Master of the Loop

Chapter 158

Shadows Fall

He was ready--well, as ready as he was going to be. While he could continue trying to mull over his Way and despondently swing away with his sword in vain hopes he might improve, Sylas knew that in order to progress, he'd have to chisel the diamond that he had become. The practice was one thing, but there was nobody in the castle he could spar against while going all out--nobody who could push him to his limits. If he simply sat about and did nothing, not only would his strength never increase, it might just begin to wane. As such, he decided it was time.

It was snowing heavily, just on the tinge of turning into a blizzard. The cold wind was whipping and lashing out like an angry beast, but Sylas stood rooted and calm, his back facing the vast world. Asha’s eyes were stirring with emotion--despite her pleas, he didn’t want her to come, even partway. As such, she grew angry and refused to speak to him. Despite that, her eyes said everything. He smiled faintly before turning around and walking. A pained sigh escorted him, lost in the bustling wind shortly after.

He crossed the vast swaths of the frosted and chilled land with conviction, barely stopping. He’d only brought enough supplies to last him till the village--he knew he’d likely be unable to defeat the Shadow with the first try. After all, he’d only managed to scratch the surface of that man’s abilities. Many more, likely, lay astir within him.

Ignoring the cold, biting winds, he pressed forward and soon reached the frozen river, crossing it and entering the forest. Memories swarmed him; it felt like just yesterday that the pale-faced woman wearing a white dress appeared in front of him beneath that looming rock like a ghost. Yet, it’s already been decades. Time flies, especially when it never moves. It was a strange and eerie feeling and, as such, Sylas did his best to ignore it.

Losing himself in the wandering thoughts, he crossed the forest without even realizing it. Soon, the world opened up in front of him--the plains atop which the village lay sprawled open. It was a day still, with the faint traces of sun occasionally emerging from the gray sky. Sylas didn't bother sneaking in--it was pointless. He wasn't here for information, for scamming someone, for some ulterior motive. It was, instead, the most primal of the reasons: to fight.

Shedding away everything but his sword and the pants, he walked toward the village topless and barefoot. Armor simply weighed him down; whether mail or plate, both were like paper compared to his personal defenses.

It was a strange and loathsome sight--the image of a bearded and long-haired figure walking almost naked in the knee-deep snow, a single sword strapped to his waist leaving dragging marks on the tender, white surface. It didn’t last long, however, since the snow soon began to melt and turn into a churning river. He’d held his breath, but let it go--and with it, his energy began to stir.

As soon as he let go of the breath, he felt something in the village respond--the kind of energy that beckoned death itself shuffled into a muddied shadow that stirred across the landscape and landed just forty yards away from Sylas, causing him to stop. It wasn’t a boy--but the familiar face of the man. Son of Anur, the Shadow that likely had roots with the Empire, and the forefather of many of the sprawling Cults. At least, one of the forefathers.

The man stared at Sylas with an inquisitive look--after all, he was expecting a well-armed vagabond, and instead found a homeless mutt. And yet... that mutt bled energy that even he couldn't ignore.

“Who are you?” the man asked, but Sylas didn’t care for questions or answers, drawing the sword out slowly instead. “Oh? Either the cold had deluded your mind, or you were never clever to begin with.”

“You’re a footnote,” Sylas said calmly. “Behave like one.”

The comment seemed to anger the man, but Sylas didn’t care. He went on the offensive, slashing the sword without any energy. The man easily dodged and lashed out with the dagger, aiming not for Sylas’ life but to cripple him. The latter completely ignored the attack and swerved the fall of his own sword, breaking his right arm in the process to divert the blade toward the man’s heart.

The man shook and shuddered at the sight, quickly retreating dodging the strike. By the time he looked forward, he saw the strange, topless man shake his arm, his bone repaired. Eyes widening, he didn’t even have time to process what he had seen--for the man attacked once again.

Sylas began to stir his energy, increasing his speed. Once again, he ignored the retaliatory attacks, seemingly willing to exchange lives. The blade met its counterpart, and the clash whipped out a ring-shaped burst of wind that caused the water made from the melted snow to disperse, creating a rather breathtaking sight. However, neither of the two men cared much for it--for at the moment of the clash, they withdrew and attacked again.

Bit by bit, the speed increased; Sylas’ technique had improved immensely from when he was mostly swinging his blade around through strength. He aimed at vital points without pause, stabbing toward the heart before using the momentum of the parry to spin, purposefully exposing himself for a strike while slashing toward the man’s neck.

Sylas had already been slashed and cut and stabbed several times, and though his body was dyed red, all wounds healed within the blink of an eye, leaving the man speechless. Similarly, the man had been slashed once, but he had no ability to immediately heal the wound--the most he could do was use energy to form a scab.

Soon, the ordinary strikes began to evolve--with each slash, an extension of energy was ejected, stirring the world.

After yet another clash, the two men made some distance between each other; for a moment, Sylas stilled and took a deep breath, his eyes gleaming in the faint shade of red for a second before he bolted forward once again, this time much faster. He crossed the distance of thirty yards within the blink of an eye, stabbing wildly toward the man’s heart. The latter dipped sideways and let the blade chip his coat, slashing toward Sylas’ throat in want of beheading him.

Sylas grinned, breaking his bones once again to swerve the blade toward the man’s heart. The latter deflected the strike, engaging yet again in the melee bout. Slashing, sweeping, stabbing--the more they fought, the faster they both became. Each clash resounded like a tiny explosion, causing the surrounding area to slowly begin deforming.

The man suddenly vanished, turning into a blast of shadows that skirted backward, dodging Sylas' sweep. Some fifty yards behind him, Sylas sensed a massive build-up of energy, causing him to glance back. There, he saw the man, once again, become that thing. He’d become the humanoid-shaped shadow with blood-red eyes and the spiked crown of blades on the top of his head.

Rather than showing fear, Sylas grinned, the blood in him beginning to boil. This is it, he mused. This was what he was missing, what he couldn’t find elsewhere. The itch that he couldn’t scratch. His heart began to beat--even that ghost he faced couldn’t push him, couldn’t unchain him. But the Shadow... the Shadow did.

The build-up of energy between the two of them was beyond insane--the atmosphere itself experienced the otherworldly change, turning from bone-chilling winter on one end to the soul-scalding summer on the other. Sylas’ skin grew slightly redder, while his eyes danced between sapphire and crimson. Just like the Shadow, he himself seemed less and less human as the seconds ticked by.

The two stared at each other for a brief moment before exploding forward. Two craters erupted at where they stood, with the shower of debris and dust raining upward. They met in the middle, unleashing energy-bolstered strikes, deforming the world. Each time they clashed, another crater was born, in addition to thousands of spiderweb-like cracks sprawling across the melted ground.

They became blurs, intangible things flying about at speeds beyond human comprehension. Were there a mortal eye to witness, it would bleed at the mere sight itself--for what was occurring was not meant for the mortal world. This was... beyond their grasp.

Sylas was cut and stabbed and slashed thousands of times--by now, he had become the Red Devil, dyed from head to toe in crimson. And yet, he was smiling still, not an ounce of pain in his expression. He continued the suicidal tactic, entirely ignoring his defenses and unleashing the barrage of attacks that even the Shadow could not ignore.

His eyes were growing even redder, as though the sight of blood was stirring something primal within him. He felt it, deep down--something awaking and beginning to flow through his blood.

By now, the landscape had turned hellish--canyons and chasms abound were born, as though the harsh rivers and rains had belted the poor dirt and rock for billions of years, unrelentingly. Yet, they hadn’t. It was the work of what shouldn’t be. And it caused Sylas to remember a very, very, very distant memory--when he first experienced the two Shadows clashing. He thought he would never be at that place, and yet... at that place he stood. Now, he was the inspiration for dread too. A thing that shouldn’t be.

“ENOUGH!!!!!” the Shadow roared and the blast of black-laden energy in the shape of a spear knocked Sylas backward for half a mile, causing him to roll over the ground for a good chunk before stopping. Standing up, Sylas whipped his bloodied hair backward and stared at the pillar of darkness slowly ascending toward the sky. The build-up of energy... shit, is this guy intending to carve out a new fucking island? “WHO THE HELL ARE YOU?!!! WHY ARE YOU UNCHAINED?!!”

"..." Sylas merely exhaled. It was a shame--the stop in the fight had interrupted the build-up of the berserk energy within him. He was barely maintaining it, but growing it any further was impossible.

“ANSWER ME!!!!!” the Shadow screamed and unleashed a beam of ebony-dyed energy just past Sylas. The latter didn't even flinch, letting the beam carve out a five-mile-long canal. Jesus, Sylas mumbled inwardly, glancing back.

"Well, let's see how good that thing is now," it has been a long while since Sylas last used Heart's Puncture, the strongest strike he had in his arsenal. He wasn't going to hold back--he was fully intending to sacrifice all his life, just to see how far he can push it. His sword began to stir and cry, as though alive and in concord with his own heart. Bloodbound, they both were.

Lifting the iron-shaven friend, he pointed it at the shadow in the distance and smirked. The energy within him surged boundless, ripping his veins asunder as blood began to coalesce. Three hearts. He managed to forge three hearts--effectively three lives. And he ruptured all three of them at once. Blood-colored pillar flickered for a flash before surging into the sword. The endless energy ripped the world around him asunder, obliterating the land within half a mile of him. And he was yet to strike.

Even from this distance, he saw in Shadow something he thought he’d never see--fear and terror. The black pillar was shaking, but Sylas didn’t hold back. One strike. That was all he had, after all.

He sliced forward a mere inch, and the time stopped. The world froze. The life and death coalesced into one and knelt and begged. But those they begged stayed silent. The world began to bleed as millions of holes opened around, leading directly into the infinite void.

Sylas felt the life leave him, but he endured. He had to see. Had to witness it. A breath later, he did just that--energy blasted out of his sword, obliterating everything, including his body. With the last breath, he caught a glimpse of what he had done--everything, including the Shadow itself, within ten miles of the strike... was gone. Heaven and earth and everything in-between was turned unto itself and beckoned... nothing. Neither life nor death survived. Only silence that predated all.