Judgement Blood: A Celestial's Vendetta

The sun cowered away from everything, setting west, and the omnipresent silhouette of the Weeping Knight loomed more ominously than ever.

The fire from the Salivitian camp seemed more cosy and intimate than when the sun graced. 

Something far more precious was setting too, peace. 

The fire hissed and crackled, and the soft murmurs of the Salivitians were determined not to disturb it. 

Some of the chunks were cooked, some weren't. 

Some of the smiles were genuine, some weren't.

Some of the hearts were settled, some weren't.

Because, despite themselves, the Salivitians were tense. They knew their calm was superficial. Ferra joked, yes, but she also looked subtly over her shoulder, a little too often. 

Curt's cheeks began hurting from that impish grin of his.

Krug had a persistent wince on his face and distant eyes that never left the cooking meat.

Rye never smiled, and Rum smiled excitedly.

They all chatted and joked 'lightheartedly'—something about a common dare in Salivitian culture that involved eating something vulgar.

It was a strange thing for the hunter to be the bait for the bait.

Ffwitt!

A thin arrow sliced the air unimpeded from the thicket and struck Krug's back. 

Unlike the one used to warn Ilyas back in their first meeting, Alexander coated the arrowhead with his blood. It was a demanding task, but necessary. 

Coherents have blood that hates intrusions. Ordinary projectiles would dissolve as if being plunged into a vat of acid if the Coherent were of a higher tier. 

Imitators were the most diluted and suffered from a very low tolerance to projectiles, slightly higher than that of ordinary humans, but they still exhibited some resistance. Their blood was only a little zealous, so as to say.

Alexander's blood was required to balance that feistiness and make his arrow as effective as it would be on an ordinary human. 

That was, of course, considering that Krug was also an Imitator, but Alexander, Ilyas and Cenric had no doubt he was.

A Congruent was far more... intense, to say the least.

At the moment of impact, Krug's eyes shot up in shock-

"Agh!" He grunted.

But before he and any of his companions could react,

Ffwitt!

Another arrow struck and plunged itself into his back, again.

The Salivitians sprang up from their relaxed positions with startled faces and quickly assumed defensive positions, instinctively nicking their hands on small blade protrusions on their sashes. 

Krug was sluggish in his movements, too sluggish to save his own life. The third arrow struck true, and the burly man slumped and fell face-first into the sizzling pan. 

The pan flipped, and the piece of meat flung to the ground. 

No more arrows followed. The camp fell silent, and weapons freakishly began to form from crimson blood.

Rum wielded a longsword.

Ferra wielded an axe.

Curt wielded a machete.

And Rye wielded a seven-foot-tall Twinblade.

They all regarded Krug's corpse with a hint of sorrow and regret, but quickly composed themselves for what was to come. 

There was no time.

After a few silent, apprehensive moments, the sound of tottering footsteps on pines and needles reached them, followed by-

A figure appeared from the hazy darkness near the manor gates. Its gaze was cold and miasmic green, and his mechanical breathing was chilling and baleful. As the figure stalked closer, some details became clearer.

Their attire was strange and tattered. Their figure was gaunt and lanky, and their gait was laboured and uneven. 

A sense of dread overcame the camp. The figure saw them and continued regardless. That wasn't supposed to happen, not on this continent.

Salivitians were meant to be avoided here, feared!

But it also made sense; this scout was trapped, and so their only way out was to fight with everything. The Salivitians wanted this to happen, and now it was happening.

But the more they stared at that green, regretful glare, the more their curiosity turned submissive to what that mask demanded:

Trepidation.

Rum, at their vanguard, stared at the approaching corpse-like freak with an unsettled expression. A little because of their necrotic countenance, but mainly because the figure carried a bow in his hand.

Ferra shifted anxiously behind Rum while hefting her axe on her shoulder. 

The other two readied themselves behind them.

Rum looked over his shoulder at his companions, finally serious and focused. "Ready yourselves, friends. There is not much meat to him, but that mask will still impress the elders."

The others nodded resolutely without taking their eyes off the approaching figure.

"Let's avenge our comrade, and then let's go home," Rum muttered.

Something smelled nasty. The smell of skin searing. Krug certainly managed to set the tone for bloodshed even after death.

***

'Here we go.'

'Here we go.'

'Here we go.'

'Here we go.'

'Here we go.'

'Here we go.'

Ilyas coped by repeating that refrain in his mind. Well, other than using the disturbing aspect of his mask, there was nothing much he could do.

The plan was altered with his addition. Krug displayed a mysterious Imitation that allowed him to sense that they were still around, despite him not knowing exactly where. 

That was dangerous and could really ruin their element of surprise, which was undoubtedly their best weapon in their current situation.

Getting rid of him with their first use of that element was key, as it would allow them to use it again. 

Every painful step Ilyas took was straining, not because of the physical wound, but because it was as if he were wading against the powerful torrent of his instincts. 

To evade.

To freeze, or to cower. 

It was fine being a coward in the Vault, but not here. Not until he reached Marianne. Not until he reached Mathesonia.

If he wanted to survive, he had to make himself something more. 

His wounds ached excessively now, as if to remind him of why he shouldn't be marching towards those human-like beasts. He sighed them away. 

All four of the Salivitians were watching him approach, good.

That's how it was supposed to be.

The snapping of pine needles rustled in the thicket near Curt, but it was too late for him.

Shluk!

Flesh parted for a solemn longsword as it sliced through the abdomen of the impish bastard.

The sword came into view before the dashing Young Lord himself. 

But it wasn't enough to kill the Imitator. Just as Curt and the others ripped their gazes from Ilyas-

Snick!

A softer and more precise slash attacked Curt from the other side. It was no less deadly. The others saw it, but Curt didn't. 

Alexander emerged from the darkness of the thicket from the left-hand side, while Cenric appeared from the right. They sandwiched Curt between them, and just as the bastard's Machete began turning red, perhaps because of his Imitation, it was too late for him even to display his powers. Alexander and Cenric made swift work of him, calibrating their attacks and slashing together from both sides like duelling fencers, and Curt was stuck in between.

Blood spilt and splattered on the fire, enraging it. 

Their second use of the element was over. Now, favour was no longer on their side. Alexander and Cenric turned from the convulsing corpse of Curt on the floor and faced three enraged adversaries. No, not just enraged, incensed. 

Cenric clenched his rapier more tightly as he stared up at them with a faltering, composed look. He was scared, but determined.

Alexander gave him a quick, hopeful, yet worried glance before returning his gaze to their enemies.

'Oh dear... here we go,' Ilyas thought for the last time. 

Other than being outnumbered and outskilled, these Salivitians were all Imitators who, unlike Krug, harboured affinities to combat. That was evident from their state of boredom whilst Krug surveyed the area.

Cenric and Alexander's affinities were powerless before them, let alone the fact that they practised stealth rather than combat most of the time.

One cannot have it all.

"Curt?" Rum whispered in disbelief. 

'Okay, that's it for me! Time to go!'

Ilyas, who momentarily lost all the attention, turned around to escape and hide in the thicket.

His temporary semblance of bravery started waning as he waddled away, counting his steps anxiously.

There was nothing for him to do in a fight between Imitators with weapons of steel and feisty blood. Nothing except giving up his life in foolish bravado.

'Yeah... Not happening.'

"Not happening!" A raspy, furious voice called out to him from behind.

Ilyas froze. Not just physically, everything about him froze.

'Ah...'

He turned around slowly, dreading the prospect that that voice was calling to him. 

'There are no boundaries to how unfair life could be. How?! Why me?!' 

Rye glared at him with narrow, dark eyes and legs firmly planted on the ground in a fighting stance.

His empty hand was raised defensively, while the other wielded his Twinblade, which was easily much taller than he was. He grasped it like a glorious sceptre and seemed much more dignified in its company.

Other than feeling his stomach drop, his spine tingling with needles, and his thighs quivering embarrassingly, Ilyas couldn't help but think:

'How cool.'

He was entranced.

It indeed was. Two long, thin blades were connected by a wooden shaft where a hand or two could assert themselves and wield the majestic thing.

If one blade faced right, the other faced left. If one faced forward, the other faced backwards.

'How loyal!'

It was as if one covered for the other. Back to back. Like in the Wasteland Crusador, Alexander and August were ambushed and forced to fight back-to-back.

The blades seemed stoic and stalwart in their firmness and sharpness, like two faceless sentries bound by the will of the wielder and the polished shaft.

Rye continued to pierce him with that indignant, wrathful look of his as he stalked forward, ever so slightly tilting the Twinblade so as not to scrape unnecessarily against the floor.

Ilyas could've sworn that he saw a tear squeeze from one of his eyes, but it was too dark to be sure. 

'Were they close? Does this bastard really feel... wronged?'

It didn't make sense. But nothing did at this point. This whole war, Retreat, whatever it was, didn't make sense.

'I'm gonna die without finding out anything?!'

Ilyas knew as much as a roasted tomato about the rules of combat, and now he really regretted that. 

'How was I supposed to know I'm gonna be kicked out to the surface and deal with... all of this?! Why would I wanna learn how to kill someone, Goddammit?!'

Rye held that thing beautifully and marched with confidence. "You! You pallid bastard! How dare you! How dare you kill them?! I'm gonna rip your liver out and feed it to my dogs, you filthy bastard!"

His voice was wet and guttural. 

Ilyas was once again glad for his mask, because behind it, he blanched.

He wished he felt that anger that drove him when facing Benjamin, or when watching these bastards prepare to feast on human flesh, but unfortunately, he didn't. At least not enough to drown his fear anymore. But he was dying, so why? Why did it betray him? Why did he have to die scared and not in the bliss of a tantrum?

'The smartest, and best thing to do is to run, but-' Ilyas reflected on his battered state and tsked. 'That's not doable.'

'Well, I'll hold on until those two, hopefully, pull through.'

Ilyas did not even want to consider his situation if the more likely option were to happen: Cenric and Alexander lose.

Ilyas raised his hands the way Alexander from the Wasteland Crusador does before fighting without a weapon. That was as much as he knew; panels don't give away much, unfortunately. 

***

Rye finally came within range.

Ilyas took a deep breath, steadied his legs, and swallowed back his fear.

He didn't have to beckon the adrenaline; it doused him once again. How sweet.

He saw a foot plant, ready, then it all happened too fast to register:

Rye clenched his jaw and dashed forward, leaving a plume of leaves and pines in his wake.

The Twinblade was a silver streaking blur as Rye brandished it. He outstretched his arm and let the blade slide and slice horizontally with the tip yearning for Ilyas's neck.

Ilyas's terrified eyes gaped at the tip as it almost reaped his life. His whole strategy was to stumble back every time Rye slowed down to deliver an attack.

For now, or at least for the first attack, it worked. The tip of the blade almost grazed him, but didn't.

A subtle twitch in Rye's eye told him that his opponent was now privy to his tactic. 

Rye didn't stop with just that slash; instead, he continued with the momentum, letting the Twinblade spin about his hand. The other blade hissed through the air to tear him apart in a downward slash.

It was faster. It was imperious. It glistened red.

The approaching, damning strike left him nowhere to stumble, and Ilyas was paralysed. His thoughts froze, his body froze, and his eyes froze, staring wide in cold horror at the indifferent blade as it came to deliver him an elegant demise.