Chapter 43: Bad Tide
I explode forward like a blade loosed from its scabbard, the air itself tearing around me with every movement. Cain barely manages to parry my first strike, and the sheer force of it sends him skidding back multiple feet, boots digging grooves into the stone. The voices shriek in ecstasy, their cruel laughter echoing in my skull.
Look at him—shaken already, they whisper, serpentine and sweet. The past year pretending to guide you. He was sharpening the knife, Ayato, they hiss. Every "lesson" a leash. Every "correction" a chain.
I snarl and dive in again, my blade aimed with evil intent. Our swords clash in a storm of sparks and fury. Cain's form is still swift, but the usual grace that defines him is gone—replaced by hesitation, confusion. I see it in the tightening of his jaw, the way his strikes are just slightly slower, his footwork erratic. My power is burrowing into his mind like a parasite, showing him ghosts, shadows, guilt. I don't know what horrors he sees, but I hope they tear him apart.
"Dammit, Ayato!" he growls between gritted teeth, parrying another vicious strike.
"I am awake!" I roar. "I see things clearly for once!"
The voices twist every memory. Cain's smirk during training, his constant push for me to suppress my darker impulses—they frame it all as manipulation, domination. He feared you even then, they whisper. Wanted to break your will before it grew too strong.
And yet... even while his body fights against the horrors being projected in his mind, he's still keeping up. His blade catches mine again and again. Blocking. Redirecting. Never striking to kill.
"Ayato!" he hisses between parries, his voice hoarse, strained with effort. "Come to your damn senses man. This is insane and you know it!"
The voices crawl through my thoughts like centipedes, writhing with glee.
"Strike now, boy. End him before he becomes more dangerous. Before he puts the collar back on your neck."
Our blades clash again, and the impact cracks the ground beneath us. Cain's expression is a mix of fury and irritation, but still—he holds back. I can tell. His strikes are controlled, measured, just enough to defend, never to kill. It only enrages me more.