He had thrown himself at the enemy with bare hands. Without his sword, without even his pistol.
However, only the pistol had been taken from him, only this one was out of his reach. Before he reached the enemy, Desmond called the sword back into his hands, and it came as it always did. It was like a part of him.
No, it was.
It was a part of him in the same way that the second set of heartbeats in his chest was a part of him.
Even with sword in hand, he was moving toward an enemy whom he had seen literally split in two to avoid an attack.
That was true, but he had not been fooled like the others. He had not let that fact fill him with fear and doubt.
Precisely because he had seen it split in half.
If it were the living shadow it appeared to be, or if it could turn its body a shadow temporarily, it would have let the attack pass through it cleanly. If it could do that without dissolving first, taking the form of the black smoke with which it had passed under the door, that is.
But it hadn't happened that way. To dodge it, it had split its body in two, and the attack had passed between those parts.
It wasn't some kind of nightmarish creature.
It was not a living shadow. It could be hurt. It could be killed.
And that was what Desmond would do.
Right here, right now, with his own hands.
Desmond charged at the enemy, knocking it to the ground, before it could claim another life. At the last second. They fell together, with himself on top.
Holding the sword with both hands, he drove it like a stake into the shadow's chest....
Or rather, he tried to. Because he hadn't been fast enough. Not this time. The enemy had been given enough time to react, to split as it had before, so Desmond drove his sword in, but he drove it into the ground. Forming spider web-like cracks in the impact zone.
His strike had contained great power. However, that was of no use to him if it didn't hit the enemy.
The attack had only served to leave him exposed.
And his enemy, of course, took advantage of it. It plunged the knife into Desmond's side.
Perhaps he hadn't applied the reinforcement magic properly, hastily as he had been forced to do, or perhaps the knife was also something special he hadn't seen before.
In any case, it really sank into his skin. It didn't just weaken the reinforcement magic covering his body.
It penetrated skin and flesh, sinking all the way to the hilt.
In any case, it was now, bathed in his blood. Blood, bloodshed, had its own power.
-Thanks for the gift," Desmond mumbled.
Then he grabbed the hilt of the dagger and yanked it out of its hand, unceremoniously. Blood spurted out. He felt hot. His head grew lighter.
It didn't matter. He would defeat this enemy as he had defeated all enemies before it.
Desmond could fight without worrying about the state of his own body. He had promised both of them that he would take care of himself, that he would worry more...but he could worry about himself once they were both safe. He couldn't always protect them.
He couldn't keep them from fighting their own battles.
It was true, all of it. Desmond had accepted it. However, there was nothing wrong with him ending a fight before they could get involved if he was able to do so.
The shadow... he should stop calling his enemy that, give it that power, it delivered a hard kick to his chest.
Causing him to stagger backwards. Causing him to move away from it, allowing the creature to sit up and rejoin the two halves of its body. And, furthermore, giving up the dagger essentially.
Because it was nothing more than a simple dagger laden with mage's blood, with his blood, after all?
Or was it because it didn't think it was capable of taking the weapon back?
Because now the enemy was acting with knowledge of what he was capable of doing? Of his speed, of his strength. Or perhaps the explanation was simpler.
It had seen Desmond call the sword to his hand even though they - it couldn't be alone in this, by any means - had ransacked the armory. And now it was acting cautiously. Now it wanted to size him up.
Should he do the same?
Desmond moved a few steps to the left. The enemy matched his steps. When he stopped, the enemy stopped too.
If the teachers had left one of their own to guard them, then this one had taken care of him, and with a surprise attack, since they had heard nothing, no sign of a fight. Before turning to black smoke and passing under the door.
To get into a basement full of mages. A single enemy against several dozen students.
The enemy believed he could get out of here alive. Because otherwise it wouldn't have gotten in. Was it a sign that its victories, all the people it had killed so far today, had inflated its head with confidence? Or did it have good reason to think so?
It was certainly very fast, it could transform into smoke, it could shape its body at will, who knew what the fuck else.
The enemy seemed to have every possible advantage.
But it was impossible for it to beat them all, to slaughter them all, even if it was willing to throw its life away in the process. Simply impossible. Its actions would only make sense if he assumed that its goal was really just to kill as many people as it could before running away with its tail between its legs.
He wouldn't allow that.
More steps, this time to the right, describing a slow circle. The enemy matched his steps.
It was putting itself between Desmond and the others, he realized, so that they would hesitate to shoot. It was despicable to take advantage of the kindness of others... but he could say nothing, for he would have done the same in its situation.
Anything to gain an advantage. If you weren't fighting dirty, you weren't trying hard enough.
They weren't fighting at all, dirty or not.
Desmond lunged for his enemy, sword in one hand, knife in the other. The enemy remained where it stood. Waiting for him.
Desmond swung the sword with all his might, level with the enemy's neck.
The enemy dodged the attack by ducking.
But, anticipating its move, Desmond had stabbed with the knife where its head would be after it ducked. He didn't waste a millisecond in doing that after swinging the sword, so that the enemy wouldn't see that attack coming.
However, even that did not suffice. The enemy, leaning with one hand on the ground, bent backwards and the knife passed harmlessly over its chest.
Even that it had seen coming. Desmond was preparing a kick before the shadow even dodged the second attack.
The third was just as useless.
It hit the ground, rolled and grabbed his outstretched leg, tugging at it to make him lose his balance.
And he did. Shamefully, it not only succeeded in throwing him off balance, but also in knocking him to the ground. The positions they had been in a moment ago had been reversed.
-Son of a bitch! -Desmond mumbled.
He tried to stand up, but the enemy prevented him from doing so. Not with punches and kicks.
Not with the weight of its body.
Well, yes, with precisely that.
But not in a traditional way. The enemy fell apart, turning into black smoke, and rebuilt itself around him, wrapping itself around him like a giant snake. Desmond couldn't move his arms or legs.
He couldn't even breathe. And every second it was getting worse. With each passing second, the tighter it squeezed, as if it intended to blow him up like a balloon.
A balloon full of blood. And flesh.
Desmond grinned wildly.
Then, he felt the shadows of the basement come alive around him. This time he gave credit to the one who was truly responsible.
"Stop, Christina!"
She was ready, book raised, lips moving. But she stopped as he wanted her to.
He could handle this alone. It wasn't bravado.
He couldn't move his limbs one iota, with too much speed he was losing strength and oxygen. But that could be fixed.
To use reinforcement magic without destroying himself, he had to maintain a delicate balance.
He let that delicate balance break in his left arm, with which he held the dagger. In that state, he was able to pull it out of the shadow that constricted him like a giant snake. It was not broken at all.
Despite the pain, despite the resistance his own body offered, he was able to move it, yes.
And also keep the dagger in his grip.
And thrust it into the shadow four times, one after the other. It took the attacks instead of evading them as before because it was unwilling to split and thus loosen its grip on him. Desmond kept stabbing.
Sooner or later, it would have to make the decision to let go of him. The stabs had to be doing something to the enemy, even if it showed no signs of pain, no raising of its voice, not even with its body shaking.
The only question was which would give in first.
His enemy or his arm, which was on the brink of total destruction, which was getting even closer to the edge with every blow he made.
Each blow was a tremendous effort. And he paid dearly for that effort.
But he received his just reward.
That bastard slithered off him, at last it was forced to do so. Desmond threw the knife back before the pain or, well, just the loss of function forced him to drop it on the ground.
Mages weren't used to using those kinds of tools. Too arrogant, in general.
But even such arrogant pricks, who were overconfident in their magic, would see the wisdom in keeping the enemy's weapon away from him.
One of the weapons, that is. Because no one could take magic away from it. Although.... actually, that wasn't entirely true.
He didn't have to rely on one of those fools reacting as he expected.
Instead, Desmond saw out of the corner of his eye that Amy stepped forward to grab it.
The sword in one hand, the knife in the other.
The way Desmond would be if he hadn't broken his own arm. For a few moments, he wondered if it had really been worth it to be so stubborn.
Desmond decided... that question was pointless. What was done was done.
The enemy was finished even before it had walked through the door. It couldn't take so many of them.
He had been practically the only one to fight and yet the enemy was having trouble. To be fair, he was one of the strongest here.
Still, he had done something foolish and would pay for it. It would pay for every life it had taken.
It would pay for all the suffering it had spread and it would die screaming.
Roaring, Desmond lunged for the enemy again, without hesitation, without fear.
However, someone beat him to it. Christina and her shadows. The shadows grabbed the enemy who itself looked like a shadow and threw it to the ground, and dragged it towards her.
Of course. This was her domain.
No one could oppose her in the dark. Desmond's efforts... the sacrifice of his left arm, all that had been unnecessary. No, that had been for the sole purpose of satisfying his own desires, his selfishness.
Desmond could have turned away and it would have ended much more quickly and painlessly.
He watched as the enemy was dragged across the floor towards the girl.
For several seconds, Desmond imagined himself to be the one being dragged by those tentacles of darkness with a strange clarity. For some reason.
He shook his head.
Was it done? It wasn't turning into smoke to escape, then...
It did it.
As soon as he thought about it, it happened. Transformed into black smoke, it escaped the shadows that had him trapped. But that would only be temporary, it would have to be rebuilt and then Desmond would be ready...
If the enemy didn't decide to flee right now.
Or if...
No. Apparently Christina had tried something, thinking the same as him, that she might be able to control it like any other shadow while it was in that state.
Unfortunately, it didn't work. The black smoke kept moving toward the bluish light of the door that made it look like the door to the afterworld. But it didn't exit from under the door. It regained its humanoid form in front of it, still ready to fight.
Stubborn fool, Desmond thought.
It should use its abilities to the fullest to sow panic and confusion. It should go off to try its luck elsewhere, with the teachers, or to set traps around the building.
Or it could continue to try to take care of them, but setting fire to the basement, whose only entrance was blocked except for him and whoever had the key, condemning them to a slow and painful death.
Condemning them all but him. If that had been the case, he would have risen from the ashes. Renewed and stronger.
As Abigail had done in the distant past. A past he beheld with his own eyes, her burning to death and rising again like the phoenix of legends.
If the enemy insisted on going through with this the same way, Christina would catch it again and again, as many times as it took, and in the end she would end up tearing it apart.
He had no chance of winning.
Then it proved that it had an ace up its sleeve.
The basement, despite what was going on and the number of people in such a small space, there was no noise other than the sounds of battle. That's why Desmond sensed it instantly. That gasp of surprise. And fear.
Amy.
Desmond had passed her the knife, and now she was raising it, no, the weapon was raising itself against her will. Towards...
Towards...
Towards her own neck, of course. That son of a bitch!