Chapter 45: Sour Grapes & Shattered Ice
Xorath moved like a shadow given teeth. He'd found the rhythm in Thorelf's icy precision – a microsecond lag between her spear's recovery and her next lunge. He exploited it ruthlessly. A feint left, a brutal palm strike to her armored wrist that *cracked* the silver plating, sending her spear spinning into the grass. Before she could react, Xorath was inside her guard, a whirlwind of dark energy punches hammering her chestplate, driving her back, *breaking* her flawless stance. Ice shards flew. For the first time, Thorelf Bjalkidottir stumbled, her glacial composure cracking like thin ice.
"Stage 2?" Xorath rasped, the first words either had spoken. Not a question. A grim observation.
Thorelf didn't answer. She *screamed*. Not a sound of pain, but of pure, frozen fury. Her armor *shattered*, revealing skin now glowing with blinding, arctic light. Her hair whipped like frozen whips, and the spear, impossibly, reformed in her hand – now radiating a cold that made the very air scream. She moved *faster*. Xorath dodged the first thrust, the spear-tip shearing off a chunk of his shoulder guard with a sound like glaciers calving. He blocked the second blow, but the impact slammed him backward, skidding across the grass, dark energy flaring defensively. The third strike came – a blur of impossible speed. Xorath twisted, but not fast enough. The spear grazed his ribs, not piercing, but the *cold* seared through him, freezing his movement for a critical half-second. Thorelf's follow-up was a brutal, spinning kick that connected with his jaw. Xorath flew backward, crashing into a marble bench, which exploded into glittering shards. He didn't get up immediately. Blood, dark and steaming faintly in the sudden chill, trickled from his lip. Thorelf advanced, her new form radiating pure, lethal intent. The silent dance had turned into a one-sided beating.
Meanwhile, Zokraks was having a *rough* time. "Okay, Big Z! Let's see if you like *Sour Patch Kids*!" he yelled, launching a **Spectral Lemon** that Veturlidi Hermundsson absorbed like a sponge soaking up rain. "No? How about *Lemon Drop*? *Lemon Meringue Pie*? *Lemon-Aid for the Soul*?" Each spell fizzled against Veturlidi's implacable presence. The boy didn't even seem winded. He just kept advancing, a mountain made flesh, his silent pressure crushing Zokraks' usual bravado. "Seriously, dude! Where's the *fun*? The *zest*? The *how*?!" Zokraks yelped, dodging a slow, inevitable grab that cratered the ground where he'd stood. "I can't *squeeze* the situation if I don't have my *how*! It's like trying to run a lemonade stand without lemons! Or a *hoe*! Wait, no—*how*! Definitely *how*! Ugh, this is *peel*-ing awful!" He was reduced to frantic dodging, more scared squirrel than citrus god, but somehow still *alive* – Veturlidi seemed content to corner him, not obliterate him. "Okay, okay! Truce! I'll throw in a free *rind* with every purchase!"
Wukong, however, was having a *blast*. Oesentious, the smug master, the critic of cosmic vandalism, was getting critiqued *hard*. The Monkey King moved with a speed that blurred, a whirlwind of grey-streaked fury and razor-sharp wit. Oesentious's elegant energy shields shattered like cheap glass under the **Ruyi Jingu Bang**. His condescending monologues were cut short by a staff to the gut that doubled him over. "Still think it's *gauche*, Master Oesentious?" Wukong cackled, twirling his staff. "How about *this* aesthetic?" *WHAM!* A blow to the chin sent Oesentious staggering. "Or *this* one?" *CRACK!* Another strike to the ribs. Oesentious tried a spell – a wave of shimmering, judgmental light. Wukong *ate* it, literally, snapping his jaws shut on the energy beam. "Tastes like *bureaucracy*! Needs more *zest*!"
Oesentious, robes torn, face pale with shock and pain, raised a trembling hand for one last, desperate gambit. Wukong was faster. Infinitely faster. He closed the distance in a heartbeat, his grey-streaked hand shooting out, not with the staff, but with *bare fingers*. There was a sickening, wet *RIIIIP* that echoed across the hilltop, silencing even Zokraks' frantic dodging.
Oesentious's head came free.
Not cleanly. With strings of dark energy and cosmic ichor still clinging to the neck stump. Wukong held it aloft, the master's eyes wide with eternal, frozen horror, his mouth locked in a silent scream. The body crumpled like discarded paper.
Wukong grinned, a terrifying, feral slash across his bloodied muzzle. He bounced Oesentious's head like a stress ball. *Thump. Thump. Thump.* "Who's *common* now, huh? Who left the *mess*?" He rolled the head across his knuckles, the dead eyes staring blankly. "Looks like the *aesthetic* of *this* scene is... *decapitating*!" He gave it a playful kick, sending it spinning through the air. "Better than any *dumpster fire*, right? More *refined*! Like *sour grapes*... but *head*-ier!" He caught it again, laughing, a harsh, grating sound that held no joy, only the brutal glee of the victor. "Tell Sambell I said *hi*! Hope the *afterlife* has better *lighting* for your *critiques*!"
The hilltop was utterly silent except for Wukong's manic laughter and the soft *thump* of the severed head hitting the grass at his feet. Thorelf, mid-swing over the dazed Xorath, froze, her stage-2 glow flickering with shock. Veturlidi paused, his hand inches from Zokraks' throat, his unreadable gaze fixed on the grisly trophy. Zokraks stared, his usual double entendres dying in his throat, replaced by pure, unadulterated horror. Xorath pushed himself up on one elbow, bloodied but his eyes locked on Wukong, not with fear, but with a cold, new understanding of the monster he traveled with.
Wukong scooped up the head again, his grin wider, sharper, stained with grey blood and madness. He held it up, as if presenting it to the horrified universe. "Anyone else wanna *confirm* my story?" he asked, his voice dripping with dark, sarcastic sweetness. He gave the head another playful bounce. *Thump.* The laughter started again, echoing across the silent, blood-stained hill.