The two combatants closed the distance, circling one another in a measured, predatory dance. Each step was a search for an opening, a fleeting weakness in the other's guard.
Though Dardain held the edge in raw, immediate power, Lacerta knew he would win.
A low growl rumbled in Dardain's throat as he used the last embers of the 'Goa's' heat. He pressed his super-heated palm against his bleeding shoulder, his teeth gritted against the sizzling pain as he sealed the wound.
It can't last forever, whatever these abilities of his are, they have to have a limit... and all I have to do is just outlast him.
The irony was almost palpable. Vola Dardain, the man who could not conceive of his own injury, who clothed himself in the absolute belief of his own supremacy... Lacerta saw the truth. It was a facade, a brittle shell built to convince a pitiful man-child that he was something he was not. For all his extremist spouting about Vollachian law, in his heart, Dardain didn't seem to believe a word of it.
Outlast him? This guy?
Lacerta dismissed the thought. The long game? A loser's strategy and mindset, on this man? He wouldn't just win; he would dismantle. He would watch the arrogance on Dardain's face curdle into fear, then harden into the grim realization that victory was an impossibility slipping forever from his grasp.
Dardain: ["Die!!"]
Dardain erased the distance between them in an instant. His fiery scimitar, already raised, carved a devastating horizontal arc aimed to slice through Lacerta and char his flesh.
The boy slid downward, his back bending perilously beneath the blazing crescent. He felt the heat sear the nape of his neck as he twisted, his own leg snapping up in a roundhouse kick that hammered into Dardain's sword wrist.
Dardain: ["——TCH!"]
In the same motion, Lacerta vaulted over the faltering blade, plunging through the man's shattered guard. A second kick landed—the sole of his foot driving into Dardain's diaphragm. The impact cracked the earth beneath them and sent the hulking man skidding backward.
Not strong enough.
Dardain caught his footing, his grip on the scimitar tightening until his knuckles screamed in protest. He then swung the blade, not at Lacerta, but through the air itself, launching a searing arc of fire that streaked toward his advancing opponent like a meteor.
Lacerta: ["———"]
Watching the infernal projectile blaze toward him, Lacerta didn't break stride... instead, in one fluid motion, he swung his katana toward his opposite hip and drew it in a blinding iaijutsu slash—cleaving the fireball in two and closing the distance through the dissipating embers.
Once again they clashed—the collision of steel sending an immense shockwave rippling through the arena, the impact jarring the ground and sending the assembled spectators stumbling.
Vaulting to the side, Lacerta felt the searing kiss of a gash upon his off-arm, already cauterized by the ferocious heat of the blow. He raised his katana, thrusting the sharp edge toward Dardain's side before the hulking man parried with a brutal slash of his scimitar, forcing Lacerta to retreat.
He's stronger now, physically. But if I keep pushing, this katana won't hold.
The realization flashed through Lacerta in less than a second as he circled Dardain whose fiery blade sputtered, its inferno finally dying. Lunging toward Dardain's flank as the man turned...
—Lacerta's concentration shattered.
Dardain: ["El Dona!"]
Lacerta didn't know what it meant. From their encounters, he knew 'Dona' hinted at some sort of earth manipulation, much like how Dardain also commanded fire with 'Goa.' But something felt… different this time.
Lacerta: ["——!!"]
He bent his knees, halting his rapid approach with wide eyes. Before him, an onslaught of stone spikes erupted from the ground, a jagged maw aimed directly at him. He weaved, he evaded—almost all were dodged.
Almost all.
Thin lacerations bloomed across his body from grazing spikes. Then, one rooted itself dead through his side, its tip protruding from his other flank.
Dardain erupted into a manic laugh at the sight and taste of victory once more.
Dardain: ["Hahah... BAHAHAHA—DO YOU SEE NOW, BRAT!? THE ERROR OF YOUR WAYS!!?"]
Lacerta offered no response.
Instead, gritting his teeth, he tore the stone spike from his stomach and hurled it aside.
Lacerta: ["Argh——!!"]
The pain was immense, a blinding agony that threatened to steal his consciousness completely. But the burning desire to see Vola Dardain dead, to avenge Glenn kept him anchored upright. He would not fall, no matter what.
Dardain stared, dumbfounded.
Dardain: ["...What the...? Are you simply... stupid?"]
That wound should have been bordering onto fatal, especially for a child. Pulling the stone out, that should have sealed the brat's fate with a torrent of blood. How could he possibly still be standing?
Lacerta: ["I said... you'll regret it... and I still mean that..."]
Dardain's eyes flared in shock.
Dardain: ["What—?!"]
Before his eyes, the plethora of bloody wounds on Lacerta's body began to seal, flesh knitting itself together with unnatural speed. Even the torn fabric of his clothes mended themselves.
Dardain: ["What.... are you...?"]
I may be talking big... but healing all of that was quite exhausting.
Up until this point, Lacerta had never known exhaustion. His stamina had always been inexhaustible. But this peculiar 'regenerative' ability of his, it seemed, was enough to drain even him with its excessive use.
Lacerta: ["Haah..."]
Regardless, he raised his blade.
——————————————————————————
Dardain could only watch, stunned. This child—whom he'd always dismissed as merely "the strong," never someone on his level—had dared to defy him. A wave of pure disgust and incandescent anger washed over him.
He alone was meant to be all-powerful, the almighty, utterly incomparable. Dardain craved dominion over those who could split mountains, forcing them to fold and grovel beneath his heel. That very ability—to mend, to revert even the very clothes on his body—was what he desired.
That was his aspiration. That was how he would truly achieve enlightenment, immortality.
Then, his followers would no longer look at him with apprehension. They would see him for what he was destined to be—what he had to be—a God.
Luckily, he possessed the means...
...The 'Divine Protection of Devouring'.
He would do precisely what he did to that brat's feisty friend: kill him, absorb his essence, and make it his own. With it, the boy's strengths and powers would also become his.
For that is him. That is the gift the world bestowed upon him.
——————————————————————————
Lacerta saw his mistakes. Correcting them would be simple. When the same situation arose, he would simply act differently. A trivial matter.
And so, the battle ignited anew.
He gripped his blade, sweeping it low. The steel edge kissed the platform, and the swirling smoke billowed into a sudden, blinding wall around Dardain.
Dardain: ["——What!?"]
STEP—STEP—STEP—!
Lacerta carved through the smoke, his eyes piercing the haze with ease. A flicker of movement was all he needed to confirm it: his senses dwarfed his opponents'. Dardain, blind and flailing, could only react in a panic.
An impossible task, given the circumstances.
Dardain: ["Argh—Hrk!!"]
Crimson lines suddenly bloomed across Dardain's body from a dozen impossible angles. He was a storm of panicked, futile swings, striking only at the air where the blows had already landed.
Pointless. Meaningless.
Another slash, this one surgical, sliced cleanly across Dardain's side and back. His legs buckled, strength vanishing as he collapsed to his knees with a cry of agony.
Dardain: ["You——!!"]
The shockwave that followed suddenly lanced through Lacerta's frame, forcing a twitch of surprise. Dardain's scimitar had pierced the ground with such tremendous force that the hall's surface cracked and splintered around it. In an instant, the impact blew the smoke away.
Lacerta's gaze locked onto Dardain's—an animalistic, bloodshot glare. A pretender, a coward granted power he never earned.
If this was the will of the world, to grant such strength to the undeserving... then what did it truly mean to be strong?
Dardain: ["—EL GOA!!"]
With a furious swipe of his hand, a bombardment of fire streaked from the ceiling like military bombardment.
Lacerta raised his sword toward the ceiling through gritted teeth to defend as best as possible.
BOOM—BOOOM—!!
The explosions erupted with intensity, filling half the massive building's interior with smoke and fire. Dardain wobbled to his feet, heaving with exhaustion.
Dardain: ["Huff... huff—!!"]
Lacerta strode from the smoke, his upper attire burned to cinders. A web of fresh burns covered his torso, already knitting themselves closed. He settled into an unfamiliar stance, his blade held high over his shoulder in a two-handed grip.
Dardain's eyes flared crimson again. The essences of dozens of souls flooding his body... unrivalled raw power then began to surge through him. He staggered, high on the influx, his head thrown back in a guttural groan. Though much of the arena remained clouded, he cared little for the source of this newfound strength.
All he knew was this...
Dardain: ["You see—this world, THIS WORLD HAS FAVORITES! IN TIMES OF DESPERATION, EVEN FATE ITSELF CRAWLS TO MY FEET!"]
He raised his scimitar to unleash an attack on the still Lacerta, but grunted as a new blade intercepted his own.
Dardain: ["——!!?"]
Rusk: ["—Sorry I'm late, kid!"]
Rusk, his familiar dark red hair matted with blood—likely that of his own and that of other poor souls—slammed his sword against Dardain's with all his might.
Rusk: ["Really thought you had me with those bastards you sent, huh?! You think I'm that easy?!"]
Dardain: ["These damn... gnats... GETTING IN MY WAY——!!"]
Rusk: ["——Hrk!!"]
Dardain's strength had magnified to absurd levels in comparison to when he'd been fighting Lacerta, and Rusk felt it in the rattling of his bones. He was being overwhelmed drastically, unaware that the source of his opponent's newfound power still lingered in the smoke—a reason Dardain would come to sorely regret.
Each slash rained down on Rusk, and all he could do was defend as best as possible.
Rusk: ["You've..... got an idea—right... Lacerta!?"]
Lacerta: ["———"]
An idea was forming, yes. A desperate, uncertain gambit. Its success hinged on one thing: whether or not he could finally understand what he hasn't been able to during this fight.
Rusk: ["I'll hold 'em off! Just don't fail or we both die!!"]
Rusk shoved back with all his might, landing squarely as he raised his blade once more and engaged the madman.
Lacerta let out a singular breath, and in that instant, a whirlwind of memory surged through him.
Do you know magic...?
The Flow Method...?
Goa. Dona.
They were all the same in essence, born from the same source.
—Magic.
He theorizes it to be the cause of his freakish prowess, an instinct he'd relied on since fleeing for his life in the Buddheim Jungle. But for it to remain instinct was to remain stagnant. To comprehend this power, to master it—that was the path to true strength.
Knowledge was power.
And if he was being proclaimed as the strong... if this world had granted him this 'monstrous talent'... then...
Give me a sword, and I can cut anything.
Was that a lie, or was it truth? It all came down to his mindset.
He had never used his full strength against an opponent, save for the Elgina—either because he had no need to, or because he simply couldn't.
The Absolute Certainty of Being Invincible.
It was not a lie.
All Lacerta needed was to understand this unseen essence and claim it.
For this child of black and purple, to bisect the world was not an impossibility.
Exhaustion began to consume him with each ounce of strength he poured into the swing, the power flooding from his center without control or permission. The katana raised over his shoulder began to crack under the pressure, spiderweb fractures spreading along its entire length until the blade was consumed by an intense white hue that erupted through the great hall like a beacon.
Rusk: ["———!"]
Dardain: ["———Wha...."]
All movement, all combat, had ceased before the infallible power Lacerta now wielded. Even Dardain, in all his illusion of strength, could only stand in awe.
Dardain: ["—Ah... a fool..."]
Cut...
Rusk launched himself backwards in an instant, rolling onto his side—the world paused. Light folded inward. For a heartbeat, even time feared to move.
And it shall...
Dardain: ["That is I..."]
—Be cut.
The tidal wave of power spoke true. And its declaration...
—Was execution.
The entire hall was severed through its center, though the destruction was so absolute the world had not yet registered it. The white hue drained all light and sound from the vicinity. Then, after several seconds of impossible silence... everything moved once more.
The only sound was Lacerta's ragged breath. All rubble had been eviscerated to the atomic level.
Lacerta: ["I.... understand... now."]
He said, walking toward what was left of Dardain—the man's upper half, still alive. Somehow.
Lacerta: ["Forget the strong, forget the weak. Why should any of that matter to me? You might be a hundred times stronger than Glenn was, but he was a thousand times the man you'll ever be. And considering his job... that says quite a lot."]
Dardain choked on his own blood, weakly reaching a hand toward Lacerta, fingers trembling. Through hacks and gurgles, he rasped—
Dardain: ["No, no, no... why... is this—why are you..."]
Lacerta: ["Don't you feel it?"]
Dardain: ["—WHY ARE YOU LOOKING AT ME LIKE THAT!?"]
Lacerta: ["The disgust. When you look in the mirror."]
Dardain: ["LIKE I'M SOMEONE TO BE PITIED!? I AM VOLA DARDAIN! FOLLOWED BY HUNDREDS, BLESSED BY THE WORLD—"]
Lacerta: ["The followers you.... already eviscerated with your magic?"]
Dardain: ["—Wh...at..?"]
Dardain's words were a mixture of confusion and disbelief as Lacerta aligned his blade with the neck of the half-man. The very same one who was now crying like an infant, tears mixing with the blood pooling beneath him.
Lacerta: ["What was that you said before...? Ah, that's right..."]
Truly... a pitiful existence.
Dardain: ["W-What are you saying... n-no... don't—"]
Until the very end.
Lacerta: ["I'm saying... take it to your grave."]
Lacerta stared at the decapitated head after slashing cleanly through the neck with his fractured blade, putting an end to the man that was known as Vola Dardain.
Then, he waited. Waited for the rush of triumph.
Though it never came.
There was no taste of victory, no reward for his revenge—only a hollow ache as exhaustion pulled him down and the world went black.