"I will send you to hell."
The words didn't just leave Izochi's lips; they seemed to carve themselves into the very atmosphere. He didn't just run; he became a blur of lethal intent. Wielding his sword in his left hand, he sliced through the air, closing the distance between him and Mr. Fate in a heartbeat.
As he reached the man, Izochi unleashed a horizontal slash, a silver arc that screamed from right to left. Fate reacted with a desperate instinct, raising the serrated combat knife in his left hand to intercept the blow.
Metal shrieked against metal, but the contest was over before it began. Izochi's strike possessed a terrifying, overwhelming force that far surpassed Fate's defense. The sword didn't just hit the knife; it sheared through the steel as if it were soft wax. The lower half of the broken blade spun through the air before clattering uselessly onto the parched earth.
Izochi didn't slow down. He surged past Fate, his momentum carrying him into the empty space behind his opponent. Then, in a move that defied the eyes of both Marco and Fate, he pivoted in mid-air. It was as if he found a solid, invisible anchor in the sky, a platform made of nothing but willpower. He kicked off the atmosphere, launching himself back into the fray with even greater velocity.
This second rush was targeted with surgical precision. Before Fate could even adjust his stance, Izochi's blade bit into the Windtalker strapped to Fate's left arm. The moment the steel severed the weapon's frame, the volatile internal mechanisms reacted violently with the oxygen in the air.
Fate's eyes widened in realization; he ripped the malfunctioning handgun from his arm and hurled it away just as the first detonation rocked the battlefield.
BOOM!
Then another.
BOOM!
The Windtalker, loaded with its final two shells, exploded in a dual crescendo of fire and kinetic energy. The impact of the blasts, occurring so close to their heads, sent both Mr. Fate and Marco hurtling backward for meters. They skidded across the ground, struggling to find their footing through the rising smoke.
Izochi, however, had already vanished from the impact zone, standing silently like a specter at the edge of the clearing. He remained motionless, his gaze fixed on the darkening sky, perhaps calculating the exact trajectory of his next strike. His left hand tightened around his sword, the leather hilt groaning under the pressure.
As the smoke cleared, Marco and Fate found themselves separated, each gasping for air as they stood on trembling legs. Fate's focus shifted—he ignored Marco for a split second, his eyes locking onto Izochi, who was now positioned directly behind Nierman's line of sight. Marco sensed the shift in Fate's gaze and reacted instantly. With a sudden burst of speed, he dashed to his left, clearing a direct, unobstructed path for Izochi to strike.
The moment the path opened, Izochi was there. He rushed from the shadows behind Marco, his sword leveled at Fate's chest. His right arm was a grotesque sight, it hung limp and broken, swinging loosely like a tethered weight as he moved. It didn't move with him; it followed after him, caught in the slipstream of his immense speed.
Unlike Marco's spear, which crackled with elemental fury and blinding light, Izochi's attack was chillingly simple. There were no flashy visual effects, no aura of power, only the terrifying reality of raw speed and unyielding force. Fate's legendary 'Luck' seemed to finally run dry. He couldn't move fast enough. Izochi's blade didn't just find its mark once; it landed twice in a sequence so fast it sounded like a single strike.
In the middle of the rush, Izochi released his grip on the sword, allowing it to spin a full 360 degrees in the air. In a display of masterful coordination, his left hand caught the hilt in a reversed grip just as he crossed Fate's side. The dual slash ripped through the flesh of Fate's left shoulder, carving deep into the muscle and continuing across his back.
Izochi came to a halt on the other side, leaving Mr. Fate standing in a stunned, hollow silence. For a long moment, the only sound was the drip of blood onto the soil. The wounds were catastrophic; Fate's left shoulder was practically cleaved in two, the dark red liquid soaking through his clothing. Behind the mask, his expression was a mystery, but his voice betrayed a deep, existential wonder.
"What is happening with me?"
Fate whispered, his voice trembling.
"What... am I doing?"
He reached up with his right hand, his fingers brushing against the ragged edges of his shoulder wound. When he pulled his hand away, it was drenched in a deep, viscous crimson.
High above, Izochi had already repositioned himself. He hung in mid-air in a bizarre, inverted pose, his legs pointing toward the stars and his head dangling toward the earth. His broken arm hung even lower than his head, swaying in the wind like a macabre pendulum.
He looked like a sleeping bat suspended in a void. He began a rhythmic breathing ritual, drawing in long, deep inhales and releasing them in slow, measured bursts.
Once the ritual was complete, Izochi surrendered his body to the pull of gravity, flipping himself upright in a single, fluid motion. At that exact moment, Marco surged from the ground below. Both warriors charged at Mr. Fate from different angles, a coordinated pincer movement designed to end the nightmare. But just as they were about to connect, something went wrong.
Izochi's sword, the blade he had held with a grip like iron, slipped.
His eyes widened in shock. The impossible had happened. The sword tumbled from his fingers, leaving him defenseless mid-flight. But where Izochi's strike failed, Marco's did not. The lightning-wreathed spear changed its trajectory mid-air, driving deep into Mr. Fate's right leg with a sickening crunch. The force was enough to shatter Fate's balance. He couldn't maintain his position in the air and crashed face-first into the dirt.
Fate groaned, forcing himself up onto his hands. He sat there, his breath ragged, touching the ruin of his leg with his left hand and the gash on his shoulder with his right. He closed his eyes and took a single, deep breath.
"Condition... Heal."
In an instant, the world seemed to ripple. The deep, jagged gashes on his shoulder began to knit together with unnatural speed. The bone in his leg snapped back into place, and the skin closed over the wound as if it had never been there. The process was so fast it felt like a hallucination to Izochi and Marco. Fate looked up, a real, genuine smile spreading across his face, a smile that promised something far worse than death.
"Let's end the battle for me,"
Fate said, his voice calm and melodic.
"But first, I will give you a very gorgeous and amazing performance."
He reached out and pressed his left palm firmly against the blood-stained soil.
"Summon."