The air had a different scent to it. There was a chemical note under the rot.
"Gas," he said.
In front of them, a shadow detached and moved. The figure wore the long beak of a plague mask and a long coat that stayed dry despite the dripping ceiling.
Vials all over his coat. When he turned his head, the glass in the mask reflected light in a way that made the eyes look like lanterns.
It was Idoku.
He smiled. It sounded thin through the mask.
"Hunters in the sewer," he said. His voice carried oddly, "What are they gonna do?"
Yuusuke's hand tightened on the grip of a small, flat card he kept tucked in his sleeve—one of the dozens he could spin into motion.
Kouji stepped forward, slowly, and measured. "We don't have time for games,"Kouji said.
"Two hunters in the sewers," Idoku mumbled.
Kouji interupted, "Who sent you? Who built the dungeo—"
"Hey"
Kouji froze.
"You didn't answer my question"
"What are two hunters doing in the sewers?"
He spread his hands. Small canisters, brass and glass.
A thin green vapor leaked from their valves and curled in the air like smoke through moonlight.
Kouji and Yuusuke were stunned by Idoku's sheer presence.
"You are not going to answer?," Idoku said. "What a pity" He leaned closer, and the masked face put its head on a slight tilt, like an interested bird. "But you'll die now anyways."
Before either of the hunters could answer, Idoku snapped his wrist.
His eyes flickered behind them, spotting the sigil, "Oh, I understand now."
The canisters hissed. A wave of gas rolled down the corridor—catching the light in ribbons.
Yuusuke threw the first cardridge. It spun off his finger and flashed at Idoku, a bright, bright distraction.
Suddenly, the mist turned to drops of water, no, acid.
The card was decomposed mid-air.
Kouji had felt gas before—but this was different.
His lungs clenched. He forced breath slowly.
He could feel it—how it would loosen muscle, corrode the taste of blood, wrench the mind thin.
He moved first.
Kouji threw a handful of fine dust—he'd been carrying a little experimental mixture inside a small vial—and it exploded into a grey cloud. It wasn't an antidote, it was just a distraction to bring them a handful of heartbeats.
Yuusuke used those heartbeats to move. He darted left, flashed a cardridge that bent the arc of his approach. He slammed against a ladder and used it as leverage, springing up into the walkway where Idoku had been standing a moment before, but he wasn't there anymore.
A Hand suddenly appeared behind Kouji, trying to grab him, but he instinctively dodged.
Idoku didn't wait. He was already moving.
In his hand that was free a moment ago, formed a blade made from the gas—thin, it seemed to drink in the weak light.
The sword did not look like a sword. It was a concentrated gas, formed into something that looked like a rapier.
Yuusuke saw the blade moving toward him and countered with a quick, low cardridge throw, redirecting Idokus movement, but Idoku's wrist was a blur. He snapped the sword sideways and the motion carried.
Yuusuke dodged.
He staggered, then grinned with that ridiculous courage.
Kouji, who had been moving toward Idoku's chest, felt something cold slide between his ribs and didn't understand it at first.
His movement has gotten slower.
The sense that pressure had changed in the tunnel.
He closed his eyes and concentrated on his surroundings.
His analysis forming a construction. His hand grabbed for the nearest scrap of iron and a breath later it was a drawn spear: not a weapon forged in hours but a shape assembled from the moment. He bend the world to his will.
He threw the spear at Idoku.
Idoku didn't fall. He spat a wheeze through the mask and his hand curled, the blade twitching.
Idoku stumbled backward, then laughed, the sound brittle. "So theatrical, wonderful," he said,"but I have other businesses" and the hand with the blade moved again.
It came for Yuusuke with a speed that wasn't natural.
For a breath, the world narrowed—Yuusuke's eyes wide, the light in them a fierce, as the sword approached his body.
His vision turned black.
And then—
He screamed—a sound that tore itself out and hung in the tunnel.