King (And Queen) of Fighters

This was not the life. This was the farthest from the ideal life for Mythal.

While Serilda wondered about how leisure and how often she didn’t get to take part in it, the God Slayer’s brain was running rampant over multiple different subjects. First and probably foremost was the apparent revelation that his adoptive father was alive… or, and probably worse, someone was playing a damn close version of him. He wasn’t honestly sure which direction was worse, though that didn’t stop him from wondering. If it was truly Gren, if the old bastard was still alive, where had he been all these years? Why hadn’t he revealed to Mythal that he had been alive? It had been almost twenty years since the fateful night that supposedly took him from the world. Now, all of a sudden, he was popping up out of nowhere and going to Serilda, of all people. Or was it some imposter; some agent of Faera’s that had made a potent magic enough to take his face and run around, pretending to be him? That meant that the Fallen Goddess was trying to trick him or trap him once more. He wished he could say it wouldn’t work but… pretending to be his adoptive father was crossing a goddamn line.

Following close behind the leading thought were his feelings towards Serilda. He’d been in flux with how to handle them or more how to best rid himself – and her – of them. The best alternative he had come up with was to simply stop working with her; cutting off all communication and going it solo once again. But that choice would lead to a confrontation, which would in turn lead to a revealing of said feelings either on both sides or one and that would complicate things worse. One of his strongest inclinations had been to run and disappear – to take off one day and just head to a different land. But the truth of the matter was wherever he went, she’d find him. If he just disappeared, she would suspect foul play and investigate. There were, to put it simply, no options for him. He really should have considered limiting his time spent with her as well but when she called and asked him to not only attend a job with him but take a full weekend away; he couldn’t find it in him to say no. As much as he hated being in love with her, he still enjoyed being around her. It was a double edged sword and somehow it was stabbing into him with both blades.

Coming up the rear was his… newfound libido. The one thing he knew he couldn’t do was continue to sleep with Serilda. If he was serious about making sure their mutual feelings faded, he had to stop engaging her in physical intimacy. What should have been an easy string to cut had proven to be quite hardy – nearly impossible even. His body, mind and soul still found her attractive and alluring and honestly, going to a beach hadn’t helped in the least bit. Her in a bikini, even as classy as the outfit was, still offered plenty of view of her curves. Making it worse was apparently his newfound attraction to the perfume she wore. He hadn’t realized it at the ball in Minstrel but now that he was here and smelled it again, his inner turmoil shot to a ridiculously high percentage. His physical desires were on par with what he had felt at the royal ball and he couldn’t help but connect the two instances of her wearing that self-same perfume. It roused him in ways it really shouldn’t have and in perhaps the worst time as well.

Being on a beach, naturally it meant they couldn’t wear full outfits – that would just make them stick out like sore thumbs. Mythal didn’t have a bathing suit per se, as he didn’t often go into the water for leisure. When he had used the steam house with Serilda, he had taken one of the left over workout shorts left there. But that wasn’t a bathing suit and to be honest, he had forgotten to pack it. So he was left with having to go to the store here to get one and the only kind they had were… speedos. Against his better judgement and will, Mythal had purchased an all-black one and put it on. Hell, he’d managed to get through wearing a pink tutu in front of people and battle Santa’s forces stark naked – a speedo wasn’t going to be the end of the world for him. So he’d put it on and worn it as proudly as one could. But with the mixture of her in her bikini and the perfume, he’d found it difficult to… manage such thin piece of clothing. He’d managed to force the other two prevailing thoughts to the forefront of his mind so he wouldn’t get wrapped up in the growing last one. It had worked… mostly.

He’d managed to distract himself further with other activities while they were there; Gren was more than elated to be out and exploring somewhere new. He took to the water like a fish, dancing among the waves and splashing around like the pup he was. Serilda may have been surprised to see that he actually semi-conformed to the command words given to him – really only the ones that kept him from speeding down the beachfront and out of earshot of them. As they were not told they couldn’t have alcohol, Mythal was more than happy to order a tall glass filled with a heavy percentile whiskey.

He had barely heard her as she spoke up, lamenting the last time she had been to a beach. His stare was outward and onto the grains of sand before them, focused on all the thoughts that flew in front of his mind’s eyes. After a beat, he seemed to pull himself out enough to hear the statement. “Huh? Oh… yeah, been awhile for me too,” he said. It was obvious that even here, in a veritable paradise, Mythal’s mind was nothing but troubled. He took a moment to shake the thoughts away, forcing them all on mute – a troublesome action for the third, pesky tribulation. But he managed to sort of shift himself so she wouldn’t notice anything or, at the very least, would keep it from other eyes that may see. To keep her from commenting on it, save that she did notice, he put another thought into the air.  “So this guy wants to rig the fighting system to get a payout?” he mused aloud. “I guess if it’s all fair and legal… shouldn’t be too big a thing.” They had come here for the sole purpose of taking part in a fighting tournament; a contest that would pit them, not just against other human competitors, but monsters and beasts as well. If anything, he would at least get to punch his frustrations out.

Mythal was pretty willing to believe Serilda, as she explained that the job’s owner wasn’t intentionally trying to rig the system. He was playing by the rules of the game and simply trying to get himself a payout while he was at it. Part of that would go towards the payment for the job as well, so there was no doubt that he was putting a fair amount of jewel on the line. Still, it still seemed a bit gaming to the God Slayer, if still a legal way to do it. It was encouraging to hear that no matter what, they would probably need to fight at their hardest. This was a professional fighting tournament and that meant professionals in the ring, even if some of them were on the bestial side. “Good. I need somethin’ to punch,” he stated out loud, his tone slightly bitter. He took a large swig of his drink and hissed between clenched teeth at the sharp burn that ran down his throat.

That may have been the end of the conversation but she surprised him by reaching out, both verbally and physically. Her hand stretched out and pressed itself against his side, causing him to stop walking and look to her. Gods, he could see the concern written all over her face but even brighter was it in her eyes. There was also understanding; she knew what was bothering him because it was bothering her too. Hell, she had been the one unfortunate enough to be targeted by Gren or the Gren imposter, whatever they were. She understood his grief most of all and if that didn’t make things harder for his heart, he didn’t know what would. She spoke to him; encouraging words that attempted to ease his troubles and urge him to look on the positive side of things. They’d get through it, they would figure it out and most importantly, she’d be there with him. Words that both warmed and chilled his bones right to the core. He stood there as she leaned up to kiss him on the cheek and managed a small smile, albeit a sad one. “Thanks,” he said to her, appreciating her words. They may not have stuck as well as she hoped they would but they had made an impact. Small steps were still steps indeed.

She turned to look at the hounds, gleefully losing themselves to the excitement of the beach. Xiuhco was more than receptive to her younger brother, playing with him fully and giving him chances to truly stretch out his little puppy legs. Mythal actually laughed as he watched them. “Maybe. I think he takes the commands to heart but he doesn’t quite want to obey most of ‘em. He just knows when I call ‘em back, he’s to come back. But we’re getting’ there. He’s just as stubborn as… well… as Gren,” he said with a soft sigh. Never was a name more ill-placed than now.

But they had plans and it was getting to a time when they should be preparing to leave. With a bit of hesitance, Serilda stated as much and then called over Xiuhco, letting her know it was time to go. Mythal whistled for Gren but it was a far different sound, not using his fingers to make a high-pitch but undulating noise. The smaller Star Wolf stood right up and looked to Mythal, wuffing and then racing right at him at full speed. He weaved between the God Slayer’s legs before shaking himself dry, spraying Mythal with a fresh spritzing of the salt water. “Thanks pal,” he said down to the pup, though his small smirk betrayed his humor at it.

Once they got back to the lodge, they made sure the dogs were clean of their ocean scent and each took a quick rinse to clean themselves as well. Once they had dressed for the tournament and prepared the pup’s food, water and padding, they were off to the arena. It was quite the impressively sized coliseum, rivaling many that Mythal had seen during his travels. They checked in and set themselves up in their private room, a place to rest between their matches. Once there, the God Slayer began his pre-workout routine. Given that he was aware he was going into an arena match, he could properly prepare his body for it rather than having to pick up on the fly. He was in the midst of his push up set when Serilda made note of their odds. Two lacrima vision screens were set up in the room for their viewing pleasure, giving them both a view of the matches going on and the betting odds as they were put in. He stopped mid-drop, having been doing his push ups with one hand, and glanced up at the screen. “Oh. Is that good?” In all honestly, the God Slayer didn’t know much about gambling. He knew what it was and had certainly attempted to do some during his travels but he’d never actually committed to thought what ‘odds’ were when it came to this kind of gambling.

But that didn’t mean he hadn’t participated in fights like it. “I remember about ten years ago or so,” he said aloud, the memory coming seemingly out of nowhere. “There was this… small time tournament in Hosenka, I think was the place. Underground fight, winner gets equal share of the full pot. I was short of jewel so I signed up, as much as I didn’t want to be shoved into a dank underground cave with other people. I made a lotta people mad that day – bein’ an underdog in a tournament like that ain’t exactly highly regarded. Especially when you keep on winnin’,” he finished the thought with a soft chuckle and shake of his head. “It say anywhere who we’re facin’ first?”

Mythal had stopped mid-push up to listen to Serilda as she gave him a breakdown of how odds worked, in terms of gambling. They were set to have bad odds but that’s what they wanted – for when they eventually made it to the quarter finals, the payout would be much higher. They were basically sleepers, as no one in the betting world expected them to win. Interesting; apparently out here, they hadn’t gotten the memo to just who they were. Serilda and Mythal had done a fair amount of jobs and earned quite the acclaim. The God Slayer himself had been a Rising Star only a few weeks ago according to the Sorcerer Weekly. But it seemed that fame hadn’t translated over here. Either that or the gamblers didn’t believe their skills could carry over to a tournament setting.

It was actually pretty entertaining to think about. A whole lot of people were going to leave with looser wallets and new understandings of scouting their matches. Mythal shook his head and continued his pushups through his story. Once he had finished it, he popped up and they took a few moments to discuss their opponents and what the best strategy would be for them. It was only a few minutes after that when someone came to get them, alerting them that their match would be next. Thus began the whirligig of competition fighting – rounds seemed to fall off the board as they won one right after the other. It wasn’t easy in any means; it required patience, technique and strategy but that was something both Serilda and himself had plenty of. Between their matches, they were given time to dress their wounds and catch their breaths.

It was amazing how much better he was already feeling. All the pains and thoughts that had been controlling his mind lately had been dulled, replaced by the silence of pinpoint combat focus. The feeling of his fists crashing into opponents, bringing them down and laying them low, was just the therapy he needed for some temporary release. All of his issues would return later, without any doubt, but for now and perhaps for the rest of the day, he would be in a place of euphoria. He still wasn’t talking as much as he used to around her but his mood didn’t feel as downtrodden or worn. Amazing what a little fist fighting could do.

Eventually they made it to the quarter finals, where their victories were going to matter much more. He was finishing some wrapping on his arm when Serilda called him over, pointing at their newest opponents. Apparently they had gotten the Midian sisters; two women that were twins, that used a combination of martial arts to fight. The sister in the red kimono used two butterfly knives and seemed to favor punches. The one in the pink kimono had a wrapped samurai sword attached to her back and would mix cuts in with kicks. They were an elegant and powerful pair and they certainly wouldn’t be easy to beat.

She asked if he was ready and he nodded, tightening the bandage and giving her a thumbs up. As they entered the coliseum, the crowd was already going nuts. Their competition was there, standing across from them on the opposite side of the battleground. He took his stance beside Serilda, his eyes snapping between the two women that were staring back at them. Only a moment later did the announcer’s voice come over the lacrima speakers. “This is it, ladies and gentlemen! The opening bout to the quarter finals. On one side, we have the team of Serilda Sinclair and Mythal Ragnos – a pair of wizards that have come out of nowhere to slice through our opening brackets like a hot knife! On the other, the Yazmani twins; Seschua and Nayeeta.” As the twin’s names were said, the crowd’s fervor went even crazier. “I hope you’re ready, folks! Because it looks like our competitors are ready to go!”

“We better decide which one we—“ Mythal was turning his head to talk to Serida, forming a quick game plan. But the world shimmered around him and he was suddenly and rudely wrenched from his position to a new one. He spun around to find himself standing on the opposite side of where the Voidwalker was; of where he had been!

Magic? They were holding back before, the God Slayer figured. But before he could completely finalize the thought, he felt the ground shift beneath his feet – as if someone was running at him at full force. He had just enough time to leap backwards and over the samurai sword as it slashed through the air at him, looking to divorce his top half from his bottom. He landed on his hands and backspringed onto his feet, sliding a few feet away from Seschua before falling into a fighting stance.

“I see…” She said softly, pulling her sword back and tucking it by her side. Her sharp eyes took note of him as she turned, looking over each individual part of him. “A monk’s stance. You have been taught by my people.”

“I have,” Mythal confirmed simply, keeping his guard about him.

“Good,” she stated as she brought the sword forward, taking a full grip of the handle with both hands. “Then I will not need to hold back.”

The God Slayer reached back and pulled Curse out from his back, the weapon unfolding itself to full length. He flipped it around so the back of the blade rested flat against the outside of his arm. “I’d be insulted if ya didn’t,” he said back.

That seemed to be all the conversation that needed to be passed between them. There was only a moment of peace before both of them charged, their weapons swinging forward to meet with a loud crack of metal hitting metal.

The first meeting of their swords was not the loudest one but it was certainly the impact that drove the nearby audience crazy. Seschua swung her blade around in another swipe and the God Slayer countered it in kind, knocking it down and away without a moment’s hesitation. He reached out to stab at her, as she had left herself open, but suddenly found himself falling into a portal. He was far above the stadium floor, and immediately began to fall down towards the hard ground. A swift and brutal way to attempt to end the battle early. Mythal’s arms swung through the air for only a moment, as if he was trying to paddle in the air to slow his descent. Seschua probably felt pretty good about herself for a quick moment before the man turned into a bird and swooped up, avoiding the ground. The God Slayer quickly turned back into his normal form as he came down at her, spinning forward. As his sword met hers and his feet hit the ground, the floor trembled and she slid back several inches from the impact.

“You’re a lot more than you seem to be,” the Midian woman said, her eyes narrowing.

Mythal didn’t answer. Instead, he used her momentary distraction to snap his foot up and plant it in her chest, sending her sprawling backwards. She rolled twice before catching herself, planting her feet evenly and bringing her sword up just in case he was charging her. He remained in place, spinning his weapon around several times before he tucked it back against his pants, the blade folding back into its smallest form.

“Giving up?”

“No. Just not wastin’ my time,” Mythal said as he set his hands at his sides. He funneled his power into his core, even as he kept his eyes locked on her. There it circled, compressing and compressing over and over again until it was a wild ball of magical energy. When he released it, his magic power skyrocketed inside of him, surging through his veins at such an extreme rate that he let out a small groan. All at once his abilities had been heightened and as he raised his right hand up, it became cloaked in the black gauntlet of his power. He turned it over and waved his fingers at her, inciting her to charge him.

The woman snorted and swung her blade around. As she leapt towards him, she suddenly disappeared before reaching him. His eyes snapped to his rear and he spun just in time to bring his armored limb up to catch the blade before it cut him, the impact causing his arm to jerk slightly. Yet her strength proved impressive, the blade cutting through the magic to pierce the top-most layer of his flesh. He twisted the self-same arm and shuffled, sending a kick at her face that she back flipped away and avoided. Her arms moved across from one another, like hands upon a clock face. All at once he could feel slight drafts from around him as the air shimmered and pulsed on every side. She’d opened several portals all at once and then dove into the closest.

She emerged at the diagonal, her sword leading the way as she came down. He had just enough time to block the slice away with his gauntlet, though it did bite into his skin once more. As he spun to counter attack, she was already leaping away into another portal. This time she emerged in time to land a solid slice across his shoulder blades, opening his flesh and clothing with the single strike. He grunted and fell forward, the pain temporarily flashing white in his eyes. He heard her move again and the slight inhale the portal made when it took her in. He rolled just in time to avoid another swing, the blade carving a deep gorge in the floor. She was moving again but now… now she had shown her hand. Mythal had been focusing on her movements, listening for the slight noises each portal made. As she entered one, it released the aforementioned sound but when she emerged, it seemed to a small squeal that prefaced her attack. His magic once again surged into his core for a moment before releasing into his veins, now surging into his limbs to give him more mobility and speed. As she came out in another attack, he was able to easily slide to the side and avoid the weapon, the very tip of the blade snipping his hair at the end. But his arm snapped forward and slammed an elbow into her stomach, essentially catching her in place and using her own movement to do most of the damage. The expulsion of air from her lungs was enough for him to take advantage.

His body twisted around so that he was facing her while also standing right at her side, moving so fast that she was practically a hovering target for him to strike. His left hand lashed out in a palm strike to her chest, hitting her right above the breast and directly on a pressure point. Before that could take full effect, he grabbed her sword wielding arm and tossed her up, setting her spinning like a top. As she came down, Mythal’s body spun counter to her whirling and slammed his leg into her back, sending her flying towards the wall. But his boosted speed carried him ahead of her, practically a shadow as he raced to get in front of her. As she soared at him, he shuffled his feet and delivered the final blow – a side kick that connected right on her chin. She spun in the air backwards, her sword soaring away and burying itself in the ground. When she hit the floor, it was a hard thump. Her body went fully limp, her eyes glazed over from the pain he had inflicted upon her.

Mythal let a breath out and his rampant magic released its tension, setting him back to a state of rest. He hissed between clenched teeth as he reached over his shoulder and felt the cut on his back, pulling his fingers back to see the spackle of blood. He glanced over to Serilda, who had laid out the other sister and now held her at sword point. “Ladies and gentlemen, your winners… Serilda and Mythal!” The announcer practically screamed over the loud speaker. The crowd was cheering, with mixed in boos from fans of the Midian sisters.

Mythal walked over to Serilda, rolling his arms to try and stretch out the injury on his back. “Well… clearly the finals ain’t gonna be easy,” he said. And this was only their first round in it.

This must have been a hilarious comparison to the last time he had suffered a grievous injury on his back and she had tried to inspect it. The first time he had resisted, downright fought her off, until their aggravations with one another had led to a sweaty, angry sexual encounter in the desert. Only after that had he cooled off enough to let her clean up the injury at all. But now, many months after that, he simply turned when she encouraged him to, letting her examine the cut on his back. He glanced back at Seschua, still lying on the ground from the beat down Mythal had rendered upon her. She would be feeling lightheaded probably for a few days after the continuous and linking strikes he had used. He glanced at arms, seeing the cuts that had bloodied and were seeping the plasma onto his forearm. The healers would be able to tend to his wounds rather easily but the impact of them would remain. Her sword had been able to cut through his gauntlet, slice right into his magic and open up his flesh. Yet her magic had to do with portals – so she had made herself physically strong enough to break magic spells? That was impressive; Midian training at its best.

They settled back in and waited to be called again, after having their injuries tended by the healers. Once the lottery had chosen them, they found themselves back in the ring against a different team. This pair was a far cry from the one they had before; first off, there was easily no relation between them beyond partners. One of them was an older man, who looked to have some Midian blood in him save for the blond and white hair that donned his head and face. His mustache and beard hung low off his face, each one as grand as the other. He wore a single green robe that seemed to give absolutely no room for movement, as it was tight against his form. He was in peak physical condition by the looks of it, a compliment to any that worshipped body building. He also had a pair of sandals on, which seemed ill fitting for a battle situation. The other man looked like either a convict or a bar brawl champion. His third, maroon hair was pulled and slick back, save for his bangs that sprouted off his brow like resistant weeds. His face was contorted in a wicked, confident sneer as he glared daggers at the two of them. His arms, bulky and brawny, were covered in scars from fights long past. He was dressed like a pirate; with a sleeveless brown shirt, loose sea-green pants and heavy boots that covered up to his knees.

“O…kay,” Mythal said, his eyes darting between the two of them. As the announcer took to introducing the round and the competitors, the God Slayer took a moment to flick Curse out and unfold it to full form. He spun it around so that the blade was backwards once more, far more comfortable with the weapon facing away from him. In this position, he could still use his hand to punch and mix between strikes and slashes with the blade. He stood poised; his body already limber enough from his earlier stretching. The crowd practically exploded as their opponents were introduced, going by the names of Ryzmir Albizin and Dovel ‘the Monster’ Karden. One had a nickname and not the other? That wasn’t concerning.

Yet again Serilda and Mythal were robbed of time to make a well thought out plan. A monstrous roar cut through the crowd and their thoughts, emerging from Dovel’s mouth. His body began to tremble and jerk, his limbs shaping into different positions and sights right before them. An extra arm, more carnivorous looking mouths than should be on one thing, his merging with his torso and creating a larger mouth with chains linked into it, claws, spines, disgusting growths… suddenly the Monster seemed like a very light appropriation of what this man was. He didn’t wait a second after his transformation was complete before he charged at Serilda, clearly choosing his opponent for the match. That left the old man for Mythal.

His head cocked to the man, who was still standing where he had started, his arms resting at his sides. The God Slayer decided to try and end his opponent in one blow, so that he could go and help Serilda out with her ghastly foe. All of his magic surged through him at once, heightening both his strength and his speed. He moved so fast across the battlefield, he may as well have teleported from one spot to the next. His right arm, cocked back and ready, came sailing forward into the man’s face, his knuckles burying into forehead of Ryzmir. The impact was loud and thudding, a miniature shockwave exploding out from the impact spot and shaking the ground beneath them.

And yet, the old man was unmoved. He stood there, his face covered by the fist for a long moment while Mythal attempted to figure out what the hell had just happened. But then there was a pulse and Mythal’s hand snapped backwards, his fingers shaking as pain overwhelmed his arm. He yelped in agony and fell back a step, his other hand coming around to grab at his trembling wrist. “Reinforcement Magic,” the man finally spoke up, his voice cool and relaxed. “I can bolster my defenses and return the damage meant for me back in kind.” Ryzmir opened his eyes, settling them on Mythal’s crimson ones. “I watched your previous bout. You practice a kind of reinforcement as well, do you not? One that heightens your physical strength enough? Is it Shadow Reinforcement?”

“Somethin’ like that,” the God Slayer said quietly as the pain in his arm began to fade, giving the limb a firm shake to get rid of the tingling sensation. As he flexed his fingers, the older man suddenly shuffled forward and lunged at him with a spear hand strike. Mythal had just enough time to bring his arm up and knock it away but then his arm stung once more with a refreshed pain. Ryzmir continued his assault, raining punches and hand strikes at the God Slayer from all angles. He was blocked each and every time but each time Mythal made a defensive movement, he was treated to a fresh new pain that seemed to sink right to his bones. Only after he leapt back and gave himself some space did the fight halt.

“I can also reinforce my own strikes to absorb your defensive ones and throw them back. It doesn’t cause nearly as much damage but blocking both my strength and your own will wear you out eventually,” the man calmly explained, bringing his arms up in a fighting pose. “Tell me; where did you learn your fighting style? It is surprisingly fluid.”

“Tell ya what; you manage to beat me and I’ll tell ya everythin’ you wanna know,” Mythal snapped back as he shook his arms out. His right arm came up, cloaking itself in the shadow gauntlet he had used prior.

“Unfortunate, for you won’t be able to answer once I have finished,” Ryzmir stated, turning his hand over on itself and then waving at him, summoning him to continue their battle.

The back and forth battle raged on, with Mythal attempting to land a strike on a soft or weak spot on the man’s body. Each and every time he was rebuked, his own strength bouncing back to hit him with the same force. It only got worse when Ryzmir began to counter rather than simply take the attacks; letting the God Slayer’s punches and kicks hit home but then immediately moving to land his own strike, mixing it with the rebounding attack. Mythal held his ground as best he could but the injuries on his body were beginning to pile up. Cuts and scrapes adorned his face, neck and arms, bruises and lumps rising out of his flesh all over. After a failed attempt at a sidekick, he was sent spiraling back and landed on his front, his face plastered against the ground.

“You are a valiant fighter,” Ryzmir stated as he walked towards him slowly. “Were I not your opponent, you might have stood a chance,” he took a moment to look over, just in time to catch Serilda being pinned to the ground and Dovel’s fist beginning the first of many punches upon her form. “Your ally is all but defeated. Dovel will make quick work of her. I do not wish to dally with you either; no need to drag out a beating.”

“Anyone ever say…” Mythal said, his words muffled against the ground. Slowly he pushed himself up, wavering and nearly falling over as he got to his knees and then his feet. Weakly he stood there, his right arm wrapping itself in his dark magic once more, the limb held out in front of him in defiance. One of his eyes was swollen shut but the other glared with the same fire he always had, his fighting spirit all but quelled. “…you talk too damn much?”

Ryzmir smiled. “Easy to become a chatty fellow when none can hurt me. My apologies, I’ll end this quickly.” As he brought his arm up, ready to begin his final assault, he watched as the God Slayer’s armored hand turned over. Before he could question it, the gauntlet melted into Mythal’s palm, condensing itself into a ball resting against the interior of his hand. He heard the brief sound of a snap as it was released from Mythal’s fingers. Then his world was darkness as a plume of absolute shadow erupted from the hand, smashing into Ryzmir’s face. He was lifted from the ground and sent sailing through the air, landing with a hand thump as his back impacted the floor. The force of the spell forced him to roll over onto his front and crash into the ground there.

He got to his feet quickly but… “My eyes!” He exclaimed, his hands reaching up to his face. His vision was as black as the magic that had impacted him, dropping him into an endless darkness.

“I get it now,” he heard Mythal say from in front of him. He put up his defenses immediately. But the impact came from behind, a knife-edge to the back of his neck. He gasped and stumbled forward, clutching the spot on his neck where Mythal had hit. Actually hit. “Your magic only reinforces where you can see,” the God Slayer said from the side. Ryzmir spun around, a back fist aimed for the spot he thought he’d heard the voice. But he only hit the air, no solid impact on a body.

Mythal’s arm was cocked back, his flesh bleached a snow white and the charcoal veins popping up from his hand. But sparks of black lightning flashed zapped through the air around the arm, the magical pressure that was radiating off too much for even the air to suffer. He thrust it forward, smashing the palm strike onto the man’s chest above his heart. The thin gap in Ryzmir’s defenses was there, the God Slayer’s strike finding home and releasing a devastating impact onto the major pressure point. All the others in the man’s body erupted in protest and his body seized up, a temporary paralysis from his body suffering damage.

But Mythal wasn’t finished. His arms slid forward one after the other, delivering haymakers from each side once to knock the man’s bewildered head around. Then his right arm snaked up in an uppercut that jolted his head up, further dazing him within the darkness. The God Slayer’s leg snapped out in a front kick, that bent the man over, nearly knocking him to his knees. But Mythal slid the man’s head between his legs, wrapped his arms around his torso and lifted him up, planting him on his shoulders. Then with a yell, the God Slayer swung him down in a power bomb, slamming the Ryzmir’s back into the ground and devastating the floor, shattering it into a large and jagged crater. There Ryzmir came to rest, his body bent over itself at an odd angle but the man somehow still alive. His eyes were as equally glazed over as Seschua’s were, indicating just how knocked out he was.

Mythal fell to his knees right after, panting heavily as he stared at the form of the Reinforcement wizard. His ears were ringing, not allowing him the opportunity to hear the audience cheering or the announcer losing his mind in excitement. Whatever strength Mythal had left was relegated to keeping him from falling over and face planting, his entire body limp save for his torso. He really, really hoped that Serilda had managed to overcome that monster man because at this rate, if he was the victor, he could come over and push Mythal over with a breath.

It seemed both he and Serilda had been beaten to pulps, enough that neither one of them could move to get to the other. The God Slayer managed to turn his head enough to look over at her, her body and face bloodied and beaten. But she was still there, breathing and staring back at him. He still couldn’t quite hear anything but the sounds were starting to creep in past whatever barrier had been placed in them. The arena medics were down soon enough to help them both to their feet, giving them just enough healing to get them moving before extracting them. Once they were back in their private room, they were treated by the healing magic; knitting their wounds together once more and removing the ailments. Their muscles would surely be sore for days to come, which made the possibility of any awkward interactions over the rest of the weekend pretty slim. At least that was something, right?

Mythal was sitting on the floor, his back pressed up against the wall, as he tried to meditate his pain away. The Midian monks knew how to constrict and widen the blood flow so that soreness could be treated but it was something he had never truly mastered. He could aid certain parts of his body and then others were never treated to it at all. He sighed but opened his eyes when Serilda spoke up, the crimson orbs wearily glancing towards the Voidwalker. She was pointing at the lacrima screen and he followed her indication, his eyes widening to full height as he read the numbers. The audience had little to no faith in them; all the bets were best suited to be placed on this… Argus Rosenthal.

“Frankly,” he said softly, turning his gaze back to her. “I’d bet against us two. We just barely survived the last two rounds. If they’re all puttin’ jewel against us that much…” he let out a small sigh and shook his head. “Don’t matter. We’ll follow this through to the end, no matter what.” What other choice did they have? They could, technically, surrender before the final match began but then what was the point of fighting and winning those other bouts? It would be all for naught. At least if they lost, they lost with some dignity and honor. That suited him better than simply giving up.

After some time that seemed far too soon, they were called for the last match. As they walked in, the crowd was as loud as it had ever been. It was hard to tell if they were cheering the two newbies that had made it this far or if they were incensed in excitement to watch their reigning champion bring low two of the newest challengers. Mythal took a solid minute to look around the moving bodies in the stands, their jubilation practically an energy at this point. He glanced over at Serilda one more time before the announcer swung into the announcement of their names once more. He looked across the field to find… no one there. Had the other guy even come in yet? His answer came a moment later as the lights dimmed and the audience screeched even louder. They were chanting something; two words that melded together so unevenly he couldn’t pick out what it was at first. It wasn’t until the announcer finished his declaration of their opponent’s title that it all made much more sense.

Fire Lord. It was repeated over and over like a practiced spell and indeed, there were torches on the walls of the coliseum that were now just lighting up. This was a big deal; enough that the entire arena was going wild. He reached back and pulled his sword up and in front of him, prepared for anything now. The door gave out a loud creak and opened, stretching forth its mighty hinges to reveal their opponent. A man that bore a mask of the blackest steel, that covered all of his face and erupted five spikes on its top, almost like a crown. Unearthly eyes stared back at them through the grate, an opening bar between the bottom and top halves for his eyes. He had a long, perfected black cloak that ran over his shoulders and down over his back, the interior a burnt, coppery red. Below that was a purple trench coat with golden buttons running down the interior and a martial arts gi that covered the rest of his bod. A sword was tucked into his sash, buried inside a golden scabbard with a round jewel on its pommel. He walked right up to them without hesitation, both he and Serilda on guard in case he decided to attack. But rather than that, he simply bowed and thanked them for the opportunity to fight, granting them each a word of luck.

Wow, a moment of respect. That was… strange, considering everyone else had just outright attacked them. He gave the man a curt nod, granting the same respect he showed them. And just like that, it seemed they were ready to battle. Without a word between them, they each prepared to attack in their own way. Serilda, always the crowd controller, reached out and closed off the man’s oxygen, disorienting him and hindering him right off the bat. Now it was Mythal’s turn to hit him hard and fast, proving that they weren’t just pushovers to put over the crowd and champion. But before he could even move, an aura of flames erupted from him that spread out so high and far that it burned his arm right away. He snarled and leapt back, his left arm singed from the flames. He looked at it and shook it, trying to clear away the tingling, hot sensation.

“Well now we know why he hasn’t been beat. No one can get near ‘em,” Mythal snarled, loud enough for Serilda to hear. He focused magic into his Curse and swung it forward, releasing a wave shadow magic at the man. It soared through the outer flames but then crashed into a new fiery creation that sprang up from his magic. “Son of a bitch…” he grumbled as he pressed the button on his weapon. It unfolded itself, the gears whirring as it took up a new look – that of a scythe. He swung it forward to test it and then focused more magic into it. Then came the swipes that unleashed crystalline forms of his magic, soaring forward through the fire and crashing into the wall of flames he had created. Seven of the shards embedded themselves into the wall and then detonated as Mythal slammed the end of his weapon into the ground.

There was a brief pause in combat as the smoke swirled around Argus… but then his flames reignited with even more anger than before. The God Slayer was forced back a few more steps, snarling again. “He’ll just keep wearing our magic down until we ain’t got anythin’ to hit him with,” he mumbled. If they tried to run through the flames, they’d be severely burned. Not like they had anything that could quench the thirst of the inferno…

Though maybe Serilda could create a brief opening for him. His dashed over to the Voidwalker, swinging around behind her without stopping. As he went, he spoke quietly, only loud enough for her to hear. “I have an idea. Distract him and then when you see me goin’ at him, use yer magic to weaken those flames. I don’t need ‘em out – just not enough to burn me to a crisp. Trust me.” Then he was running off to the side, swinging his scythe a few more times to send blades of magical energy at him. His shield continued to move, following the attacks, even as he turned his body to face Serilda but kept his gaze on Mythal. The God Slayer ran down the way, giving himself a lot more room than he would supposedly need. Once he had reached the far wall, he flicked the button on his scythe and turned it back into its sword form.

“This is gon’ hurt,” He mumbled before he leapt into the air, his body wrapped up in shadow and changing him into his crow form. He flapped his wings aggressively, soaring into the sky as quickly as possible. When he reached a place that was right at the announcer’s box level, he pulled his wings in close and toppled beak over body, dropping limp. His rate of speed increased as gravity took hold of him, yanking him aggressively down towards the earth. He made it look like he was going to impact too until the last possible moment, his wings unfolding and arcing his trajectory back towards Argus. He turned back into Mythal, his magic coursing through his body at such an intense rate that his arms were pale white from the magical magnitude. He boosted his speed further, racing right at the Fire Lord with every bit of magical buffing he could make.

Argus stood his ground but increased his flames, making them even more unbearable. If his opponent got too close, he would practically be rendered to ash. But just as Mythal was approaching the outer flames, there was a sudden dampening. The air around his flames changed and the inferno lessened, much to his surprise. His eyes widened as Mythal burst through the fire, his right arm back and armored in the gauntlet. With the mixture of speed and strength, the God Slayer’s fist hitting Argus’ chest plate sounded like a massive gong had just been rung. There was a moment of dead air, as the Fire Lord’s armor cracked and began to snap and break all over, somehow connected all throughout. Then he was soaring backwards like a top, his pained yell silencing the crowd. When he hit the wall, he did it with such force that the entire stadium shook.

Mythal hit the ground almost at the same time, his face, neck and arms covered in soot and mild burns. He was breathing but only one of his eyes was opened, his body unable to move itself. He’d put everything into that attack, in hopes of taking the man out. But the way he was still grunting and the sound of rocks crumbling, he was afraid that wasn’t the case. He only hoped that the punch had been enough to weaken him, that Serilda might be able to finish him off.