Chapter 163
Death Thusly Comes
Many lives and many loops went by in a flash. To Sylas, at least, it was a flash. He learned how to only keep the most important information from a run and effectively format the rest of the memories. Some runs he learned a few things, and on some runs he learned nothing, obliterating them from the memories completely.
Bit by bit, though, he was approaching the critical mass of it all--he knew. The window was narrowing and narrowing, and he was growing more and more consistent with each passing loop. He suspected that, within just a few loops, he'd be able to achieve his first kill without dying. It would require some luck to go his way, but considering how many times the luck didn't go his way, he was due some reprieve.
You have died.
Save point 'Death' has been initialized.
"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!"
It would not be that loop--he mistimed the attack by a fraction of a second, but it was more than enough for the Shadow to bridge the gap and cut off his head. The more he fought with the unkillable, however, the more he realized the intricacies of the fighting. He was a dull boy staring into the wide skyline full of stars, and he couldn't grasp a hundredth of its beauty, but even a dull mind picks up on a thing or two over time.
His strikes slowly looked less flamboyant and less wide; he learned to tighten his posture even more than before, slowly removing all the excess movement. With a straight thrust, for instance, he used to move his entire body--but, over time, he learned to only move the body like a propeller to funnel more power into his thrusting arm. This generated a roughly equal amount of force while not exposing him to a retaliatory strike.
These tiny gaps that did not matter much previously were being exposed one by one by someone of a far higher fighting standard. He was beginning to slip less, to move with more purpose, to always focus on the move next-over. Though at the moment it was merely ersatz fighting he 'borrowed' from the Shadow, in time, he knew, he'd polish it to be his own.
You have died.
Save point 'Death' has been initialized.
"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!"
The world was redolent with the scent of anticipation. It was as though the invisible spirits themselves felt it approaching--the day he would live. The day the Shadow would fall. The snow, in the misguided poetry, seemed to part and form a path for him. The winds seemed to blow into his back. The bare sunlight and moonlight seemed to paint a road toward the village for him. The trees turned into guiding grooves, the forests into labyrinths that led him down the right path on their own.
It was as though the world was exulted at the thought of his victory. Why? He did not know. However, he let himself feel it--the adulation of the living things around him. There where the rejection was, he now felt acceptance. Acceptance from the world that he felt alienated from since the day he came. It was a strange, exotic feeling, one that he had never quite experienced.
Nonetheless, it did little to change the course of time. He left the castle and journeyed south, crossing the vast swaths of the frozen land to arrive at the village's outskirts. There, once again, as many times before, he awaited--the cloaked figure of unknown strength. Just like before, he was shocked into temporary silence at the sight of a topless, barefoot, wild-haired beast that came out of the woods.
The only thing of any value on Sylas' body was the sword--and for that blade he reached, slowly and purposefully sliding it out of its sheath. The blade rang out in joy, shaking in the name of exultance, as though unwound at last. The Shadow ceased talking, withdrawing the sword as well--both blades seemed in want of one another. It was not the lovers' want, but the want of brutality--of wrath born of pride.
The snow around the two figures isolated from the rest of the world melted, and tiny streams began to form. And thus, the winds blew.
Sylas stepped forward and crossed the distance between the two in a flash, stabbing with all his might. The Shadow ducked to the side, pushing its sword outward and letting Sylas' stab slide off while trying to push it further to the side, so as to destabilize Sylas' footing. It was for naught, though, for the latter had dealt with this 'trick' many times before.
Withdrawing the sword, Sylas continued stepping in. He didn't care for the shallow wounds--he would bleed rivers before dying. The only thing that would kill him was beheading. And he would not be beheaded, not yet at least.
His goal was to keep himself within two feet of the Shadow, repeatedly stabbing toward the critical areas--gut, heart, neck, even groin. There was no honor in a fight for death against someone stratospheres above him in strength. He would kick, he would spit, he would do anything and everything, just for the ounce of chance at victory.
Though the arms of hell would hound him if they knew, he turned a blind eye to it all. Stabbing, slashing, cutting, parrying, blocking. He was stabbed dozens of times, slashed dozens more, and bled more than any one man could bleed. And then any two, and three, and any tens of men. There was blood everywhere, and most was his. It mingled with the melting snow and turned the gushing rivers faintly red, as they flooded the village below.
The strikes became more and more charged with energy, causing each collision to echo out in a soft boom. The energy discharged would nearly blow both of them backward, but Sylas handled it far better as he had a much sturdier body.
Dipping forward yet again, allowing the Shadow to cleanly stab him directly through his right lung, he cleaved frenetically toward the figure's neck. Numb to the pain, he even flexed the muscles of his chest, temporarily lodging the sword within him, disallowing the Shadow to retreat. The latter seemed to panic in that instant, aggressively moving his body to the side to dodge the strike. Still, it was too quick, too close, too bold and bloody; he'd only managed to shuffle a few inches before the strike descended, cleaving cleanly through the man's shoulder and lopping off his arm.
The latter yelped out in pain as the fountain of blood sprayed out violently, suddenly seeming to charge Sylas with a berserk want--that was it, he knew. He felt it in his bones. Every fighting instinct he had was telling him that this was it. His chance.
He immediately sacrificed a heart and a half of energy and pushed it through his body, pulverizing his innards in the process as he didn't want to give the Shadow even a second longer to recover.
The bold discharge of a nigh-incalculable amount of energy alarmed the Shadow who immediately wanted to open up the distance--but Sylas wouldn't let him. Using his free arm, he latched onto the Shadow's only remaining one, biting with his fingernails.
"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!"
A horrifying scream of disbelief and agony raped out of the Shadow's lungs and into the night's sky, seeming to distort the reality for a moment. And yet, a brilliant flash of light did not pause--the blade bled energy and began to fragment into pieces, incapable of holding it all in. But it held on for long enough.
The blurry, white burst of energy reaped forward like the Warden of Death itself, devouring everything and anything in its wake, entirely apathetic to the world. The Shadow, the legend, the myth that terrorized the world for hundreds of years... disappeared, the only remnant that it ever existed the arm that Sylas was still holding onto as well as the sword still lodged in his lungs.
The blast went on for miles, cleaving out a massive ditch in front of him that seemed to have been made by hundreds of thousands of men digging for decades. It spanned at least half a mile in width and nearly five in length. An impossible sight, yet a sight that existed nonetheless.
Weakness suddenly overtook Sylas, forcing him to his knees. He felt completely spent and on the brink of passing out. But... he defiantly kept his eyes open, kept himself awake. He had to witness the moment--the moment that filled him with jubilance. He'd won... he'd killed the unkillable, and he'd lived to see it. Just as that thought filled his head, a window appeared in front of him, causing him to smile pathetically.
Congratulations! You have unlocked a new Save!
New Save, 'Champion of Death', has been discovered!
Would you like to initialize a new Save Point?
YES / NO
"No," Sylas mumbled without much thought.
Are you certain?
If you decline, the Save Point will be permanently deleted!
Would you like to initialize a new Save Point?
"No," the new information didn't deter him. He'd already prepared for that possibility. Besides, it didn't matter. It was just a few months.
Save Point 'Champion of Death' has been permanently deleted.
...
Recalibrating...
...
Adjusting the new Rewards for the feat.
New Reward: We Who Fought the Thunder
We Who Fought the Thunder: experience the most critical memory of the fallen.
You may experience mild discomfort for a moment while being transferred!
Now beginning: We Who Fought the Thunder