Sorcerer in DC

My limbs whipped out lightning fast—left hook, left, right, uppercut, sidestep, weave, kick. Fop was liquid silver, ducking, blocking, checking, and attacking—just a hitch slower than me.

But what he lacked in sheer speed, he made up for in experience and unpredictability. His feet barely touched the ground, and his longsword was a constant threat.

I twisted, shifting sideways to dodge a descending cut, and Fop closed in with a flurry of kicks that bounced off my forearm. I bore through them, reached up, and snatched his foot. Then I yanked down hard with my considerable strength, slamming him into the ground. He grunted dully before his blade came screaming up toward me.

I leaned back just enough to keep it from cleaving my hand off. His cloak dragged him away, and a whip sprang from it, thwacking against my protective suit—shredding it but leaving me untouched. An assault rifle manifested in my arms, and I let it rip while swaying back to dodge another decapitating strike.

Fop's cloak billowed, cocooning him and deflecting most of the shots. I gawked at the thing while I raised my gun and swung, parrying another sword strike. The rifle didn't survive, and I was driven back. Ten more strikes followed, faster and faster, pushing me back until I caught a breath and parried with a fresh katana and a flash of Overdrive. The katana chipped.

The second strike splintered the blade, and the third shattered it, just as his whip lashed out. It was heavier than the blade, surprisingly, driving me back. A slash followed. I parried with my forearm, losing a chunk of flesh, and stumbled from the next whip strike.

Before I could blink, his blade descended, corkscrewing toward my chest. I waited until the last possible second to dodge, materializing a thick slab of metal just in time. It punched through the metal and pierced my gut—but it did its job. Before he could pull it out, I sent it into my inventory and immediately activated Reversed Cursed Energy, concentrating on my wound as I advanced.

I became a blur, as did his whip. I pinged around the meeting hall—floor, table, wall—before accelerating into a twisting leap.

Fop reminded me mid-leap how his technique worked. His whip struck from an impossible angle, cracking my chest and launching me into the ceiling.

My technique absorbed the impact, but the threshold was closing fast. Another crack. Then another. Five more followed. I tumbled, bouncing off roots and vines, but the whip still found me. Each hit was harder to stomach. The air cried out with every strike.

I dropped a curtain. It slithered out like something eldritch, obscuring some parts of the hall and shielding others.

I vanished just before Fop could launch his sixth strike, landed silently on the table, and leveled my .50 cal straight at him.

The first shot caught him mid-whip—straight in the gut—and hurled him into the wall. The second was aimed at his heart but was partially blocked by his cloak.

The third was about to connect when the world responded. Vines erupted from the ground. The table twisted and contracted around me.

Twin shortswords materialized in my hands, coated in Inverse as I blurred forward, pushing Cursed Reinforcement and Overdrive to the max. Thick limbs of wood and foliage rained down, but I couldn't sustain the effort.

So I took the first opening I saw—swept my arms out—and filled the room with grenades, all with pins pulled.

I slammed into Fop just before the explosion, fist first—and got a rude awakening.

It was like punching a steel wall.

Despite the surprise, I used the first direct Binding Vow I'd ever applied to my technique:

Increase the threshold of Inverse exponentially for the next 60 seconds, in exchange for disabling it for the next 60 hours.

I gritted my teeth as energy flooded me. Sight, sound, sensation—blood pumping like a war drum. I lit up like a bonfire, skin pulsing like a beating heart.

The impact came a moment later—and it wasn't the bombs. A bony knuckle slammed into my jaw, the air cracking around it. My technique nullified the ridiculous power behind it, but I was still shoved back, gasping. My cheek stung.

Fop's cursed energy output hadn't changed. But everything else had. Grey skin, blood-red eyes, bony protrusions, torn skin with muscle fibers showing.

The grenades lit up. Then came the shrapnel and fire. Finally, the sound.

The room was chaos. Distant screams filled my ears. I blinked away the spots in my vision and raised my hand in time to parry another descending strike. I slipped around the third, kicked his knee, wove under the fourth, and cracked his jaw with a counter-kick. He barely moved. His retaliatory stomp shook the ground.

His push kick would've sent me flying, but I caught it, lifted him, and drove him to the floor. It cracked beneath us, and we dropped a story—landing in the massive entrance chamber.

Dozens of guards swarmed in, encircling us. Their eyes glazed over briefly, then they stepped back, giving us room.

Fop took advantage of the distraction. His cloak whipped off, wrapped around me, and hoisted me into the air. I vanished it into my inventory, but it was too late—his knee rose like a piston.

I spun mid-air—only to get spiked into the ground and kicked again. I came up, summoned two daggers, and accelerated forward. I slipped under his overhand swing and slashed across his side—aiming for the liver.

My attack barely broke skin.

Shit. I need more power.

My daggers dug into the floor to anchor me as I plunged a Venom syringe into my thigh. The boost was a drop in a flood compared to what already coursed through me thanks to my vow.

I lobbed a pair of smoke grenades and twisted into the air, circling Fop from the left. I raised a grenade launcher. One squeeze. The room lit up in flame.

Fop yelped and hit the ground three times before stopping. Half his body was covered in third-degree burns.

I descended on him as he landed the third time, producing his own blade, Curse Piercer, and stabbing it into his chest. He shifted just in time. It punched through his left lung instead of his heart.

I vanished the blade before he could yank it free, replacing it with a smaller dagger. I twisted it deep. He roared and grabbed my throat and squeezed, but it barely mattered.

Curse Piercer flashed out a second time—straight through his gut. I pulled back before he could retaliate.

"Eat shit, you fop," I growled.

"It's Ernest, you jackass," he hissed, then flung me across the room.

Huh. That's his name.

I liked Fop better.

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