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382 - Phantom Winds of Fate Pt. 5 [Sturmblitz]
🕑 Added 2024-11-30 22:27:58 +0000 UTCMuch like the real wall, Leopold’s defensive formation could be impenetrable or selectively allow things through. Leopold’s mastery of it, though imperfect, would more than suffice to cut down this upstart.
There was no use to it on its own. It could buy time.
But the wall was wrought of his own rampaging swordlight. It could, as easily as a guard became a lunge, change from a defense to an offense. And, if the Blackwall was the Ankhezian Empire’s supreme defensive monument, then what equaled it in offense, if not the Suncage Grid?
WALKING WAY OF THE SOVEREIGN SWORD
QUASI-TRUTH ART: SUNCAGE ERUPTION
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The silver lining around the black cloud that now hung over her head was the fact that Leopold’s technique, whatever it was, clearly took time — and when it came to time, Zefaris was always at an advantage.
Whether he was doing this as a stalling tactic, or preparing a bigger offense, it would make no difference.
Compared to Eberheim, this was the whirlpool in a draining bathtub.
“Manual release.”
A burning thrum instantly flooded into her skull as the single burning dot acting as the pupil of her left eye expanded out into a many-pronged spiral. She could see it — the flow of aura that comprised Leopold’s defensive wall, even the shadow of his sword moving inside it.
The pragmatic part of her wanted to just throw a coin high up and try to bring a bullet smashing down on top of his head, but she knew it wouldn’t work. It was too easy, too obvious. Dracofulminate didn’t even cross her mind as an option.
In an instant, she carved a series of glyph circles into the air, and the root, the one closest to her, was an array of smaller circles with four terminals around its outer perimeter and one in the middle — for five bullets.
They were half-complete, as they were. Filled with power and meaning, but with yawning gaps, waiting to be filled by antediluvian glyphs. She could sense Leopold’s wall of aura stirring, collapsing into itself earlier than she had anticipated, but that was fine.
Since the beginning of her journey, already, her phantom contingent had grown, and so had her ability to call them forth.
From two Gun Phantoms, to five.
From two Sword Phantoms, to four.
An additional Inquisitor Phantom had also joined her ranks, now numbering three in total.
As for the Formless Phantoms, those wrought of remnants with no particular affinity and made to wield handguns in the skull-faced image of Death’s Lieutenant, they now numbered a full thirteen, whence they had once been five.
Those unique phantoms which were her trump cards had not been joined by a new equal, for the same reason the numbers of the lesser phantoms had not grown as much as they could have — Zefaris had focused on reinforcing her Inner Phantom above all else.
And the fruit of that focus was this.
“Form ranks!”
Two rows of nine phantoms — all Formless and Gun Phantoms — took shape, and to the sides and in the middle, one Inquisitor Phantom each took a place. All the while, Leopold’s technique continued to transform, twisting in on itself as a tower grew around him, sprouting from the hilt of his sword. She instantly recognized what it was intended to represent — a Suncage Grid receiver tower. With an instant motion, Leopold transitioned into a thrust, and the tower became a destructive ray, a flood of shredding force surging towards her.
“Fire!”
A curtain of ghostly fire spilled out. They scattered the flood of death for a brief moment, but that was enough, and whence the firing squad faltered, Phantom Manus and the Tankman Phantom sprung forth to hold the line. The spectre of Inquisitor Manus simply held up his sword and walked at Leopold, the Tankman Phantom’s twin cannons thundering over his head.
Manus held up his sword, and, though long dead, though a mere phantom, he still invoked the name of Omniudex as he raised his sword and bid it to blaze aflame, and it did, and with a herculean swing he carved a molten line into the arena’s stone ground, and flame blazed forth from it. The cost to support this single action, the strain upon Zefaris, was immense, but she weathered it, and the flood of black razors was halted once again.
By the time the line of flames was extinguished and Phantom Manus and the Tankman Phantom were both swept away, Zefaris had already done what was needed. The ominous apparatus hung in the air before her, symbols burning purple in the air, the disturbed cries of Black Horse disciples carrying on the wind, for they had seen the sigils and felt their souls shudder just like Zefaris had back then.
Five dragonsteel bullets, possessed by their own ghostly counterparts from Pentacle’s weapon-spirit, all fed into this array, to be wound together into a spear and enveloped in black ice — a core of dragonsteel, a body of black ice, and the Antediluvian Glyphs to unravel her opponent’s strength. The same feat that had required the cooperation of herself, Fryg, and Red back in Borea, Zefaris would now carry out herself.
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Leopold shrank back, the flow of his technique visibly deteriorating, splitting into multiple disparate flows. Something felt wrong. The backlash… No. No, that couldn’t be.
He never saw it coming — not through the raging storm of swordlight he had stirred up — but that made no difference. He sensed it in his bones. Somehow, he instantly knew that his Suncage Eruption would be broken, no matter what he did. He could hear the sound of cold-iron creaking and snapping, despite the fact his sword was completely fine. For a moment, he saw his coat and hands drenched in blood that didn’t belong to his opponent, and when he blinked, it was gone.
Then he heard it. The sound of those infernal coins.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five.
A thunderous roar echoed inside his head, a shudder beyond sound, and in an instant, all five of those coins shone with blinding light. Baleful stars cutting through the black of his technique, they perfectly formed the constellation Corvus. Death. Death upon black wings. Above it, a spiral whirlpool that, all too late, he realized to be the gunwoman’s left eye.
He would’ve at least liked a struggle, even if it would have meant torturously having his ultimate offense carved apart, like a needle being pushed under one’s nail.
But no such honor befell him.
In the instant when he met her gaze, it was over.
Comments
Irish Not Sane
And how underestimating your opponent and believing you know all there is to know about their fighting style gets you killed
Irish Not Sane
Just what he deserved and maybe a lesson to the others on what stagnation leads to
