The Great Core's Paradox

The bad-things were massive, true. But, at the moment, so was I. And though they might have been larger still, it turned out that the former blasphemer’s body was strong enough for that not to matter.

My shoulder met its chest and caved it in. Bones popped; both mine and theirs. But, while stores of death mana returned my shattered shoulder to its former state, the same couldn’t be said for the bad-thing.

It panicked.

A pair of massive arms windmilled in my direction, trying to swat me away. Unused to the body I was controlling, it almost succeeded. Only the magical wind created by my ore-flesh allowed me to avoid the blows, providing just enough resistance to slow it down.

I stepped back, breathing out heavy plumes of black smoke, and remembered my fang. Just like the ore-flesh that covered me, it had its own powers. As the bad-thing followed, I raised up its tip to point in its direction.

And then I thrust, pulling at the fang’s magic.

In some ways. I imagined it like the strike of my own fangs; the coiling of the muscles before the thrust, the speed with which it darted forward. In other obvious ways, it was far different.

I did not form fangs of wind, able to strike beyond my reach; the Coreless’ magical fangs did. The air itself rushed forward, sharpened to a point, and stabbed into the bad-thing. It bled, roaring in anger. Yet, it continued to follow. As useful as the fangs of wind were, the bad-thing was sturdy, and wind - sharpened or not - couldn’t pierce through it in a single blow.

I thrust again, and again, and again. Each time, the bad-thing bled. Each time, it roared. Each time, it advanced.