[???]
Once more, Mikoto's small, armored fist slammed into Aelfric's face, his knuckles sinking into the Ancestor's flesh with a sickening crunch. The force behind the blow sent tremors through the air, followed by a snap that echoed across the bleak area. Blood sprayed from Aelfric's mouth, his head twisting violently to the side. Then—his body shot backward, nothing but a blur of black streaking across the land.
He hurtled like through the air carving a deep trench into the earth before his momentum sent him colliding with a massive boulder. The impact fractured the structure, sending cracks webbing through the stone before Aelfric ricocheted off it. His boots scraped against the ground as he slid to a halt, landing.
Not a second later, his head straightened, his jaw resetting with a pop, and his lips stretched into a smirk. Any trace of injury—gone. Even the blood that had sprayed from his lips had vanished into nothingness.
And then Mikoto was already there.
A single burst of blistering speed brought him within a few paces of Aelfric, his delicate features marred by a deep-seated annoyance. He was panting—not from exhaustion, the wound Aelfric had inflicted earlier was catching up to him, his body was struggling against the slow, creeping agony. Too much blood had been lost. His frame—already slight compared to others—was beginning to feel heavier with each passing second.
And Aelfric noticed, that cruel smile on his lips widened.
"You look exhausted, boy," he mused.
Mikoto clicked his tongue in irritation, but Aelfric continued, his tone turning far too pleased.
"Not long now," he whispered. "Not long before you realize how utterly fruitless your efforts have been. Your fate was written the moment you gained Octavia's 'blessing.' You belong to her. And soon, I shall enjoy defiling you."
Mikoto sneered, that elegant face twisting into something annoyed.
"Is that right?" he scoffed. "That's one hell of a hate boner you've got there, old man. You want me that badly?" He sighed, shaking his head as if genuinely disappointed. "Man, you must really be starved for attention if this is how you get your kicks."
Aelfric's smile stiffened, just barely, but Mikoto wasn't done.
"Does it make you feel all big and bad?" he continued, flexing his arms despite the searing pain. "You're too much of a coward to go after Octavia herself, so instead, you pick off her weaker spawns or a weakened one—real alpha move there, buddy. Utterly pathetic."
Aelfric's jaw tightened, but Mikoto pressed on.
"I can't think of anything more worthless than that," he mused, tapping a delicate finger against his chin in faux contemplation. "Nah—wait—I take that back. Roaches and rats are still above you on the pecking order. Hell, even they serve some actual purpose." His rosy lips curled into a smirk. "You? You're just a lowly thug, a pest who got lucky with borrowed power. Talking about 'defiling' people? Seriously? If your wife could hear this garbage, she'd probably kill herself a second time from embarrassment."
Aelfric's smile cracked, his expression twisting into something almost furious—but only for a fleeting second. He exhaled slowly, regaining his composure.
"Fool," he spat, "the more you talk, the longer you shall suffer."
Mikoto hummed, tilting his head as a mirthless chuckle slipped past his lips.
"Big talk there," he mused. "But y'know, for all your 'merciless suffering' talk, you still haven't even managed to land a hit on me. And I'm not even at my best right now."
Aelfric's eyes narrowed.
"You've got all that big scary Death power, and yet you suck so much," Mikoto continued, his tone taunting, like he was speaking to some schoolyard bully rather than an undying entity. "Kinda tragic, really. You're just a small fry without that, aren't you? Strip away Death's power, and what are you? Some washed-up, third-rate old man swinging a grudge around." He scoffed. "At least I can fight even without magic. Can't say the same for you, huh?"
Aelfric's gaze darkened, no one could quite irk him like Mikoto Yukio.
"That does not change your situation, boy," he spat. "You are still subjugated to my mercy. Your Goddess has doomed you with that so-called 'blessing.' Do you truly believe you will make it out of this alive?"
Mikoto exhaled through his nose, almost laughing.
"Why not?" he asked, placing a hand on his hip. "Sure, I thought I was screwed when that dragon showed up, but eh, Guinevere's got that handled." His fingers flexed absently. "You, though? You're not a threat. Just some pathetic remnant of a bygone era, clinging to a past that's already buried. I mean, do you have any idea how royally screwed you're gonna be once my magic comes back?" His hand lifted slightly, flexing. "It's gonna be real embarrassing for you."
Aelfric's patience snapped.
"You shall not live that long," he declared.
And then the black erupted. Tendrils, thick as spears burst from his shadow. They lunged, screaming through the air, the wind ceased in their way.
Mikoto moved on instinct, legs tensing, but before he could act—
—red ignited the sky.
A gleam of red carved through the sky, it did not stop the tendrils—it tore them apart, a wall of dust erupted outward, a shockwave splitting the land apart as something landed. The velocity of the strike alone had broken the sound barrier.
Aelfric took a single step back, a flicker of disbelief passing over his features.
Impossible.
He wielded a portion of The Bringer of Death's power. Even a fraction of Death was absolute. Anything those tendrils touched ceased to be. Yet they were not cut. They were not wounded. They were erased.
And yet, there, standing beyond the veil of dissipating dust—
That blade.
That damned blade.
The only thing in this cursed, monochrome wasteland that dared to gleam with color. Aelfric's teeth clenched, his shoulders stiffened.
And as the dust settled, she emerged.
Raven hair billowed in the wind, crimson eyes, burning with a seething hatred, locked onto him with undiluted loathing.
Lyra.
Aelfric's lips pressed into a thin, contemptuous line, dissatisfaction settling into the rigid angles of his face.
"Lyra..." Her name slipped past his lips, not as an address, nor a greeting, but as something resentful—something thick with distaste.
Lyra sneered, her features contorted with loathing.
"As ever, my stomach churns as I gaze upon you." She spat.
Beside her, Mikoto exhaled an exaggerated sigh, his small frame shifting with irritation.
"You took forever to find Sabre," he muttered, flipping a lock of his hair over his shoulder, eyes narrowed with annoyance. "Geez. Guess that's just part of being a hag—"
CRACK.
A sharp chop landed squarely on his head.
It didn't hurt. Not really. But it was enough to make Mikoto jolt, his hands immediately flying up to his scalp as he let out a dramatic hiss.
"You damn bastard!"
Lyra's expression remained placid.
"Hush, hush," she murmured, brushing a nonexistent speck of dust from her black sleeves. "You're much cuter when you're not so vulgar. I much prefer you when you were still sweet."
Mikoto scowled, glaring at her through strands of his hair.
"Tch. Like I give a damn what you think."
His irritation, however, only served to accentuate his unnatural beauty. His delicate features, the faint flush of annoyance on his pale cheeks, the way his lips pouted ever so slightly— it was unfair how effortlessly enchanting he looked, even while sulking.
But she could not dwell on it, unfortunately. Mikoto's gaze flickered back to Aelfric, and he folded his arms.
"Hang back and shut up," Mikoto continued, rolling his shoulder. "I'll beat his ass some more, so you can—"
A single hand lifted, Mikoto paused as his irritation grew. He looked at Lyra, annoyed and expectant, waiting.
"Can you abide by a selfish woman's request?"
Mikoto's brow arched, his expression shifting to mild confusion.
"...What?"
Lyra exhaled, her gaze never leaving Aelfric.
"I want to kill him," she said, and for the first time, her voice wavered, Mikoto's expression hardened, Lyra clenched her fists. "That desire burns within me— unbearably so. I need to see him suffer, to watch him writhe, to hear his screams and know that the pain I inflict is but a fraction of what he has done. And yet…" Her fingers trembled. "I fear I do not have the right."
Mikoto scoffed. "The hell are you yammering about?" He gestured toward Aelfric with an almost offended look. "He took Alyssia from you, didn't he? Just kill him when the time's right."
But Lyra only shook her head.
"I have faith that I will get her back."
The certainty in her voice was unshakable, Mikoto stiffened. That wasn't just empty hope. It wasn't delusion, it was absolute faith in him. That he would find a way to give Alyssia a body, a vessel to house her soul.
She hadn't even said it aloud.
She didn't need to.
That bright gleam in her eyes told him everything he needed to know and it was infuriating. Mikoto clicked his tongue, tearing his gaze away.
"Tch. Do you have that much faith that I'd save Alyssia?" His voice dropped to a murmur. "You ought to know better. We're not exactly close, you know."
Lyra's lips curved.
"I beg to differ."
Mikoto's shoulders tensed. But before he could retort, Lyra's expression darkened.
"I have no right to vengeance," she admitted, voice lower now.
Mikoto frowned.
"The hell are you talking about?"
Lyra closed her eyes.
"It was I who led Aelfric to immortality. I, who fed his hunger for knowledge, who gave him the pieces to tear the veil between Life and Death. It was I who let him stand on the precipice of immortality."
She inhaled sharply, then continued.
"It was because of me that our people were wiped from history. It was because of me that he grew to despise Octavia. And it was because of me that Alyssia—"
Her voice faltered, just for a moment.
"—that Alyssia died that day."
Mikoto frowned as Lyra exhaled, it was a long and slow sound.
"I do not deserve revenge when I am the one to blame." She turned to him then, finally meeting his gaze. "So please, Mikoto." A plea. "End this. Execute Aelfric."
Mikoto shut his eyes, exasperated.
"Quit making it sound so damn dramatic," he muttered.
Still, he reached out and gripped onto Sabre's hilt, adjusting to its weight. His eyes flickered toward Aelfric—and there it was. That tension, that subtle stiffness in his stance. That unease because of this blade.
Mikoto smirked, twirling it between his fingers before resting it against his shoulder.
"Fine. Keep him busy till my magic recovers." His voice dropped. "Then I'll kill him."
Lyra's gaze softened.
"Thank you, Mikoto. Truly."
Then, with a single step, she moved forward—toward the source of all her hatred.