Fergal's office looked like someone took a fistful of rejection letters, blackmail notes, and old death warrants, threw them in the air, and let them settle wherever the fuck they pleased. Gael could relate the instant the Finger's five bodyguards allowed him and Maeve to step in. He'd found a kindred spirit in keeping his workspaces as messy as humanly possible.

"Neat place," he said, stepping over a heap of burnt wood and filing slips covered in what smelled suspiciously like blood soup.

"Don't touch anything," Fergal muttered from behind his desk, not even looking up. His heavy six-armed frame hunched over a ledger the size of Gael's torso, scratching something out in a rough ink that bled too much. "And go away. We're still in the process of reorganizing our wares and un-burning the place, so unless you have business with me or a bioarcanic elixir that can magically fix our walls—"

"Teach us how to fight."

Fergal stopped scribbling for a second and looked up, backlit by sickly light coming from the giant window behind him.

Gael and Maeve stood side by side in front of his desk like schoolkids awaiting punishment. Maeve looked properly polite—hands clasped behind her back, spine straight—while Gael, on the other hand, was leaning on his cane, already half-asleep, already itching for a drink he didn't have. Cara had insisted he come clean and ask for help like a proper grown-up, but Gael preferred bribery. Bribery had charm.

"What dust do you want, man?" Gael offered, listing items off his fingers while Maeve gave him the nasty side-eye. "I can give you five bags of widow's hollow, a bottle of sanguinelle, five grave-spoons' worth of whispergel, and ten burlack saps of the Brain Destroyer—"

"You're not getting lessons from me even if you offer me dust," Fergal grunted, cracking his neck before returning to his scribbling. "Not my job to teach brats how to swing their arms better."

Gael tilted his head, grinning from ear to ear. "Not even a wee hour? Maybe half of one? You fought off two Myrmur hounds like they were biting gnats. Don't pretend you don't know you're impressively strong for a Bharnish."

Fergal flipped a page. "So? How is that my problem?"

"It ain't. That's why I can throw in an extra bottle of moth flakes for every session you give us."

"Not interested. Get out—

Maeve cleared her throat. "Mister… Fergal. We would simply like to be able to protect ourselves better."

That made Fergal finally look up again, brow twitching. "Protect yourselves from what, exactly?"

"Y'know, general Blightmarch hazards," Gael said with a wave. "Ghouls, taxmen, roaming lovers with axes. My wife here tries to kill me every thirty minutes, so I—"

"This about the Flighty, Plagueplain Doctor?"

"Nope," he lied. "Not at all. Purely self-betterment. Soul-deep urge to be less stab-able."

There was a strange stillness. A suspicious stillness. Of course the Finger was suspicious—anyone would be after getting approached the way he did—but then Fergal's eyes locked onto Maeve, who didn't flinch under the heavy scrutiny.

Then he moved.

One moment, he was sitting. The next, he was lunging at her across the desk. His four spider arms stabbed out in a blur, his human fists coiling.

Maeve's body moved without thought. Umbrella raising, foot pivoting, head ducking—she intercepted the blow with her briefcase a clang resounding through the tiny room like thunder through a pipe.

Gael didn't even really catch the movement.

He blinked.

Fergal was standing in front of Maeve now, fist slowly retracting from her briefcase

"... The Exorcist can fight," Fergal said, looking between the two of them. "Just let her teach you."

Only the Great Saintess knew how hard Gael was about to insist, but Maeve, all of a sudden, decided to bow with her briefcase held before her legs.

"Just because I can move doesn't mean I can train," she said quietly. "I… I'm not suited for it. You are. What I saw yesterday—and just now—you move like a complete unit. You are a worthy man to learn from, and I need that. We need that."

Gael watched her, silent for once. He noted the way her shoulders curled—how deliberate her tone had become—and realized there was shame buried in her voice. Or maybe it was guilt. Whatever it was, she meant every word she said.

And in response to her earnesty, Fergal could only exhale through his nose, rubbing the bridge of it like they were a tax headache.

Then, without looking at either of them, he muttered.

"One hour a day. Roof."

The roof of the warehouse was still scorched from the fire last week. Blackened beams, rusted ventilation shafts, and scattered metal tiles made for uneven footing, and Gael hated every minute of it. Blightmarch's afternoon mist drifted lazily across the roofs, thick and greenish from the alchemical runoff in the canals right next to the warehouse.

If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.

Gael, naturally, had more immunity to the Vile than most everyone in the city, but Maeve didn't, and if they were going to be sweating and panting and breathing more than usual because of intense exercise, he'd rather do it indoors than out.

But I can't really complain about the arena, can I?

He rolled one shoulder, then the other, then cranked his neck till it popped. It felt like something shifted in there permanently, but he could still swing his blade. Maeve stood next to him as well, arms folded, and they both waited patiently as Fergal leisurely climbed up the hatch to the roof.

Four extra spider arms curled and unfolded from the Finger's back like bone-crafted tendrils, each clicking with a distinct tone, and Gael couldn't help but think it sounded a bit like someone shuffling scalpels on a tray.

The Finger said nothing at first. He simply stared at the two of them from across the roof through those stormcloud-grey eyes and cracked his neck loud enough to make Gael wince.

"... Come at me," he finally said. "With everything you've got."

Gael scratched his jaw beneath his mask and glanced sideways at Maeve. "He's serious."

She nodded grimly.

He leaned in a little. "We gonna identify him?"

"Symbiotic Systems are designed so they jam all sorts of identification features used on them," she replied curtly. "Unless he wants us to be able to read his bioarcanic essence saturation and check his estimated attribute levels, we won't be able to see his status interface."

"Bummer. Then what do we—"

"Are you both trembling over there, or should I assume you're stretching?" Fergal said, sounding irritated already. "You only get ten minutes from me today. Make use of it or leave me be."

To that, Maeve whipped out her umbrella without another word and settled into a defensive stance. It was the same posture she always had before cleaning house: graceful, uptight, and murder-ready. Gael sighed, yanked the silver blade from inside his cane, and wobbled it in front of him like a drunk fencing master.

They could say something to each other, but the clock was ticking too loud inside their heads, so they just charged.

Twin arcs across the rooftop, fast and low—Gael on the left, Maeve on the right. It was the simplest combo in the book of jumping a middle-aged man in a moss-infested back alley for his coin pouch: hit the man from both sides and see how he splits his attention.

Unfortunately, Fergal didn't need to split anything.

Two spider arms caught Gael's blade mid-swing. Three more snagged Maeve's umbrella in the same breath. The sixth arm?

It waved at them.

Mockingly.

"You two are physically chained together," Fergal said, voice as disappointed as an unpaid landlord, "and you're still this out of sync?"

Then, with casual elegance, he flicked Gael in the forehead with one free arm. The impact rang through Gael's skull like a cracked bell, and he stumbled back with a grunt. Maeve didn't fare better. Fergal twisted her umbrella and flung her halfway across the roof like she weighed nothing. Her boots scraped the roof as she twisted midair and landed in a defensive crouch, skidding to a stop by the safety railing.

Fergal stood at the epicenter, stretching his neck until it gave a satisfying crack.

"He's the weaker link," he said, staring at Gael. "But that don't mean a thing. Not in a team fight. The whole point of working together is that one covers the other. The strong holds the line, the weak breaks it, and then they switch all the time. The two of you move like strangers at a market stall. You want to learn to fight together?"

He flicked an arm in a lazy circle, beckoning them to come in again.

"Then act like you've bled together."

Gael rubbed his forehead and scowled. Maeve was already back in stance, umbrella spinning once in her fingers like a baton. Neither of them answered. Not with words.

They charged again.

This time, they came in with their own pacing. Gael went in a half-second early, slashing with reckless angles, trying to pressure one flank. Maeve came in after, sharp and clean, jabbing through Gael's openings. But Fergal didn't even backpedal. His spider arms snapped like whips, intercepting everything. Blocking. Trapping. Redirecting.

He fought like water flowing between gears. He didn't move much, but everything around him did.

Piece of shit!

Gael slashed high. Maeve swept low. The spider limbs caught both without a stutter. Then Gael feinted left, circled wide, trying to bait a swing. Nothing. Fergal just pivoted slightly, and when Gael tried to press the angle, a sharp jab from a spider limb caught him in the ribs. Not enough to bruise. Just enough to say 'I saw you'.

It was like fighting a butcher who already had his organs catalogued by smell.

Again. Again. They threw themselves at him, breathing heavier now. Gael's hair was stuck to the inside of his mask, sweat trickling past the broken seal of his cracked lens. Maeve's umbrella hissed open and snapped closed rhythmically, but her footwork was growing choppy, staggered.

Fergal hadn't even broken a sweat.

And when he finally threw them back again with a gentle swat of six coordinated limbs, he exhaled slowly. "That all you got?"

No mockery. Just disappointment like a chef watching a pot boil wrong.

Gael glared at Maeve, chest heaving, ribs sore, blood starting to pool somewhere annoying in his right boot. His cracked lens caught a skewed glimpse of her: hair matted under her mask, face flushed with effort and that overly intense focus she wore like it was sewn to her skin.

She nodded at him, a plan burning behind her glasses.

He nodded back.

Maybe they had the same plan, maybe they didn't.

How else were they going to find out unless they bled together?

Maeve shifted her grip on the umbrella. No longer a dainty parasol or gothic fashion statement—now it was a cannon. She braced the handle against her shoulder and pressed a button, the black fabric flaring open with a slick hiss as the inner glyphs flickered to life. She pressed her thumb against the tiny bloodletting needle on the handle, and Gael heard the prick more than saw it. That wet twitch of blood hitting the bioarcanic grooves.

The umbrella twitched once, shuddered, and began to spin like a humming turbine as heat built pressure behind the seams.

He didn't wait for it to charge up. He burst forward with the elegance of a thrown boot, hurtling toward Fergal like a particularly disgruntled drunkard. Blade out, wild grin in place, he swung with abandon. No form. No rhythm. Just sheer blunt chaos. First a horizontal slash to the ribs, then a low cut to the knees, then a fake uppercut that turned into a real jab that looked like another fake.

Fergal didn't flinch. Didn't blink. Didn't need to. He parried one swing with the back of a spider arm. Blocked the next with a twist of his wrist. Redirected the third by planting a palm on Gael's forehead and pushing him away like a child having a tantrum. When Gael spun around to strike again, he got a solid kick to the thigh for his trouble.

But just as Fergal came in for a punishing swipe to knock him flat, Gael stumbled backward, arms flailing, boots scraping the roof tiles.

And then dropped like a corpse with broken strings, landing flat on his back with a heavy grunt—right in front of Maeve's outstretched weapon.

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.