Jumping to his feet, he stumbled, leaning as far back as he could as he witnessed the tip of the scratched greatsword narrowly pass by the front of his nose. Every second required his maximum effort just to avoid the lethal edge of the giant blade.
There wasn't any opening he could find for a counterattack of his own as he continued stumbling back through the field of black soil, having to dance around the continuous attacks from the quiet mercenary. The geysers of steam spewed out still, serving as a constant reminder of the boundaries he could evade within.
Through the continuous evading he had to endure, spinning his body around and flipping with the nimbleness he thanked he was born with, he glanced back, realizing the geysers of steam were only a few steps behind him.
'He's pushing me back–he's forcing me back into that field of steam. Shit–I have to fight back,' he thought.
After playing cat-and-mouse with the mercenary, he had begun to adjust to the speed of the sword swings, formulating his counterattack. It was a risky plan in his mind, though one he felt was necessary.
He watched as the black-haired man approached with swift steps, maintaining the statuesque expression on his face the entire time.
'Come on–I'm ready,' he thought.
The mercenary dashed towards him with his hunk of steel reared behind his back, reaching the adventurer with a massive overhead swing that caused the air to be forcibly spread with a howl.
A complete miss; one that caused a change in expression for the first time in the mercenary, who looked dumbfounded in that moment.
It was foreseen by the desperate adventurer, who sidestepped it with sweat dripping from his chin, "Levin!"
The scream of the invocation caused sparks of silver electricity to manifest, coiling around his body from head-to-toe as he lunged forth for his counterattack. With his entire body charged with the spell, he pushed his dagger forth, aiming it pinpoint in the middle of the mercenary's chest. The silver blade sank through the man's chest–or, that's what he expected to happen.
"--Huh?"
He was perplexed as instead of his dagger piercing the man, it instead bounced off with sparks flying through the air as if he had struck the side of a mountain. The rejected impact caused him to stumble back as the recoil jostled his skeleton.
'What happened? I couldn't pierce his skin? Why?' He wondered.
As he looked in front of him, he discovered his answer: the torso of the mercenary was overtaken by a layer of hardened, light-brown stone, spreading from his chest to his right arm. A gauntlet of crystallized stone formed itself around Claxous' fist, having spread down his shoulder and forearm like a sleeve.
'A Blessing,' he realized.
The mystical hide of stone that the mercenary called upon caught his attention, only then causing him to realize that the rock-engulfed fist of the man was hurling towards him. He attempted to move, though his body didn't respond at that moment–cramping from the full-body usage of his magecraft.
"--Uegh!"
A sharp breath was forced from his lungs as the reinforced knuckles of the Blessing wielder drove into his abdomen with ungodly force. The protective enchantment of the gemstone mitigated most of the impact, yet it still drove into his body like a bull ramming headfirst into his stomach.
It was enough to lift him off of the ground as he was flung back, stunned as the breath was knocked from his body and his brain failed to adjust. In that moment, the scenery spun around him before he slammed against a wall, having the breath pushed from his lungs again.
The exhale felt as if someone had reached their hand down his throat and ripped the air from his body, causing his muscles to constrict in a panic as he attempted to breathe. Inhaling invited fire into his burning lungs, causing him to cough without gaining any oxygen.
Pain condensed itself to the point of impact as he looked down, realizing there was a hole blown into the front of his coat, burning through the shirt beneath as a massive, deep-purple bruise was imprinted on his chest.
'I'm dying,' he realized.
It was only then that he realized why he gasped like a fish out of water, trying desperately to suck air back into his body as his fingers frantically grabbed at the soil beneath him, his legs pushing against the brittle dirt.
The resonance of his heart was silent; that constant thumping drum had gone silent.
It did not beat; it sat stagnant in his chest, causing his body to rapidly fluctuate between hot and cold, his senses to run amok as he couldn't string a coherent thought together.
Death whispered against his skin, beckoning his name; a threshold he sat upon as he fought to fill his lungs with breath. The slow-approaching footsteps of the man responsible for his condition seemed to become quieter, deafening from his ears that only listened to the silence of his still heart.
It was a fight more insurmountable than the minotaur he escaped from; he was unable to get his lungs to respond to him, nor his heart to reawaken as his gasps stopped and his body fell limp.
'This is it. I messed up,' he thought.
Everything faded away from his eyes, not having yet closed them, yet darkness crept upon his sight. It was a chilling coldness that enveloped his body; a welcoming from the other side, ushering him to let go.
'I don't want to die. Not yet. I can't,' he thought.
Even if he wished so, the futility of his heart only left him one possible path.
The weight of mortality sat on his encoldening body, filling him with dread, overwhelming and inescapable yet–he held on.
The faintest bit of breath lingered with his throat, just enough for one more utterance, one that he couldn't hear himself, "Levin."
A whisper quiet enough to be overwritten by the end, but it was enough: beneath his skin, under his flesh, platinum electricity manifested itself, coursing through his veins and tunneling through him. The mystical element carried itself towards a single destination: the silent heart of the man who sat on the threshold to the other side.
Arriving in front of the limp adventurer, the mercenary only saw an unmoving, unbreathing body, lifting his hunk of steel up without any remorse written on his face.
Beneath the ribcage of the laid out person, strands of silver electricity caressed his unmoving heart. Like the touch of a gentle doctor, the prongs of fulmination glided over his still muscle, coiling around it, embracing it in an everbuilding surge.
In that abundant darkness, lifeless and empty, he didn't feel alone somehow; someone, or something, was there with him. It didn't feel hostile; gentle, fact.
"If you do not wish to die–"A softly spoken voice fell upon his once deaf ears.
The crescendo of hissing electricity built; it pressed into the heart, through its valves and into its intricate layers, pumping it with potent force before–
BA-DUMP.
"--Heuh!" A sharp inhale came as the adventurer's eyes shot open, lifted by the rise of his chest as if his heart had thrown itself against his torso from within.
The miraculous reignition of his muscle brought him to his feet without any aid of his hands. For the first time, the mercenary was left stunned, not having yet swung his weapon as if witnessing a ghost appear in front of him.
"...Hah…Hah…aha…"
It was a sound neither he nor the stoic man expected to hear: laughter. Holding his bruised chest with one hand, he looked up at the roof of the bleak floor, releasing a laugh out of complete bewilderment of his own condition.
"Hah…I'm alive! I did it!" Bastian celebrated with a laugh.
The elation of still breathing, still walking upon the world without having to have abandoned his mortal coil was a high that he had never felt. Still, it settled down as he focused once more on the pressing situation–he was alive, though it may not be that way for long with the opponent that stood before him.
Despite the overwhelmingly bad odds, there was an air of confidence around the bruised adventurer that wasn't present before; he raised his dagger, this time his emerald eyes unwavering.
The mercenary took notice of that glint in his target's eyes, firmly holding his goliath of a blade in a readied position, "I sensed your heart come to a stop, but you started it again somehow. Interesting."
"You could sense that?" Bastian asked, maintaining his distance.
Steam propelled into the air behind him, rising in burning pillars that kept the temperature high and humid in the stretch of lifeless soil. The bleak atmosphere of the eleventh floor was not one he preferred as his burial grounds.
Claxous seemed more prone to speaking as he answered, "I am blessed by Gaia, a wielder of her Supremus Blessing–one of her foremost champions. With that, I've gained the authority to manipulate stone and grant its properties onto myself. I've also been granted a sixth sense through the vibrations of soil–that's how I felt your heartbeat vanish."
"Gaia, huh? Thanks for the explanation, feeling confident, I'm guessing?" Bastian asked, keeping himself ready.
The stoic mercenary's stone-like face remained unchanged, indifferent to the tongue-in-cheek question as he responded, "I am only telling you this because I respect your tenacity. However, I am at no risk sharing this information with you. Your blade can't reach me."
The ominous words of the emotionless man were manifested through the complexion of his skin changing entirely; the tan-brown skin of the mercenary shifted, tensing and hardening as it became stonelike. That wasn't the case, though; it wasn't "like" stone–it was the very element it appeared as.
An impenetrable defense; armor itself was unnecessary–like a golem carved in the shape of a man, Claxous stood, ready to once again begin their bout of a life-and-death.
"Scary," Bastian sarcastically muttered under his breath.