard, his wings folding against him, the chaotic energy dissipating around them. As he shook off the disarray, he looked up—his heart racing—and recognized the figure standing before them, cloaked in an enigmatic aura. His face was changed, yet he could sense who this being was.
"By Almighty…" he murmured, disbelief mingling with recognition in his voice.
And then the world shifted. Today was the day when the ancients meet.
—
Notes: For the record I have exams so my progress on the next chapter on eithr this fic or my IZ/GF fic will be slow at least.
And yes I ripped off Shadow the Hedgehog because his wings are so freaking cool.