Renegade Reborn (43 page)

Purah unslung his Soarian Berserker sword from across his back, and planted it point down in the sand, holding it from the handle like a walking stick while Rolce gripped his pole-arm tighter, until his knuckles turned white. The whole arena grew quiet. Not even a cough left a Soarian throat.

“You’re taking this personally now, I can tell. A dangerous strategy,” Purah said, watching Rolce carefully.

Rolce rather than reply with words, replied with his essence. His Naforian essence left him like a raging river from a shattered dam. The crowd stared on in wonder as the hue of green reflected off of everything gold, and cast the entire area in an emerald twilight, but more than that, deep down, the Soarian’s not only felt Rolce’s pressure, but his conviction, his pain, his resolve, and his sorrow.

Even Purah felt his eyes leaving Rolce, taking in the green atmosphere in a stupor of wonderment as a real, genuine smile crawled across his face, and for the first time in a long time, he felt his heart in his chest, not beat, but skip, then hammer, as adrenaline pockets, like abandoned factories, suddenly came alive again, and flooded him with a feeling of elation, as memories, good ones, in rapid fire, rose up in a frenzied collage. The sudden bliss and heightened sense of things, it was enough to almost make him question his chosen side. It was almost enough to second guess Drakearon’s vision . . .

But ‘almost’, was not enough.

Purah kicked the conflicting thoughts aside as if they were little, yappy dogs bounding up and down his leg, and he was back to his numbed existence. Still, such feelings, feelings he had not had since his youth, feelings he thought long dead, they startled him, as he forgot that he was choosing to feel numb, choosing to force such things down into a controllable state, but he knew feelings could not be controlled, only managed. Those were the rules, rules, that needed to be changed in order to get the perfect peace he craved, and that’s when a realization hit him. No matter what, win or lose, in the end, the results would be the same. Perfect peace, either through death, or Dreakaron, would be his, and with that, Purah Brennan, found his resolve.

“You’ve grown up, Rolce. I still remember the timid, unconfident boy I met on our walk through the woods that night in Heaven’s Shelter. Look at you now. You’ve embraced who you are and what you want, and that’s given you immense power. I was so afraid this would be a slaughter, a one-sided fight.” Purah said, as he grasped the handle of his Talon sword tighter. “At least now, I’ll have to try . . .”

Purah ignited his Soarian essence in an outright explosion. It was uncontrolled, it was unbridled, it was every Flarian critic proved wrong. Air, could be just as dangerous, as fire . . .

Purah channeled his essence up and out, hitting the golden ceiling in a twisting, heated tornado, before it drilled up and out through the roof and into the black sky, all while hot, blobs of thick, molten gold and steel rained down atop the crowd.

Rolce, not about to let it hit anyone, raised his polearm to the sky, and began spinning it, catching the molten metals in a net of his own essence and reverted them into cold, pea sized solids that bounced harmlessly over the crowd, but his work wasn’t done yet. Now, Purah’s tornado spun faster and faster, throwing blasts of yellow energy every which way, forcing Rolce to compensate by forming his green essence into various shields, catching, and stopping them from hitting the onlookers.

“PURAH! THIS IS BETWEEN YOU AND I! STOP THIS NOW!” Rolce ordered, righteous fury emblazoned in his green lit eyes.

Purah looked at him for a long moment, then, the spinning yellow storm halted, reversed itself, and spun back downward, back into Purah’s blade as he activated the compression technique, and within moments, the yellow tornado was gone, and Purah’s blade, veins, and pumping heart, all glowed so brightly, it was as if Rolce were staring directly at the sun. Rolce, with no choice, rose green essence over his eyes in the form of sunglasses in order to drown out Purah’s brightness. If he didn’t, Rolce would have died on the spot, for it was then, while Rolce blinked, Purah made his move, appearing before the young Sybil, his big sword raised, and coming down at an angle, threatening to cut him in two, but Rolce’s reflex training from Jackobi, kept him alive.

With a yell, and one arm, the Naforian Renegade threw all of his weight and essence forward while hammering one end of his pole-arm into the ground for a base. The sword connected with Rolce’s grounded staff solidly, sending painful vibrations all the way up his right arm, into his shoulder and down his spine. He knew it was foolish to attempt a one armed block against a two handed strike, but he had no choice. It was all he could manage with the speed at which Purah moved and struck.

One more messy block like that, and my arm will come dislocated! He’s got more essence than me. That much is clear. If only there was some way to put him on equal terms
. . . Rolce thought, as he fought through the pain. He then compressed his essence into his weapon as well, gripped his staff with both hands, and swung the bottom of it out of the ground toward Purah’s head. At the last possible moment, Purah managed to duck, but Rolce still managed to take away a layer of hair and skin off the right side of Purah’s head. A well-aimed shot to be sure, but too slow for the veteran eyes of Purah, who now, in his ducked position, held the advantage as Rolce was still riding the velocity of his missed swing.

Purah, like a charging ram, went head first into Rolce’s groin.

It was a dirty blow, and Rolce felt like a fool for not seeing it coming, but then, strangely, through the sparkles, and blurred vision, he saw the image of a tree and thought of the day Gisbo had punched him in the face, and how it had brought out a sudden, loss of restraint, just long enough that had given him the power to face his fear, and crush the head of a snake with his bare hand. Rather than ignore the oncoming pain, Rolce instead let it fill him up, as he searched for that feeling once more, that loss of control through the rising, clouding pain, found it, held on tight, and let Purah have it.

In a grunt of displeasure, the sparkles in front of Rolce’s eyes ceased, as he sucked up the gut-wrenching feeling from the groin hit, held his breath, spun his pole-arm to gain velocity, and brought the tip of it down, right atop Purah’s exposed ulnar nerve, or, in layman’s term, the funny bone. The strike was precise, and Rolce heard the satisfying sound of a literal, SNAP, fly from Purah’s arm before it hung as loose as a soaked noodle. Instinctively, Rolce was spinning the back end of his pole-arm now, ready to follow it up with a combo, but Purah rolled forward, then past him into a somersault, and came up behind him, but rather than fly forward on the attack, he stood still, and gazed down at his injured appendage.

“Look at it,” Purah said, as Rolce spun about. “Useless . . . I thought I was fighting a Nazarite, not a Shininja.”

“You can thank Jack for that.” Rolce said.

“I assumed as much.” Purah said, as he ripped off a piece of his robe and made a makeshift sling for his deadened arm, tied it, then pulled it tight with his teeth. “But, my ulnar nerve wasn’t the only part of me I exposed. Vitals were exposed as well, and rather than take a killing blow, you chose a crippling one.

I see your line Rolce . . . I see your limit . . . even now, you let me patch up my arm so it doesn’t flail about embarrassingly. I’m sorry, but this fight’s already won. I know what you’ll do, because you’ve made it clear what you won’t. ” Purah said, grinning, as he bit off the slack in the tie of his makeshift sling, raised his Berserker sword with his good arm, and pointed it straight at Rolce as if it were weightless.

“Tell me I’m wrong,” Purah said. He blinked once, and this time, it was Rolce on the attack. Purah had just enough time to raise up his sword and the two compressed weapons made contact, exploding residual yellow and green energy straight up. They stood there, dead locked, pushing and weighing one another’s strength through gritted teeth. Rolce with two arms and Purah with one. Even at the disadvantage in leverage, Purah managed to push Rolce back and curved his blade so it fell down the side of Rolce’s pole-arm, scraping up a series of sparks and heading toward Rolce’s right shoulder.

Rolce, barely enough time to respond, swayed his body to the left as Purah’s blade, rather than hit his shoulder head on, only caught a piece of him, flaying off a layer of skin from the high spot of his right arm.

With a blade so big, Rolce expected Purah’s blade to throw him off balance. No such luck. Purah, a master Soarian Berserker, knew how to ride with the momentum, use it, and come back stronger than before.

Now on solid footing, Rolce shifted his weight forward and held his staff in a ten o clock, four o clock position, and met Purah’s spinning, wild strike with his own body weight and gravity. The strike reverberated through his whole skeletal frame, but more than anything, he felt the strike in his brain. He saw white particles dance before his eyes, knew he had to direct the pain elsewhere or risk passing out, and decided on the former by biting the corner of his tongue. The pain, like an opposing force, canceled out his haze, refocused him and also gave him a weapon.

As Jackobi instructed, when someone vied for your blood, sometimes, it was best just to give it to them . . .

Rolce spat his blood straight at Purah’s eyes in a red, salty, stinging mist. It didn’t hit Purah’s eyes directly, but it did force him to close them out of protection for a moment, and a moment in a duel to the death, was worth its weight in life. He brought the bottom of his pole-arm upward, and hit Purah solidly in the kidney, but before he could push down upon the organ, and pierce it, Rolce felt an explosion of pain in his mid-section and felt the wind leave his lungs. He couldn’t help it. He buckled over and it took all he had just to remain on his feet, and then, to his horror, he realized Purah was spinning again, and before he knew it, the Berserker blade was flying in a downward arc, ready to behead him. Rolce knew he couldn’t block, counter, or dodge in his hunched, paralyzed state, so he did the only remaining option.

He attacked himself.

In a desperate, dangerous maneuver, Rolce held up his left hand, palm outward, over his chest, enacting an energy barrier, then, with his right hand, palm opened toward his chest, he fired a blast of powerful, green essence at himself and felt his heart, literally, stop in his chest as he flew backward across the ring. To the onlookers, it looked as if someone had tied a rope around his mid-section and hoisted him backward, just in time, as Purah’s sword hit the ground in a yellow explosion of air and sand with a SHOOM!

Rolce lost control of his essence as he collided, back first, into the wall on the outer edge of the arena, but he didn’t have time to catch his breath. Quickly, he punched his heart with a hammer fist, over and over, trying to get it beating again.

Nothing.

Only a few seconds had passed, but already he felt numbness creep up his right arm and climb up his neck. He was going into cardiac arrest. He fell down on all fours, feeling as if an icy, steel blade was embedded in his chest, felt his throat swelling shut, and felt the numbness spreading throughout his body. He had one more chance, just one, and knew that this time, the strike would either kill him, or save him. He twisted his fist around, ring first, and fired at his chest, sending him back into the wall with such power, it lifted him back up onto his feet.

It came as a whisper first, then a pitter, then a patter, and just like that, Rolce’s heart came back alive, firing on all cylinders, as he fired his essence back up in a roaring burst of green, much to the delight of the crowd. Across from him, Rolce saw that Purah was on the move again. He had seconds, maybe half a second to recover. Every inch counted now. His wind hadn’t yet fully returned to him, but he had his essence and his heart beating again, and as long as those were working, he could call upon his greatest weapon.

His mind.

It was time to use the ability. Purah had given him no choice. It was time to use the Sybil skill, Mind Rush, an ability that allowed him to fire off neurons in his brain at an incalculable rate of speed, which would grant him literal mind over matter, causing his perception of time to increase so dramatically, that everything around him would slow to a near crawl. He needed time to think now, to plan his next move wisely. One misstep, would mean not only his life, but the lives of Thera itself . . .

Ok, Rolce, calm yourself and think. What was that? You hit him, and yet, it felt as if you were the one to take the blow . . .
Rolce thought, watching now as Purah flew at him in slow motion. He studied him carefully, watching his feet hover a foot off the ground, watched the way his body moved, looked for anything that might reveal a weakness and found none. Purah’s body was leaned forward, at an angle, and his sword was held out in front of him ready to provide him an absolute defense, counter, or attack at less than a moments notice.

Rolce wracked his mind for something, anything he could use, feeling so helpless, so young, so alone, when suddenly, he heard it, a voice, a voice he hadn’t heard for a very long time . . .

His Class Master, Moordin Grandir,

“When someone has earned the right to be called a Naforian warrior, they are not just masters of earth, but masters of life itself. What makes a Naforian so dangerous is not their raw power, but rather, it is their ability to manipulate their opponents in the way he or she can attack, defend, counter, or even flee by controlling the very ground they stand upon, or, fly over. If there is no opening, Rolce, then, what does a Naforian do? They make one!” Moordin said. And as quickly as the voice had come, it left him, and was replaced, with another.