Raiten:

  Finally I bear witness to the Giant’s Glades in the mortal plane. Great swords, spears, and axes are thrust into the ground, tall as mountains. Their tassels flap like huge flags of nations long past—eroded by the cruel hand of time. I don’t know the story of this place, but I feel it nonetheless. In my heart. In my bones.

  This used to be some battlefield for things beyond my comprehension.

  Fitting, that it will serve as the boy’s final resting place. For we wield powers beyond our understanding to prosecute a war of mere men.

  I descend with Meteorfang—holding the kunai with my left hand and spinning the ball with my right.

  Nothing.

  The wind blows and the tall grass swivels, folding in like a paintbrush upon a canvas. I could’ve sworn I saw him land right here. It doesn’t help that we’re in a green valley and his robes are green and his eyes are green and he wields fucking green lightning—

  Oh.

  Right.

  I pulse lightning through my left hand and punch the kunai into the ground. The lightning spreads from the crater I make and out comes the boy shogun from his camouflage in the grass—launching above my wave of lightning and driving for my head with two swords.

  I lean back hard and watch him pass over me, blades swishing just above my hair.

  He rolls to land. I fling the ball-end at him, but he dodges just in time, skipping left. The metal ball instead goes far and dents against one of the giant swords. The lightning imbued in the ball creates a small, scorching explosion—one that impacts the top edge of the blade and causes it to heave, tipping over. The ground rumbles and the earth itself seems to wail as the blade starts cleaving down from the heavens.

  I cut under the arc of the blade, pulling the ball back to me and thrusting it out once more.

  Souta strikes the ground with lightning. A lanky red tree rises from the valley and stretches to the sky, its branches rustling against the slow-falling blade.

  Meteorfang breaks the trunk, yet Souta merely strikes the tree again with lightning and the tree regenerates.

  To my surprise, he starts climbing the tree. Branch to branch, leaf to leaf, he makes his way up to the falling blade.

  I watch dumbfounded for a moment.

  What’s the point of this? Does he intend to just run from me the entire time?

  I shake my head and move to follow.

  Only for a streak of green lightning to blast the ground near me. I am flung away for a moment but I whip the kunai into the dirt, letting the chain drag and go taut—allowing me to skid to a stop.

  Three more bolts come screaming my way from the top of the tree.

  Little bastard’s created a crow’s nest.

  Fine. I’ll play.

  I fire back seven bolts, all outlined with Aether.

  Our salvo of thunder and death continues like this. As the great sword slowly falls over, we spew angel dust like expert archers. He’s more accurate. However, when his bolts clash against mine midair, my redness usually wins out. The boy dodges them though, weaving around the crowns of the tree like a deft acrobat.

  I have to jump about like a monkey as I make my way to the tree.

  Finally, I’m able to wrap the chain around the trunk and tug, breaking the tree down from its base with a series of satisfying, woody cracks. The tree falls much faster than the blade.

  Souta doesn’t bother striking the tree again.

  Instead, he jumps onto the falling blade, landing on its edge and using it like a bridge. He runs up the sloping metal while shooting more lightning at my form.

  Well I’ll give him one thing: he’s certainly creative.

  I jump to pursue.

  Something hard pulls on my leg and drags me back to the earth. I grimace at the unexpected force, turning to strike at it—only to be slammed against the ground. Once. Twice.

  I don’t let it happen a third time, exploding lightning from my form. My assailer wheels back, releasing their grip. My lungs swallow the air again and I finally get a good look at—

  Not this shit again.

  It's a tree. A whole bunch of trees actually, all risen from the ground. Souta wasn’t just aiming at me—no he was building his regiment without my notice. A very similar force to the one I saw in the illusion-scape—the trap that Thraevirula put the Mancer Troop in so long ago. That’s when I first fought Crooked.

  Bad times.

  The trees seem to converge all at once upon me, tall and mindless.

  I prepare Meteorfang to make a circle of red death.

  Except, from the ground, comes a great hoot and Umbrahorn jumps forth. He whips his tail against one enclosing tree and spits wooden teeth at another.

  “I’m glad to see you,” I yell.

  “I got this, go!”

  I frown for a moment. “What about the plagued—”

  “Trapped by Kiren’s shield. I followed you—good thing I did. Just—” he bites another tree in half and tackles three more. “Go kill the kid already!”

  I nod my thanks and leap for the falling blade, whose hilt has only just been uncovered by the clouds.

  And when I land on its edge—wide as a fortress bridge—my long black hair whips in the wild wind as I face down the boy shogun once more.

  Souta uses roots that spider out from his shoes to stay connected to the metal. I have to use lines of Aether—somehow, this is much harder than merely outlining bolts of lightning. But I manage, mostly because both feats don’t take too much mana. Nor do they require expert levels of control; an idiot like me can figure out how to use Aether for this much, at least.

  Souta raises his two blades in front of his eyes, one of which is now covered in blood. His half-ear drips with the sticky liquid—the red rising upwards now, against the motion of the great sword.

  I wrap the chains around my arms, creating gauntlets of metal and infusing them with lightning. Hold the kunai in one hand, leave a little slack for the ball in the other.

  Then, we charge at each once more, green and red now mere dots that clash upon the mountainous blade which falls to the world below—a new battle legend being made upon the graves of the old.

  …

  Zyla:

  Saegor and the Witch of Plagues face off, their expressions darkening, their fingers twiddling with magicks.

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  Then, simultaneously, they raise their arms.

  From Saegor’s palm a great plume of fire strikes forth. From the witch’s hand comes an army of flying locusts.

  The black mass clashes against the furious flame, smoldering into ash. Yet the witch’s mass is too voluminous—they fly around the fire and attack Saegor.

  He raises his other hand and forms what looks, at first, to be a shimmering transparent shield—much like Kiren’s. But no. Instead of bouncing off the shield, when the locusts hit it, they transform into gray moths, turning back to attack Thraevirula now.

  The battle continues like this. Dark moves and darker countermoves.

  I try paying attention, but an elite force of Sorayvladian spearmen push my way. I have to dispose of them with concentrated light cavalry fire. Then, once a safe distance away, I re-observe the real battle through the eyes of a blood raven this time.

  And I smile.

  For Saegor already has Thraevirula curled up in his hand of darkness, smoke trailing around her silver armor and coiling to her admittedly beautiful face. My master trudges up to the witch and raises a hand.

  With this victory, we’ll have such a big advantage. The plagued will hopefully scatter or die without their master. And now, one of the biggest players on the board will have been removed: all that’s left is the boy shogun and Masaru himself. Then we win.

  Saegor brings his hand down for the finishing blow of magicks and darkness—

  He places the hand on the witch’s shoulder.

  I wait. Wait for her to disintegrate into ash or freeze or burn or be swallowed by the void. Nothing.

  What is he—

  “Tia,” Saegor says. I bring my raven closer to hear. “Please. Come with me.”

  For a moment, my actual body stops moving. Some of the spirits under my command stop following instructions.

  This…

  This isn’t the plan.

  More of my spirits die. I shake my head and regain control of my army, ordering them about. Compartmentalize—don’t lose sight of the battle. Calm down. Trust Saegor. Always. Trust. Saegor. He knows what he’s doing—even if you don’t.

  The witch laughs at Saegor. “Really?” she shrugs and looks around theatrically. “All of this, for that? That stupid plea I’ve heard a thousand times already?”

  “Tia,” Saegor hisses now, his voice brimming with tired frustration. This is ground he’s tread before. “I’ve disobeyed the Disciples—”

  “You mean the Harbingers.”

  “The Disciples,” he continues, ignoring her correction—though I have no idea what either word means. “Want to lose this war. They want Catolica weak enough for them to initiate a religious revival. They have given up on chasing you, Tia. Do you understand what that means?”

  Her red eyes narrow. But she doesn’t answer.

  “We can finally be free of this. All of this. I can take you back and we can start over—”

  “So you came here of your own volition?”

  “Yes.”

  “You really are a fool,” she says, now breaking out of the smoky bonds quite easily. She was feigning being trapped I guess. It surprises Saegor as well. “You’ve condemned two of your apprentices to death. And, you’ve destroyed the life that Raiten could’ve lived.”

  Saegor’s face scrunches in confusion. “Raiten? Why do you care—”

  “Everyone you touch dies, Saegor. My mother. My village. Your troop. And I will not go back to the lie of a life that you put through me. I’m done. I’m going to kill the Entity myself and rid the world of your fucking cult.”

  “Tia…”

  “Don’t ‘Tia’ me. This is over. You’ve lost. What was your plan? Go in without an army, kill all of us with what—spirits?” she laughs. “The whales will break through soon. My plagued will destroy you soon. And—”

  “The whales are a non-issue.” Before Tia can respond to that, Saegor stuffs his hand in his pocket, and reaches deep into it. Deeper than the pocket should realistically be. His arm almost seems to disappear into his black uniform, until finally, he’s able to withdraw the appendage from his pocket dimension.

  And he holds, in his hand, a tiny silver stick.

  “I came to win, Tia—even without the support of Catolica or the Disciples. And I came to get you. But, if I can’t convince you of the futility of this cause, then I’ll just have to show you.”

  Then, Saegor whispers something to the stick and tosses it up.

  The stick enlarges into a spear and flies like a silver star, soaring into the shields above. It breaks through one of the hexagons with ease and shoots now towards the whales.

  Thraevirula starts laughing. Laughing so hard that she has to hold her chest and wheeze, one of her hands splaying on the ground. Saegor shifts hesitantly.

  “Whats so funny?”

  “Three things, actually. One, your delusion that you think you can take me back. Two, your delusion that the spear is under your control. And three—” she stops laughing all of a sudden and straightens. “Something I couldn’t have predicted at all has just returned, under my purview. Oh Saegor,” she shakes her head. Smiles, quite a beautiful smile—innocent and pure, like a little girl picking flowers.

  “You are all going to die.”

  …

  Raiten:

  It takes 40 strokes of Meteorfang before the boy finally makes a mistake. The wounds wear him down. He’s cut open almost everywhere, body dripping with blood like a risen corpse. Still, he endeavors to attack one more time, feinting high with his larger wakizashi but really, aiming low with his dagger-like tanto. I make a calculated decision before dipping down and taking the tanto in the shoulder. The pain is sharp and furious, but nothing like what I deliver back—for I use my shoulder to drive his tanto-holding hand away, and strike up now at his chest with my kunai.

  The small blade pierces his stomach.

  The boy pauses and looks at me, disbelieving. Then, he drops the wakizashi, lets go of the tanto, and tries to pull out the kunai.

  The giant sword we fought on now finishes its fall, making both of us wobble from the impact. Souta is still attempting to pull out the kunai, hands coming back bloody. I step into his shoulder and twist the blade deeper.

  He gasps and stumbles lamely, like a drunkard, before falling off the sword. The kunai jerks on Meteorfang’s chain and rips out of the boy’s body. Souta hits the earth hard—even with the great blade now grounded, the fall from the top of the blade edge is still significant.

  I rip the tanto out of my shoulder with a growl of pain before tossing it aside. Then, I slide down the metal’s length. Time to finish the job.

  As I land, lightning still runs plentifully through my veins. The incorporation of Meteorfang and Aether has increased my time with angel dust at least twofold: it's no doubt already been ten minutes, and yet, I feel like I could go another ten. Maybe more, even.

  Besides, I still have two more amulets.

  Meaning that this battle between the boy and I wasn’t a matter of if, but when. And the when has come.

  Souta crawls away on his stomach, hands clutching his chest, breath tapering off into wheezes.

  Umbrahorn pops up next to me. “I took care of the trees. Is it over?”

  “Almost,” I respond, stalking towards the boy now.

  The shark looks at the boy’s form and grimaces. But he makes no protest for what I’m about to do. This is war. There are no innocents.

  Umbrahorn sniffs behind me. Shifts.

  I start spinning the kunai-end of Meteorfang to finish the boy off.

  Souta turns on his back and props himself up, holding a hand out. Words form on his lips, yet only strained gasps issue forth.

  I almost feel bad.

  Almost.

  Then, I remember my own past, my own losses, and bury my pity with vengeance.

  I whip the kunai at Souta.

  The boy closes his eyes.

  “Raiten get down!” Umbrahorn yells.

  I turn my head to the hammerhead before a force like lightning explodes into the ground, scattering the earth. My body flings back and my head slams against the flat of the great sword—a pounding pain. Blood slicks my right flank. I groan, stand, and try to get my bearings.

  I wish I hadn’t.

  Because I’m seeing something that shouldn’t be possible.

  This has to be a trick. One of Thraevirula’s dreams.

  “Thunderwatcher Thunderwatcher, let down your hair,” the thing in front of me bellows before laughing. “Oh. This. Is. Glorious. Now, answer this question for me, Raiten:”

  The Elk splays out its wings, one of an angel, the other a devil. Its crown of antlers comes ablaze with blue soulfire. And Baroth’s six eyes are all set upon me as the Elk’s lip curls back into a smile.

  “Do you see what I see?”