Catalyst (IV)

"Haah...You'll pay for that..." Marcel growled, "I'll...make sure of it..."

He clenched his bleeding hand and grit his teeth hard. All of the sudden, a thin orange glow began manifesting around his body, building upon its brightness as the nimbus of power grew and expanded, cracking the concrete beneath him and swelling up to its maximum capacity.

Is this his raw output? That's insane!

A number of alarms went off in Cyril's mind, warning him of what was to come once the swirl of energy coiling around his foe subsided. His premonition proved accurate—Marcel's aura erupted into a fearsome mantle of blazing flames that scorched the asphalt and churned the air around him. It was an impressive display of power, but Cyril remained unfazed.

Magicians couldn't rely on brute force alone. Summoning large surges of mana wasn't enough to win a fight. Magic demanded structure—hence the need for chants and artifacts. Without them, most spells fell apart before they could even take form, unless the caster possessed an innate, precise understanding of every component in the spell.

Without that structure, tossing around raw mana only led to quick exhaustion. That was why Cyril decided to remain calm. After losing his grimoire, Marcel's options were limited to freehand spells—basic applications like the one Cyril had already brushed aside.

The flaming spectacle didn't last very long, once the mantle of heat wrapping around Marcel reached its apogee, the flames sparked with an even greater radiance— the surge of power swelled to its maximum, and then....the flames disappeared, vanishing as though they had been doused by something unseen.

That was how it looked, but Cyril felt differently, he could clearly feel that something was off about his opponent. A thick blanket of steam stretched out in all directions around them, lazily drifting through the empty container yard. If not for the rain adding weight to the vapor, it likely would have lifted by now—just like the explosive sounds from earlier, which had all but faded away.

Cyril took a step back, hesitant to make his next move.

The fog was still obscuring his visibility, but even then, he could still see it—the heat spilling out around Marcel. From where he stood, it looked as though Marcel's form was being bent and twisted out of shape from a distortion in the air.

What's he up to now? I can't get a good read on him anymore.

Marcel raised a hand, and at that, Cyril took another two steps back, fearful of what the gesture signaled.

"It's time you learned your place. I'll make you pay for underestimating me." No sooner had he made the bold claim than Marcel wound his arm back, as if about to throw something, before swinging again.

The air stirred.

This time, there was no fire, sound, or any kind of fancy theatrics. All he did was a simple, direct lunge with his hand—a move which seemed to have held little significance. Cyril felt a slight disturbance in the air, and while he had a vague inkling as to what was going on, he couldn't catch on to it fast enough. All he saw were faint ripples moving through the air—seemingly harmless, but they'd soon prove anything but. By the time he realized, it was far too late.

Suddenly, a stinging wave of pain flowed into him. Starting from his face, it felt like he'd just been struck by a bolt of lightning. Within mere fractions of a second, the agony began to spread, and only then did Cyril finally dive out of the way on instinct.

"Gaaaagh!!!"

Crashing into the wet asphalt, he thrashed about, clutching his face and rolling in agony. A faint sizzling came from his rain-soaked clothes. Within moments, his uniform began to release white trails of condensation and smoke—for no apparent reason.

The instant Marcel swiped his hand, it felt like Cyril's entire body was being roasted alive, even though there hadn't been a hint of fire.

What was that? What did I get hit with?!

No answers came. All Cyril knew was that his vision had been cut in half—one eye was sealed shut—and a good portion of his body was now scorched with dark brown marks: burn spots from whatever attack Marcel had just unleashed.

"Tch. Too far huh?" Marcel spat, clicking his tongue scornfully. "I told you the rain couldn't save you. At its core, fire magic boils down to the manipulation and transfer of thermal energy. Did you really think you could beat me just by taking advantage of the weather?"

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Wearing a baleful grin, the flame magician's eyes gleamed with cruel delight as he watched the downed boy—his face now scarred—slowly rise to his feet with renewed determination.

"Come on, Severin. Use that speed you're so proud of, attack me again so I can roast you alive."

"Hah… Damn it…" Cyril's chest heaved out of sync. He had lost sight in one eye, and though the pain had dulled slightly, he could still tell that something was deeply wrong with his body. Even now, a burning, electric sensation gripped him from the inside out.

Braving the agony, Cyril clenched his jaw and forced himself to focus—opting for analysis over blind rage.

The weather? Oh....I see. Thermal convection… A wave of pure heat. That's it. He used the moisture in the air as a funnel—to transmit thermal energy directly into me.

Fire and water were opposites by nature, and water wasn't typically a great conductor of thermal energy—but that balance could be tipped under the right conditions. Marcel had exploited that perfectly. The flames he conjured earlier hadn't been extinguished… they'd been suppressed. He redirected all the thermal energy that would normally generate fire, compressing it and releasing it in a single, focused direction. The surrounding moisture couldn't absorb the surge fast enough and was superheated, transmitting that burst of raw thermal energy like a wave—scorching everything in its path.

I can't get close like this...he'll just discharge another heatwave as soon as I get near him.

Cyril clutched his sword again, doing his best to ignore the blood and the burns left by the searing wave that had overwhelmed him. His mind began racing for answers, each one failing to meet the requirements he needed to prevail.

The situation seemed untenable—a gap that skill alone couldn't close. The five-meter space around Marcel had been transformed into a 'domain' of sorts, the heat spilling out from him filled the surrounding air and moisture with a surge of thermal energy and forced them to expand.

The result was a scalding mass of hot air that formed a bubble around him, scorching anything that came too close within seconds.

Cyril's blade trembled in his hand, rattling out of sync with his ragged breathing. The thought of retreat was becoming more enticing by the second, but it wasn't an option he was thrilled to take.

If a certain saint saw him in this condition, she would have ordered him to fall back immediately. However, he found it incredibly difficult to simply walk away from the situation. After all the work that saint had put in to return victorious with her spoils from the Genesis gate, he couldn't bring himself to simply turn tail now.

Nobody had asked him to do such a thing, and yet he still decided to stand his ground anyway, even going so far as to affirm his conviction.

"Like hell I'm going to let you steal it from her..."

Suddenly, Cyril's one open eye sparked with a realization.

If he's heating the air around him to protect himself, then isn't that just a convection current?

The dots connected, and within moments, Cyril resumed his stance. Watching him recover made Marcel flinch slightly. The steaming air around him was no easy barrier to breach—but maintaining it was just as difficult. The greatest drawback was how severely it affected his own breathing. In that regard, he was no better off than Cyril.

Without a grimoire at his disposal, Marel's offensive options were limited. Heating the surrounding moisture was probably the best he could do right now, and if Cyril found some way to get past that, his chances of victory—as well as survival —would begin to dwindle.

Cyril leaned forward, leading with his right leg, and blasted off. Midway through the rapid movement, Marcel reacted—this time swinging both arms to unleash all the energy he had stored around him. The air—subjected a sudden pulse of thermal energy—expanded violently and transformed into an invisible wave of devastation that surged outward at high speed.

But before it could reach him, Cyril anchored himself. Using the momentum he'd built up, he channeled every ounce of force his body could muster—and let out a powerful roar.

"Haaah!!!"

What followed was a powerful vertical swing, fueled by strength far beyond that of any normal human. Ascalon's blade tore through the air—literally. The strike was so forceful it created a sharp distortion in the air pressure, leaving behind something like a vacuum. A powerful gust of humid air was sucked in, tracing the path of Cyril's swing and surging forward like a tidal wave. It collided head-on with the wave of devastation Marcel had unleashed.

Under normal circumstances, Cyril wouldn't have been able to exert that much force into his strikes, but this was different. Fueled by adrenaline, it was an all-or-nothing attack that came at the cost of dislocating his shoulder.

The clash between Marcel's scorching thermal wave and the whistling mass of humid air erupted with a sharp, sizzling sound, breaching the space around Marcel and tearing through the wall of hot vapors protecting him. A low, muffled pop followed—an audible sign that the fragile equilibrium had finally been shattered.

Marcel's eyes went wide with shock once the rush of cold air breached his defenses and pushed him back. Dispersing the wave of thermal energy in all directions was a mistake. Although it acted as a wall capable of scorching anything that got too close, it also meant that the expanding mass of vapors would weaken significantly the farther it traveled. If an influx of cold air was sent hurtling in, the wall of heat was easily displaced—and breached.

By the time Marcel realized his error, a familiar silhouette had already come swooping in. Up until now, he was having a hard time just catching his breath, but luckily for him Cyril could no longer rely on his speed to catch him off guard. His dislocated shoulder, alongside the burns and other wounds he'd suffered in the past hour were finally beginning to take hold.

Marcel scuttled backward as Cyril charged, tripping over his own feet in the process. Even though his opponent was clearly at his limit, dropping his guard now could be fatal.

Cyril closed the distance in an instant, barreling forward with reckless speed and no concern for his limp right arm. Ascalon rested in his left hand—not his dominant one, but under these circumstances, that didn't matter. He only needed one good swing.

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