* * *
As a D-, I should naturally be stronger than him, although he feels at about D rank since his beatdown.
I raise my sword up into my stance, my right foot behind my left. My left, dominant hand is at the bottom of the handle whilst my right hand is at the top, a bit below the tsuba.
He was likely in a critical condition for several days from the fight, just dealing with all that bitterness Valory so eagerly delivered unto him.
This man, no, this boy wants to kill me.
He is not just nor unjust in this cause, only superficial and unwise. I am a willing bystander of a serious injury he took, capable of helping yet fleeing. He's blinded by hate and I can't find it in me to pull him out of it.
Just in case I have the ability to talk him down, I talk.
"Any chance for peace anymore? We were all just about done, I think," I say, glancing towards his sword before looking to his eyes. His eyes look much more angry then they were the last time we met. "We won't cause trouble if you just let us leave."
"You've already caused trouble. I'm just the consequences of your actions," His words drip with a hint of malice improperly portrayed and undeserved. "You won't be leaving here alive."
It's a tense few seconds while I just stand there, the silence of our breath entering the air like a mist in the morning. It's a sorrowful silence, the knowing of something that can't be peacefully resolved imprinted upon our minds.
This is a fight to the death for him and, in response, I must treat it as such.
An unwilling heart inside me is pained, perhaps a remnant of the real Arthur, for it knows the gift of life and the price of death, but some things cannot be changed. Some things cannot be resolved through words.
"Let us go then, you and I. When the evening is spread out against the sky..." I stop speaking, dashing forward and slashing my blade towards him.
He blocks before moving a step back and sending the tip of his blade forward, as if to cut my arm with a piece of his sword so minute in grand comparison. Of course, it is just as capable as any other part of the blade.
I swivel on the ball of my feet, stepping forth in order to get closer and eviscerate the distance he so precariously gathered. In this instance, I care not for his origin nor his tragic background. I only care about my life.
Empathy be damned.
Swinging an upward slash, I aim for his left carotid artery located on the side of his neck in an effort to cut off his brains supply of blood. For now, it's simple swordsmanship. Eventually, it will evolve into it's own beautiful painting.
He leans back slightly, tilting just far enough to avoid the upward slash which, naturally, leaves my guard above instead of in front. He capitalizes on it, throwing a thrust towards the right side of my chest which would surely puncture my lung.
It hurts bad, but much less than a sword through my entire chest would.
I attempt to strafe even further, causing the stab to instead cut into my side and not my ribcage. I bring my blade back down in the form of a slash towards not his head or chest, but his thigh.
Believing it to be aimed otherwise, he ignores it until it impacts with the dense meat and muscle of his right leg. He likely assumed that I had whiffed a strike aimed for the head, but no.
I feel the horrible cutting sensation of flesh being separated from the body, muscles tearing into pieces, before I eventually reach bone and am promptly stopped.
I have not the time to ponder the horrendous nature of maiming someone, although it shall certainly linger on me once the adrenaline wears away like dust in the wind.
A chunk of flesh detaches from his thigh and I'm reminded of the importance of wearing armor. The injury would've likely been less on him had he been wearing more than a simple pair of bloomers and what can only be described as a poor mans tabard.
I can see the horrific pain of such a wound impact him in an instant, to the point of tears nearly welling. However, he just bites his lip and begins to channel mana.
He should've done so at range, considering his wind mana typing, but I shouldn't be giving out pointers.
The mana coats the edge of his sword as he lifts it into a zwerchhau aimed towards my head. The blade elegantly glides throughout the air, as if it wished nothing more than to extinguish my already pitiful flame.
I swing my sword up once again, attempting to break his blade with sheer force. I channel mana into my arm, swirling it in my very tissue fibers before it bursts out and forms its own independent limb. My first practical application of the technique and not a moment too soon.
My actual blade impacts his, doing slight damage in the form of a crack on the sword. He transitions it into another zwerchhau to recover from this block, but the imaginary arm and sword has already swung for me.
The mana limb hits his blade, shattering it and disappearing. It seems it was a one-time use for now, but it was enough for me. He holds the broken blade in hand, attempting to thrust it into and through my neck, but my blade is already through his.
"Gawain release-"
For a moment, his hair turns green and his eyes begin to glow, but it soon dims. The late call for a trump card is silenced the moment my sword breaks skin, the sound of a dying dream escaping his mouth.
Withdrawing my blade, I watch as he drops his shattered sword onto the ground, clutching at his neck as he backs away. The fear in his eyes suddenly becomes so real, that fear of death coming to a young man who thought himself invincible.
In this very moment, I believe he realized how little this feud mattered in comparison to how valuable his own life was. Know we both know how insignificant the cause of bloodshed is, yet how helpless we were to avoid it.
He wouldn't have listened if we had talked, nor would he have ever peacefully surrendered in the emotional state he was in, yet I deem myself a murderer regardless. Even if I try to justify it, I brand myself as a killer within my ow mind for this act.
Self-defense doesn't feel like a valid excuse, not for me.
Spitting up blood from his mouth, he falls onto one knee. He puts his hand on his mouth as if to stop the flow, but it's far too late.
He falls limp onto the ground, agony spread out upon his face. In his dying moments, I can't help but think I hear him crying out to his mother.
Compared to me, a man who has lived 2 lives, this child is simply that: a child. This is not a victory, nor is it peace.
No, it is the beginning of sin within me. I only pray that I find some form of repentance in the future.
Blood pools beneath his body as I stare down at him, expressionless to hide the extraordinary pain within me. I feel the relic trinket on my neck begin to shake, lifting slightly from the surface of my chest as it jolts.
A bright light emanates from his body, the last flair of chosen divinity slowly floating towards me. It collides with my chest before phasing through towards my heart and settling there, the embrace of a sudden warmth emerging as if to distract me from my sorrow.
I am not a hero. I am a murderer.
A blue light flashes through my vision before I'm whisked away, next appearing in a cloudy white room. It resembles an old nursery, dingy and possessing black mold that crawls up the walls. I hear a quiet voice from behind me, yet I'm unable to turn.
"This is where he grew up, you know."
Footsteps trail around me before she comes into view, the goddess I met in my coma. My breath catches from her words and I find myself wanting to question why I'm being shown this, but no words escape.
"Never had any real family, had to work for everything he got... and he could've gotten it one day," Now, she strolls directly in front of me, leaning down to get in my face. "But you took that away. Tell me, is solidifying your existence worth it, Nathan?"
Ah, my original name from my original world. Haven't heard that in a minute. Guilt pangs through my chest as my stomach does flips, as if every organ of mine was revolting against me.
"No."
For once, a sound escapes from my mouth in front of her. I'm standing trial against myself, and I'm not as good of a defendant as I am a prosecutor.
"Would you believe me if I said that we didn't expect you to do it?" She asks, standing up and walking out of my field of vision.
I find that I'm no longer locked into inactivity, so I turn and follow after her coattails. The possibility of what I did being unexpected even to a god is... strange. It makes it feel as if it was true free will.
"... Was this the only way?" I ignore the question, asking one of my own. I don't care for the games or the rhetoric right now.
"Of course not. There's never just one way," She responds, not showing any mind to my dismissal of her question. "Although killing someone was the only way to transfer the divinity to you. The only way to solidify your existence and not be left behind."
"And for you? Well, you said it yourself. Being left behind is your greatest fear."
* * *
I land outside the dungeon entrance, snow still falling upon Avonrane Crag. Judging by time of day alone, it can't have been more than 30 minutes and, judging by how my blood from the bear is still on the ground, it can't be a different day.
I was inside the dungeon for at most an hour, yet it felt like a 5 weeks... terrifying.
* * *