General Titus leaned back on his hands, his posture utterly relaxed, his eyes fixed on Sir Palamedes with something that might have been curiosity.
"When are you going to use it?" he asked, his voice almost lazy. "That fierce weapon of yours."
Palamedes did not flinch. Did not react. His face remained a mask of calm, the unlit cigarette still resting between his lips.
"I will lose against you." His voice was steady, matter-of-fact. "That is the truth I have to accept. In terms of strength, I'm not in high regard."
Titus's eyebrow rose slightly.
"I know," Palamedes continued, "because I was on par with my fellow knight that you just killed."
His eyes flickered briefly toward Gaheris's body, then back to Titus.
"You didn't even try your best. No you didn't even think of trying your best." His jaw tightened. "I would agree I was overrun by anger at his death. And even now, I am."
He paused, gathering himself.
"But if I am to make any difference if I am to kill you as a form of revenge, satisfaction, or relief I can't let anger cloud my head."
His voice hardened.
"Rather, the feeling of killing... that isn't what this battle is."
Titus tilted his head, listening.
"Killing intent." Palamedes's voice took on a lecturing tone. "A form of energy. A feeling felt around a person who has great hatred or anger toward a thing that demands its life."
He folded his hands in his lap.
"It's normally felt on the battlefield. Created by the will to live. And to live, one must kill. Some don't even know they have it. Some can feel it. While others like you and me"
He met Titus's eyes.
"We have mastered it. I am a complete master of killing intent."
Titus relaxed his head on his knuckles, a lazy smile spreading across his face.
"How awfully cute of you, barbarian." His voice was warm, almost affectionate. "You declare yourself all powerful in my presence?"
He chuckled softly.
"Well then. Let me give you a bit of a taste of this power you declare yourself master over." His eyes gleamed. "No rather, let me give you a taste. If you escape this, I'll finally think about trying."
Palamedes blinked. His throat worked, swallowing saliva that had suddenly become thick.
Inside his mind, a voice spoke desperate, defiant, certain.
This battle there's no way I can lose. I've trained this to the fullest. I will not lose. Not even in my life when I was alive did I ever lose a battle.
His jaw tightened.
It won't be now that I will lose. I refuse to accept it. I can win.
If he had not said those words to himself if he had not let that desperate certainty take root perhaps his defeat would not have been so absolute.
But he did.
And it was.
The world shifted.
It was like being submerged in water. Dark. Heavy. Suffocating. Palamedes felt chains wrap around his wrists, his ankles, his throat. They dragged him down, down into the depths of a lake that had no bottom.
He couldn't breathe. Couldn't move. Couldn't think.
His arms were gone. His legs were gone. His self was slipping away, piece by piece, into the darkness.
The feeling was that of having no arms. No legs. No body.
Just consciousness. Just fear. Just the slow, terrible certainty of death.
Palamedes's consciousness began to fade.
What's this? The thought was distant, muffled, as if coming from somewhere outside himself. Was he this high of a level? But it will not
Something snapped inside him.
"AAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!"
The shout tore from his throat, raw and primal, and the illusion shattered.
He was back. On the battlefield. Sitting opposite Titus. Alive.
His chest heaved. Sweat poured from his face like rain great, rolling bullets of it that dripped from his chin and stained his armor. His hands trembled. His heart raced.
He was looking down at the ground.
He couldn't lift his eyes.
Because he knew with absolute, terrible certainty that the distance between him and his death had been less than a microsecond.
Above them, Darlington watched with narrowed eyes.
What he saw was simple: two men sitting across from each other, staring. Nothing more. Nothing less.
But Palamedes's body told a different story. His entire form throbbed with pain, twisting, writhing as if something was tearing him apart from the inside.
"Almost similar to how the previous fellow died," Darlington murmured. "But this one... was able to break out of it."
He studied the scene, his mind working.
"I wonder about this killing intent. It's very similar to the malice that Lancelot released previously." He paused. "I wouldn't call it similar, though, because..."
His voice dropped.
"It was greater than this. And had an impossible, uncalculated outcome."
He looked at Palamedes's trembling form.
"The calculated outcome of this is death."
Below, Palamedes forced his eyes up.
His voice was rough, but steady.
"I have to give that to you." He swallowed. "You're strong. But still I can win. If I was not stronger, I would have died in it."
Titus's smile didn't waver.
"Really? Is that how you're going to interpret it?" He leaned forward slightly. "If that's the case, then show me."
Palamedes released his killing intent.
It exploded from him like a wave, filling the space between them, crushing everything in its path. Titus could feel it a great, large hand that held him down, squeezing, compressing. A blade massive, invisible, absolute pressed against his neck.
Titus's smile widened.
"That's impressive." His voice was genuine. "What would you call this?"
Palamedes's eyes burned.
"The Reaper of Death."
Titus nodded slowly.
"But it's not enough."
Palamedes's jaw tightened.
"Yes. I know." His voice dropped to a whisper. "So here, in death, I'll use what I used in the living."
His hands curled into fists.
"A killing intent so much it brought men to death."
Titus's eyes narrowed. Something flickered in them curiosity, perhaps. Or amusement.
Is he an idiot? The thought crossed the general's mind. That's what I just used on the guy who died.
He settled back, watching.
Well, anyway. This should be interesting.
He yawned.
Palamedes prepared to unleash everything he had.
And Titus waited.