Universe's End

Chapter 275: Warm Up

Tom had gone through quite the myriad array of experiences since that first day he’d appeared on Aelia, from a gangly teenage boy who’d spent most of his days playing video games, to the patriarch of an entire faction of followers. There had been tough battles he’d only won from the skin of his teeth, and even losses such as to his Bane or the Spear.

Finding himself facing off against the Architect was… different. The way he talked and the way he fought wasn’t like any of the other Founders he’d come to know. Garfunk had been all about a sustained defense with timed grapples and bursts of strength aided by the ability to take on the traits of things he’d consumed. Eric, the annoying ‘friend’ that he was, fought just as annoyingly, appearing and disappearing at will. Allison… Well, if anything, the Architect reminded Tom most of Allison in how damn unconventionalthey were. No matter what you threw at the woman, she always seemed to bounce back –often quite literally— as her body seemed to ignore regular physics; even his slowing aura had barely fazed her.

While Allison was unconventional in that she sometimes felt like cartoon physics come to life, the Architect just seemed to do whatever. Magic? Sure, he had it. Hand-to-hand? He’d definitely seen worse. Hell, even his ability to swap between weapons at will.

And now he had even stripped away the slowing effect of his aura.

But he hadn’t climbed this high just from relying on one trick.

“Come!” The First Monk shouted, beckoning with his hand as the Architect inclined his head before vanishing, reappearing a moment later with a falling axe kick toward his head.

Redirecting the kinetic energy of the kick with an outward sweep of his arm, the First Monk instantly swapped the movement into a hold, grabbing the Architect’s leg, only for the man to slip away with a flicker, reappearing at his side and slashing outward with the snowflake-looking chakram.

Tom drove his right knee up as he brought his right elbow down, catching the man’s wrist between them as the Architect dropped the chakram. Punching out, a burst of frozen stillness struck the Architect, launching him away.

Before he had the chance to follow up further, the chakram, which the Architect had dropped, suddenly shot forward to his surprise, like a drone from back on Earth, as the split second the Monk needed to defend himself was enough for the Architect to recover, now holding a bow as he pulled an arrow back.

“Form Three: Blizzard Stillness.”

While the passive freezing effect of his aura had been disabled, it wasn’t the same as saying Tom had lost all of his ability to replicate it. Channeling his pneuma through Form Three’s spiritway pattern, his aura adopted the magic as an innate effect. Unlike the passive version, this would constantly drain him and require more active input, but it would work against-

An arrow suddenly shot through the air, only to freeze inches from him.

-would work against stuff like that.

The other benefit was that, as the Architect attempted to teleport closer, he was thrown for a loop when he suddenly reappeared further away than expected, unable to appear within the range of Blizzard Stillness.

Striking out with a kick, a flurry of snow shot toward the Architect, blinding him as Tom raced in, throwing an elaborate combo of palm thrusts and jabs, only for the Architect to sweep a hand down and a wall of crystal to block his path, the blinding snow apparently not all that blinding.

Several pillars of the same red crystal suddenly shot up around Tom like the beginnings of a cage, as energy began to flicker between them.

Not something I want to let him set up.

Skating forward on literal frozen skates that had formed around his boots –jika-tabi, a name he only knew from his shut-in days as a pimple-faced kid— Tom threw a pneuma-reinforced punch toward one of the crystal pillars, his pneuma already flowing through a different spirtway path as he did, a simple ‘Prana Punch’ as he’d named it shortly after arriving on Aelia.

As his fist struck the pillar, the crystal shattered, exploding like a piñata struck by a wrecking ball. Which felt good for like two and a half seconds before the rest of the crystals exploded as well, a net of blood-red energy woven from the crystal shards entangling Tom.

Deception.

He’d hastily attacked without considering that it had been a trap from the beginning, the red bindings clinging to him and burning into his skin.

Literally burning into his skin as the net vanished seconds later, the Monk was left rather confused and uneasy, doubtful that it was a failed casting.

“Sidereal Cage,” The Architect announced. “A prelude to part two.”

The Architect moved his hand through the air as a constellation of red stars appeared. Tapping it once, the red constellation vanished, only to appear in front of Tom. Not being so foolish as to let an enemy freely mark him with whatever the magic or skill was, Tom surged his aura and pneuma, attempting to disrupt the magic before it could place itself upon him.

Except, rather than disrupting the magic, the brand phased through before burning itself into his chest.

“So, fun thing, Sidereal Brand has a problem that it can be disrupted,” The Architect said, grinning rather smugly.

“And?” Tom asked, attempting to crush the burning feeling within his core through circulating even more cold pneuma.

“I realized a way to counter that. Give it the Master Access Key.”

Tom’s mind raced for a moment before he put it together.

“That pillar I broke. You needed me to inject my own aura willingly.”

“Bingo,” The Architect answered.

“Why?” The Monk asked, the damned burning refused to go away.

“Sidereal Brand burns the candle from both ends. We both are burning up from the inside.” The Architect said with a wolfish grin.

“Why?” The Monk repeated.

“Because you said it yourself. Time probably isn’t on our side,” The Architect answered. “I beat you, then it’s two-versus-one for either person I get to.”

“Form Eight: The Silent Storm Inside.” The Monk said, realizing that the Architect was serious about skipping the formalities, no more pacing themselves.

Of all his forms, Form Eight was the strongest and the one with the biggest drawback. His normally cold pneuma inverted, searing through the rarely used spiritway pattern. Burning through, the seared spiritways seemed to inhale, pulling in pneuma from his surroundings in a constant vortex, the temperature plummeting. His cells began to freeze, ready to burst if not for the forcibly overlaid concept of stillness.

“Interesting,” The Architect said, his eyes glowing with symbols that flickered away a moment later. “After I win, maybe I’ll ask you about it.”

“If you win,” The Monk corrected. For as serious a crime as the Architect had committed, Tom couldn’t shake the feeling that the man was far from some evil lord or tyrant. He’d recognized the Sensen woman for what she was, a Sensen, but given he’d been little more than a teenager at the end of the universe, he hadn’t exactly formed the strongest of feelings toward them other than they were ‘bad.’

Of course, he had also been taught from a young age that things weren’t always black and white, and not to hold someone guilty for the sins of their ancestors.

All of that was to say, while Tom probably should have been filled with feelings of righteousness and vengeance and all that, for someone who’d practiced regulating his emotions the better part of the last century, all he reallyfelt was a growing excitement and curiosity at the prospect of facing a fellow Founder, and an interesting one at that.

With nothing else to be said, the First Monk threw himself at the Architect, Form Eight instantly showing the difference in power as he quickly overwhelmed the Architect. Several times faster and stronger than before, the Architect was able to do little more than conjure defensive structures and guard himself as best he could, and even then, the Monk’s empowered strikes shattered the crystal shields like glass. What attempts the Architect did make at fighting back seemed futile, a staff appearing and slicing through the ground, shearing off dirt that hardened into earthen spears and fired toward the Monk.

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Rushing the Architect again, the Monk unleashed a triple kick, with so much speed that it appeared as if two other Monks were joining him, the frozen stillness of his aura trapping the images like a picture framed upon a wall for a split second.

The Architect managed to raise his arms, a triple-layered defense appearing as stone, crystal, and a forged shield that blocked the triple kick. The stone and crystal shattered, and even the shield was warped by the force of the kick, blowing the Architect back. Rather than waste the precious space, the Architect slammed his palms down, the direct skin-to-ground contact allowing an explosive transfer of pneuma as extra-hardened stalagmite spears shot upward toward the Monk. Retaliating, the Monk struck with double one-inch punches, shattering the spears before advancing on the Architect once more, who was again slashing the end of his staff through the air and launching another ball of packed dirt and stone that reformed into arrows midflight.

Why?

The attack seemed pointless to the Monk who slapped them aside.

Why?

The question was beginning to niggle its way into his mind. Before he could question it further, the Architect suddenly changed course, no longer on the defensive as he charged the Monk, hundreds of magic circles appearing behind him as a shower of daggers and other weapons rained down upon him.

“Pointless!” The Monk shouted. While in Form Eight, he couldn’t project his aura outward and destabilize the projections by the sheer potency of his cold, but the raw increase in his physical capabilities more than made up for that as he perfectly blocked, redirected, or otherwise dodged every single one. Even the Architect’s attempt to join the battle head-on did little, whipping a chain around the Monk, avoiding it with ease.

Why?

Lunging forward, the Monk caught the Architect by the front of his red-scaled mail hauberk before driving his fist straight into his face, once, twice, three times. The force of each punch would have killed a tier seven in one hit, and the Architect, while not dead obviously, didn’t look as if he enjoyed them, the helmet shattering, his face a bloody mess.

And yet, rather than surrender, the man grinned, spitting a glob of blood into the Monk’s face who had gotten close and personal.

Annoyed, the Monk was about to say something about the rather uncouth behavior when suddenly he felt as if he’d been bombarded by an explosion of sights, sounds, and information flooding his mind, none of it making any sense.

Blinking his eyes in surprise, when his senses returned to normal a moment later, the Architect had managed to escape his grasp, holding a bow as several arrows fired toward him. Smacking the projectiles out of the air like the inconveniences they were, the Monk was surprised when ghostly vines began to circle his arms. It was yet another pointless gesture; the contact with his nearly frozen skin was killing the vines off even without Tom having to do anything else. That was until several extra arrows joined in, tipped with marble-like arrowheads, exploding before Tom could do it himself. Suddenly, within a cloud of bloody red mist, the vines intensified, taking on a life of their own as they began to properly scratch his skin, small red scratches all over his arms, the bloody scratches beginning to feed the red vines that seemed to want to invade his body.

Not fond of the idea of flesh-eating vines growing inside him, Tom was forced to tear the vines away, all the while Sidereal Brand continued to burn away at his vital energy, Form Eight further accelerating the process.

I should still have the advantage, even with the double-dipping drain on my vital reserves; I’ve inflicted some serious hits on him.

The Architect had staggered over; each punch that the Monk had delivered had the fun aspect of lingering. The concept of stillness kept the damage from being one-and-done, almost like a toxin that existed purely in kinetic terms.

“You’ve put up an interesting fight,” The Monk said, swatting away the snowflake chakram that had come in for another slashing run through the air. “But no one takes hits from Form Eight and walks them off so easily. I can even tell, you’re not particularly invested in durability, your armor is doing the heavy lifting there.”

In the end, for as interesting as the Architect seemed, Tom couldn’t ignore that the man had been put into a rough situation, someone called the ‘Architect’ wasn’t really meant to be a direct brawler, and then shit had gone sideways, the man had likely always intended to rely on the defensive station as the lord of this city to his advantage but having struck first, he’d thrown that out the window.

Not to mention, with Form Eight, he had even very nearly beaten Allison. If not for her heartbeat that seemed unable to let her quit, she wouldn’t have managed to hold out long enough to outlast Form Eight.

It was his win. The Architect’s fate was sealed, or so it would be, but Tom had already decided he would vouch for the man, a sense that perhaps-

Laughter.

Tom froze mid-thought, a sound he hadn’t expected coming from the bent-over Architect.

Laughter.

“Information Warfare, baby,” The Architect said, slowly straightening out. “You’ve never had to watch your feet much when fighting, have you?”

The Monk opened his mouth to say something before realizing the response was pointless, instead inspecting the ground. All around, what had been ‘useless’ slashes through the ground, turning the dirt and stone into spears and arrows to launch at him, had been nothing more than cover for what he was actually doing. They were standing at the center of a large circle, with elaborate markings throughout.

The Architect, even beaten and bloody, stood tall, holding his staff.

“Sidereal Liberation!”

Having prepared to dodge or defend, the Monk never got the chance, as it wasn’t the magical circle that was the source of the magic, but he himself.

Sidereal Cage, Sidereal Brand, and finally, Sidereal Liberation. While the First Monk had no way of knowing, it had been Rory’s attempt at ‘recreating’ the concept of Arcana magic, an interlinked form of attack. Sidereal Cage, which initiated the Sidereal chain by attuning the entire set to the target’s own aura. Sidereal Brand, the magic that burnt both caster and target’s lifeforce. And finally, Sidereal Liberation, magic that, for now, still required a rather extensive magical circle to be physically laid down. Attuned to the target’s aura, it would bypass normal means of magical defense, as the drained vital energy of both caster and target multiplied one against the other.

With the magic manifesting from the Monk himself, a column of red light exploded outward, swallowing the man whole, his own ace-in-the-hole Form Eight working against him as the vital drain only added to the effect of Sidereal Liberation.

Seconds passed before the red astral light at last vanished. As it did, the Monk dropped to his knees, unable to muster the energy to do much more than sit there after the deep scouring of Sidereal Liberation.

“Fuck,” The Architect muttered, momentarily dropping to one knee before propping himself back up with the staff he’d been using, now treating it like a walking stick. “That shit was no joke.”

Rubbing at every point in which the Monk had struck him, he briefly swayed, looking as if he might completely falter before regaining himself.

“Not even sure a domain would have worked with that frozen aura of yours constantly fucking with space around you,” Rory sighed as he shook his head. “Assuming I could have in the first place.”

The Monk was silent. Not out of any sense of honor, but he needed a moment to slowly ‘reboot’ after being fried by such an attack.

“Well, be that as it may,” The Architect muttered. “Still have too…” He paused, exhausted enough from the struggle against the Monk that he needed a moment to think. “The others. Right.”

Beginning to slowly limp off, not entirely certain what exactly he would contribute, he once more stopped as another figure limped toward him.

The Spear. And she wasn’t alone. Dragging the unconscious body of her sister from the back of her armored torso, she came to a stop nearly thirty feet away, before tossing Zoey to the side, who groaned, her skin looking like she’d been dipped into a blistering fire.

The two were silent, staring at each other. By all rights, any of the other tier eights in Ehkorrus probably could have beaten the Spear at this point, having gone through a battle of her own to a similar scale as Rory’s but Rory had already broken his word once, if after giving the decree to stay out to the rest of the city, and it was broken again, there was a high chance that the consequence would be significantly worse then just not being allowed to use all the established defenses and the likes of Ehkorrus.

“You didn’t kill him,” The Spear finally said, several silent, tense moments.

“No,” Rory answered.

“Neither did I,” The Spear said, clearly exhausted if she felt the need to point out the obvious.

“Didn’t think you would,” Rory answered. As intense as their fight had been, based on how Zoey looked and how depleted the Spear currently was, Rory hadn’t truly expected either of them to attempt to outright kill the other, not when the sisters had just reunited.

“So…” The Spear seemed too exhausted, emotionally and physically, to muster the energy to give him anything more than a mildly hateful look.

“So,” Rory repeated.

The unsaid exchange was clear as day. They were waiting, waiting on the winner between Eia and the Rogue. If one were keeping a scorecard, between the death of the Woodsman and the defeat of the Monk, Rory’s faction was, plainly speaking, up two wins. With Zoey’s loss, it was two-to-one.

Several minutes passed by in silence, waiting, nothing happening, aside from the presence of a few lingering tier eights in the background, the likes of Apostolos and others who knew better than to involve themselves for the moment.

At last, the answer arrived, when, of all things, Aelia, the World Spirit herself, appeared.

Rory was too beaten and battered to question it, as she tossed the unconscious form of the Rogue on the ground between the two of them.

“Two-Two,” Aelia said, her voice resonating throughout the entire world, her form shimmering, as throughout every single settlement on her surface, an avatar of hers had appeared. “All shall see and hear—the final confrontation, the duel to claim it all. Admire in awe the power of the greatest amongst all. In one rotational cycle, the winner shall be known. Watch, watch, and see the pinnacle, and let it be the guide for the rest of your lives.”

Aelia’s shimmering stopped, as she crossed her arms, looking between the two of them.

“Your snake lives,” Aelia answered after a moment as she looked at Rory. “By a hair, but she lives nonetheless. Cruor-Shu protected and stabilized her. As for how the Rogue ended up unconscious, that was of my own doing.”

Relief flooded Rory as he lowered his head.

“I can truthfully say I didn’t expect it to come to a conclusion like this,” Aelia changed the direction of her gaze, now looking at the Spear. “But, in the end, you got what you want, a big final battle with your rival.”

“I was young,” The Spear said, clearly referencing some shared experience with Aelia that Rory had no means of knowing.

“But in the end, you still got it,” Aelia said, before her mouth turned upward, an inhuman smile spreading across her face. “And while it is not what I had expected as of late, I prefer this method far more than simply talking around a table. One day. After which, you will face each other to decide it all. Architect, you have an arena here that will be the battleground. I alone will be the judge, and I alone will ensure you can clash without concern for collateral. Prepare yourselves as necessary.”

And then, as was to be expected, the World Spirit vanished, having had the last word as always.

Turning to lock eyes once more, Rory inclined his head.

“One day.”

The Spear nodded.

“Then we finish this.”