Catalyst (III)

Marcel's vitriolic remark had no effect on Cyril. Instead of reeling from the words, he fed into them, his lips lifting into a small grin as he glanced behind him, allowing the fallacious idea to surface in his mind.

I can use this, I doubt he knows how durable these things are. Cyril thought to himself, deciding to embrace the crafty idea.

"You talked up such a big game earlier, but you still haven't managed to land a single hit on me. Now that we're here, you can't fire anymore of those fireballs, can you?" Cyril added, pointing at him with a calm certainty. His eyes narrowed as he slowly turned his head, allowing the smile on his face to deepen with the gesture.

It was nothing special— all Cyril did was briefly glimpse at the transformed vehicle looming mere inches from his back, the very same one that contained the pod his opponent was so fixated on.

An ethereal light manifested around Marcel's body, wrapping him in a nimbus of power. "Please." Marcel scoffed, "If the rain can't save you, what good will that do?" he growled, willing another swirl of flames to converge above his palms.

"You don't have the upper hand anymore—the biggest advantage magicians have is their range, and now that's gone out the window. Unless you want to blow this this thing to pieces, you need to close the distance to attack me, and that's when I'll cut you down."

"You—a D-rank failure is going to cut me down? Hah. I'd like to see you try." Marcel hissed, the flames swirling above his palm condensed into a spiraling ball hot enough to scorch the air itself, but his opponent was unfazed.

His spectacular taunt had failed.

Although he dwarfed Cyril in terms of sheer power, the scales were not in his favor with regards to anything else—skill, experience...nothing. It was practically impossible for him, a person that solely relied on his power to torch opponents from a distance to successfully bait his polar opposite with such an empty threat.

Never before had Marcel needed to use any clever tricks or risky strategies to score a victory. Virtually all of his triumphs came simply by him defeating his opponents with an overwhelming show of force—up until now, that was all there was to it.

Nothing more, nothing less.

However, the situation was different this time. Now, he was up against someone willing to use every means at his disposal to emerge victorious. Destructive power, casting times, attack patters—nothing would escape the D-ranker's sight. Cyril couldn't hope to match Marcel in terms of sheer power—if the situation had been different, he would have probably been done for.

Cyril glanced up at the dreary skyline, smiling as he wiped away the thin bead of blood gliding down his forehead. "I take back what I said about the weather, this isn't so bad after all."

He steadied his stance, angling his blade in preparation for a counter.

"We'll see about that. Burst casting is quick, but you still have to siphon thermal energy from somewhere—and all this moisture in the air is making it harder for your spells to take proper form."

Cyril narrowed his eyes, his stance widening. "This smokescreen isn't simply here to blind us. You also need it to buy time—time to build up your power."

"....."

In an instant, a wave of bewilderment and rage washed over Marcel's face. Caving to the strange mix of emotions, he advanced.

"Even if I were ten times weaker, I'd still have no problem dealing with the likes of you!" Marcel flung his arm behind him, the same one exerting control over the flaming sphere. Without warning the ball of fire burst open, unleashing a torrent of flames that propelled him forward like a rocket.

He crossed the five-meter gap in a flash—siphoning the remnants of the blast, he extended his flaming palm towards the young swordsman. A devilish grin splitting his face as he inched closer. Marcel's win condition was simple; he only needed to make contact and that would be it.

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That was all he needed to incapacitate Cyril.

The difference in their magical output would render Cyril's aura meaningless, Marcel's scorching grip of death would tear through its layers and the hellish heat would scar him down to the very bone.

"Die." he muttered, swiping after Cyril's face.

He had swung for his target, the orange glow from his hand reflecting spectacularly off the pod's frosted glass...but that was it. Aside from the falling droplets, Marcel's hand didn't touch a thing—not even close. By the time he finished winding up that telegraphed attack Cyril had already vanished, he crouched down low and darted out of sight, landing right in Marcel's blind spot.

"What?"

The next thing Marcel knew, a faint glimmer of mithril flashed at the edge of his vision.

"Hggh!" Cyril sprang to his feet, pouring every ounce of strength he had into a diagonal swing. Ascalon tore through the air—but before it could reach its target, a blast of flame from Marcel's glowing hand hurled him out of range.

He was flung sideways, skidding across the wet asphalt like a skipping stone.

"Damn it, he avoided a fatal wound." Cyril cursed, flicking the smear of blood from his weapon. He didn't waste any time, lunging after Marcel almost instantly. Judging by the distance Marcel's body crossed, barely an ounce of control had been at play when he fired that blast. It was simply a reflex action, the only way for him to survive the slash that almost cleaved through his neck.

A normal blade wouldn't have been very effective against his aura, but artifacts forged from mithril could counteract that to a certain extent.

Finally, Marcel's wild tumbling came to an end, and he sprang to his feet without even taking note of the blood oozing from his throat.

The first thing that overlapped in his spinning vision was the image of his opponent sprinting breathlessly towards him. Normally he would have been furious over what just happened, but the emotion he felt was totally unlike the wrath he was expecting.

A smile returned to his face once he took note of one crucial detail—if Cyril was coming after him, then it meant that there was no longer any need to hold back. He took aim once more, this time forming both arms into a spherical shape.

"Fool. This time I'll definite—what?!"

Stunned, Marcel hesitantly looked down at the grimoire in his hands—only to realize he was holding less than a quarter of it. All that remained was a small cluster of pages still clinging to the spine, as if the entire tome had been cleaved cleanly in half.

Impossible....is this what he was aiming for the whole time?

Reality caught up to him, a series of splashing sounds signaled the bullish footsteps closing in and dispelled his brief moment of shock. Marcel muttered a short chant that ignited a spiral of flames in his hand, he spun his body, winding up for the discharge but it was too late.

"Ignis Iac-Gah!"

Cyril's blade was faster, the mithril sword—which had been thrown—easily stabbed through Marcel's palm before his words could fully form. The sheer force behind the sickening impact made him stumble back a bit, stifling the scream that threatened to tear free from his throat.

He let out a howl of pain, gritting his teeth hard enough to crack his molars, but unfortunately, as he was succumbing to the overwhelming agony of a sharp blade slicing into his skin, he was struck by an even greater misfortune.

Cyril arrived in no time, disregarding the agony coursing through Marcel's veins and instead choosing to go on the offensive immediately. Marcel threw up his free hand and unleashed a blast of fire to counter the incoming onslaught, but it was a futile endeavor. Cyril ducked under the incoming arc of flames without stopping, he pushed further into range and deflected Marcel's hand, completely neutralizing the spurt of fire that uselessly missed its target and shot out into the rain.

It all happened too fast for the magician to process, the next thing he knew something struck his jawline with incredible force, then the sharp sensation of pain intensified where his hand was pierced. Cyril had taken hold of Ascalon's hilt, driving it in deeper before plucking it away and winding up for a downward slash.

"Raagh!!" Marcel flipped himself over on the asphalt and slammed his palm into the ground, channeling a burst of strength the moment it made contact. The asphalt cracked and warped from the force, the resulting shockwave blasting Cyril and his opponent apart in opposite directions.

It didn't take long for Cyril to counteract the force of the shockwave, using his momentum, he skillfully initiated a series of backflips and maneuvered himself to his feet, but this time he held off on dashing forth immediately. Numerous factors contributed to his hesitance, it was partly because of how heavy his breathing had gotten and all the wounds he'd sustained up until now. They were doing no favors for his stamina, but more importantly it was the sudden shift in the air around his opponent that made him decide to withdraw.

Even if his grimoire was no longer usable, now that there was some amount of distance between them, the scales tipped again, and Marcel's biggest advantage was slowly beginning to return.

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