In the confines of Mr. Doan's establishment, an eerie silence was punctuated by the faint echoes of blood and tears.
Flames danced with a voracious hunger, their fiery tongues snapping and gnashing at the air. Amid this surreal tableau, Marcellus remained frozen, his gaze fixed upon the ceiling as if seeking answers in the ever-shifting shadows.
Ralf, perceptive to Marcellus's silent tears, approached the young man.
With a gentle reassurance, he spoke, "It's alright, lad. I recall the day I emptied my stomach on my first kill... You've got a resilient stomach."
Marcellus, still shaken, managed a weak smile in response to Ralf's words, his emotions still tumultuous and his gaze averted, mustered a faint smile in acknowledgement of Ralf's comforting words.
His eyes remained fixed on the ceiling to the heavens, refusing to meet Ralf's understanding gaze.
Ralf, ever perceptive to the unspoken turmoil within Marcellus, did not press the matter further. Instead, he stood beside him, a silent pillar of support, Marcellus was young enough to be his son.
The flames crackled and hissed, casting eerie shadows upon their faces, they stood there, they needed no words.
*********
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***
Priest Corwin found himself confronting his assailant, a feeling of disquiet settling upon him.
It wasn't that he believed she was in the wrong; rather, it was the unsettling realization that he had taken the life of a noble of the empire, a fact he had been entirely unaware of until now.
A shiver of fear coursed through Corwin, an emotion he had never encountered.
He knew, with a sinking certainty, that his assailant's words held a grim truth. If the revelation of his deed were to become public knowledge, it would indeed be a calamity of dire proportions for him.
The Church of Storm, to which he belonged, would be powerless to shield him from the inevitable repercussions that would follow in the wake of such a revelation.
Indeed, it was only a matter of time; the dark secret lurking in Corwin's past would eventually come to light, and he would have to face the consequences of his actions.
With a sense of urgency, he realized that his only recourse was to buy time, to find a powerful ally who could provide him with the protection he so desperately needed.
In the shadows of uncertainty, he began to formulate a plan to seek out a patron, someone who could shield him from the looming terror that undoubtedly lurked within the enigmatic faction to which his assailant belonged.
I must eliminate her to gain the time I need, Corwin contemplated. But can I truly take her?
Corwin initiated a conversation with her, aiming to ascertain the extent of her abilities.
In the world of Aspirants, failure to gauge an opponent's capabilities accurately could lead to fatal misjudgments, resulting in the loss of one's life without comprehending the reasons behind it.
As Corwin observed her, it became apparent that she was deliberately provoking him at every juncture.
From the moment their eyes had met, her smiles, her gaze, and her words had all been carefully calculated to provoke his anger.
He felt an overwhelming urge to engage in combat from the very beginning, but his past experiences with individuals from the Hunter Pathway whispered wisdom into his ears.
With tremendous effort, he clenched his fist, feeling his nails dig into his flesh. This painful act served as a means to rein in his surging emotions and regain his rationality in the face of her provocations.
Upon closer observation, it appeared that she might be a Sequence 8 Provoker armed with an Aspirant item imbued with fire spells, the staff adorned with intricate runes.
However, doubts gnawed at Corwin's mind.
Her younger brother had been a Sequence 7 Pyric Cultist, and it perplexed him that she, as an older individual, possessed a lower sequence, a Sequence 8 Provoker.
Those from the Hunter Pathway were renowned for their mastery of traps and deception. Corwin couldn't help but consider that her elaborate deceit might be a trap in its own right.
He couldn't dismiss the likelihood that her actions constituted a shrewd stratagem, ensnaring him in a treacherous web. In other words, she might be playing the role of the rabbit to devour the tiger, concealing her true abilities and keeping her Sequence hidden.
In any event, he resolved to regard her as a Pyric Cultist, just in case she turned out to be one. In a world of mysticism, overestimation was preferable to underestimation, caution was his foremost ally.
Interrupting his thoughts, she flashed a wicked grin as she raised her staff, setting the fireballs into a deadly orbit around her crown. Despite his disorientation, Corwin understood the need for swift action. Without hesitation, he dashed forward, closing the distance to engage her in close combat.
Frustratingly, he couldn't rely on any of the water spells that a Dread Pirate might employ. Being of the Sailor Pathway, his prowess was formidable on the high seas, but on land, away from his element, he felt significantly weakened.
Nevertheless, he had no choice but to confront her up close, relying on his skill and superior physical might.
The clash between fire and storm was about to erupt on the dark streets of Mythralis, and neither combatant had any intention of holding back.
The fiery orbs danced around her like vengeful spirits as Corwin closed the distance.
Drawing from his Sailor instincts, as he ran towards her he scoured the battlefield for any advantage. His eyes fell upon a nearby barrel, a relic from Mr. Doan's establishment. With swift precision, Corwin seized the barrel and hurled it toward her.
One of her fireballs, seemingly crowned with fury, departed from the orbit to intercept the incoming projectile. But Corwin was undeterred. He continued to launch objects at her, and she responded in kind by sending her dwindling fireballs to intercept each missile he hurled.
As the last ember extinguished, leaving her defenceless, Corwin was mere steps away. He lunged forward, poised to deliver a Raging blow, when a sudden intuition struck him.
His spirituality screamed a warning that death was imminent.
She welcomed him with a warm smile, her fingers curling around the staff. With a fluid and almost mesmerizing motion, she executed a perfect split, her slender form seemed to defy the laws of physics as her legs extended in opposite directions, her lithe body gracefully lowered to a crouched position, her gaze locked onto his.
In the blink of an eye, three fiery ravens were unleashed, emerging from their concealed position on her back. With blazing plumage and a blinding light, they streaked through the air, hurtling directly towards Priest Corwin's face.
Corwin instinctively shut his eyes against the blinding brilliance as he channelled his Raging Blow, using it to shield his face from the incoming fiery ravens.
Corwin remained oblivious to her casting of the fire raven spell. She had cleverly distracted him with fireballs above her head, using their bright illumination to conceal the stealthy emergence of the fire raven.
The fireballs had served as an effective bait!
The clash of forces in that critical moment sent shockwaves through the street. His vision swam, a crimson tide threatening to pull him under, with a tremendous force, Corwin was sent barreling backwards, his body propelled through the air as the impact reverberated throughout Mr Doan's establishment.
As he tumbled uncontrollably, he fought to regain his bearings tumbling uncontrollably.
Three holes marred his right forearm, and he clutched his right arm, wincing as blood trickled down his fingers. The fire raven pierced though.
The woman watched him with a mixture of curiosity and amusement as if she found this confrontation more intriguing than threatening.
Nearby some onlookers who had gathered at a distance to witness the clash held their breath, their hearts pounding in anticipation of the impending spectacle. To them, this was the stuff of legends.
Clop Clop Clop
As she swiftly recovered from her splits, she wasted no time in closing the distance between them. Corwin, still on all fours, struggled to regain his footing when the impact of her staff struck him with relentless force.
Thud!
Corwin's world exploded in a kaleidoscope of agony. Fire, not steel, had kissed him, searing every nerve ending into a shrieking chorus of pain.
He crumpled, the ground rising to meet him with a brutal embrace, kissing the cold, unforgiving earth, the taste of gravel and defeat mingling with the metallic tang of blood.
His thoughts in turmoil, Corwin gazed upward, his eyes locking onto her cane now ablaze and coated with menacing flames.
Understanding dawned upon him like a thunderbolt, illuminating the mystery. The stick wasn't ordinary; that's why the pain had been so excruciating. Otherwise, his Phantom Scale should have absorbed at least some of the damage.
Fueled by anger and pain, Corwin made a resolute decision.
Despite his useless right arm and the injuries he had sustained, he believed he still had a chance to emerge victorious, perhaps he could with physical might since she was closer.
Ignoring the searing pain in his arm, suddenly, with a thunderous roar, Corwin unleashed his remaining strength. In a moment he charged towards her, closing the distance as he prepared to launch one final, desperate assault.
His every step was a testament to his unyielding spirit, as his right arm felt as though it was burning or falling off.
In the heart of their savage clash, she struck Corwin with an unrelenting fury. With a flick of her wrist, her staff lashed out like a viper, each blow a venomous strike.
This was the third spell, Fire Infusion!
His flesh bore the marks of her onslaught, welts and bruises blossoming with every impact. Blood trickled from a split lip, mingling with the sweat and grime that clung to him.
With each ferocious strike she unleashed, Corwin's world was awash in a storm of brutality. His body absorbed the punishing blows, and the room echoed with the sickening thud of impact.
His robes, once pristine, hung in tatters, stained with the mark of violence.
Corwin's gasps for air were a painful soundtrack to their relentless dance.
His vision reeled like a drunken compass, the world tilting on its axis. Consciousness flickered, a frail candle flame in a hurricane, but he wrestled back from the encroaching darkness with clenched fists and gritted teeth.
Corwin's movements grew sluggish, his once agile frame now weighed down by the relentless assault.
Amidst the chaos, Corwin found himself sprawled on the unforgiving ground again, his body a tableau of suffering. His vision swayed as he lay there, battered and broken, questioning the very purpose of his struggle.
As soon as he fell to the ground she stopped the assault.
"Do you know what your mistake was?" she taunted, her voice dripping with triumph.
Corwin, battered and bruised, managed a weak smile through the pain, saliva and blood. "You're right," he conceded. "I underestimated the staff. This is my mistake."
A wry smile crossed her lips. "That's just one of your mistakes," she remarked, her tone laced with amusement. "In total, you've made five. But your biggest blunder was stopping after you got hit by the fire raven. You should have run... It's the price you pay for being the strongest in your well for too long—you forget there's a vast ocean beyond."
Pausing for a moment, she shifted her tone, her demeanour turning solemn. "In any case, I won't end your life now. Storm Seekers are relentless, chasing me to the farthest corners of Draewyn. However...
"You must be wondering," she began, her voice laced with a sweet tinge, "why I am a mere Sequence 8 Provoker while my younger brother is a Sequence 8 Pyric Cultist? The answer lies in my past—I started training to become a Saint-level Tenma at the age of ten. However, my youth and lack of political influence denied me the opportunity for a potion, political influence my brother had. Now that you've removed him from the board, it falls to me."
Corwin had a confused look...
"Why do I reveal this?" Her tone darkened.
"Do not mistake my mercy, Corwin, for absolution," she hissed, her voice laced with venom.
"For this transgression, you will wear a cloak of foreboding, heavy and inescapable. One day, when you smell the roses of solace, it will turn to thorns pricking your throat, a constant reminder of the debt unpaid. Then, you will know. The scales have been balanced, and the debt settled. What we now share, Corwin, is a blood feud," she proclaimed, her words resonating with a haunting and inexorable promise of retribution.
The sound of footsteps echoed in the dimly lit Street—clop, clop, clop—as she turned her back, walking away with unhurried grace.
Clop.
She paused without looking back, her voice carrying a weighty revelation. "My name is Sestia Ulixes, sister to Morwen Ulixes, whom you murdered," she declared, her words hanging in the air like a haunting refrain.
"Don't forget to smell the roses once in a while."
And with that enigmatic farewell, she slowly faded from view, leaving behind the lingering spectre of her presence in the room.