Pain.
That was the thing that pulled Elijah back.
He had sunk into a turbid semi-consciousness from the moment he fully transformed, watching the entire fight but barely registering it and allowing his innate powers to act on their own, better than his overthinking mind ever could have commanded them.
Still, something had wrenched him back.
That wasn't supposed to happen.
He knew the limits of power that form contained. It was why he did not fear to step in the ring with a fighter who had already completed her second growth phase and had the backing of a great clan.
Only his master, Atafa, had ever forcefully wrested him from that form, and he knew for certain that she wasn't that powerful.
Even more curiously…
He stood up in his ragged trousers, running his hand across the wound on his chest that had now been mostly sealed.
Even more curiously, was the fact that he was certain that she still had no weapon.
And yet…
That was a sword, he said internally. Of that, there's no doubt.
Every weapon had its character, and one who had truly experienced them would never mistake it for another.
He had received a sword slash.
Perhaps the purest one he had ever received.
Yet his opponent was unarmed.
He smiled, something feral creeping into it as he met her gaze.
"So this is the depth of the great clans."
A cough seized him.
Something thick surged up his throat—heat and iron—and he spat out freely. A small gout of flame burst from his lips along with a dark, clotted mass that hissed as it struck the ground.
His breath hitched once.
…She had reached his lungs.
How pernicious.
"No wonder you dared," he said, his voice steadying. "Still—it's not enough."
He watched her chest rise and fall. Her deep red Aura had dimmed considerably.
It was clear that reaching for the sword had been quite the feat.
Hmm. I guess running away is no longer an option.
He hadn't merely chosen the full transformation because of its power but because it let him fall into the darkness.
The idea of killing went down easier if he did it as a hound, not a man.
It has to happen this way, it seems.
He admired the resolve of his opponent and desired to honour it by his consciousness—he would not let the hound in him do the dirty work.
Yachit's rough breaths kept her grounded.
Yes, she had touched the sword.
But it was a mere glimpse.
Her breath was the evidence of this.
All cultivation was in the breath.
The rough inhalations and exhalations didn't speak of a person who had embodied the sword and was in harmony with Heaven and Earth.
She coughed out some blood suddenly, falling to one knee.
No, there was no perfection in this.
She had overextended herself.
Not good enough!
At this, another star rose above and exploded, bathing her in its stellar brilliance before leaving a renewed fighter in the ring.
"This is the special ability of my cultivation technique, Crimson Sea of Stars," she began to explain, holding her breath as she spoke and letting it out in one deep push. It seemed like this was some sort of breathing method to orient herself after such explosive depletions and recoveries.
Elijah noticed but didn't make any moves to interrupt it. He was curious about the technique too and would feel guilty for cutting a dead woman short.
"By extensive cultivation, I am able to store Qi in the stars you see manifested in my galaxy… Theoretically, I could extend this to every single one, but even the great elder Akila, who developed this technique, was said to be limited to 144, and, as you can see, I'm limited to a mere three."
"You're far more powerful than when we last met," he said. His voice did not hold any congratulation in it.
"However you achieved this," he said dryly, "you're throwing your life away."
"Fighting you without it would have been the same as throwing it away, no?"
"You could always forfeit; I won't pursue it if you don't."
She did consider it for a moment. Not so much out of fear like she had earlier, but out of pragmatism; after all, she had already partially achieved the sword which she had been chasing after. It could be considered a half-victory.
"No," she said after a while, shaking her head. "This life isn't worth anything, I still have something I must reach."
He sighed.
"This is why you can't win." Claws and fangs manifested instantly, describing cruel curves as they extended from his person. "This life is worth everything."
Yachit stomped the ground and arrived before her opponent instantly.
Her fists flew like as many bullets, leaving the thunderous crack in their wake every time.
The Lycan mostly stayed astride the pugilistic flood, though, dodging and riding the current coolly, her actions mostly transparent to him. Suddenly, a punch he had dodged with a slight backwards motion of his head seemed to blaze as intense heat struck him dead-on.
He summoned a cloud of sulphuric smoke and obscured the path of her follow-up before dashing at her and grabbing both her arms just above the wrists.
Suddenly, his palms glowed red hot and ate away at her Aura.
She wasn't the only one who had grown in the span of this fight, tapping into his hound form had allowed him to more fully control the power of the furnace.
Before she could pull away, he struck her just above the knee which saw her crumple with a sickening crunch. He arrested her fall with a knee to the face and then dug his claws into her shoulder.
He looked down at her and raised his hand but instead of a lethal blow, he flung her away with a backhand.
"Yield."
He wasn't going to repeat himself again.
She spat out some more blood and didn't answer.
Her Aura had waned but that single bright star was still visible. She plucked it from the cosmos forcefully and crushed it in her palm.
The scarlet flames engulfed her once more.
She struggled back to her feet in her now tattered uniform and looked at her opponent unrelentingly.
"You're out of stars," he said dryly, his eyes wandering about the ruined arena as though he had lost interest in the opponent before him.
She did not answer, but instead tried to regularise her breathing once more.
"Why push yourself this much?" he asked in irritation.
She stretched her lips out in a stubborn line, at first determined not to speak anymore. After a while, she sighed.
If this was to be the end for her, what was the point of holding on to this?
She ripped off one of the badly burned sleeves of her kaftan to reveal a deep set of grooves just below the crook of her arm. He knew comparatively little about the customs of this world, but he was very aware of the darkness that ran beneath the waters.
Tribal marks.
A staple of intra-race conflicts, these were made on captured enemies when they were sold as slaves in order to keep record of the tribe or clan they had originated from.
"Hmm."
He didn't know what to say to that.
He'd had his share of suffering but couldn't speak to that.
"Master Busa saved me," she said wearily. "This life is nothing because it's borrowed. My real life has long since run out… For his sake –"
Her words were cut off by a serious cough, and blood spilled out from between her fingers as she tried to suppress it.
She didn't need to say anything, though. Perhaps her experiences were too distant for him to share in exactly, but he knew what it was like to be given a life anew.
He said a silent word of gratitude.
Suddenly, the air was charged with a peculiar energy.
He looked at her with some surprise before bowing.
"Congratulations on your breakthrough."
She looked down at her hand and mouthed a humble thank you.
"I couldn't have done it without you."
Yes, at this final moment of life and death, baring her heart out to an opponent she had bled with, the young Troll had finally let go of the constraints in her heart and could now be said to have grasped the edges of the sword.
It was imperfect, but it was hers.
She looked at him and said that she was ready.
"I'll end it quickly then."
He pointed a single claw out, and it glowed white hot.
She said nothing else and instead charged at him.
He observed the phenomenon he hadn't had the opportunity to fully account for the last time.
There were no visual manifestations, no flashy transformations. Her fist, covered in its red glow, was the same one he had since become familiar with, and yet it was a sword.
He sighed internally and made to be done with it.
What an admirable warrior.