Rain had started falling in the world inside the burlap sack. It was not the kind of rain that would be called a blessing by any means. As lightning bolts skidded overhead, and thunder rumbled behind the rain clouds, two shifters were stuck in a standoff.
One was defeated and kneeling on one knee, the other held a staff that was bloodied before the rain poured.
The water had cleansed the staff of the impurities of the conflict. The bluish sheen that coated its wooden finish was slowly fading away into nothingness.
"Should I end you right here?" The staff was held out straight into the head of Harambe, who unlike his counterpart, had blood all over his face and cuts and bruises all over the torn spots on his clothing. "You should meet the maker, and your father to explain."
Harambe gritted his broken teeth, which was complete a little while ago, and shot Erikson a fierce glare. "Do what you want, you fuck."
What did he do to invoke this guy's animosity and wrath? He had thought about it, but still couldn't make heads or tails of it.
Maybe this was just his normal behavior and everything else had been a lie.
***
Harambe was cautious around that staff. It seemed to have taken the mana he tried to access and turned it into its own, covering it with a blue sheen.
In his first life's extensive military career, a staff had no practical use in battle.
It had range, sure. However, it's durability was atrocious, power was average—unless of course the user has mana, and would rather use a staff than a better weapon— and reliability depends on the current battle situation.
This staff though… was a tad bit different than a traditional one many were used to.
It was a head taller than Erikson, meaning it was around Harambe's height. It was a pure hardwood staff, with several runic carvings, and a blunt tip.
Somehow, this hardwood staff evoked the warmth of a lone lamp post lighting up a bleak, dark street.
He truly lamented the fact that he no longer had his trusty pistol, so he could fight him with range… but he had to make do with what he had. There's always another way to fight.
Erikson struck first.
He jumped in straight into close quarters combat, throwing out several quick jabs with his free hand, kicks with his feet, while holding the staff with a steady hand.
The two then danced in a concert of punches, kicks, brass knuckles, and staff swinging, in delicate harmony. Both sides were a blur, but while one was clearly slowing down after every single clean blow that struck him, his counterpart's battle rhythm was only growing ever stronger, more ferocious, and more precise.
Harambe thought the other party was getting faster, but hadn't really considered himself going slower. He hadn't even noticed the small wounds that slowly started to pepper his robust frame. But as the fight progressed, his control over his own body was starting to waver.
He tried to wriggle free from his predicament, but Erikson started tapping into his massive wealth of shady, roguish tactics.
Each additional strike, drawing blood.
Each additional slap, flick, elbow, scratch, and tap of the staff dealing with the man in front of him.
"Shit!" Harambe blocked another wild swing from Erikson's staff, but took a hard stomp to the knee in return, sending him kneeling on his other knee. The pain that was supposed to follow a cracked bone was absent.
'Must be the adrenaline.'
The rain started falling, adding its harsher conditions to the short, but one-sided melee. A temporary halt made Harambe see how his opponent looked.
Wet, but completely untouched.
No wounds, no bruises, not even the slightest hint of a tap from Harambe's mana-less brass knuckles. For the first time in this body, he was thoroughly thrashed.
Harambe knew he had confidently blocked most of those attacks, but the sheer amount of small wounds, and bruises on his extremities, joints, and torso, said otherwise.
Harambe knew he had no choice but to make a desperate final attempt to eke out an opening.
He hugged Erikson's knees in a vain attempt to bring the man down. But Erikson's staff whittled away and accurately pounded at the bones on his back, and his spine several times, more than the number of hits Erikson's knees and legs took. Slowly, Harambe's attacks lost its juice, like a wounded man about to lose consciousness.
He took another knee to the chin, making him taste his own tongue's blood, mixed with Erikson's sweat, and raindrops.
Oddly, the rain was neither cold nor warm.
***
"Do what you want, you fuck."
After that taunting statement, Harambe plopped to the ground unconscious, like a broken ragdoll.
The storm blew gale force winds to Erikson's deadpan face. With the rain intensifying to a stronger scale, Erikson nonchalantly returned to his owl form, and took cover beneath the tree.
"That went easier than I thought." The staff laid at the base of the tree, innocent and calm. Erikson mulled about how harsh he dealt with a close friend's son, and held a tinge of sentimentality. "If only you hadn't bit the dust, you'll be the one doing this to him, you bastard gorilla."
Erikson jumped off, punched the tree trunk, and grabbed the singular apple that fell down the tree afterward. Eerie as it was, Erikson knew that this tree, in this space, was indestructible.
"I'm tired…" He nibbled on the apple while looking at the sorry state Harambe was in. "Blocking that guy's mana was a lot harder than subduing him, unlike what I first thought. Oh well, time to wake him up."
He grabbed his staff and tapped the ground rhythmically with it. Astonishingly, the howling winds, and the raging storm stopped. The clouds cleared, and the small sun hanging overhead shone with its radiance once more.
Erikson also returned to his elderly form, transforming seamlessly back to his usual state outside the burlap sack. His massive scar had returned too.
Harambe opened his eyes the exact moment Erikson sat along the wet patches of grass beside him.
"How does it feel to have your mana blocked?" Harambe's unfocused eyes grew wide after the question as if finally putting the pieces of a puzzle together. "A bit of a cheeky, disgusting maneuver, isn't it?"
Harambe who was still unable to sense any sort of pain from his broken bones and superficial wounds— even after the battle frenzied state he was in, had subsided— was both disgusted and intrigued by the old owl's revelation.
Those little jabs, flicks, kicks, palm strikes, and staff taps, were all to temporarily block him from harnessing one of their greatest advantages: Mana.
Of course! How'd this slip his mind!
Seeing as he can only release muffled grunts as speech, Erikson took the opportunity and asked.
"Do you want me to teach you the way of the rogue? The forbidden technique of Mana Blocking?"