QuiteTheSlacker
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Chapter 97: A Blade Severs the Horizon
🕑 Added 2025-01-01 16:37:17 +0000 UTC“My apologies for the sudden shock, Sarathiel. We must hurry to Ascalon’s side, and you’ve experienced far worse a wound than a measly slap.
“Come, only the two of us can contend with that creature now. The fate of this land rests within our hands.”
The Knight
––––––
The Knight
The titan raises his colossal, bladed hand and cleaves through the Corvid’s skull. It is not a smooth cut, but jagged: strenuous and crude as the blade forcibly tears through its feathery flesh with pure brute strength.
“Sarathiel, you must not relent!” the Knight transmits. “It is a manifestation of desire, not a true living being. Death will not come by mere physical means.”
The two halves of the Corvid have already begun stitching themselves back together, conjoining in a grotesque display of sinew and pale blood. It lets out a warbled cry in frustration and digs its talons deep into Sarathiel’s steeled leg: seizing him. Restraining him until the two collapse together into a tangled pile.
“Curses… what must I do, then?” Sarathiel’s onslaught is endless; he rips and tears, splatters the broken mountains around him with the Corvid’s gore, yet no matter how hard he struggles it refuses to fall.
There can be no slaying the thing as it is now. Polus’s hope, the sword that can cut down even the divine, lies with only one other.
The Knight must bide time until Ascalon recovers.
The Corvid writhes within Sarathiel’s grasp and sets its dilated eyes toward the city. And the Knight can see clearly: the hatred, the obsession, the immeasurable loathing it holds towards this land. Even whilst crushed beneath Sarathiel’s sole, the smog-wreathed exterior of the capital never leaves its gaze––as if the very sight is an evil that must be destroyed.
When Sarathiel's strength wanes, and his assault slows for just a brief moment, the Corvid pries free. And it raises its beak, unleashing one last ray against its now-defenseless home.
It bolts through the air faster than he can react, but his fear soon turns into relief as the Knight soars ahead and confronts the light before it can traverse any farther.
“Awaken now, armament of Eclipse. Rend all that is space and material, as we once did in an age long past.”
The Knight slashes the air in front of it, and along the blade’s edge: reality splits apart at the seams. It curves, refracts, and bends––twisting up into down and forward into back. When the ray of light finally collides with the crack in space, it does not stop; rather, the energy reflects directly back towards the body of the creature who spewed it.
“Worry not for the city’s safety,” the Knight relays to Sarathiel. “Rage all you wish, for I am here.”
He does not need any more encouragement; feather and flesh alike melt together as the Corvid suffers from its own attack, and Sarathiel brings down his mighty axe with a great, hulking roar. Even if the thing cannot be killed, it can be slowed.
But something is different. The Corvid’s demeanor changes, its aura shifts from a desperate mania to a cold, methodical bloodlust, and it warbles a discordant groan before opening its maw wide.
“Grant me a mouth, grant me a maw. Let all I’ve devoured trickle forth. Let all I’ve wronged surge with hearts black and raw.”
Soon, a black, convulsing shape lurches out of the Corvid’s maw. And more, and more, until an entire army of shadow spills out from the creature’s darkest pits.
Their bodies are strange and twisted, a crude imitation of human form, and they crash onto the earth with a splat. The world detests them. Creation abhors them. Reality itself attempts to pull apart the newborn revenants, stretching them into impossibly long proportions one moment and eerily lanky structures the next, but the things are undeterred. And they break into a deranged sprint, lunging for the gigantified Sarathiel and climbing his titanic body as if ascending a mountain.
He resists as best he can: pounding his chest, shaking off the stragglers, grinding them into the cracked earth. However, a dense sludge follows the army’s every touch. It corrodes his armor like acid: wears down his steel into a rusting bronze.
Bit by bit, shadow after shadow, they eat away at his body. Crushing the things are of no use; they simply rise back up, persistent in their relentless march.
But such tenacity can never be a match for Sarathiel’s own. He roars out to the sky in rage and lets go of his axe, shedding the tainted metal from his body whilst donning a new layer of steel. What black and rusted bits are left, he molds into a new, grimy weapon and buries it deep into the Corvid’s abdomen before it can summon any more of its hideous legion.
The affliction spreads from the wound to all throughout its body. The creature slows; it grows weaker.
And as it does, Sarathiel and the Knight settle into a rhythmic, unstoppable offensive.
No matter what the Corvid does, no matter how it tries to struggle, every last one of its plans at resistance are thoroughly ruined. The Knight defends. The titan rampages.
Every talon raised is cleaved in half. Every eye brought forth is erased in a blink. Every muttered chant is silenced with a wring of the throat.
The two Thrones waltz together in a seamless flurry of oppression, never once allowing the Corvid even a single second to act. Even its once-so rapid regeneration begins to falter.
But Ascalon still needs time, and even the tenacious Sarathiel cannot last forever.
“Lorelai, lend me your strength for a moment,” he says, his breath growing more haggard by the second. “Restrain it however you’re able; I have a plan.”
“A method to slay it?” it asks.
“No, but… perhaps I can put a stop to its movements, even if only for a few minutes.”
“Very well, fall back and recover yourself.”
The Knight circles around the Corvid, slashing at the air and indenting countless spatial grooves into the physical plane. They veer inward, collapsing into themselves, until the very fabric of reality implodes, and a ravenous black hole manifests right above the thing’s withering form.
It is far too large to be erased by the void, but it is enough to trap it in place––to imprison it in a constant, agonizing swirl as the gravity’s pull flays all caught within range.
Meanwhile, Sarathiel stamps his foot and anchors himself to the earth. A spiral horn forms above his helm, and soon, Creation begins to flock at the tip. It condenses and churns, taking new form as a shimmering mass of pure silver.
“Now!” he shouts. “Get out of the way!”
The Knight flees to safety up towards the clouds, and it watches on as the silver light ruptures forth and bathes the Corvid in all its entirety. Feathers, talons, and flesh alike: it all becomes encased in a shining steel mold.
“There!” Sarathiel undoes his transformation and crumbles onto the ground with a gasp. His limbs convulse with exhaustion, but nevertheless the man is hale.
The Knight lands beside him and takes a moment to rest as well, though not for long. The Corvid’s shell has already begun to crack.
“It would appear you are correct,” it says aloud. “A few minutes are all we have before it escapes.”
“I figured as much,” he sighs. “A shame we have no other aid. That thing’s heartbeat was torturous even for me to endure; I doubt anyone else has escaped its grasp."
But his words are soon proven false, for a familiar voice calls out to them from above. “At the very least, you have mine.”
There, gliding with wings bespeckled in a renewed amber, is Ascalon. However, the Knight can see a subtle tremble of a fist: a breath struggling to appear composed. The King’s invulnerability has yet to return.
It almost reprimands him right then and there for putting himself in such danger, but it’s clear Ascalon will not relent. Foolish, reckless, perhaps even selfish… so many insults it can call him now, yet the Knight finds itself being swept away by that ever-blinding conviction of his.
That conviction is why it has fallen in love with him.
Sarathiel chuckles as Ascalon approaches and stretches out his hand, pulling the Throne up and supporting him with his shoulder. “Finally rested up, have you? Good. Maybe now we stand a chance at leaving this damnable land.”
“I dare wish for nothing else.” Ascalon laughs alongside him. “But truth to be told, I know not how we may stop Xeros’s rampage.”
The Knight has seen, and contended with, many a possessor of Cosmos’s Will before, yet never has one commanded such nigh immortality the Corvid seemingly possesses.
But still, its power is not infallible. Sarathiel has proven himself that its regeneration can be slowed; it can be eventually slain. Rather than whittle the thing away slowly, what they need is a sudden, intense strike.
And it knows exactly how to do so.
“I…” The Knight begins to speak, but its words droop before it can finish. There’s a lump in its throat; its heart pounds ever so loudly now, but why? Why is it so reluctant?
Ascalon and Sarathiel look towards it, their expressions brimming with hope. And the Knight––it freezes in place.
The method to slay the Corvid… it requires both the Mattatron and the Eclipse. The two must be joined as one. As for the wielders, the same holds true for them.
Body and soul.
Two hearts together.
And in that shared moment, all will be revealed without restraint.
Ascalon will finally realize it: that the one before him is not Lorelai.
“... Is something the matter?” its beloved asks.
“I––”
The ground beneath them begins to quake. Time is running out; the Corvid will soon break free.
It must decide here: Will it risk engaging the Corvid now whilst the others are still weary, or will it risk exposing this lie? This precarious, fleeting, miserable lie that it knows will not last much no matter the choice it makes.
Even so, if for another day it can pretend to be happy, then wouldn’t it be better to conceal it? This life––it has become much too precious to abandon now.
But Ascalon… looking at him causes the Knight to waver. Because his cause is just, it’s pure, it’s unlike the foul hypocrisy of the one before him. The thought of his loving gaze turning scornful is a far greater nightmare than anything it could imagine. Yet, perhaps that is for the better. It has manipulated him long enough.
The dream must come to an end, eventually.
“Ascalon,” it says. The tension in its body is all but gone. Even the burden on its heart feels light. “Do you trust me?”
He responds without a shred of hesitation. “Of course.”
“Then… no matter what you see from now on, no matter what you witness, promise me you won’t speak a word of it.”
Or else it would not be able to bear it.
“I promise,” he says.
“Thank you.” It turns around to face Sarathiel, for to look at Ascalon any more would risk shaking its already delicate resolve. “As for you, Sarathiel, can you manifest that silver ray one more time? You will know what must be done when the moment arrives”
“Just say when,” the man replies.
“Reliable as always.”
The Corvid’s beak pokes through the steel mold. No more stalling; it’s now or never.
The Knight takes a large, deep breath. “Let us finish this, together.”
“Together,” the two say in unison.
Without a second to spare, the Corvid breaks free from its metallic prison, and it plagues the world with a deafening screech.
The Knight locks hands with Ascalon and pulls him close into a tender, resolute embrace. “Are you ready, my dear?”
He laughs, and strokes its back: comforting it as he’s always done. “Now, and forevermore.”
The two raise their celestial weapons up high, together. The Eclipse conjoins with the delicate lilac aura of the Mattatron, surrounding the two star-struck companions in streaks of cosmic clusters and ethereal light. It builds up, it rises and takes form, as a giantess clad in vibrant, flowing space. What once was two swords are now a single blade of red, of amber, of white and black: the very colors of a heaven without Stars.
“Now, Sarathiel,” their voices boom, blending in a matched tone of harmony. “The blade––temper the blade.”
Sarathiel manifests his titanic form and gathers all the silver aura he can muster, refining it into a concentrated mass before expelling it directly onto the rippling astral embodiment. Soon, an ethereal glow shimmers alongside the blade: brighter. Brighter. And brighter, until all traces of the realm above are outshone by a blinding flash.
The Corvid stamps its hook, eager to unleash its wrath, but as soon as it looks out towards the city… it veils its eyes and cowers before the radiance of a true divine being.
The spatial giantess brings its blade down, and light pours out into the world––submerging everything in a wave of sparkles.
Away, to the realm’s edge.
Away, to the nations far out of sight.
Away, to the people begging to be freed.
Past the starry sea, a blade severs the horizon, declaring onto the land the dream of a young hero.
His rallying cry for freedom.
When the light dims, and the moon’s rays come cascading down once more, the Corvid disappears. And all that’s left… is Xeros. All that’s left is a feeble man.
There he lays, visage withered into a skeletal husk with only a sickly, emaciated sack of skin left to hold together his frame. His lips are parse and dry; his cheeks are sunken. Sallow. And his eyes hold naught but a deep black pit. The only thing separating him from a corpse is the occasional, weak sputter.
The Knight and Ascalon wander over to him, his breaths barely a whisper in the breeze. Xeros only grunts as they tower his body; the man cannot lift even a single finger.
“So I have failed,” he mutters.
“Yes, you have,” Ascalon says, voice mixed with a twinge of relief and pity. “You were a difficult foe. I see now how you succeeded in keeping your title for so long”
“... Do not patronize me,” he growls in response. “I see it in your eyes, young King. There exists no greater shame than to be pitied by one’s own enemies. The excuses matter not: You have triumphed. I have lost. If you claim to be a ruler, then conduct yourself as such.”
Ascalon bows his head. “Forgive me. I have been disrespectful.”
“I do not care to receive your apologies.”
“Even so, to do otherwise would go against my beliefs.”
Surprisingly, Xeros utters a weak chortle at his words. “I suppose. One’s oath to thy spirit is important, indeed.”
“Of course. That is what makes us human.”
“... So it is.”
Xeros thumps his head against the cold dirt and looks up to the twinkling sky. “To adhere to one's convictions is what separates the beasts from man. Failure only arrives by choice: the choice to succumb and give up when a path still yet has to be trodden.
“Mine embers have yet to be extinguished, and so I will struggle as I always have: no matter the methods. Even if it means calling upon that which is most reviled.”
Something is wrong.
A cold rush of dread, of terror, of sheer disgust courses through every morsel of the Knight’s being. It has never experienced such uncontrollable contempt before in all its existence.
No, to be more accurate, for all its years chained to the earth. The only other time it has ever felt this aversion is towards Them.
Towards the Stars.
“I offer myself as a conduit,” he chants. The Knight attempts to slit his throat before he can say another word, but its body forcibly collapses before it can take a step. Something invisible, impossible, pushes down upon it. Not even Ascalon is unaffected by the presence, and he soon crashes next to the Knight. The two cannot speak. They cannot resist. “Answer my call, the one steeped in ever-lasting avarice.
“I bid summon the Star of Insatiable Greed.”
The world unravels; a fundamental layer of reality peels back. Day becomes night. Up becomes down. What is once dirt is now a vast, flowing sea. Then the scorching sand of the desert. Then the untamed wilds of the forest. Changing, changing, changing: everything is constantly changing. Normality perishes, and so does chaos reign unimpeded.
And then, it’s over. As if it all never began in the first place.
Except for one, glaring difference.
In the sky, a being watches over all.
Greed. That is what it is. That is what the incomprehensible, ever-shifting thing in the sky is.
It is everything. Everything. All at once, never quite the same, a perpetual horror swirled into a faint resemblance of a face. Its greed knows no bounds, and so it wants for everything. To become everything. And yet, it can never truly be everything, for there is always something being created. It is cursed to follow a greed that shall see no end, forever. That is what a Star is: a cursed, wretched existence. Eternal in its suffering.
“Sacrifice,” the Star says with the voice of everything. “Everything you are. Everything you will be. Everything there is to be.”
Xeros raises his head and glares at the abhorrent thing with not a hint of fear. “I sacrifice all I have ever tasted, the joys of a meal when hunger so voraciously consumes.”
“More.”
“I sacrifice all I have ever smelled, the musky oil of workshops and factories engulfed in the sin of exploitation.”
“More.”
“I sacrifice all I have ever touched, the warmth of a friend when solitude creeps ever within.”
The Star doesn’t speak for some time, but eventually it answers.
“Taste. What is taste?
“Smell. I can’t smell.
“Touch. So much touch.
“A feast, a feast. A feast of everything. Xeros, oh Xeros. Your everything is me.”
With its parting words, the Star disappears. The world returns to its normalcy.
But before the Knight and Ascalon can understand what has just happened, Xeros disappears as well. The two look back towards the capital only to find it surrounded by a wall of everything.
