The mage shrieked moments before the dagger sunk into her neck, and once it did, the shriek was overtaken by a gurgling noise as she dropped to her knees, convulsing as sickly green veins crawled up her neck. The wand in her hand slipped from her hand she fell forward, twitching violently.
Deacon didn't have time to confirm as his eyes snapped toward the healer, whose staff was already beginning to glow.
"Not on my watch," Deacon muttered as he charged forward.
The tower shield and axe-wielding warrior moved to intercept him, dropping low to block his charge with a wall of iron. However, Deacon didn't stop.
He slammed into the shield with all his might, which, while Undying Flame, his innate skill was still active, became pretty effective even without a charge skill.
Fire burst outward from his body on impact, creating an explosive pulse of force and heat that caused the warrior to grunt as his shield skidded back a few inches through the dirt, and his boots dug trenches into the ground. But unlike the tower shield and axe-wielding warrior, Deacon was already in motion.
He's not as strong as he looks, he noted to himself. Which means I can do this…
His left hand, while still holding his left short sword, hooked over the side tower shield and exposing the warrior's bone-white masked face to him. Then his right short sword followed seconds later and sank its tip deep into the warrior's neck.
Before the second and last remaining warrior, the one wielding dual short swords, could flank him again, Deacon twisted his torso, ripping out his right short sword and kicking her in the stomach with enough force to send her sprawling to the ground and colliding with the corpse of the Bark Ape.
Another arrow sliced through the air toward his exposed side.
Deacon's left blade spun up mid-turn, catching the projectile in a shower of embers as it smashed into the fuller of his blade, just before he turned on his heel once more and charged toward the healer.
The healer's eyes widened. Her chant rose in pitch, frantic now as she tried to create another barrier.
However, she was too late.
Deacon shoulder tackled her like a bull seeing red.
His shoulder crashed into her ribs, sending her flying backward into a gnarled root wall. She hit with a crack of bone and bark. Her staff fell from her hands and landed beside her.
Deacon was on her before she could even draw breath, one flame- and poison-wreathed short sword plunging through her gut, the other slashing across her arms to stop her from picking up her staff or reaching for any potions or healing crystals she might have had hidden away.
The healer's gasp was silenced as the short sword that was buried in her gut was ripped out and plunged into her neck.
The Mycelial Grasp activated again, spores erupting from all four wounds as her body convulsed violently beneath him. Green mist hissed from her lips, her eyes rolling back.
"Sorry, but precautions must be made when dealing with healers. I've seen quite a few Top Ranker healers who've saved their teams in the Ranker Tournaments by burning their vital energy in order to fully heal themselves and their allies." Deacon muttered under his breath as he yanked his blades free and turned in a single fluid motion, just in time to see the dual short sword-user already back on her feet, sprinting toward him.
He met her charge with one of his own.
Their blades clashed with a scream of metal and sparks. She was fast, faster than the others had been, but Deacon was faster. The fire within him hadn't dimmed; Undying Flame still surged through his veins, feeding on every steady breath he took.
He weaved under her opening strike, parried the second, then countered with a reverse swing from his left that she barely dodged.
Their blades danced, two mirrored styles clashing, but Deacon's was cleaner, sharper, and far more refined than her own.
Her next strike came in low, aiming for his thigh. He caught it between the guards of both his blades, locked it, then twisted all four of their blades to the side and headbutted her.
Her bone-white mask cracked.
She reeled, dazed, blood trickling from her temple.
"Honestly, how did you graduate with such sloppy footwork?" Deacon muttered, stepping into her guard.
His left short sword stabbed through her left shoulder, pinning her arm out wide.
His right swept across her stomach in a diagonal arc, flame and poison trailing behind it like a reaper's scythe.
She dropped to her knees, gasping, blood bubbling on her lips. Letting out an exhale, Deacon's left short sword glided across her outstretched blade and body and through her neck, sending her head tumbling to the ground.
Deacon straightened, shoulders rising and falling with every breath, the embers along his limbs beginning to fade.
The archer loosened another arrow, this one glowing black.
How many elemental arrowheads does this guy have? Deacon complained as he saw the glowing tip of an arrowhead in his peripheral vision.
Deacon turned just in time, slicing it into two mid-air with a flaming arc of his right blade.
His gaze found the archer's high perch in the trees.
"Last one," he muttered, voice low. "Let's end this."
He darted forward, fast, zigzagging between twisted roots and scorched bark. The archer tried to reposition, stepping along the branch, drawing another arrow, but Deacon was already halfway up the trunk before he'd fully drawn the bowstring.
He vaulted off a protruding root and spun around the side of the tree with almost inhuman grace, kicking off another branch.
The archer barely had time to gasp as Deacon's foot struck the branch, using it as a springboard, as he lunged forward, his dual short swords crossed in an X.
The archer raised his bow to block, but it was cleaved into four pieces. Deacon's blades didn't stop there; they buried themselves in the man's chest and shoulder, fire eating into his flesh, poison dripping from every inch.
Deacon landed behind the corpse, his blades tearing free as the body fell from the tree and slammed into the dirt with a dull thud, his blood oozing out from his body along with the venom that was injected into it.
Smoke curled from Deacon's shoulders as he wiped blood from his face with the back of his hand.
Wave 8 has been completed!
Do you wish to begin Wave 9?
[Yes] [No]
Deacon turned to the side and stared at statues of the Three Sister Fates and saw that they were almost entirely wrapped in thorns and vines.
The next round should be the last one, Deacon remarked to himself as he popped open a Mana Vial and drank its blueberry-tasting contents while making his way towards the statues. "Yes."
[SYSTEM NOTICE]
Wave 9: Initiated.
Hostiles Detected: 1
Classification: Humanoids – Level 6s
Threat Level: High
Objective: Eliminate Threat
The air shimmered at the center of the clearing.
Deacon's eyes narrowed as a familiar figure stepped into view: Moriah. Or at least, something wearing her face. Her velvet corset was flawless, her boots pristine. Her expression carried a warm, serene grace that was tinged with a bit of danger.
"You've done enough, young hero," she said softly, hands folded in front of her as a massive Waystone shimmered into view beside her. "The Three Sister Fates have been almost entirely bound. I can take care of the rest of the process with my remaining strength."
Deacon didn't stop walking. He took a slow step forward, now standing directly in front of her, lips twitching into a half-smirk.
"You and your sister aren't really much for originality, huh?" he said, cracking his neck. "But the real Moriah wouldn't call it quits just before everything fell into place, I got that much from her journals. Also..." His eyes flicked down and then back up with mock casualness.
"And let's be honest here… You're a bit too modest in the chest department to be her. From the picture I saw, Moriah's was a bit more bountiful up there, if you catch my drift," he said, finishing it off with a wink.
The fake-Moriah blinked at his response, before a brief expression of cold fury overtook her eyes, before returning to their original coloring. However, before she could verbally respond to Deacon's words and question what he meant by them, his fist shot out towards her.
Deacon aimed for her throat, intending to take whatever the hell was in front of him that he was unable to Identify out with a punch, but before it could connect, her hand snapped up, catching his punch mid-swing with a grip like iron.
Silence filled the air between them for a few seconds before Deacon broke it.
"...Uhh," Deacon said, eyes shifting to the hand clamped around his fist, "I don't suppose saying sorry would help me out, eh?"
The Fake-Moriah's smile twisted into one that promised cruelty, but before she could enact such cruelty upon Deacon, the ground exploded behind her in a tangle of thorns and vines.
A blur slammed into her jaw.
The fake-Moriah's head snapped sideways with a crunch as the real Moriah stepped into the clearing, her hand glowing green and wrapped in ivy. Vines surged from the ground beneath them, latching onto the imposter's limbs like snakes and dragging her down into the soil.
"Get back down Lachesis, you wretched whore," Moriah spat as the last of the doppelgänger's face disappeared into the dirt.
Deacon blinked. "Nice right hook."
Moriah didn't respond; instead, she turned to Deacon with narrowed eyes, "finish the last wave," she said before vanishing in a swirl of falling leaves.
The clearing stilled once more as the heavy fog that had curled around its edges neared closer to the heart of the Cursed Forest of Moriah, now, the area untouched by the fog was a tenth of its original size.
As Deacon took notice of the change in his arena, a figure stepped forward out of the fog.
Clad in greenish, brown leather armor that was labeled with the insignia of the Academy, a cadet emerged from the mist. A bone-white mask covered his face entirely, just like every other person shown before. Slung across his back was a quiver of black-fletched arrows. In his hand, a curved longbow, polished dark wood laced with multicolored runes, and at his hip rested a sheathed short sword.
Deacon tilted his head, frowning. "Another one?"
The masked archer stopped twenty paces away and simply stared at him.
For a few moments, nothing happened.
Then, as though a pistol had been fired, the cadet archer swordsman broke into movement.
A single arrow slid from the quiver.
Deacon barely had time to sidestep as it zipped past his face, clipping the edge of his shoulder guard. He spun, blades flashing, but another arrow came, forcing him into a roll.
"This guy's smarter than the others," Deacon muttered, breath shallow as he rose into a low stance. "He's strafing now instead of staying still."
Another arrow. Deacon knocked it aside with a quick flick of his left blade, but the moment his foot hit the ground, the cadet was on him. He was fast.
The cadet made a fluid transition from long-range to melee as with one hand he hooked his longbow onto his back, and with the other hand he reached for his short sword.
The archer had already drawn the short sword mid-dash and came in with a side cut Deacon recognized too well, causing his brows to furrow. He's not going to stab and pull, no, he's going to glide his blade across my high guard and stab at my kidney, he thought as he began to parry the attack, going off of complete instinct.
Sparks flew through the air as Deacon's short swords parried the feint-attack the cadet sent him.
"Hold on…" Deacon whispered as their blades clashed once more.
The cadet followed up with a spinning feint, switching to a reverse grip and driving his boot at Deacon's knee. Deacon leapt back, heart hammering. His eyes scanned the fighter's form again.
"…No way."
The cadet pressed in with another series of elegant strikes, agile, sharp, relentless. Deacon gritted his teeth as he caught a blade with both of his hands and shoved the cadet back.
"I know this," he breathed, his gaze flicking to the stance the cadet had.
The slightly too-low drop of the left heel, the flick before the thrust, the way the cadet's right shoulder never quite relaxed as it held most of his balance.
"…Liam?" Deacon said.