The air between Izochi and Mr. Fate was thick with the metallic tang of blood and the ozone of exhausted energy. Neither had gained an inch. Every strike from Izochi was met with a desperate, bone-jarring parry from Fate, and every blast from the **Windtalker** was evaded by a hair's breadth. They were locked in a macabre dance of equal ruin, their bodies decorated with fresh lacerations and blooming bruises.
"Truly marvelous! You are... beyond marvelous!"
Mr. Fate's voice cracked as he descended into a fit of wild, uncontrollable laughter. The porcelain-like mask covering his face began to spiderweb; thin, jagged lines raced across the surface, shedding tiny white flakes that danced in the wind like morbid snow. Behind those cracks, a glimpse of a maddened eye flickered, wide and bloodshot.
Izochi stood still, but his silhouette was wrong. His right arm hung limp at his side, swaying like a dead branch in a storm. The bone was clearly shattered, the limb uselessly tethered to his shoulder by nothing but shredded muscle and skin.
He looked at Fate, but his eyes were vacant, as if the nerves connecting his brain to that mangled arm had simply cut the signal. He held his sword in his left hand, his grip steady despite the carnage of his own body. He fought as if he were a ghost inhabiting a shell that no longer felt the laws of biology.
"Amazing... Amazing... Amazing!"
Fate's scream grew higher, more shrill. He repeated the word like a broken record, the syllable losing meaning with every breath.
"Amazing! Amazing! Amazing! Such a beautiful, twisted masterpiece!"
He had spiraled. The cool, calculating mercenary was gone, replaced by a man whose emotional gears had stripped and melted.
Izochi blinked. The manic screeching seemed to pierce the fog in his mind. The mask over his face didn't fade, but the lethal focus in his eyes wavered. For the first time in the duel, he looked down at himself. He looked at the right side of his body, seeing the way his arm dangled at an impossible, sickening angle.
The sword clattered to the ground as his left hand lost its strength. Reality crashed into him like a tidal wave. He grabbed the broken limb with his left hand, and the moment his fingers touched the bruised skin, the floodgates of agony burst open. The pain wasn't just a sting; it was an inferno that charred his soul.
His knees buckled. He doubled over, clutching the ruin of his arm against his chest as if he could hold the pieces of his life together.
"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH!"
The sound that ripped from his throat was not a human cry. It wasn't deep, nor was it shrill or husky. It was a raw, primal vibration—a sound born of pure, unadulterated terror and the shock of a body realizing it had been broken.
It was a hollow, haunting echo that swept across the desolate battlefield, chilling the very air. Only two souls were left to hear it: Marco Nierman, struggling on the ground, and the man known as Mr. Fate.
"What should I do?"
Izochi's mind raced in a frantic, panicked loop.
"What can I do? Do I sever it? Do I cut it away? The pain... it is eating me alive! But if I cut it, it won't grow back. I'll be half a man. How do I stop it?"
Fat, heavy teardrops began to roll from beneath his mask, tracing paths through the dust on his cheeks. He couldn't hold it back; these weren't tears of grief, but the involuntary response of a nervous system pushed beyond its breaking point.
Mr. Fate stood frozen, his laughter dying into a rhythmic wheeze. He stared at the trembling boy, unable to process that the warrior who had been overpowering him was now a sobbing wreck. In his obsession, he forgot the third player on the field. He turned his head slowly, looking back at the spot where the 'Entertainer' had fallen.
The ground was empty.
"What! He's already moved?"
Suddenly, the sky split. A jagged bolt of violet-white lightning tore through the air, missing Fate's head by less than an inch. The heat of the strike singed his hair.
"What a beautiful, resilient man you are!"
Fate's laughter returned, though it was breathier now.
Marco stood there, his spear transformed. The weapon no longer glowed with a soft, ambient light; it was now a conduit for raw, crackling electricity, the color of a storm's heart.
He swung the spear with a roar, the metal whistling through the air. Fate snapped the Windtalker up, using the reinforced barrel to block the strike. Sparks erupted as the spear's tip scraped against the handgun's frame, leaving a deep, glowing score in the metal.
"You have more spark than I gave you credit for,"
Fate grinned, his eyes gleaming with renewed delight.
"But against me, it's just a pretty firework."
Behind them, the screaming stopped.
The silence was sudden and deafening. Izochi's crying vanished as if a switch had been flipped. His face, hidden but felt, smoothed into a mask of absolute, terrifying neutrality.
"Huh... why am I doing this?"
His voice was a flat, dead whisper.
The emotion drained out of him, leaving behind something cold and mechanical. He didn't just stand up; he rose with a steady, robotic precision. He walked toward his fallen blade and knelt, picking it up with his left hand. Then, he turned and walked toward a crumbling stone wall nearby.
Without a word, he swung his broken right arm, slamming the shattered bone against the stone.
_Crack._
He did it again.
_Crunch._
He smashed the limb against the wall repeatedly, using the physical shock to deaden what remained of his nerves.
"Let's go, **Antishadow**."
He called upon the Engima within him. His left hand moved with blinding speed, unravelling the blood-soaked bandages from his arm. As he began to re-wrap them, tight enough to cut off circulation, he began to chant a rhythmic, hypnotic litany:
"Within it, I want to make a temporary condition. Within it, I want to make a temporary condition. Within it, I want to make a temporary condition..."
He repeated the phrase seven times, his voice growing steadier with each breath until the air around him grew heavy with a forbidden pact.
"I hereby sacrifice my Enigma powers for this night,"
He declared, his voice echoing with the weight of the contract.
"In exchange, I demand the total erasure of my physical pain for one hour."
The atmosphere shifted. Marco and Fate were still locked in their aerial duel, a blur of lightning and gunpowder. Izochi stood perfectly still for a heartbeat, his right arm bound tightly like a mummified relic.
Then, he exploded forward. He wasn't running; he was a streak of vengeful intent, cutting through the air like a reaper's scythe.
"I will send you to hell."