QuiteTheSlacker
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Chapter 89: My Evil's Predefined
🕑 Added 2024-10-31 03:34:35 +0000 UTC“Libevich, get over here. Listen to me: this has to stop. I understand you don’t agree with the peace treaty, but I can’t believe you actually tried to assault the Polus diplomat! And for what—because you were bored? I know you want to go back to the old days when Caelum was picking fights with every nation on the map, but that’s not what I want. Isn’t peace nice for a change?
“Ugh, should’ve figured that wouldn’t work on you… fine. How about this: whenever you feel like killing someone, come find me. I’ll beat you bloody and bruised as much as you want. Anytime. Anywhere.”
Grand General Luxmi, Former Ruler of Lux Caelum
———
Libevich
Libevich can only stand in shock as she gazes at Lorelai with wonder. There she is, and for a second the old woman almost believes she’s looking at a ghost. An illusion. But no, the presence before her is very real; the Throne exudes an aura mightier than any else.
A whirlwind of thoughts rushes through Libevich’s head. She can barely contain herself - emotions threatening to burst out in glee - and in this very moment, there exists only the two of them in the whole wide world. Nothing else matters: the war, the other knights, and even that wimpy crow of a ruler… there is no need for them anymore. Lorelai is here, and now they can finally end their long feud once and for all.
Fire surges through her veins. Her heart thumps with a force as if carrying the weight of a legion’s mighty beat.
Thump-thump.
Thump-thump.
Thump-thump-thump-thump-thump-thump-thump-thump.
“All this time…” Libevich whispers, her hand reaching towards her salvation. “Do you know how much I suffered without you, Lorelai? Oh, the nights I spent wailing under the Stars, lamenting your death and our conclusion that never came to be—there’s just too many to count. I feared a warrior of your caliber would never appear again.”
Lorelai watches her with a steady eye and a firm stance. There’s not an opening or gap in her defense. She merely observes, waiting for the slightest jerk of movement.
“Fufu, the past doesn’t matter. You’re here now, so let’s have a nice death, shall we? Together, we can finally head off to that wondrous paradise above.”
The Throne regards her coldly, and she speaks with a dry indifference.
“I do not know what illusions you have of me, but the only one to perish on this day will be you.” Lorelai unsheathes the twin blades of the sun and moon. Their glow is just as murderous as Libevich remembers—no, perhaps even more so now. “There is no paradise up there, manslayer. All that awaits in death is oblivion.”
Libevich grins and throws her head back in laughter. “Maybe so! I’ve always thought the scriptures were hogwash. Still… can’t fault a girl for wishing otherwise. It’s the dreamers that live the best life in this world.”
The two face off, breaths hushed. Bodies bereft of even a twitch.
The air grows sharper and sharper, until every lick of wind feels like a searing lash.
And then, the two warriors explode to life.
Libevich barrels forward in a crude, delirious run. A boom ripples throughout the battlefield, and Lorelai draws closer; her every step is perfectly disciplined—balanced with not a sway.
Faster, desperately, the old woman sprints towards that blinding figure. And as they near the other, just barely out of reach, Libevich winds up a hearty punch.
Fist and blade collide, yet the cold sting of alloy is short-lived. Lorelai effortlessly slices through her attack and rips along the seams of Libevich’s flesh until her arm’s split in half—bone and all. Two mutilated remains are all that’s left, muscles severed and blood cascading free.
Libevich falls onto her knees, and cackles.
“Ah~” she groans. “That was good. My, my, Lorelai! You’ve gotten even better. What other surprises do you have for me?”
The old woman leaps up and attempts to grab her by the throat, but Lorelai takes off and twirls throughout the sky as if performing a dance. Soon, a whirlwind of gashes descend and tear Libevich’s flesh bit by bit—chunk after chunk. She tries to follow after the winged woman, but it’s useless; her every swipe grasps only air.
Lorelai is always just out of reach, the subtlest of grazes away. All Libevich can do is stumble around like a dazed drunkard as she’s hacked and gouged and ripped limb from limb.
And yet, she’s still not dead.
Clumps of flesh and sinew reattach as quickly as they’re torn. Lorelai deviates her methods, aiming for Libevich’s heart, then her brain, then every little organ and muscle. She continues her assault as if handling a mere chore. When one tactic fails, she moves on to another. Then the next. Then even more.
Slashing, crushing, burning.
Piercing, slamming, freezing.
At one point she even decapitates Libevich’s head and attempts to bury it under the ground, but the old woman always comes back. Hers is a bloodlust that can never be squashed.
Eventually, Lorelai freezes mid-air and stares at her as if beholding some bizarre creature.
“What are you?” she says. “This is peculiar. I have seen those of similar regeneration in the past, yet never with a complete immortality like yours. No requisites, no conditions that must be satisfied… how unusual for one bereft of a Will to possess such power.”
“Oh, come now. Don’t talk like we’re strangers!” Libevich says, popping back up with not a blemish. “It’s nothing you haven’t seen before, darling. Nothing… except for this!”
With a great, booming guffaw, Libevich raises her hand and splits her own torso by the neck. But instead of falling onto the floor, her headless half grabs onto the other and then catapults it high into the sky, sending it tumbling right into the chest of a perplexed Lorelai.
“How… creative,” the Throne mutters.
“Why thank you.”
With a solid headbutt from Libevich, the two plunge back towards the ground, and they crash. Hard. The earth collapses under the force of their impact and leaves behind a cradle of dirt and debris, yet neither of the two women are hurt. Lorelai still looks pristine as always.
Except, she’s not. Not that she’s injured, but rather… her demeanor. It’s subtle, but Libevich can’t help but sense something different about Lorelai. Her armor’s the same, her blades are the same, and the way she fights is—no, that’s it. The old woman knows the Throne’s habits better than anyone: the way she slashes, her intense spirit, and even down to the subtle details of her wings’ movements. The two have clashed for years.
And yet, this Lorelai is like a stranger. She stalks the air with a calculated elegance, only ever following along the most efficient path. Her attacks are far too perfect to belong to the brash woman she remembers.
It’s almost as if this person isn’t Lorelai at all.
“… Oh dear, why didn’t I realize it earlier?” Libevich mutters aloud. “Your wings are different.”
The wings. Yes, it’s those wings of hers. They’re no longer a vibrant gold and silver. Instead, it’s as if the night sky is draped around her back: starlight flaunting out to the astral heavens up high whilst covered in clusters of blue and purple and black.
Libevich has slain many a Seraph in the past, and if there’s one thing she’s learned, it’s that their wings are a pathway to their soul. Their deepest desires, their innate nature… everything that depicts their identity is bared for all to see.
But then what’s this? A woven galaxy of color and space. It’s boundless, endless: blotting out every corner of Creation with a luster not unlike those twinkling Stars above.
And yet, the greatest impossibility of all is its innocence. Those wings are pure, uncorrupted—almost as if they belong to a newborn child.
Those wings do not belong to Lorelai.
“Lorelai…” Libevich says, raising her head. “Is that really your name?”
They do not respond for some time. And then, the air changes.
“Does it matter?”
The old woman ponders to herself, and grins. “I suppose it doesn’t.”
It is not the person’s nature she cares about, but rather their strength. “I love Lorelai because there was no one else who can match me in battle. Well, amongst my enemies at least. If there’s a soul out there that can surpass her beauty with the blade, then I will love them even more.”
And indeed, she’s found them—someone who outshines even that once-so radiant knight of the heavens.
The fake stares at her with a curious look… and something more. A resolution that sends shivers through every stretch of Libevich’s body.
No more pretense. No more holding back.
The one before her abandons it all: the elegance, the grace, the virtues of a knight. Instead, an atrocity emerges.
“I see,” they say. “Then I need not pretend any longer.”
The being raises the twin celestial blades, and they clash them together. Once. Twice. Faster and faster. Sparks shoot out, growing ever more bright, more intense, until all Libevich can see is an all-encompassing shower of light.
“Solga, Lunas,” they chant. “Fragmented blades of the astral Mother… return to me, now. Return to your original form.”
The golden sun. The silver moon. Together, they merge into one, harmonizing in a joyful song of reunion—of heartfelt lovers once again joined in tender embrace.
When the light finally rescinds, the blades disappear. And a holy greatsword births from their union.
The surface is devoid of all color, pitch black as if erasing the world’s pigment—swirling, swirling. Like a bottomless abyss.
It is a black hole, the devourer of space.
“We meet again, Eclipse,” the fake says. “How fortunate that it is not as enemies.”
They turn to face Libevich with the divine armament in hand. The old woman hasn’t moved a step since the whole show; she’s completely still, waiting.
Because she can feel it: that this is the end.
The end of her long sought desire.
“… Well,” she says with a wicked grin. “Don’t keep me waiting, now. Show me you have what it takes to end this old woman’s life.”
The being nods their head, and raises the greatsword. A small dot appears at the tip. But ever so gradually, it grows larger. The air warps. The light curves. Reality itself distorts as the world bends into a blurry, jumbled portrait. The sky and earth, the grass and far-off city: Everything smears together into one big spiral.
Soon, an orb of pure darkness emerges from the greatsword’s call, rippling with an otherworldly hum as it pulls all of space into the epicenter of its howling void.
To be swallowed by that is to have every last trace of your existence obliterated. Gone forever.
“Yeah. That’ll do it.” Libevich throws her arms out and closes her eyes. She’s ready. It’s time to meet her doom. “There’s no coming back from that. Fufu, thank you, one who wears Lorelai’s skin. If there really is nothing out there, then I’m glad that these last moments of mine could be spent with you.”
“… May your rest be peaceful. Goodbye.”
Libevich takes a step forward. She can feel the black hole tug onto her, seducing her with its sweet whistle of death.
Just one more now. A little farther, and she will finally—
A hook pierces straight through Libevich’s chest.
“What?”
She looks down, confused, and finds a long rope attached leading all the way back to the city.
“What just—”
Spikes erupt from the hook’s end and latches with a force until the old woman’s firmly caught within its hold.
Without any warning, she’s hoisted away from the battlefield.
“NO!” Libevich screeches. The fake Lorelai, the void, death… it’s all disappearing. It’s all eluding her grasp once again. “No, no, no! Send me back! Send me back you wretched, lowly things, or else I’ll slaughter everyone in this city until every piece of stone is drenched in blood—”
But it’s useless. Her course has already been set in motion; not even cutting the rope will do anything now.
Whoever is the cause for this, Libevich will make sure they know true agony.
