The Calamitous Bob

Viv felt her daughter’s worries gnawing at her through their sympathetic bond.

They will be fine!

It was not a lie, just a wish. Viv parried another series of attacks without too much fear. It had grown easier lately because Oleander had patterns he rarely deviated from, and also because [A Light that Never Dims] had been working overtime.

She could do it.

“Go,” Viv said, looking at the arcing artillery spells.

What?

If you die, all is lost.

“I am what I stand for, and what I stand for is helping each other. Trust your old lady for once. I will hold him back.”

But…

This sounds silly.

The risks…

“I can stand against him. Let them see us duel while you save your precious Children of the Scale minions. Come on.”

Don’t die!

Arthur veered off while Viv jumped down. She didn’t need strategy skills to see that the Maranorians were throwing everything they had at her people. That old asshole Jaratalassi must have felt it because all of the other Alliance armies were switching to the attack.

Viv allowed gravity to win again. She landed softly in the middle of a group of retreating Sheem with Nero close behind. The soldiers scattered with cries of damned souls but Viv didn’t kill them. She allowed the sphere of panic to spread unimpeded.

They were dead anyway.

Oleander took his sweet time coming to a stop. With his red wings spread wide, he looked like a vengeful angel coming to smite her ass. Despite the wear and tear of his armor and the slowly closing wounds over his body, she had to admit he was pretty impressive for a manchild with delusions of grandeur who’d lost his shield sometime during the battle. When his feet touched the corpse-strewn battlefield, the ground hissed. Viv moved her shoulders.

“Are you finally accepting your fate?” he asked her.

[A Light that Never Dims] had been overcharging her for over thirty-six hours, barely fading when she’d caught a thirty-minute nap. It meant that right now, she had more power at her fingertips than she’d ever had in her entire life. She was so filled with it, it was almost painful.

Viv breathed out. Black mana leaked from her every pore. Shadow scars in the world hissed from the tips of her anchors.

She could hold him back if she could cast her strongest spells, and right now, it was possible. She’d trained for over ten years for this specific moment. She’d built the spells she needed to win. And now, her title was making her fast enough to confidently use them in combat.

A second breath and her vision turned gray, not from distress, simply because the black mana concentration reached critical mass.

“You know what?” she replied. “I think I am. [True Aspect of the Dragon] heightened repertoire: [Mantle]”

Viv manifested blades around her like a porcupine. With a frown, Oleander held his sword in guard position. He must have felt something coming. It wouldn’t make a difference. She cast her next spell.

“Heightened repertoire: [Locus of Perfect Control]”

Her black mana aura expanded in a pulse, the spell that had blighted the arena, strengthened a hundredfold. The fleeing soldiers were zombified then disintegrated in an instant. All moisture left the corrupted ground under their feet. The air became still and oppressive.

Oleander threw a blade crescent at her. Viv lifted a hand. A void spell carved the attack.

She manifested another in her spare hand.

She was ready.

“Alright. You wanted a duel? Let’s dance.”

The two of them charged each other, exchanging a flurry of attacks that carved the ravaged ground. Viv merely had to rotate on herself to allow her mantle to cleave through Oleander’s offense. He was still surprisingly predictable despite clear signs she was reading him. Viv’s online friend Gevaudan would have said she had memorized his attack patterns. The thought made her smile. Oleander must have felt it, because he struck harder. It made little difference since he had not yet realized that the locus was disrupting the mana structure of all of his attacks, weakening them.

“You waited a long time to find your courage and make this fair,” Oleander mocked.

“Fair? You poor delusional fucker.”

Viv finished casting her next little surprise. It started with a ball of void, then a sphere of portals around that ball of void. Oleander backed up with a frown which Viv could only assume meant he hadn’t sparred against Crest in recent memory.

The receiving portals manifested all around him. Void blade tore through the soil again, hissing through the air. Oleander still managed to dodge most of them, and only took a glancing blow but that was what Viv had expected. With a flex of her will, all the portals rotated in random directions.

The cage of beams around the blade master moved erratically. Viv smiled when Oleander screamed.

“[Reign of Terror]. Do you like it?” she asked.

“FUCK YOU.”

The spell faded. Oleander raced away, bleeding a shocking, vivid red in the gray background. That almost made Viv miss a step.

She… had gotten him? Really? All of her previous attacks had felt like hitting a brick wall with a mallet. The fact that he was finally seriously wounded was enough to give her pause. Hope ballooned in her chest.

Alright maybe not too much hope; that shit was dangerous.

“If you think you’ve won… [Second Wind],” he yelled.

A ball of crimson light flooded the newly made deadlands. Divine mana coursed through Oleander’s body, closing dark gashes and even regenerating his white armor. Of fucking course. She should have expected something like this. There had to be immortality-related skills in his toolset. It still meant he couldn't move for a few seconds. That gave her some time to prepare her next move.

***

Nero was reborn again. The power tinted with Maranor’s divine presence filled his limbs, rejuvenating them and renewing his desire to win. As the shield faded, hungry black mana returned to gnaw at his resolve with a vengeance. The witch didn’t realize it yet but he could never —

Portals opened around him again. The same attack? Really? This time, he wouldn’t try to dodge. He stabbed his sword at his feet.

[Enduring Orb]

She was using her strongest skills so he would, as well. Gritting his teeth, he cursed himself for selecting such a defensive path.

[Reign of Terror]

The blades bit into the sphere around him, carving through defenses that should have been impregnable. Even the air leeched red mana from his defenses. After half a breath, the shield cracked and a new, fresh line of pain cut across his shoulder. He couldn’t let her cast freely. It was a mistake to keep his distance against a space mage, and he had to resign himself to the realization that she, too, was a space mage. Perhaps as good as Crest.

“Fine!”

He charged ahead, using one of his rare offensive skills to form a spear of mana. Even keeping it formed was difficult.

The ball of murderous black spikes that was the witch didn’t move. He could only spot the green circles of her eyes behind multiple layers of protection. He couldn’t read any emotion in those.

She formed a rectangle with her fingers, so that only one eye remained like one of the moons seen from the bottom of a well. Nero felt something latch onto his soul. He immediately switched to a defensive position. He would never reach her before she finished casting. Despite this, his danger sense screamed in alarm.

[Enduring Sphere].

“[Solipsist’s vista]”, she whispered.

The spell hit him in a wave that ignored all of his defenses, like a ghostly hand passing through his heart. He gasped in pain and surprise when he felt as if a layer had been peeled from who he was. The meaning behind the spell stabbed him next.

YOU DO NOT EXIST.

From the corner of his eye, he saw shapes puff into nothingness. The sentence coursed through his mind, chasing away all other thoughts. He focused.

It felt wrong.

The familiar warmth of Maranor’s favor shone like a fire at the end of a tunnel. He merely had to reach it. He merely had not to give up. One step. After the other.

I exist.

I do exist.

I have a purpose.

The spell failed. He was back. Where was he? Oh, right, the battle. And the witch. Moving forward with a punching motion. He parried, but her fist disappeared into a portal.

Another opened right in front of his face. Still disoriented, he didn’t react in time. Knuckles landed on his nose. Black mana streamed into his nostril, choking him. He slashed the threat away but the portal had already closed.

***

Viv felt a visceral satisfaction putting years of research into punching people in the face from afar into practice. Didn’t do much damage or his danger sense would have helped him block it, but fucking hell did it feel good to deck the asshole. A whisper of fate told her to retract her arm before it could be cut.

It was a psychological victory. Totally worth it.

Now to do it again.

***

Order Master Ered of the White Orchard, the world’s most elite heavy cavalry order, wiped Duke Stelan’s blood off his spear. He’d attended his daughter’s wedding the previous summer.

“Never liked the man anyway,” he grumbled.

“Sir?”

Ered turned his gaze on the ‘radio operator’ lad by his side. It was a shame having to change proper traditions on the fly like that, but at least the boy could ride, fight, and follow orders.

“What?”

“Sir, General Jaratalassi respectfully suggests that you charge the Shadowlander cavalry five hundred paces in front of us, and to our left.”

Ered huffed. Light cavalry. They’d retreat and he would have to withdraw at some point as well. That back-and-forth dance was getting tiring. And risky. He looked towards the demigods duking it out in the distance. The witch cast another strategic spell that could wipe out half a city like it was nothing.

He harbored no delusion that the winner of the conflict would eventually rule mankind. There were no armies capable of stopping either of those monsters. At least, with the girl, he knew she could take part in a cavalry charge. He remembered riding down the Hallurians with his spear loaded with black mana. That had been something.

“I just want an open field I can cross from one end to the other. Is this too much for a man to ask?” he complained.

His second and his herald chuckled. They understood. This was a shit war when he couldn’t charge another knight with the wind in his beard.

“Humph! Well, let’s ride. Now where are those accursed shadowlanders?”

“Between the giant spider matriarch and the wasp throwers, milord.”

All Ered could do was sigh. Was something wrong with old-fashioned war?

“What a time to be alive.”

***

Marruk stood next to her father. The Red Spear shone like a beacon at the head of the formation, the artifact's power fueled by the love of his people. She signaled, and the Red Tribe heavies formed a gauntlet of barbed steel around her. The pakar riders moved to the right flank, the very edge of the formation. A forest of steel tips formed right behind them. Above, the shield deployed by her shamans added a blue radiance to the cold winter air. They were ready.

“My people,” she roared, fury making her louder than ever in her life.

The Red Tribe roared back. Their cries eclipsed even the distant detonations. The kark had always been loud, too loud sometimes, but today?

Loud was good when you needed to make a point.

“We have not pushed the Pure League back to be taken down by some other assholes. Today we repay our debt of honor to the Black Witch - our friend! Today, we show the humans that we will never be crushed again! We are the Red Tribe! We are risen and never again will we fall, not from the Lutenese, and not from those upstart Maranorians either. I declare… BLOOD FEUD!”

The kark warcries reached a crescendo that made the reserve troops in front of them pale, and others turned worried glances in their direction. The Red Spear in her father’s hand burnt crimson with Arthur’s gifted dragon fire.

“CHAAAAAAARGE!”

Maybe it was a skill or maybe it was just pure rage, but Marruk felt she had wings at her feet. She took off towards the enemies’ panicked lines like a ball of steel and vengeance, and when her gaze met that of the enemy officer, she smiled.

“You should have killed us when you had the chance.”

Then she was in the middle of them, past the shield wall, braining foes left and right and her people weren’t far behind.

***

The Hopecrusher was a little concerned because the Harrakans were singing. Their war machines and mages were moving out of the so-far impregnable fortifications while the crossbow bitches unloaded barrel after barrel of those armor-piercing bolts into his best troops. He had a plan though: kill their lead formation. He led his city’s palace guards into the fray, the Shadowland’s best infantry. If only more vanguards had survived the campaign! It would take decades to refill their ranks.

The Harrakan lines weren’t far now. Their war machines had stopped shooting on his meager shield. That would have been their only chance. Now he was going to —

The heavies were moving. The wall of shields was getting closer, with the white masks of their holders peeking just above the line. By the goddess, those fuckers were big. And coming at him very fast. A quick inspection returned something about ‘Imperial Guard’ and ‘One Hundred’ but he barely paid attention.

“Hold!” he ordered. Brace!”

It was a wall. A wall was coming at him. A quick glance to the side showed imperials wearing red-turbans demolishing a hastily formed shield line. Why were his soldiers behaving like such amateurs? He would show them. With confidence, he stepped forward, axe ready. With one hand, he grabbed a shield and with the other, he struck.

A spear hit against his chestplate, eliciting a grunt of pain but the enchanted piece held. The enemy soldier tilted his head, the axe blow sliding along the helmet to bite on the pauldron, carving through it and his clavicle. The Hopecrusher couldn’t capitalize on it because he’d expected to flip the shield like a piece of flatbread but that had failed. Stopping the wall failed as well. He was pushed back. He almost fell, feet stumbling. His palace guard didn’t fare well either. They were not line holders.

His troops were thrown in disarray.

“Reform!” he screamed. “Reform and hold!”

Three spears went for him. He was forced to block and sidestep the attacks, letting them glance on his heavy armor instead. His attempt to finish off the wounded heavy failed when the man simply stepped to the side, letting the next person replace him. It was a woman with the flag attached to her back.

Finally, a lucky break. He recognized her as the obnoxious bitch who kept resisting his skills. Now with her as his single focus, he could finally get rid of that pesky aura of fearlessness. He focused all his monstrous intimidation in a tight wave and unleashed it upon the flagbearer. At the same time, he struck with [Crushing Blow].

“Hoh!”

The woman deflected the hit. His axe’s blade banged on her shield. As for the blast of pure hopelessness, it just… didn’t find purchase. It wasn’t resisted so much as it seemed to have missed. This had never happened before.

“What the —”

Furious, the Hopecrusher pressed on. His skill lashed out with all the rage he felt, but found no purchase. It was like waving his arm in an empty room, and yet he felt her presence. He knew she was there, right in front of him. His intimidation just couldn’t find her. Her attacks were pathetic and predictable but his own were blocked without fail.

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“Hoh!”

“Why. Don’t. You. Just. DIE!”

“Hoh!”

Another deflection, another strike arrested by her shield. Its runic protections were flagging. He just had to keep at it.

“It can’t be…”

The Hopecrusher was forced to fall back when his men started to run.

“What the fuck are you DOING? Are you not Maranorians?”

But they still ran. He first refused to retreat because his pride couldn’t take it, but as the Imperial Guard smoothly closed in around him, he knew he had to disengage. As he stepped back, however, the black ones closed in much faster.

[Champion Slayer]

Mad with rage and humiliation, the Hopecrusher turned on the one who’d led him to be caught. In his grim face and muscular body, the Hopecrusher recognized a kindred spirit. The two engaged in a furious duel.

The enemy spearman was a peerless fighter, able to face him like a duelist as easily as he faced the palace guards in the line. The two exchanged deadly blows while the Hopecrusher kept an eye on the other foes who, so far, had kept a respectful distance.

“Is that the best Maranor has to offer?” the captain asked in Imperial. “Where are your elites?”

That sent the Hopecrusher over the edge.

“You presumptuous fool! We will —”

“Hoh!”

The Hopecrusher’s knee gave way with a crunch and a terrible pain.

“You!”

Another spear found his flank as he collapsed, then another. The captain slapped his axe arm down. The Hopecrusher tried to rise but there was just too much agony, too many forces pushing him left and right. He longed to insult the enemy captain, and he would as soon as he could clear his throat from the liquid. He just had to cough it away. More blows fell.

The last thought that crossed his mind was disbelief.

***

Ban Junior ordered the line to reform, though there were no enemy formations around. Somehow, the One Hundred were always lacking enemies. Their dedicated shield array waited nearby with one of the mages puffing smoke from his pipe. Ban Junior threw him a nasty glare but the man just shrugged.

“Brick, how are you? You’re looking a little pale.”

The guy she’d stopped had felt pretty important, but that unstoppable force had met the immovable dumbass. Brick closed her eyes. A single tear rolled down her ruddy cheek.

“Shield arm hurts.”

Shit, it was definitely shattered.

“Medic?” his second in command yelled.

Several heavies moved to prop up the poor girl on her good side.

“You are to return to our backlines and get healed immediately. Do you understand?” Ban asked, suddenly quite worried.

“Okay…”

“Don’t worry sir. We got her.”

Ban Junior watched her go. She would be fine but it was annoying how he had to ask her if she was hurt or she would just soldier through pretty much anything. Now where to go.

Looking right, the Mountain Lords had managed a pincer move with the Red Tribe, catching hundreds of Maranorians. They didn’t need help.

Looking left, the remaining heavies were far in front of them. Beyond that, some enterprising fool had charged the priest village, only to find it reinforced by retired Harrakan warriors including his own dad. It had gone exactly as he’d expected.

Looking forward, the palace guards were running away. His ‘radio’ was silent. There was, once again, a terrible dearth of enemies around. One of his men sighed.

“It’s kinda bor —”

“Shut up.”

***

Crest watched the seventh circle’s shield collapse under the combined effort of two dragons and Harrakan air mage cadres led by an old gray mage whose beard floated like a cape.

He’d read about them in books but he couldn’t believe their techniques and doctrines had survived the collapse. It should have been impossible! The offensive he’d suggested had collapsed. All of the front was in full retreat. The kark army, against all odds, had managed to envelop a Shadowland regiment. Baranese cavalry was crushing every formation that tried to gather in order to stop that massive spider, one that was protected from artillery spells by a dense network of shamanic casters. The Maranorians still held the number advantage but… would it matter? They’d thrown their best troops at the alliance and failed to breach even one part of their line.

A cold realization washed over his shoulders like melted ice. His eyes roved over the carnage of the battlefield, confirming what he refused to believe.

“Are we… are we… losing?”

***

Viv felt the battle shift. The first sign was Oleander’s increasing disbelief as he was pushed back, bleeding, towards his mages’ shields. The second sign was that surviving vanguards came to reinforce him.

“No you don’t.”

She infused the land at her feet with monstrous amounts of change mana.

[Harvester Wall]

Earth rose like a wave. That wave traveled forward in a tide of screaming faces and misshapen limbs reaching for their next victims. Predictably, the vanguards turned and ran. Oleander didn’t. Viv was forced to teleport before attacking again in a torrent of void blades. He attacked, left right left left and —

Viv jumped to the side when a half-assed strike almost stabbed her arm. His follow up missed her completely, then she riposted. He was growing more erratic. Weirdly, that made him more annoying.

A portal opened in the air. Arthur flew out.

Now where were we, you stupid feathery snack?

Viv jumped on her back again. Dragonfire splashed over Oleander who was forced to retreat. They followed with fury but also patience. The fight was far from won. Still looked good though. They even got closer.

Viv stabbed with a dozen blades. Oleander ducked, sidestepped, and tried to strike only to catch a tail whip in the flank. She opened a portal behind him as he slowed down, cast through it and closed it. Oleander twisted on the side to dodge most of the blades, but not all of them. That made him miss the air blade coming from the front. Before he could recover, Arthur clawed him. His counter bounced against a newly erected shield. A hail of sharpened stone slammed into his face.

“Ngah! [Wave of domination!]”

Viv and Arthur were pushed back by a massive wave.

Mother, please take the locus down.

It’s affecting me as well.

“Oh sorry.”

Viv stopped and finished the spell. The moment she did so, a larger portal manifested by Oleander’s side. He slashed, only for the strike to be deflected by another blade.

“You’re such a second rate duelist,” Eron of Solar huffed.

“I’ve had enough. Of this!” screamed Oleander.

Viv watched Nero rush into the portal towards the blurry form of Sidjin but he never made it. A steel and silverite freight train named Junior forced him back at cruising speed. Watching the golem pin Oleander against the eldritch wall she had raised earlier felt cathartic. The pair did their best to dismember him.

“[Wave of Domination!]”

They were pushed back. Oleander was no longer winning but they were struggling to land a lasting wound on him. With time, people would tire, and then they wouldn’t lose but they’d have losses. And Viv wasn’t willing to allow it. At the moment, she wasn’t casting. She was praying.

“Please, Enttiku. It’s now or never. Let me do it.”

A caress made Viv jump. It was a cold hand on a feverish neck: comfort without judgment.

“You must promise me that you will face the consequences. That you will not run from your destiny.”

“I never run. I… only strategically reposition. Sometimes.”

“Good enough.”

Something was removed from her soul.