Darlington watched the orb and could do nothing.
It floated in the center of the battlefield, that sphere of absolute darkness, absorbing light like a wound in reality itself. Inside it, Lancelot was somewhere trapped, transforming, becoming and Darlington had no way to reach him.
His frustration mounted.
For the first time since this nightmare began, since the park, since the pops, since the white void he couldn't control anything. His game of chess had been taken from him. His pieces were moving on their own. He was disconnected, utterly and completely, from the world below.
"No," he muttered. "No, no, no."
He tried one more time.
He looked at the orb really looked, pushing his perception beyond its limits, straining to see what was happening inside. His vision pierced the surface, just slightly, just enough
Darkness.
Not the absence of light. Something deeper. Something that ate thought itself. His mind was covered in it, swallowed whole, consumed without warning.
For a single point in time, Darlington was disconnected from himself.
He didn't exist. Didn't think. Didn't be.
Then, as suddenly as it had come, the darkness receded.
Darlington gasped a ragged, desperate sound. His hands invisible, formless, but his clutched at nothing. His heart pounded. His thoughts raced to reassemble themselves.
"What" His voice cracked. "What was that?"
The darkness had been in him. Had grown in his heart for those terrible moments. He could still feel its residue, cold and clinging, like spiderwebs across his soul.
Then it disappeared, and his mind was blank. Empty. Normal again.
"What is this?" He stared at the orb with new eyes fearful eyes. "It's dark. I can't understand it."
His hands clenched.
"I can't control it." The admission tasted like poison. "I can't control it, and I can't understand it."
He looked at the orb at the piece he had so carefully cultivated, so patiently guided. The knight who had been his only hope in this godforsaken realm.
"This is bad." His voice was small. "My piece... Lancelot... have I lost you?"
Silence.
Then, stubbornly, desperately:
"No. It has to be something else."
He forced his mind to work to analyze, to categorize, to understand. The three abilities Lancelot's blade had shown: Connect. Curse. Hype. Each one unique. Each one terrible in its own way.
"So this has to be..." He thought back to every legend, every myth, every story he'd ever read. "The fourth ability."
A transformation ability. It had to be. One that depended on the greatest of human emotions the one each person reserved deepest in their heart.
"Everyone has the greatest emotion they reserve," Darlington murmured. "Perhaps for him..."
He looked at the orb, remembering Lancelot's grief, his rage, his pain.
"His greatest emotion was malice." Darlington's voice was quiet, awed. "One of the darkest emotions of the heart."
He pondered this, his mind racing through implications.
"A transformation... derived from the deepest and darkest part of the heart."
He itched his hair a human gesture, meaningless in his formless state, but comforting.
"What would Hyacinth say in this moment?" The thought came unbidden. "What would my stupid, brilliant friend say?"
He closed his eyes, and for a moment, he could hear Hyacinth's voice in the comic book store, pushing up those fake glasses, speaking with ridiculous seriousness.
Even if you're weak, adopt the mindset of a god. Only when you think as a god can you become one.
Darlington opened his eyes.
"The darkness you will be born from, Lancelot," he said, his voice hardening with resolve. "I will control it. Descend to the deepest part of darkness and rise."
He stared at the orb, willing his words to reach inside.
"I shall be the light you see when you rise."
His attention was torn away.
The battle between Percival and Zeraled had reached a new intensity. Darlington's eyes snapped to them, his analytical mind immediately cataloging every detail, every movement, every possibility.
I will gather knowledge, he thought. Knowledge of war, of battle, of techniques. And I will place them upon you, Lancelot. When you rise if you rise you will have everything I've learned.
Below, Percival stood in his attack stance.
The sword was still in his chest a grim reminder of the cost of this fight. Blood soaked his tunic, dripped down his legs, pooled at his feet. But his stance didn't waver. His eyes bleeding, dying eyes. remained fixed on his opponent.
"Your not so fast anymore, are you?" Percival's voice was calm, almost conversational. "Or is it that you've burned out?"
He was mocking him. Testing him. Pushing.
Zeraled stared at him from across the blood-soaked sand. His ear was gone a ragged hole on the side of his head. His jaw hung at an unnatural angle, broken but not beaten. Blood covered his face, his chest, his everything.
Then he laughed.
It started small a wet, gurgling sound from his ruined mouth. Then it grew, became something larger, something mad. He covered his face with his hands, his body shaking with the force of it.
"I'm not fast?" He laughed again, the sound broken and beautiful. "Not fast?"
He lay down on the ground actually lay down, sprawled on his back, staring at the grey sky.
"Do you even know what you're saying?" His voice was quiet now, almost peaceful. "I'm fast. I'm the fastest there is."
He turned his head to look at Percival.
"All my life, I've had only one purpose. One goal. One reason." His eyes burned. "To become the fastest."
He got up.
Slowly. Deliberately. He placed both hands on the ground, settling into a runner's stance low, coiled, ready.
Percival frowned. "What are you"
"According to all laws of the universe," Zeraled interrupted, his voice taking on a lecturing tone, "the human body is limited by its weight and its shape. It cannot move beyond a particular speed without being ripped to shreds."
His muscles began to contract.
"That same law" His veins bulged, visible through his skin, a roadmap of straining flesh. "is what you have broken. Broken beyond what human eyes can see."
He continued contracting. His body changed not growing, but shrinking. Compressing. Becoming denser, tighter, more.
"And you are willing to break further. Even beyond."
His form continued to shift. His already-small frame reduced further, muscles compacting into something almost inhuman. His face twisted with effort, with pain, with ecstasy.
"So let me break free!"
He yelled a raw, primal sound that tore across the battlefield.
"Then I shall go beyond speed! I shall become the fastest!"
He disappeared.
Not moved. Not dodged. Disappeared. One moment he was there, crouched and coiled. The next nothing.
Then he appeared.
In front of Percival. Inches away. His hand extended, fingers shaped into a blade, aimed directly at Percival's throat.
Percival saw him.
His enhanced eyes his dying eyes tracked the movement perfectly. He saw Zeraled's trajectory, his angle, his intent. Every detail was clear.
But seeing and reacting were different things.
His body couldn't keep up. Couldn't move fast enough to counter. The blade-hand was coming, and he had no time, no time, no
I'll take it, he thought. I'll take the hit. And then
He attacked.
His spear swung not to block, but to hit. To strike Zeraled's head even as Zeraled's hand struck his throat.
THWACK!
The spear connected.
Zeraled's head snapped sideways. Blood sprayed.
But his hand his blade-hand kept coming.
It pierced Percival's throat.
Not deep Percival's attack had thrown off his aim, his angle, his precision. But deep enough. Deep enough to hurt. Deep enough to kill, if given time.
They stood frozen for a moment, locked in mutual destruction.
Percival's voice, when it came, was a wet rasp through his damaged throat.
"This..." He coughed blood. "This is the fastest I've ever seen."
Zeraled grinned through his broken jaw, through his missing ear, through the blood that painted his face.
"This..." His voice was barely a whisper. "This is the fastest I've ever moved."
They looked at each other.
And neither of them felt joy. Neither felt triumph. Neither felt the satisfaction of victory or the despair of defeat.
What they felt was something else entirely.
Growth.
In this moment in this single, terrible, beautiful moment they had both become more than they were. Percival had pushed his technique beyond any limit he'd ever reached. Zeraled had shattered the boundaries of his own body.
They didn't enjoy the battle.
They enjoyed the becoming.
Above them, Darlington watched in silence. His mind cataloged everything every movement, every technique, every sacrifice. Knowledge to be stored. Knowledge to be used.