The ground shook again.
Hastur rolled to the side just in time.
Rust's fist struck the spot where his head had been a second earlier.
Nothing happened.
Hastur frowned.
"...That lag again."
He sprang back up, stepped back twice, arms raised.
Low stance.
Stable center of gravity.
Open guard.
Basic martial arts fundamentals, simple, effective.
Rust smiled.
"You dance well. But it won't change anything."
He struck.
Hastur blocked the blow with his forearm.
Clean contact.
Half a second passed.
Then—
The remanence burst out.
His arm bent violently with a sharp crack.
Hastur choked back a groan.
"—Tch!"
He stumbled backward.
His arm hung limp.
He took a deep breath.
"COPY: DETERMINATION."
The pain vanished.
Not the damage.
Just the suffering.
He looked at his arm, moved it slowly.
"...Okay. So the problem isn't the strength."
He looked up at Rust, more focused this time.
"It's the timing."
Rust raised an eyebrow.
"Oh?"
Hastur suddenly pivoted, using a circular step, struck with the flat of his foot.
Rust blocked without difficulty.
No effect.
Then—
The remanence tried to trigger.
But Hastur had already pulled his leg back.
He slid backward, smiling, slightly out of breath.
"Hah... I figured something out."
Rust froze.
Hastur got back into guard, his stance more precise this time.
"You don't add a hit."
He took a step to the side.
"You stop the impact from finishing its work."
Another step.
Observation.
Angle.
Breathing.
His eyes gleamed.
"RECORDING: remanence phenomenon."
Rust clicked his tongue.
"Tch."
He sped up.
A rain of blows.
Hastur took them, deflected, fell, got back up.
Sometimes too slow.
Sometimes caught off guard.
"—Whoa! Okay, that one was ugly!"
A blow pierced his guard.
He flew backward.
The ground struck him.
Then the remanence.
His body convulsed violently.
But he got up anyway.
"COPY: DETERMINATION."
He spat out a bit of blood, then smiled.
"Seriously... you're hell to analyze."
He advanced.
This time, his movements changed.
Short strikes.
Deflections.
Using the opponent's own weight.
"COPY: Martial Arts — Gooki."
Rust stepped back.
"..."
Hastur's blows weren't trying to hit hard.
They guided.
Redirected.
Forced Rust to move.
To never strike the same spot twice.
On the ground, Rastaban groaned.
He painfully pulled himself up, leaning on one knee.
His eyes fixed on Hastur.
"...Hah..."
He smiled despite the blood.
"Hastur doesn't just copy."
Rust turned his head slightly.
Rastaban continued, his voice hoarse but firm:
"He learns from what he copies."
Silence.
"He's the best student there could ever be."
Hastur, at the center of the fight, laughed nervously.
"Hey... stop putting that kind of pressure on me."
Rust clenched his fists.
His body vibrated.
The Anima trembled beneath his skin.
Hastur's breathing was short.
His legs were shaking.
Rust had vanished from his field of view.
— Behind him.
Too late.
Rust's arms closed around him like a vise.
A perfect hold.
Locked in.
No immediate escape.
The remanence was already vibrating.
Hastur smiled nervously.
"...Okay, this is really bad."
Rust brought his face close to his ear.
"You held out longer than expected."
His Anima climbed a notch.
The finishing blow was about to come.
— STOP!!!
The voice cracked like a whip.
Everything stopped.
The remanence dissipated into the air.
Rust froze, eyes wide.
"...What?"
Jean-Marc stepped forward, arms crossed, feigning severity.
"Rust, you're disqualified."
Silence.
Then anger.
"What?! Why?!"
Jean-Marc cleared his throat.
"Well... uh..."
He looked away slightly.
"Because you didn't follow the rules, that's why."
Rust gritted his teeth.
"What rules?!"
"Get out of the arena."
A long moment passed.
Then Rust released Hastur roughly.
He left the arena dragging his feet, sulking like a child.
"This isn't fair..."
As he crossed the boundary of the marine arena, a low voice called out to him.
A staff member, under their breath:
"The boss didn't let you finish because he wanted to fight himself."
Rust stopped dead.
The voice continued, bitter:
"If you had won, there wouldn't have been a third duel."
A bitter smirk crossed Rust's face.
"...Tch."
The voice concluded:
"And you know our boss. He always wants the spotlight on himself."
Rust clenched his fists.
Then smiled.
A dangerous smile.
Meanwhile, at the center of the arena, Hastur remained standing, still dazed.
He looked at his hands.
Then at the exit through which Rust had disappeared.
"..."
An interrupted fight.
A victory with no taste.
And a tension that had only shifted targets.
A heavy silence suddenly fell between the two groups; there was a win on both sides. The final fight would be decided between Harvey and Jean-Marc.
Jean-Marc whistled, his horse galloped toward him. Efa watched the animal's majesty. He jumped and landed squarely on the horse. Harvey, with a cold, controlled stride, said: "Let's hurry and finish this."
Jean-Marc: "You don't mind if I fight on horseback, do you?" he said with a sarcastic laugh. "One more thing—would you tell me your name?"
Harvey: "Harvey..." Then, without a trace of pride, "Lapis Lazuli."
The whole guild was stunned.
Kantan: "Lapis Lazuli!?"
Marine: "You're done for, boss!"
Jean-Marc: "Silence! You must be the vice-vassal Harvey then—perfect."
An aura began to envelop the surroundings. The horse reared up on its front legs and struck the ground violently. The horse's eyes suddenly turned red.
And our protagonists sensed it immediately: it's dangerous!
Harvey made a sharp gesture with his arm and said: "Crown of Frost "Silver Ground""
The whole ground turned to ice, along with the horse's hooves, which got trapped in the ice.
Harvey: "Phew..."
Then the mood suddenly shifted and became almost comedic. Jean-Marc, drenched in sweat: "Ahem, ahem..."
He got off his horse and went to fetch a bag from a small chest.
He held it out, embarrassed and sweating: "Sorry, we don't have 100 coins, but 50 coins should be enough."
And so our group came to meet the Guild of Myth Creators.