Aetheral Space

Morgan Nacht fell backwards out of the sky…

F! A!

…but before his plummet became terminal, he whipped up a hand -- and latched a rope of Fog onto the underside of the crystal platform.

His fall became a swing, his face resolute as he rode the momentum and flipped up back onto the other side of the arena. For the briefest moment, he was right behind an unaware Aclima -- and right behind the wall of this Curse Cloud she’d suddenly erected. If he was going to get an opportunity, it wouldn't be much better than this.

The broken sword was still in his hand, but it wasn't so broken that it couldn't do the simplest job of a weapon.

Morgan lunged forwards --

-- and Aclima whirled around.

The miasma moved with her, twisting around her form and engulfing Morgan's outstretched arm in a moment.

Pain.

It was as if Morgan had plunged the limb into hydrochloric acid. Screaming, he pulled his arm out of the smoke, his sword flying from his grasp as he did. The ruined weapon flew back, off the edge of the platform, and out of sight.

Morgan backed up as far as he dared, clutching his arm even as the pain slowly began to abandon it. As far as he could see, unlike with Curse Hand, this ability caused no lasting damage -- just enough agony to stop attackers in their tracks. In exchange for range, it lost its unrivalled damaging effects, then?

Still, this wasn't good. If Morgan received a full-body dose of this Curse Cloud, he doubted he'd have the wherewithal to dodge the Curse Hand that would surely follow. Getting hit by that was still a death sentence, unless…

No, he couldn't rely on that. He wasn't his teacher -- he wasn't willing to die just to test something out.

“Did you think it'd be easy?” Aclima growled, glaring at him through the smog. “Poor little Aclima, we'll just take her spot and save her from scary Dragan Hadrien? Is that what you were thinking?”

Sweat poured down Morgan's forehead as he cracked the fingers of his recovered hand.

“Sorry, Aclima,” he replied, a lopsided smile on his face. “Even with you like this… I don't see you beating Hadrien. Not in a million years. This is a mercy.”

Her eye twitched.

Gotcha.

Aclima snarled as she charged forward, both hands gripping her cleaver-sword as she raised it above her head. Curse Hand had been forgotten. At this moment, there was nothing the former Supreme Heir wanted more than to smash that blade through Morgan's body.

It was just a pity…

Crack.

…that she'd miscalculated.

Morgan Nacht was a swordsman -- and among swordsmen, there was one ironclad rule. You could swing your sword however you wanted, you could weave and block however you pleased. However, under no -- no -- circumstances… did you ever drop your sword.

So Morgan hadn't.

Instead, he'd thrown it -- and as it had fallen beneath the platform, strings of Fog had connected it to the underside of the crystal disc. It had hung there for a moment, swaying back and forth, like a disturbed chandelier. That wasn't the end of it, though.

Blocks -- their size and weight increases by Amplification -- attached to the dangling hilt by further Fog. The resemblance to a chandelier had grown more prominent by the second. The purpose of this strange construction, however, was something entirely different.

Crack.

This was an anchor.

Aclima lost her footing as the platform collapsed beneath her, stumbling as an entire section broke away and fell into the night. It was like a pizza with a single slice snatched away. Her eyes widened with alarm as she saw the drop into the void right next to her feet -- and she went to move to safer ground…

…but the opening had already been created.

Morgan rushed in.

His sword wasn't in his hands, so he could not stab or slash the girl. He couldn't attack her with punches or kicks, either -- he would only get this one chance to make a second’s worth of contact with her, not long enough for any complicated manoeuvres. As such… as such… there was only one weapon available to him.

The drop.

Aether could only do so much. There were very few people who could survive a drop from this kind of height, especially when they had no movement abilities. Morgan had seen Aclima's infusion… and he knew she was not one of those people.

It would take just a second. A shove, a push. Her footing was already all but gone. If he just pushed her, this would be over. The battle would be won. The threat to Muzazi's ascendance would be removed. Gregori had been right about that, if nothing else. If Morgan didn't act now, he'd lose his chance. The threat to Muzazi would still exist. Everything… all of this… would be for nothing.

Push her, Morgan urged himself. Push her.

You've already betrayed her.

You've already stolen her birthright.

You've already attacked her.

Now push her.

Push her.

It's only natural to push her.

Morgan's hand reached out…

“Mr. Nacht?” Aclima looked up, hands tight around a clumsy sword. “Am I holding this right?”

…and stopped in mid-air.

Aclima's hand did not stop. Regaining her balance, she lunged forward, seizing hold of Morgan's face and screaming:

“Curse Hand!”

One second passed, two, three -- but Morgan did not fall. Morgan did not bleed. Morgan didn't so much as twitch. He just stood there, Aclima's hand on his face, his eyes closed.

Nothing had happened.

Aclima's hand trembled against Morgan's face. “...huh…?”

“K,” Morgan quietly replied, his eyes still closed. “It stands for Kindred. I wasn't sure how your ability worked, so I didn't know for sure if this would work… but I guess it does. While I'm using this… while I'm touching the target… I register as that person to their Aether. You can't use Curse Hand on yourself, right?”

Aclima's face twisted. “This ability… this was designed to be used against me, wasn't it…?”

Morgan clenched his fist. “Yes.”

“So… you were never on my side…”

Morgan opened his eyes, but he still couldn't meet hers. “Sorry.”

His fist, bolstered by the infusion of Aether, struck Aclima in the side of the head. There was the shortest, loudest yelp from her -- and then she had fallen, crumpled into a pile at Morgan's feet. Unconscious, not dead… but Morgan felt like shit all the same.

“Goddamnit…” he muttered.

Dying, IONIR YGGDRASSIL found, was something of an involved process.

GretchenHail had been working on the problem for several minutes, pressing that blowtorch device against its body, driving it deeper and deeper as the flames bore a hole through its final form’s chest. It supposed this device was another Aether Armament, probably designed to work against it specifically.

It seemed this was a method akin to the one used by AzezTazir… burning the consciousness away, leaving an empty shell.

Was this fate something IONIR YGGDRASSIL could escape? It didn’t seem likely. Because of the Spear of Stillness, it couldn’t move at all. It couldn’t even grow -- it half-felt like a corpse already.

But was that really the case? Could it really not grow at all? Could it really not move at all?

The Spear of Stillness was a powerful artefact, to be sure. IONIR YGGDRASSIL could feel it weighing down on its consciousness, a constant pursuer that blocked off all the necessary impulses for shapeshifting. However, it was not an insurmountable thing. If it mustered all of its effort, focused all of its will, could it not break through -- even just for a moment?

What could it do with such a moment, though? GretchenHail had undeniably been heavily wounded in their battle. Another good strike would most likely incapacitate her -- but she would be able to react to any clumsy swing before it even landed. It would accomplish nothing but spite, and IONIR YGGDRASSIL put little value in that.

If it were to do anything, it would need a distraction.

A conversation? No. GretchenHail had already decided to kill it, and IONIR YGGDRASSIL was not adept at taunting.

A bluff by flaring its Aether? No. GretchenHail was the analytical kind -- she already knew what it could do and saw no reason to worry.

Could it stall? Could it stall until MORGAN NACHT returned?

No. It could feel it already, the fire burning away at its sense of self. It would not last long enough for MORGAN NACHT to return. There was a very good chance that these were its last moments.

It cast its attention around, seeking to understand the site of its death completely… when it found something. Something small and spherical, rolling across the floor. Something bright and blue.

The crystal ball -- not the one GretchenHail had used to see the future, but the one she had used to capture MorganNacht and Aclima. Little Pearl, she had called it. Why had it reappeared? It had not been present during the fight itself, IONIR YGGDRASSIL was sure of it. Had GretchenHail recalled it now that victory was assured?

It rolled to a halt at GretchenHail’s feet, but she took no notice of it. She just continued to press the torch into the wooden carcass before her, her eyes cold and dull. It seemed that, for her, this had already transitioned from a killing to a labour. She was working on IONIR YGGDRASSIL like he was one of her Aether Armaments.

But sound was coming from the sphere.

Muffled, distant, but definitely there. Words so indistinct their meaning couldn’t be made out. The faraway scuffle of a violent confrontation.

But those voices… IONIR YGGDRASSIL recognised them.

MORGAN NACHT and Aclima. It could hear their fight. Wherever the crystal ball had sent them, the sound from that location was being piped right back through the Armament. Presumably, that was how GretchenHail was going to keep an eye on the course of things over there. If IONIR YGGDRASSIL understood the situation correctly, Aclima was no doubt an important investment for her.

Still… even if that had appeared… there was nothing more IONIR YGGDRASSIL could do… it was going… to…

Aclima screamed.

Immediately, GretchenHail moved -- and immediately, IONIR YGGDRASSIL moved.

It might have been the shadow of concern. GretchenHail’s eyes widened as she whipped her head around to look at the sphere. Her mouth opened to shout something.

It was the echo of a fighting spirit. With the last of its strength, IONIR YGGDRASSIL grew its vines to form an arm -- and slammed it into GretchenHail’s head. A wordless roar rumbled over the rooftop.

With all the damage GretchenHail had already taken, the effect was immediate. Her eyes rolled up in their sockets as she flew across the roof, landing in an undignified heap. She remained still on the ground as the rain pummelled her body, but IONIR YGGDRASSIL doubted she was dead.

She hadn’t been that weak, and it hadn’t been that strong.

Nor that wise, it seemed. In the end, all it accomplished had indeed been spite. Even though GretchenHail had been rendered unconscious, she was still victorious -- even though she had been sent flying, the glass spear was still embedded in IONIR YGGDRASSIL’s chest. She’d driven it in deep enough that it was staying put without her.

The fire… was still burning.

Perhaps this was the kind of punishment that came from breaking a promise. It was strange. IONIR YGGDRASSIL didn’t feel particularly bad about this. It had always feared dying, of course, as any living creature did -- but as it was guaranteed now, that fear no longer held a purpose.

If anything, there was the slightest sensation of regret… it would not be able to see how the world played out. Whether MORGAN NACHT achieved his happiness, whether ATOY MUZAZI achieved his happiness… whether everything they had done would even mean something in the end. But most of all…

…the dreams of its fellows.

The last memories of the Fell Beasts, the legacy of the woods that it had absorbed into its Wisdom. It had hoped to bring those thoughts and feelings back into the world, to resurrect its brethren and give their kind another chance. It had promised.

When had it intended to carry that promise out? One day, one day, ever distant… now there were no more days. Now there were no more minutes.

So… had it betrayed that promise as well? That thought alone provoked feelings of regret.

No.

It extended a shaking vine, stretching across to its companion on this lonely rooftop.

There is still a way.

Wisdom crackled.

The light washed over Morgan once again…

…and the moment it cleared, his arms fell limp at his sides.

“A-Ah…”

It didn’t take a genius to see what had happened. Atop the shattered rubble of the rooftop stood a scarecrow. A burnt, smouldering scarecrow. Smoke rose up from the charred ruin. Drooping vines crumbled into ash. As Morgan watched, the square-face on the tree’s face cracked and crumbled into nothing.

Ionir Yggdrassil was dead.

Morgan stepped over Aclima’s unconscious body, his breath boiling in his throat. Strangely enough, his skin felt cold as ice. His hand twitched, reaching for a sword that was no longer there. It had broken, after all… plus, it had probably fallen after the platform disappeared. Maybe it was still falling.

Would it end up landing on someone? Was that something he had to worry about? Somehow, he couldn’t muster the effort.

Morgan stopped.

Someone else was lying on the ground in front of him. Another unconscious body -- a small Pugnant woman with red hair. She was meant to be dead, but Morgan wasn’t surprised to see her here. She’d been sending assassins after Muzazi for ages, after all. This time she’d shown up personally.

Gretchen Hail.

Morgan had no sword, but you didn’t need a sword to crush a throat. He was as calm as could be. He kneeled down on the ground beside the unconscious girl, clasped his hand around her neck, and began to squeeze --

Danger.

He leapt backwards, swinging his arm and blocking a strike of paper aimed right for the unconscious Aclima’s throat.

It wasn’t a perfect block. The blade left a deep gash in Morgan’s arm -- blood pouring down to the floor as he crouched protectively in front of Aclima. For the time being, vengeance was put on hold. The mission wasn’t over yet, after all. As long as the mission wasn’t over, his will yet had a lifeline.

Gregori Hazzard clicked his tongue as he landed a short distance away, unfolding his bloodied blade-arm.

“Are you stupid?” Morgan growled. “I told you to stop.”

“It’s like I said before,” Gregori glared back. “It’ll solve the problem.”

“That was your last chance.”

Gregori smirked. “You think you can stop me?”

Could he, in his current condition? Morgan couldn’t say for sure. Gregori hadn’t escaped unscathed from his battle either -- there were strange thin cuts covering the entire right side of his body -- but he was walking and talking like nothing had happened. The odds might not have been in Morgan’s favour.

Oh well.

For people like them, there was only one way to test those odds.

Morgan took a step forward…

Gregori took a step forward…

…and both stopped.

Their attention had been seized by something else, after all.

Something was coming for them. A great wall of darkness was spilling out from between the buildings of the city, rushing forward like an inky tsunami -- like the light cast from a black sun. It was engulfing everything, everything.

No light survived.

Morgan went to dodge…

Gregori went to dodge…

…but neither were fast enough, and the shadows swallowed everything -- living or dead.