Liron flailed with his arms. He knew what a hawk experienced when rushing towards its prey. But its control while flying he didn't experience. And he would never experience anything beyond this if he didn't save himself.
Liron's momentum carried him over Kupferrang, but gravity claimed him once again. And as it did, he started to descend. A house wall had his name carved into it. The last details missing were his pulverized bones and guts. Liron had lost the blinding speed that he used to attack Adenius, but he would die on impact with the house.
Moments away from death, Liron had one idea to escape certain death. He winced, searching for any other option. With Sister Death knocking on his door, he had no time to think left. Liron pointed his blade at the house, casting an avalanche of smoke at it. Clouds of dark devoured the house. Liron strained under the amount he shot out.
As he was about to touch the smoke, he blasted his knife out of his sword. He coated it in embers, igniting the clouds. The explosion was fierce, tearing half the building apart. The shockwave slammed into Liron. Any negative property born from his spell either had no effect or a lessened one on him. He would not suffocate while drowning in his smoke, nor would he feel the heat from the flames kindled by his embers. The force of his explosion never broke his body into pieces as it should, but it would hurl him forward.
The shockwave didn't cause Liron harm, but being trapped between two forces did. His insides flared up, rattled as his velocity came to a painful halt. The strength of his explosion wasn't enough to negate his momentum, but it slowed it down enough for Liron to survive as he collided into the torn remnants of the roof. He rolled over bricks, having lost all sense of being.
Only as he stopped, tasting the dust of what he had broken, did he realize he had made it. Liron pressed himself upwards, regretting it immediately. He coughed up blood, rattling. His stunt had given him a thorough beating. But unlike usual, his aching came from his innards. Like a parasite had crawled under his skin and had devastated his every organ from the inside. With each motion, another punch was delivered to him. To simply breathe, he had to focus on nothing else, overcoming a mountain. His body seemed to refuse, his lungs having fainted long ago. And once he did succeed, he found nothing but another peak ahead.
The climb became easier with each new victory until he could breathe without issue. Liron collapsed and rolled onto his back, reveling in the sweet taste of air. One he had earned. Angin was right. He had become sturdier, or otherwise he would be in a different state. The elixir was working, or Liron might have lost consciousness already.
He watched the sky, minutes passing before he had the strength to sit up. More wasted on several attempts to stand up. Liron tested his legs, jumping to test their capacity to perform again. He had asked much of his body already, but the battle had only started. Liron stretched, groaning at his aching muscles. But it brought them relief. The one he needed so he could move out again.
Liron walked around the destruction he had caused, standing at the roof's edge. Smoke amassed under his feet, and he summoned embers around his hand. He could have activated his explosion with a slash of his blade. But he had to learn to move his embers without his Conduit. He closed his eyes, sensing sparkles around his fingers. Smaller and less intense than his smoke, his ember required a delicate touch. One he could not develop in the middle of battle.
A faint whisper, and the embers moved, plunging themselves into the smoke, igniting it. Liron hurled through the air, reaching the nearest roof. He had minimized the force of his spell to land, but he had overestimated himself. As his feet brushed the bricks, he lost control, kissing them as fiercely as a lover.
"Fuck me," Liron moaned, fighting himself on his legs again.
After a few tries, he did manage to leap from roof to roof without painting his face in the red dust of the bricks. He focused the embers on his pointy finger, aiming it down at his feet. His explosion would become the core of his strategy in the battles to come. That Liron could figure. He needed to hone them, letting them become as natural as blinking. And returning to his friend offered him the perfect opportunity to do so.
Liron entered a state of absolute concentration, enabling him to run over the roofs, using his explosions to boost his jumps. The potential of this spell made him grin. The sky was the limit when it came to the scale he might unleash one day. But the thought alone of strengthening these simple motions, providing them with speed and ferocity they shouldn't have otherwise. His old aches aged out of his mind, forgotten to the cruel hand of time. Only his sprint mattered, bolting through the sky. He would become someone to respect, and he would turn the Empire into his footstool.
But the image of deviling Harras' chosen into a mere object seemed to summon one of its defenders.
The Wrathling had no inclination to surprise Liron, roaring as it leaped at him. Liron was running on a roof, jerking towards his attacker. The berserker raised both fists high, slamming them down next to him. Shattered bricks showered Liron. He covered his head from the fragments. The Wrathling ripped his hands free, transitioning the motion into an uppercut aimed at Liron's chin.
Liron had yet to recover from the shock of seeing the berserker. He must have followed him, using the explosions as a method to pin him down. Liron summoned his black blade, holding it in front of him. He coated himself in smoke, hoping it would dampen the blow.
It didn't.
Eisenrahm had raised him to be a bastard. Liron never shied away from a fight. Emma's and their mother's scolding be damned. Nothing better than putting an ass in his place. He had taken his fair amount of beatings, too. But he had never felt such a punch.
The Wrathling's fist bashed into the black blade. Liron jumped backward, trying to minimize the impact. The vigor in that uppercut tore him from his feet, belting him away. Liron tumbled backwards, sliding over the roof. He turned his sword back into a knife and rammed its tip into the bricks, the blade scratching over them as he came to a halt.
This haymaker had rocked his world, his vision spinning. It echoed throughout his being, howling out his resolve. Not allowing him any break, the berserker dashed towards him. His legs couldn't carry his massive body alone. He relied on his arms, leaning forward to use his hands for running, too.
Liron hammered his knife's pommel into the roof, pushing himself upwards. He wouldn't die here. Not by the hands of a bloody Empire puppet. Whatever ailment he had fallen victim to, the thought of surrender silenced it. He would rather peel off his skin before he would bend the knee to those that had wronged him. His previous success lingered fresh in his mind. He wanted to add another to them. Up until now, he had never fought alone and never bested an enemy without help. Today, he wanted to make the Wrathling piss blood.
Matching the berserker in his scream, Liron rushed towards his enemy, smoke flying off his sword. He ducked below a wild swing. The crying air let him taste what holy power fueled the warrior. But it also told him that the warrior's mind was deaf to reason and strategy. Without a master to steer him, the Wrathling had no inkling of technique, flailing around without thought.
Liron delivered an upward hau. As before, his Conduit failed to cut, but it marked the skin with a red bruise, making his enemy flinch. He left a trail of smoke behind, intending to use it to drown his opponent as before. But the Wrathling responded with blinding speed. Liron evaded the first strike, but the second he didn't. Instead of punching with the other arm, the berserker transitioned his missed attack into a backhand slap.
All that Liron could muster against the Wrathling was bringing up the hilt of the blade. This time, he couldn't jump back. The slap hurled Liron off the roof. He burst through the closed window of the opposite house. Splinters of the wooden shutter peppered the living room as Liron crashed through it, breaking a table and two chairs. He collided with a bookshelf, books raining down on him.
Muscle spasms tormented Liron, not one spot left untouched. He coughed up more blood, staining his shirt with it. A gash on his forehead painted strands of greasy hair crimson, too, pouring down his face. He wiped it away, pommeling his legs until they followed his orders. He freed himself from the wreckage he had caused as the Wrathling sprung towards him, tearing through the wall.
Blade in hand, Liron ran away, the berserker close by. In a close space without knowing the layout, Liron couldn't show his back to his enemy. He stumbled backward, countering each savage attack that came after. He had learned his lesson, expecting the warrior to switch up his movements. Back and forth, they exchanged their best. Liron hit the berserker each time, but he did not once penetrate the density of the warrior's musculature, covering him in red lines. The Wrathling didn't hit him again, but the fear of it grew with each missed punch or slap. It gnawed at his mind, building panic inside him.
But with each hau of his, Liron left behind a trail of smoke. An echo of his slashes. He didn't ignite them, though. Not yet.
The house they fought in had belonged to a lesser highborn family. It had suffered the same fate as all buildings in Kupferrang. All that was beautiful about it, the signs of the ones that lived here and made it into a home, broken and scattered. Yet they paled to the destruction that Liron and the Wrathling left behind. Every piece of furniture still intact, smashed or cut. Holes covering the walls. The house bore witness to their dance, crying out in pain as they moved from room to room. Down the staircase to repeat the same torture yet again.
Liron's eyes twitched as they made it to the first floor, panting. In leess than two minutes, they had reached this point. But Liron had discarded everything beside the fight. He had forgotten his name, why he was battling this berserker, and nearly how to breathe. His stance and the few haue he knew became engraved into his very soul, never to be separated from Liron. The constant concentration had ravaged his mind, twisting it dry like a wet towel.
That and the trails of smoke he had cast. Dozens, hovering where he had left them. With this, he had all he needed.
Liron coated his chest in smoke as the Wrathling clasped his hands together, raising them high. He wanted to hammer him down like a protruding nail. Before he could do so, Liron ignited the smoke on his chest. The explosion did little to the Wrathling. It elicited a faint cry from him. And only because it hit the many bruises covering the berserker, outnumbering the golden veins glowing on his skin.
Liron had yet to master the manipulation of his explosion. The more delicate control escaped his grasp, but shifting the brunt of the force was something even he could do. He redirected the majority of the impact towards him, flinging him backwards. He crashed through the back door of the house into a garden. A small idyllic spot to retreat from the hecticness of the city. In its heart, an apple tree stood, carrying fruits to the fullest. They would have fondled every mouth lucky enough to taste them.
This would never happen, as Liron slammed into the tree, letting them all rain down into the grass, where they would rot. Having faced his third collision, Liron's consciousness began to leave him behind. He would have embraced the sweet release of slumber if the house didn't collapse.
The Wrathling had weakened the once-home thoroughly in their clash. One push, and it would give away. And as Liron had ignited the smoke around his chest, it had sprung over to the end of the trail next to him. The explosion was carried throughout the house. Each hau left behind became flames, rupturing all around it. On their own, they would have failed to bring down the house. But combined with the wounds inflicted by the Wrathling, they spread the damage, eradicating whatever stability was left behind.
Liron blinked, having forgotten his plan. Dust drowned the garden, engulfing the tomb he had created for the berserker. But as Liron's view cleared and he saw the ruin, he noticed the wreckage moving. The bastard still lived, but even his strength wouldn't allow him to free himself any time soon.
While no clean victory, Liron had taken out the Wrathling. A considerable feat. One that should earn him a little break. However his sister waited.
Liron groaned, standing up. He stretched his back, popping it. He picked up an apple, taking a bite. This battle was far from over.