Raiten:

  Wind whips against me as I tumble down from the sky, my broken fingers begging for mercy, my ribs trailing rivers of blood that spiral in varied patterns. The pain numbs thanks to pure adrenaline, but only to a certain degree. My pain threshold is finite.

  But I’m not done yet.

  I reach for my right hand, clasp the left around it, then peel back the broken fingers. It’s hard to prep myself for the re-break, so I don’t—rather, I crank them back into form and let the whip handle slip free. I pull away from the Lady now. Her head cranes back, no doubt noticing the lack of weight.

  I won’t give her time to attack.

  Instead, I straighten up, bear head down, and dive.

  While she may have the ability to fly…

  I certainly know how to fall.

  Within moments I cut the distance between us and my shoulder bashes into her chest. Her head warbles out some fierce scream as I bury my knee into her stomach, cradle my left arm around her head, and snatch the flailing whip attached to her torso with my right hand.

  Her blades slash my way, but one pull of the whip and her body arches up, stomach lurching. I wrap my legs around her waist.

  She starts to spin.

  Gritting my teeth, I bang a few elbows out against her head. I think I hurt myself more than I damage her with those. But the metal does dent, despite my right elbow now showing bone wrapped in raw underskin, like the red raw innards of a salmon.

  Don’t think about the pain. Just keep… fighting.

  She swerves in the air—flips. Flies back and forth through the clouds. Direction becomes a far off dream; a concept steeped in dizzying misery. All I know is blood and metal and grit. My leg triangle around her body doesn’t break. Whenever her blades swivel back, I pull the whip to and fro, puppeteering her body to avoid a razor sharp end. My body is a spidery nuisance—one that bites and snaps and hits time and time again. Elbows, punches, headbutts. Impact impact impact.

  An odd sound escapes my lips. Spittle flies as my chest heaves with… laughter. I laugh like Daichi laughs after every war campaign, like a king whose feast halls are blessed with wine and revelry, only instead I am a blood crazed madman who falls with my enemy, bashing her every which way I know. We pass through the crystalline clouds, moving back and forth between the gold hazed heavens and the ugly green world below.

  I don’t know when I black out. But when I come to, my left arm is flailing out, right hand still gripping the whip taut, legs still tight against her chest.

  Blood still drenches her and I. Crimson colors her metal like rust. The Lady’s head bends in a misshapen manner, like a shield that took one too many bludgeons from a cudgel. I am the cudgel. The weapon.

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  Why do I need amulets? My body is lightning itself, coiled and springing to motion, infinite red-raw violence that spirals unto itself—I am the army that my enemies fear, the soldier they hate, the man they loathe for I am relentless, endless, fucking senseless. I wish they could watch me now as I perish through the horizon with blood misting from my form, laughter once more boiling to the surface. I wish I could inject nightmares into their hearts of this very scene, like the witch.

  For nothing will stop me from the blood red vengeance. I can practically see it gleaming on the horizon. Or perhaps that’s just the blood drenching my vision, like the velvet curtain to a peddler’s puppet show.

  Vaguely, I sense that my mind is shaking too much. Too many headbutts.

  Eh what does it matter? Just keep hitting her.

  Her metal scrapes out now. Shards barb from her like dead skin, showing a purple glow underneath.

  Again, I rear my head back for another blow.

  Only, it never comes.

  For the ground is faster.

  …

  Durest:

  I spin the saxe knife. The knight parrots the movement by spinning his zweihander. My boots crunch back against cobble. Slowly, I move off road, skirting slightly around a pile of leaves and shrub.

  The knight follows at the same pace. I hear Gareth groaning. Nimra moaning in pain—she’s hurt worse.

  Why is he waiting? Why not just finish me?

  As if answering my question, the knight tilts his head and points his sword at me.

  “How. Many. Times?”

  What?

  I freeze. He circles to the other end of the shrub pile.

  The helmet croaks. “How. Many. Times?”

  The voice is like a pipe smoker’s, old and rusty with battle. He trills random letters, as if trying to mock a foreign accent but having a hard time deciding which one to imitate.

  “What. Is. The. Count?”

  Hesitantly, I hold up six fingers.

  The helmet nods.

  “Your. Master. Trespass. Here.”

  Motherfucker. He knows. I want to laugh. For the first time ever, I’ve met someone or something who can understand me. And he’s the one who’s been killing me. And to top it all off, I can’t even speak to him.

  Master. Trespass.

  I shake my head. Hold up two fingers upside down, walk them along the saxe knife and then off. Dusting my hands, I hold them up in surrender.

  The knight shakes his head.

  “You. Trespass. This. Is. Not. Zaman’s. Land. This. Is. Basilbane. Land. I. Am. 64th. Knight. Of. Basilbane. You. Cannot. Leave. Tell. Your. Master. To. Abandon. You. So. You. Can. Die. True. Death.”

  I lower my blade, as if considering the offer.

  Yeah not in a million years—

  I throw the saxe knife at him. Stupid move. Goading move. The handle bounces off the visor.

  The knight looks at the knife lying in the dirt.

  Then back to me.

  “You. Die.”

  He takes a step forward.

  I tense in anticipation.

  Another step and he’s in the shrubbery.

  Another step—

  He pauses. Looks back and forth between me and the pile of leaves that separates us.

  Shit. Come on just one more—

  The knight shakes his head.

  And steps away from the pile.

  And there goes the plan.

  I sigh. Zaman was right.

  It’s my funeral.