Every time his fists blur toward me, something deep inside screams, dragging me just slightly off the line of impact. Not unscathed, never unscathed—but alive.
Instincts? Or something else?
From the moment I got an ounce of lucidity, something changed in me. I could see Marcus' movements before they even began. Giving enough time to dodge and even counter.
My heart throbbed raw, thundering as if to burst out of my chest,
Marcus's blows grew faster, sharper, carried by the wind. His speed is inhumanly fast. Each strike rattles me, bruises spreading, blood pouring, vision swimming in red.
'A blow to my ribs'
'A feint—no, the real strike, his right leg to my chest.'
'Another faint,' He is using multiple faints, as if testing me
'Another kick, to my right shoulder.'
'what'
'headbutt??' My eyes widened as I tried to avoid his head butting into me.
I'm struggling to know what it is that I'm doing. Am I reading his attacks or realizing them, or am I just seeing his attack before it comes?
And,
What the hell is wrong with this bastard? Why the obsession with my head?
Again—another headbutt.
"Aghhh." Pain flared as a fuckin head hit me.
"Fuckk," I cursed out loud with no restrictions or so ever. Which strangely calmed my mind.
"Stop headbutting me already." I cursed
He isn't even using his full power. That was clear. Maybe pride keeps him from unleashing it, or he doesn't want to.
He's only enhancing his speed. But even that is more than I can handle in my current state.
Whatever the case
Still—I answer. A palm to Marcus's forearm to soften a strike.
I shot a knee, driving into his thigh.
An elbow slammed weakly into his ribs.
Pathetic compared to his blows, but they land. Enough to make him grunt. Enough to remind him—I'm still standing.
Eight years of training scream through me, dragging my ruined body through motions it knows too well. Every second feels like it's being stolen from death itself.
But reality is cruel. My body breaks under Marcus's fists. He carries only light bruises, while I'm hanging on by a thread.
Then one of his punches slams into my stomach. I fold in half, blood splattering on the floor. My knees buckle, but I force them to stay locked.
I raise my head. My eyes meet his—not wild, not furious. Just steady. Stubborn. Unyielding.
For the first time, I see Marcus hesitate.
His fist hovers in the air. He stares at me—my broken frame swaying on its last breath,
His mouth twitched as if wanting to say something,
A blood-bathed body, trembling unsightly,
That must be how I looked to him, and it felt like shit,
I stood trembling,
'I can still fight bastard, come at me,' I thought.
Regardless of how much I tried, the trembling wouldn't stop.
"Are... are we done?"I voiced that as I wanted to fight more to grasp the feeling I'm going through, but the moment Marcus stopped attacking, I broke out of my trance-like state. Now I ground my teeth to gain it back, but it was of no use.
I'm out of gas, and it is clear as a sunny day.
Marcus must've realised too. That I would be fucked if I go on any longer.
"You are not bad for a regular human." Marcus's calm voice reached my ears, and I could feel his breath uneven.
Not like mine, it is small, but he is tired,
Should I think of this as an achievement?
"Well... You are not... bad for an arrogant bastard," I barely muttered.
The heavy air around me and Marcus is gone.
Then, without a word, Marcus lowers his fist. He steps back, turns, and walks away.
No gloating, no heroic dialogue.
He just left.
Lady Arora gave me a lingering look with those usual cold eyes of hers before turning to follow Marcus.
"Now… what's with her?" I muttered under my breath. She looked at me like I was some nuisance.
'I didn't do anything to her.''I didn't even curse at her,' I thought, before brushing it off.
But it was strange, a movement ago I was mad at that bastard, but now there is no hatred, just pure will to fight.
I want to fight him again.
"Huff...hufff...huff," I breathed in and out.
My body trembles, knees threatening to give out, but I force myself upright.
Around me, mouths hang open, eyes flinch away—or narrow, as if they might peel me apart with a stare. A few lips even curl with amusement.
"Hah? he just left?"
"See that bastard's condition, he will die with just a flick."
"How can this bastard still stand?"
"He is even smiling."
"Can I fight like him?"
"Crazy, He is crazy."
"Monster"
"No wonder no one wants to deal with that bastard."
"Madman"
"How is he even standing?"
"Madman"
"Madman"
I turned without caring about the growing murmurs and...
Then all of a sudden, the near rhythmic murmurs
spread through the grand hall like wildfire, swelling into a storm of whispers.
The air shifted.
Most of the stares on me shifted to something else,
"Why are they here?"
"Are they here to beat him up as well?" some questioned,
"Kyaaaaa! He is here, he is here,"
"WOAH"
"A goddess,"
"Do you think I should ask her for a dance?"
And some jumped in awestruck amazement.
A new pair of stares fell on my back, heavy and dangerously threatening.
I didn't turn back; I didn't want to be part of any more nonsense. From the crowd's response, I figured out who must have come.
'The prodigies, ' I thought.
I could feel a force pinning me, trying to force my attention to them,
I was deeply surprised to see a form of Intent pinning on me.
Only those who reached the seeker rank can do it;
But even for a seeker, to actually do it is crazy.
Must have come to look after, hearing about my little stunt.
Even though I'm considered a failure by all, as the second son of Duke Azeril Varkheil, people still showed a lot of interest in me.
So, it wasn't a surprise to know that they came.
I felt the force on me. As it's in its early stage, the force was manageable and,
I ignored it, I walked to the nearby drinks section.
A row of glass goblets glimmers softly, a variety of drinks catching the ballroom light. I don't spare them a glance. Usually, I would have tried out all the drinks, but I'm in a condition to do that. I land my eyes on the silver jar at the end, tall and heavy, condensation trickling down its sides. Cold water.
The droplets blurred my reflection, but it was clear enough to see.
Without caring about my appearance,
I wrench it free, the weight pulling at my battered arms, but I raise it high and tip it over my head. Ice-cold streams crash down, cutting through blood and sweat, burning my skin awake. Gasps ripple behind me, but I let the jar empty itself until nothing is left.
Water runs down my hair, into my eyes, stinging. I rake my fingers through the wet strands, pushing them back.
"Huff...hufff..." my clamed breaths flared again slightly, but the chillness did the job it was supposed to.
By my action, stares returned on me, and I put the silver jar back in its place and moved away from it.
The stares haven't stopped. But I've had enough. Without another glance, I turn and walk out of the ballroom, cold water trailing from each step I take, leaving the noise, the eyes, and the spectacle behind me.
This was my last Summit of Scions—and it wasn't bad… just
"A Little Bloody."