Catalyst (V)

Cyril twirled the mithril blade once and slashed for Marcel's neck. The flame magician, still flat on his back, could offer little resistance beyond a shriek. He threw up his forearm in desperation, but it wasn't nearly enough.

The blade met flesh with a sickening crackle—mithril cutting deep and true, biting down to the bone.

"Graack!!"

The jolt of pain was accompanied by a surge of electricity—raw power fed by Cyril's rage. With a snarl, he drove the blade deeper, forcing it in with all the strength his non-dominant hand could muster.

Cyril's right arm was unusable, so he did the next best thing.

He raised a leg and brought it crashing down on Marcel's knee, pinning him to the ground with a dull crunch. Now immobilized, Marcel was at his mercy. Even with one hand, the rest was simple. All Cyril had to do… was push.

"Wh–Why you—!" Marcel sputtered the words, blood frothing from his lips.

Cyril didn't respond. He didn't even hear him. Right now, his brain would reject all but one command—a directive that ushered the decapitation of his enemy. Cyril followed through with even more force than before, but this time, his blade gradually lost all traces of resistance as it cleaved through Marcel's flesh.

Before he knew it, his blade had come loose—it had slashed through the obstacle and missed its target by a good few inches. Marcel's neck was unharmed. A moment later, a shrill cry fueled by pure agony erupted from Cyril's opponent. A dangerous amount of his noble blood had been spilt, the crimson fluid sprayed all over the wet asphalt and mixed with the torrential rain.

Through a series of agonizing thrashes and tussles, Marcel freed himself from Cyril's unforgiving pinion. He rolled across the asphalt, spewing a string of atrocious curses and slurs as he clutched at the dismembered stump on his arm.

"Raaaaghhhhh!!!!"

Marcel let out a roar as he clutched the stump of his dismembered arm, now shrouded in putrid vapors lit by the occasional flicker of orange sparks. It was an excruciating method of cauterization, but it worked—at least as a temporary measure to stop the bleeding.

"Cyril… I'm going to… kill you. Even if… it's the last thing I do…"

Marcel spat his malice at him, but Cyril didn't respond. He stood a short distance away, head bowed low in the midst of the lingering white haze.

"…"

Wordlessly, Cyril advanced with his marred blade. His steps were slow but deliberate—each one uneven, his body leaning slightly to one side. However unsteady he appeared, it didn't matter. He kept moving forward, step by step, toward the only thing in his sights: the man he had failed to kill earlier.

"Hrrgh—s-stay back!" Marcel shouted, crawling backward in a panic.

He wanted to run, to put distance between them, but his broken body wouldn't allow it. All he could do was scramble away like a wounded animal, terrified of the silent figure closing in on him.

Cyril hadn't said a word since the clash. With his head downcast, his expression remained hidden—unreadable. But Marcel knew one thing with certainty: the lowly D-rank wanted him dead.

Every footstep sent another pulse of dread through his chest. His heart, already pounding, now threatened to explode.

Am I really going to die here… to someone like this? Marcel wondered. He wanted to laugh at the thought, to dismiss it as absurd—but he couldn't summon the strength or conviction to do so.

Shit, shit, shit, shit… There has to be a way—something I can do…

Just before despair fully took hold, something strange happened.

Cyril stopped.

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He let out a hoarse groan and suddenly coughed up a mouthful of blood. One step later, his legs buckled beneath him. Strength fled his limbs, and he collapsed face-first onto the asphalt—a heap of exhaustion and pain.

"Huh?" Marcel muttered his confusion aloud.

The anticlimactic finish left him unsure of how to process the situation. They were both heavily wounded, but since none of them had stopped breathing yet, this couldn't be called a victory.

Cyril's vision was starting to meld into a haze; everything overlapped in his upturned vision and sounds became muffled. He was unsure of what exactly happened just now, but he could tell that someone was approaching him.

It was Marcel.

He found enough strength to stumble to his feet and made his way over to Cyril's downed body, wielding the mithril blade Ascalon in his hand. The weapon was unquestionably useful, but that's all it was—a weapon.

Under these conditions, he didn't need any kind of proper training or form to get the job done. Marcel was mouthing off a number of curses and vengeful taunts, none of which made it into Cyril's mind. All it had done was annoy his fading consciousness.

Crap....I have to get up.....I can't let them...take it...

Despite the boys tremendous willpower, his body refused to obey—it couldn't obey him. After all, the spot where he fell was slowly being dyed a bright red by the fluid seeping from the numerous openings carved into his body. This was it, he had no strength left.

Surprisingly, his mind managed to decipher Marcel's last words to him on the brink of collapse.

"You failed. Your efforts amounted to nothing in the end; I've already achieved my goal here."

A glint flashed across his fading vision—Ascalon, Cyril's own weapon had been raised against him. It was mere moments away from plummeting down into his skull like a guillotine and sealing his fate forever.

His mind raced, and a myriad of faces flashed through his mind, one in particular was of the very person who had asked him to come here. Cyril felt bitter. He wasn't upset about her request, instead, he was disappointed in himself for not being able to complete this simple favor.

The thought of failing here meant a lot more than just death to him.

Ascalon's blade plummeted for his skull, and right before it could incapacitate him, he heard a voice.

"Enough."

The rain suddenly stopped.

There was a rush of air as though a metal bat had been swung. Cyril couldn't make out what had happened, but before losing consciousness, he registered Alice's figure stepping into focus. Somehow, she had taken Ascalon into her hands, and Marcel's body had vanished — flung further back into the hazy surroundings.

The last thing Cyril heard was a deafening crash. A heartbeat later, the ground shook as a shipping container slammed down nearby, left dented by the absurd amount of force that sent the flame magician hurling into it like a cannon ball. He was a good distance from the container and on the verge of losing consciousness, but Cyril still felt it. The impact shuddered through him the moment the giant container struck the ground — distant and muted as his senses began to fade.

In the haze of fading awareness, he saw Alice kneel beside him. Her lips moved, her voice soft—almost lost in the chaos.

He wanted to ask why she looked so broken, why her eyes were full of guilt. But the words never came. His strength was gone. The world dimmed, and a strange stillness wrapped around his mind, pulling him under.

And then he remembered.

She had said, "I'm sorry. This is my fault."

[Advanced Recollection Complete] Host Designation: Cyril Severin. Status: Operational. Tactical analysis confirms elevated parameters in strategic processing and combat execution. Combat proficiency aligns closely with archived data, showing a Project Lamplight correlation of 97.4%. All previously recorded inefficiencies from Encounter ID: Marcel Phoenix have been resolved, reducing the current threat vector to 23.1%. Readiness state is green, and the host is cleared for secondary engagement. Assessment protocols will initiate after engagement, with further updates pending.]

August 2nd Central Year 119 P.R.E.

"Huh? They have a lead already?" Cyril muttered to himself, rubbing the dreariness out of his eyes. After exchanging contact details with Angelica the night before, he woke up to a long text message detailing all the new information that had surfaced about their upcoming mission together.

He chuckled as his eyes scanned the extremely courteous message, noting its overt, professional tone. It was properly punctuated and filled with elaborate words, and by the end, he was surprised she hadn't capped it off with her signature.

"Do you text everyone like that?" Cyril replied with a message of his own.

"Is there something wrong with the way I text?" Angelica answered with a strange emoji, which only served to prove Cyril's point further.

"No, it feels like you need some practice—but we can work on that later. I've got some things to take care of before I can meet up with you later."

After sending that message, Cyril began stretching his body with a yawn and smiling contently to himself. It had little to do with him getting a good night's sleep and more so his predictions for the day's events.

"Scarecrow, huh? Let's see what he's got."

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