Thus the Water Saint moves the enemy and is not moved by him, controlling the chaotic flow.
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Severin concluded his elaborate preparations with meticulous precision, weaving a web of deception that ensnared friend and foe alike.
He charmed Ingrid, manipulating her unsuspecting loyalty to aid in his ploy to divert Finn away from the sanctuary of the Chapel, thus ensuring his absence at a crucial juncture.
Moreover, Severin's cunning extended to Ralf, employing subtle manipulation to coerce his unwitting assistance in obliterating any trace of incriminating evidence that could thwart his ambitions.
Despite his near-flawless stratagem, Severin remained acutely aware of the looming spectre of uncertainty.
The governor's deteriorating condition cast a shadow of unpredictability over Severin's meticulously laid plans. The governor's ventures into the treacherous depths beneath the island, fraught with peril and uncertainty, posed a palpable threat to the timeline of Severin's machinations.
Severin needed to complete his objective before the governor got his hands on that "treasure."
The very concept of it filled him with a dread he couldn't articulate. It was a catastrophe he refused to dwell on, best dealt with swiftly and without contemplation.
Should the governor meet an untimely demise, it would not only hasten the unfolding of Severin's scheme but also introduce an element of chaos that could potentially derail his carefully orchestrated design. Thus, even in the face of near-certainty, Severin could not afford to overlook the precariousness of fate's whims.
His plan had been perfect... almost too perfect.
A sliver of doubt gnawed at the edges of his confidence. Then, as if summoned by his unease, Ayden and the Baron materialized at the shores of Mythralis.
The sudden appearance of Ayden and the Baron stole the governor's focus. As if by some unseen signal, a seasoned Aspirant named Old Aulus sensed a disturbance and initiated his own probe.
With the preliminary success of eradicating the incriminating evidence at the chapel, Severin delved deeper into the shadows of his malevolence, guided by a promise made to Ingrid and his clandestine agenda.
The murder of Mr Doan served as both a fulfilment of his vow to Ingrid and a strategic manoeuvre that seamlessly aligned with his overarching designs.
Through a delicate fusion of divination and meticulous investigation, Severin unearthed the unsettling truth: Mr. Doan's allegiance to the Brotherhood. Armed with this damning revelation, Severin charted the intricate pathway and sequence of Mr Doan's existence.
In no time he claimed the Aspirant core of Mr Doan.
Later with a chillingly calculated stroke, Severin ended Ingrid's life, a whim in the grand symphony of his plan. With Mr. Doan's demise, he solidified his grip on power, anticipating the inevitable clash between the Brotherhood and the baron's faction.
In his mind's eye, a dance of annihilation unfolded. Their fury would be their undoing, leaving behind a desolate battlefield. Severin, a solitary raven perched on a skeletal tree, would then claim the remnants, a grim beneficiary of their self-destruction.
…
Unbelievable! Aulus, the seasoned Aspirant, had sniffed out Severin's hidden agenda and sought him out.
The revelation came from a recent encounter with Marcellus, a Viper survivor and Edwin's companion.
Marcellus had mentioned the missing Fontenot diary, and coincidentally, Severin was in town at the same time. The pieces clicked into place for Aulus – the timing was far too convenient to ignore.
Their recent encounter jogged Aulus's memory although he couldn't entirely remember where he had heard the name Fontenot from, or the significance of the book, it did not matter.
Severin was up to no good...
But even so, it's astounding enough for Aulus to discover actual leads. He was investigating a Cipherist after all.
Despite the unknown, Aulus persisted in confronting Severin. Even more surprising, Marcellus joined him.
Marcellus possessed many secrets!
Aulus couldn't shake the feeling that Marcellus had anticipated this situation all along, waiting for Aulus to make the first move. He had to admit, his initial suspicion about Marcellus' mysterious past was starting to feel painfully accurate.
Marcellus had no choice but to kill Ralf, reducing Severin's support.
Martia had no choice but to kill Gunther a survivor of the the ritual, eliminating Severin's hidden card.
Governor Orion Guthrie went ashore to entertain the guest, alienating Severin's backup.
…
Severin, with no allies, trump card, or reinforcements, made the most logical choice: to flee. His actions, if seen, could be interpreted as hedging his bets, ensuring he never finds himself in a position to lose.
After all, wouldn't a swindler always prioritize self-preservation?
…
Severin's abrupt withdrawal did little to quench the inferno raging within Matia, a Sequence 9 Warrior. The battle had ignited a primal hunger for combat, an insatiable thirst that wouldn't be sated by her opponent's mere disinterest. With a snarl that echoed through the ruins, Matia pressed forward, determined to force Severin to face her on her terms.
Marcellus, a recently sane Sequence 9 Hollowed, mirrored Matia's resolve. He, too, pursued Severin with relentless intensity.
…
Despite his Sequence 7 ranking, Severin's physical prowess paled in comparison to Matia's Warrior strength. Escape was proving futile. A primal fear, the first he'd felt since arriving in Mythralis, clawed at his throat.
Laughable, he thought, for a Sequence 7 Aspirant to be reduced to such a desperate scramble.
Marcellus, a survivor of the ritual – a man who should possess the strength of a Warrior and a Genuine Sword Saint – watched the chase unfold.
A sliver of hope pierced through Severin's despair.
Perhaps everything was unfolding exactly as he'd intended... perhaps it wouldn't all be entirely in vain. But a chilling realization settled in – he likely wouldn't live to see it through.
Disbelief flickered across Severin's face, a humorless chuckle escaping his lips. He was a cornered beast, standing on the precipice of oblivion.
Severin cursed his misfortune.
In a normal situation, exploiting the vulnerabilities of his pursuers, like Marcellus's volatile mental state and Matia's bloodlust, would have been child's play.
He thrived on manipulating those governed by predictable emotions, like fear or greed. However, Severin guessed that both individuals were currently operating outside the realm of reason - one teetering on the edge of sanity, the other consumed by an insatiable battle hunger.
Without the crucial element of reason, his usual tactics of deception and misdirection were rendered useless. He was forced to rely on raw agility and cunning, desperately manoeuvring through the environment, hoping to create distance or exploit any unforeseen opportunities.
Unfortunately, opportunity remained elusive, and Severin found himself cornered, forced to pull out his last resort. Reaching into the depths of his satchel, he retrieved a mythical item he had fashioned from the remains of Mr. Doan: "Ragefangs."
As Severin donned the Ragefangs, a surge of primal energy coursed through his veins. His once nimble frame bulked with unnatural speed, transforming into the formidable physique of a Barbarian. This mythical item defied the natural order, granting him the raw strength and resilience of a battle-hardened Barbarian.
Matia lunged forward in a blur, her attack focused and precise.
Severin, still feeling out the surge of power, parried the blow, but the impact jarred him, he wan't used it.
Marcellus seized the opening, his strike swift and decisive.
To Severin's shock, the sword connected, yet it barely pierced his toughened skin. A single bead of blood trickled down his arm, more an insult than an injury.
The advantage was fleeting.
Marcellus's eyes widened as Severin's own attack came, faster than anything he'd witnessed before. It wasn't a calculated strike – it was a raw expression of unleashed brutality, an echo of the barbarian power coursing through Severin.
A deafening screech tore through the air.
Matia, thrown back by the initial clash, used the brief reprieve to her advantage, she launched herself at Severin from the side, her entire body transformed into a weapon. The impact of her shoulder slammed into his side, sending him staggering and breaking his focus.
Marcellus, seizing the unexpected opening, lunged forward with a desperate cry. His blade imbued with all his fighting spirit, glinted in the air as it met Severin's chest.
A clang echoed through the air, sending shivers down their spines. But unlike before, the sound was different.
Instead of the dull thud of flesh, the clang resonated with a sharp, metallic ring. Marcellus's sword, coated by his fighting spirit and perhaps a prayer to the God of Combat, had managed to pierce the Ragefangs's protection, leaving a shallow cut on Severin's chest.
Marcellus was shocked, shocked that his prayer worked!
A guttural roar erupted from Severin's throat. The raw power of the Ragefangs, pushed to its limits by the combined assault, began to overwhelm him. His vision blurred at the edges, his movements growing increasingly erratic.
Was he still in control, or was the item controlling him? Marcellus Mused
Severin unleashed an attack. Whether punch, kick, or a vicious headbutt, Marcellus would never be sure. All he knew was a flash of movement and the sickening crack of bone on bone.
Then Matia was gone – not retreating, not flanking, but flying through the air, propelled by a blow.
She landed yards away with a sickening thud, a crimson stain spreading beneath her as she gasped for air. Coughs wracked her battered body, and disbelief and terror warred on Matia's contorted face. Never had she encountered such battle style.
The chilling reality settled, the enormity of the situation dawned on Marcellus.
He, now demonstrably sane, knew engaging Severin alone was folly.
The wanted man, now a twisted avatar of raw power thanks to the Ragefangs, was a force beyond his comprehension. Witnessing Severin's brutal efficiency against Matia, a tremor of fear rattled Marcellus down to his core.
He understood all too well the depths of Severin's abilities. Unlike Matia, who hadn't seen the swindler effortlessly extinguish Ingrid's life with mere words, Marcellus carried that chilling memory. It was a moment etched in his mind, a stark reminder of the true danger they faced.
But just as he contemplated retreat while checking on Martia, a flicker of movement in the corner of his eye froze him in place.
Severin, his form seemingly blurring in the rising sun, was closing the distance between them with unnatural speed. His face, contorted in a mask of primal rage, was devoid of any trace of the calculating schemer Marcellus once knew.
Marcellus, his face a mask of conflicting emotions - fear warring with a dogged determination - stood his ground.
His hand tightened around the hilt of his sword, the metal trembling not just from exertion, but from the raw terror coursing through his veins.
Across from him, Severin loomed, a barely controlled tempest of rage. His eyes, once filled with cunning, now burned with a feral intensity. He stood poised for collision, his every muscle taut with the promise of violence.
Marcellus squeezed his eyes shut, bracing for the inevitable impact. His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat echoing the approaching doom.
He was truly going to die, he could feel it, he was no warrior; a single blow could cleave him in two. Despair, a cold serpent, coiled around his heart. Just as it threatened to suffocate him, a blur of motion erupted from the side - finn intervened!
Despite its futility, an axe's swift approach was surprisingly dodged by Severin, breaking his stride and focus.
'He Flinched?' Marcellus snapped his eyes open, disbelief flooding his face.
'With the demonstrable durability of his new body why would he flinch?'
As the brief pause lingered, Marcellus seized the moment with a swiftness that belied the brutality of his actions. In a heartbeat, Marcellus unleashed the Longsword of Absolute Silence.
No thunderous crack heralded its arrival, only a sudden, unsettling stillness that seemed to swallow the surrounding sound. His blade blurred a silver streak against the backdrop of the world holding its breath.
Severin, barely a blink ago arrogant and confident, felt a prickle of unease crawl up his spine. The world seemed muted, his own heartbeat strangely loud in his ears. Then, a horrifying realization dawned – Marcellus had sliced off his forelimbs.
With inhuman speed, the longsword carved a silent arc through the air. There was no metallic clang, no pained scream. Just a sickening wet tear and a choked gurgle as Severin looked down to see his right arm spraying crimson mist, severed cleanly at the elbow.
Before the shock could fully register, a second, identical silence descended. Another inhumanly swift swing.
This time, the world seemed to lurch slightly as the air rushed to fill the void left by the passing blade. Severin's scream died in his throat as he looked down at his other arm, meeting the same gruesome fate.
He crumpled, a broken doll, the horrifying silence finally shattering with his ragged gasps for breath.
Marcellus stood above him, the longsword held loosely in his hand, the tip dripping a single, fat drop of crimson – the only evidence of the devastating dance that had just transpired.
In a deft and calculated motion, he cleaved through his adversary's defences, severing both his arms in a grisly spectacle that painted the air crimson with the spurt of blood.
The scene unfolded like a macabre dance, with Marcellus's eyes alight with incredulity at the success of his strike.
In that fateful moment, he cast his fervent plea towards the heavens, entreating the God of Combat to intercede on his behalf.
Astonishingly, his supplications bore fruit not once, but twice—an occurrence so rare Marcellus almost suspected he might be favoured!
He pivoted, his gaze tracing the arc of the axe's flight, a flicker of hope igniting within.
Could there truly be an angel? as whispered in the tales his mother once fondly recounted?
Yet, this glimmer of celestial intervention dimmed as swiftly as it had appeared. Instead of a divine messenger, it was Finn who stood there, his expression mirroring the same bewildered astonishment that etched itself across Marcellus's features
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Unwillingly the enemy plays a part in the performance, their only choice is to react to the expert's actions, their fate sealed from the outset.