Chapter 67

Author's Notes: Thank you all for the continued support, it means the world to me. I oh so appreciated the detailed feedback the last chapter received and have reflected on it. I will continue to do so until I make my final edits of the book and come to a final decision on the matter. At the very least, Tulos will not be winning that fight. There may be a version where he puts up a better fight, or I may even scrap the side chapter completely and add some of the extra fight description to the start of this one (and save some of the imagery for later as some have suggested), etc, etc. To write is to re-write, and while I do give these chapters edits and tweaks before release I will not know the full shape of the book until it complete and then I can go over the whole thing and make it shine.

“Trial and error are often cited as necessary for learning. Of the two, I can assure you that error is the better teacher. Error cannot exist without trial, however, for error must be invited if it is to teach at all. For those of you who neglected the additional classes being offered by my guest this past month, I can only wish you the best as you paddle around the shallow pool of ignorance you have deemed appropriate to lay your eggs and spawn your disappointing brood in.”

~Unknown

Film and cinema, while entertaining - and oh how I missed them - were often purveyors of mismanaged expectations on the topic of violence. Understandable, of course, when one considers the marketability of snarky quips and camera pans of triple flips compared to the reality. Journalists seldom told stories of epic duels between honorable warriors; no, there’s was the domain of sucker punches and back alley brawls.  

Violence was a quick and ugly thing, a trait System-enhanced bodies did little to alleviate. If anything, they exacerbated the issue. Watching Vigil clash with the fueha was one thing, late night documentaries of lions chasing down wildebeest or the deluge of shark-related content made it easier to reconcile the sheer power behind that clash of predators. 

Watching Tulos fight Rosita’s goon was something entirely different. 

Ocular blood vessels strained as I subconsciously drew deeply from Perseverance in an effort to folllow their movements. The sight inspired the same kind of awe I felt watching an artist turn a smear of charcoal into a breathtaking portrait within the same time it’d take me to badly scramble an egg. Every movement flowed seamlessly into the next, and despite the contrast in each fighter’s style, the mastery on display transcended what I thought possible for the human body. 

That same awe almost immediately turned to dread when Tulos took his first injury, and as one cut became close to a dozen it reached a fever pitch. 

Fudge! I called out through the Tamer Bond, sharing with him my hope and desperation. If there was ever time for Fudge to use Quantum Manipulation again, it was then, in that moment. I did not know to what end, only that it was the only idea I had. 

There was no hesitation. Fudge’s mana stirred, and in its stirring it reached for mine. I gave it to him freely, and in consciously doing so I gained a sense of the Skill. Unlike the density of Vigil’s mana, or the innate percussive rhythm of Lionel’s, the mana from Quantum Manipulation felt like everything and nothing. As moments stretched and time teetered on the edge of meaning, it transitioned from the feeling of moist cotton candy to dry twigs in a shoe to the nurturing hug from an elder mountain and all that and more and none again. 

Liminal force filled Fudge before pushing beyond him, and in searching to slip through what could be, it encountered that which was - that which wished to remain. An insurmountable barrier. Barriers, really, but one dwarfed all others in its vastness. A wall of torment claimed dominion, and at its touch our mana came undone. 

I physically recoiled, gasping for breath as I processed the metaphysical whiplash, my forehead suddenly slick with icy sweat. Fudge yelped and I watched his tail curl between his legs even as Tulos crumpled to his knees in defeat.  

One did not need to be a doctor to determine the danger of his condition. Blood stained his clothes, gradually pooling from every cut. No injury was fatal on its own, but I had to imagine that not even mana could stave off blood loss indefinitely. 

It was perhaps fitting that, as things grew increasingly grim, a shadow fell over proceedings. I tilted my head towards the sky, for how seldom it was that a person looked up. A large shape had eclipsed the sun, and whatever it was, it was growing closer. The details were lost on through the glint of sun silhouetting its form, but the distances involved spoke to the sheer scale of the thing. 

Along with the darkness came a whistle, one that pierced through the air as it grew from soft and distant to painfully loud over several seconds. I heard no other sounds, which was enough to inspire a neck-snapping shift of attention. Sure enough, Tina and Vigil lay suddenly still save for the rise and fall of ragged breath.

Rosita also watched the sky, wearing an unreadable expression. Her head gradually tilted down as if tracking something with her eyes. When the whistle reached its crescendo a mighty gust of wind flattened the grass and almost sent me reeling, reminding me of the effect a landing helicopter had on the landscape. A fitting comparison, as the next moment Lionel landed on bent knees barely a few steps away from me. With his landing, the whistle cut off, and the winds along with them. 

“Landing from such an immense height never gets easier on the knees,” he said sternly as he took in the situation. No one replied. I couldn’t reply. My mind was still trying to wrap around the newest of many sudden developments. “Grand Inquisitor, before we exchange proper greetings, you will forgive an immediate matter.” 

Lionel let loose a whistle, low and lingering. The swordsman, Lenzo, grunted in sudden surprise as he slammed into the ground, a literal depression forming around him as some unseen force pressed into the earth around - and presumably underneath - him. 

“Alas, circumstances dictate I show restraint.” Despite Lionel speaking, the whistle continued, occasionally spiking to jagged notes of sudden discord. 

“For that, you have my appreciation,” Rosita said, seemingly unbothered by the increasingly pained struggles of her subordinate. “Unnecessary though his actions were, Guardsman Lenzo was acting to defend me.” She had the audacity to smirk.

Lionel quirked an eyebrow that somehow managed to maintain its perfect manicuring despite his rapid descent through the air, looking briefly between the wounded Tulos and the interloper.

“Is that so,” he replied, flattening the question into a skeptical statement. Something minor twitched in Rosita’s face, a butterfly wing in a gale somewhere distant, but it was so passing that I couldn’t read it no matter how hard I tried to. 

Rosita did not respond to Lionel, and resorted herself to merely watching him walk over to the pair of men who had only seconds before been dueling to the death. The low, keen whistle still resonated in the air around us as he approached the Guardsman.

“In a few moments you will be released,” he said to the swordsman with barely concealed distaste, “and when you are, you will return to the carriage. You will remain there.”

Although the sheer wind pressure prevented Lenzo from nodding, his acquiescence was apparent in his eyes. He could see the gap in skill between himself and his not-quite-opponent, and unlike Tulos - who had just been in that position minutes before - he had no motivation to try and overcome it. 

“Lieutenant, I must now protest,” interjected Rosita. “I would feel much safer were my Guardsman to stay by my side. These people…” she paused to look around at us, two children, two subdued adults, two helpless adults and a pair of dogs, “are unpredictable, and as recently demonstrated, prone to violence.”

Lionel stopped trying to even hide his distaste. 

“Grand Inquisitor, an appreciation for performance is not beyond me. In this instance, the casual juggling of your myriad authority inspires naught but disdain from me. The Guardsman will go back to the carriage, I will tend to this man’s wounds, and then we will discuss this like reasonable adults,” he said. The note of finality was clear.  

The whistle stopped. Some of the grass sprang back into place, glad to be released from the unceasing pressure of the fist of air that had slammed into it. After taking the time to catch his breath, the Guardsman rose to one knee, then the other, then stood. He looked between his mistress and the powerful newcomer with increasing confusion, wearing an expression like a child asked to choose between eating boiled green beans or steamed brussels sprouts. 

There was no room for sympathy in my heart, not then. When Rosita failed to further argue Lionel on the matter, the Guardsman, now walking with a limp, retreated. 

“You are stepping dangerously close to aggression, Lieutenant,” Rosita warned. “You might mock my authority but should know better than to so overtly challenge it.” 

Lionel did not answer straight away, instead pulling forth a small leather pouch from some unseen pocket. Nestled within was a neatly wrapped bundle of green paste that somehow neither dripped nor dared escape the confines of its casing. With practiced efficiency, he smeared small amounts over each of Tulos’ wounds. Tulos nodded his thanks but otherwise remained quiet, either because he was on the edge of consciousness or because he saw the wisdom in silence I could not say.

“That is an expensive good deed,” Rosita jabbed. As we waited, I noticed that the shadow remained overhead. It only shifted when Lionel whistled again, and it was growing closer.  

“Bold to concern yourself with barbed words,” Lionel said, absent any of his usual mirth. “When I said ‘we,’ I was also including the gentleman with whom I called in a favor for the speedy delivery and - unless my eyes are deceiving me - you recently unleashed your Skill upon his former pupil.” 

A flash of genuine worry broke Rosita’s otherwise impenetrable facade and her eyes shot skyward again. 

“He is going to land,” she hissed. 

“It was a considerable favor,” was all Lionel said. 

As the silhouette grew steadily closer, its shape grew more distinct. The long neck. The impressive wingspan. I searched for a serpentine tail when the creature roared to announce its imminent descent, except the roar sounded strange. It was deep and earth-shaking, but less of a roar and more of- 

A quack. The outline of the hill-sized creature sharpened enough for me to make out the tell-tale sign of feathered wings. 

Is that thing a fucking duck?