The Tournament - Round 5

When Fusala and Witilla dispersed, Barion couldn't help but feel as if this conversation wasn't one he wanted to have. The worried look in Dorma's gaze told him all he needed to know. The two of them had argued about everything when they were younger, but it had always been about simpler things. After several lifetimes of solitude, he had developed a taste for shunting away matters of importance.

"...It's been a while since we were last able to speak like this, hasn't it?" She smiled.

"Is there something wrong?"

"No." She replied instantly, her expression faltering, "Well… yes. I suppose there is."

"Is it to do with Witilla?"

"On the contrary, I've never been more at ease than I am around that girl. No, it's… it's to do with something Shilahi and I spoke about just a few hours ago." She answered, "About your involvement in this tournament."

"You don't want me to fight?"

"...It's a pinch more complicated than that."

"No, I understand." Barion assured, "You're talking about Senpo, aren't you? It bothers me as well."

"It's far too late for me to say something like this, but…" Dorma collected her thoughts, "I've always… detested that fighting style of yours. Whenever we encountered a group of Demons, it was as if you completely lost yourself. You were no longer a man I recognised, just--someone obsessed with nothing else but violence."

"You always did mention how it rubbed you the wrong way."

"But Shilahi… she's of a completely different opinion." She continued, "The girl tells me that the person you become--the person Senpo forces you to be, is who you truly are. That, if you simply weren't constrained by your own emotions and bonds, it's how you would always want to act. Pale is the exact same. She tells me that I am the problem--the single thread grounding you to reality."

Barion didn't answer.

"That-" She paused, "That can't possibly be true… can it?"

"Do you think I enjoy using Senpo, Dorma?"

The sorceress found the answer being caught in her throat. She wanted desperately to reply 'no' instantly, as if to secure her own beliefs, but the unwavering look in Barion's eyes had her silent on the spot. She couldn't discern the truth from him. It left her afraid--wondering if she truly understood the man as well as she thought.

"...I don't know." She admitted.

"See, the thing is--I'm not too sure myself." Barion replied, "For the longest time, fighting was all I knew. I thought that, given the chance to live a quieter life, I would eventually find something else that satisfied me, but even after these five long centuries… there are times when I wish our fight never ended."

"Barion…"

"It's just as Pale says. I hold myself back--not out of some desire to improve, but because I'm afraid of losing people. I don't want to tolerate the reactions of others when they see how I fight, or be compared to some kind of wild animal."

He paused, "Do I enjoy using Senpo? If there was a sword to my throat, I would say that I do. Once upon a time, I used the excuse that it was the only way I knew how to fight, but that isn't the case at all. Truthfully, I love fighting more than anything else. More than this world, more than myself--perhaps even more than you, Dorma."

"...Must you really put it that way?" She asked.

"I don't want to lie to you." He resolved, "The problem is--nothing we ever faced could put up a fight. Whether Demons or Blackguards or Heavenly Kings… I never felt like I was giving it my all."

"-Until you met Manyu."

"That's right…" Barion curled his fingers, "When we met, it was like… I don't know how to describe it… like we had both been placed on this world to meet. When I fought with him, everything seemed to melt away. I felt myself being pushed, giving ground--that had never happened to me before, but instead of becoming frustrated, I was in ecstasy. When it was all over… I almost wished it never ended."

"Is that why you're afraid of participating in the tournament?"

"I've spent all these years trying to solve my problems with words rather than violence. It seemed like I was finally through with picking fights like a child, but the idea of facing Manyu again… even after so long, my blood runs hot just thinking about it."

"...Are you going to fight him?"

"No." He resolved, "Not if you don't approve."

"Oh, Barion…" She couldn't help but smile, "Since when has pleasing me ever been your goal?"

"Doesn't it bother you?"

"I won't deny that." Dorma admitted, "But, hearing both Shilahi and Pale's words… they seemed to truly believe that I'm holding you back--or rather, that you hold yourself back for my sake. I selfishly told them that you simply weren't the man they thought you were, but if what you're saying is true…"

"I don't want you to think that this is your fault. It was my decision all along."

"-But a decision you made for my sake. To please me. Isn't that right?" She asked, "I don't want that… the man I love, holding himself back. I want to see the fire in your heart burning brightly--as brightly as it once did."

"Dorma…"

"You must promise me." She demanded, "-That you will find your own joy before sharing in my own. Because that joyous man… is the one who made my head spin all those years ago."

"Find my own joy…" He repeated.

Those words carried weight. Barion had learned to heed Dorma's advice carefully after more than a few occasions of their lives being saved as a result of it. More than anything, he was delighted that she cared for him so deeply. Senpo had always been his way--but a way he wasn't proud of. The Demonic assault at the Beastkin Summit had awakened him to a liveliness he hadn't felt for centuries. Perhaps that's why he was so insistent about going off on his own.

"Thank you, Dorma." He smiled, "For everything."

"Hm. It's about time I received some recognition for my deeds." She replied, "I jest… but, it pleases me that you were willing to listen to my worries."

"Don't you have a match to be getting to?"

"That's right. And one I'm none too pleased about." She frowned, "Unlike you, trading blows with Manyu was something I took no pleasure in. I've a mind to give up as soon as the match begins, but that isn't what the audience paid to see, is it?"

"-And he won't be showing you any mercy, with how close he is to winning."

"My, I thought that was what you wanted?"

"If you think you can stop him, then be my guest."

"Let's not suggest anything delusional, now. I may be powerful, but this is the Demon King we're talking about."

"Former Demon King."

"Yes, well… being a former Hero hasn't slowed you down one bit, has it?"

…

..

.

As the portcullis rose and shafts of crystal moonlight flickered in the air, Dorma found her mind pleasantly clear of worry for once. The crowd's reaction to her appearance was muted--not quite as vicious as it was when the tournament began, but still thirsty for a bloody spectacle. Or, perhaps the relative silence was one of anticipation. Dorma and Manyu both had proven themselves strong contenders. One could almost hear the sounds of gold changing hands within the encirclement of gamblers and spectators.

Manyu appeared rather pleased as the two met in the arena's centre.

"What a day it's been." He remarked, "-And to think--we've yet to reach the main event."

"Manyu." Dorma began, "Are you absolutely certain that Witilla's story doesn't ring any bells?"

"As I've already said, the origins of Demonkind never interested me. Nor was I concerned about whether or not we were all just pawns in some greater game. I embraced my destiny with pride. Now I rebel against that which granted me my place in this world."

"What do you stand to gain from working with us?"

"Nothing in particular." He answered honestly, "Perhaps I'm like you--just tired. Tired of being alive, of tolerating this world's madness. I succeeded in my goal. The Hero rose from darkness and vanquished me, just as the legend foretold. The world was to enter a golden age, and yet now, it stands once more on the brink of disaster. Had I known that would be the case all along…"

"Do you believe that your own twisted philosophy somehow excuses you from criticism?" Dorma asked, "These people need to stand up on their own, without being led by the hand. Not only did you perpetuate the torturous cycle of the Hero, but you demanded countless deaths to achieve that goal. In what world were you ever doing the right thing?"

"This tired old argument again?" Manyu sighed, "Were it not for Barion, Demons would have overthrown humanity."

"Demons which you had no control over--which would have slaughtered you just as eagerly as they did the innocent." She retaliated, "You knew you were going to fail--that we would defeat you, but even so, you continued to lash out at the world."

"What does it matter if I wanted people to suffer? Tor was a bubbling cesspool of corruption and decay. From the common folk to the gentry to His Majesty himself--all were in need of culling. For the good of humanity, there needed to be a reset. And now that the world is in a better place, I feel ready to protect it."

"You're no better than you were on that day…" Dorma shook her head, "Let's be done with this quickly. I know better than to sympathise with the delirious."

"Gladly."

The Demon King hadn't changed so much--that was her impression of the man after 500 years. The hatred he held in his heart had persisted across centuries. Indeed, without it, she was certain he would turn to dust. In contrast to Witilla, his motives were utterly self-servicing. Manyu's poor childhood was the result of his betters, but unknowingly, he had strayed towards tyranny in order to rectify the world's woes.

As they retreated to far sides of the arena, Manyu took note of Dorma's exhaustive preparations. At a glance, he had identified a number of defensive spells--wards against words of power, weakening curses and antimagic fields. She saw for herself how quickly he dispatched of Yula, and had prepared accordingly.

The trumpets sounded, and for a moment, there was no movement between either of them. There was no reason for a sorceress such as Dorma to relent from incanting as quickly as possible, but for some inexplicable reason, she remained still. Manyu knew it then--that the woman had a plan to defeat him. She wasn't about to simply sit down and allow his victory, as assured as he made it out to be.

There was no use wasting time. Spellcasters could conjure more contingencies than anyone could be expected to remember. The only way he was going to find out was by approaching her.

Manyu's movements were inhuman--he seemed to disappear on the spot, leaving nothing but shunted sand in his wake. As his form careened unerringly towards Dorma, azure sigils appeared under his feet. Imprisoning spells--from simple paralysis traps to dimensional voids, created a vortex of cerulean particles as their effects activated one after the other, failing to entrap Manyu as he bolted towards his opponent.

Columns of dirt rose to obstruct his vision, sending clouds of dust into the air and quickly confining Dorma within a prison of her own design. Manyu didn't hesitate in the slightest, sending a balled fist towards the wall with the intention of crashing straight through. The piercing sounds of ceramics shattering rattled in his eardrums, and as a hole was created in the clay cube, he immediately took notice of the fact that Dorma had already evacuated the premises.

His arm flew backwards just in time to deflect a bolt of magical energy--craning his neck to see a storm of similar projectiles falling towards his position. Like the many rains of a storm, droplets of magic peppered the arena floor, enshrouding the arena floor in a sandy fog.

Manyu's body moved instinctively, weaving between indeterminate barrages of magical missiles and sigils which seemed to cover every square inch of the battlefield, all the while darting his eyes to locate the sorceress responsible. Dorma's assault was purely theoretical--the kind of unrelenting offensive dreamed of by even the most talented of spellweavers, requiring both mastery over the art of incanting as well a powerful enough focus to sustain it.

Manyu's movements, too, were all but impossible. Even if the audience could have seen him clearly at that moment, all their eyes could hope to comprehend would be the suggestions of his presence--piles of disturbed soil and waning vibrations in the air. They understood nothing, but even so, their cheers were unceasing. It was quite obviously a duel shared between sages of their crafts.

In a spare moment, Manyu's fist found the earth, sending a shockwave powerful enough to dispel the rogue winds across the arena floor. His vision scanned the field immediately, understanding without wasting a second that Dorma had more than likely incanted an invisibility spell to confuse him. Delayed spells--concentrations of magical particles hovering within the arena's dome like miniscule stars, descended upon him in an effort to further muddle the former Demon King's senses.

He felt overwhelmed, the first sign of an imminent defeat. A desire to make use of his Dark Magic surfaced, but knowing the futility of attempting to out-cast Dorma, Manyu relented. Her saturation of the arena had overcome even his inhuman reflexes. Stray droplets of blood flew from shallow wounds on his arms and legs--completely superficial, but deadly had their inflictors landed squarely.

His mind commanded him to stop, and for an instant, that was exactly what he did. The world seemed to slow down. A breath caught in his throat. The myriad silhouettes flowing like a wave from the crowd disappeared completely, and with them, the sound of their incessant cheering. All that was left was a presence--the sound of a second heart beating alongside his own.

Manyu leaned down as another sigil glowed to life beneath him, clenching a fist before twisting his body around, sending a purposeful arm directly behind him with extraordinary speed.

Dorma had been smart. She knew that even a glancing blow from Manyu would mark the end of the match, and so had expended every effort to ensure that the man was always questioning her whereabouts. Whether teleportation or invisibility or suffusing the air with so many delayed missiles as to obscure her true location, nothing compared to her admittedly rather simple core strategy--remaining behind the man at all times.

The layered barriers she had conjured to defend herself as a last resort could reflect even the all-consuming beam of a disintegration spell. But she had never created them with any intention of blocking Manyu's strikes. Rather, they existed to guarantee her at least a small chance of surviving a single punch. Raising her staff in a futile attempt at guarding, Dorma wasn't particularly surprised when the thunderous sound of her barriers melting away assaulted her ears, and focused more on simply keeping her balance as she was sent sliding across the entire length of the arena, grunting in pain as her spine collided against the rotunda walls.

A single punch was all it took--this she understood well. And despite her best efforts, Manyu enlightened himself to her plan before the toil of surviving her assault caught up to him. Sorcerers were not known for their ability to withstand damage, even with such powerful barriers in play. At the very least, she was not dead, which was more than she ever expected. She was, however, rapidly overcome by the lull of unconsciousness, somewhat relieved to be free of the pain as she gladly gave herself over to oblivion.

In a blink, the match had been decided. Such was its sudden end that the trumpets would only sound long after Manyu had begun patting his tunic free of dust. Nevertheless, his victory was welcomed with a barrage of cheers that threatened to upset the city from its hilltop perch. Longingly, his eyes graced the audience, seeking out the reaction of a man he had found himself quite eager to meet eyes with. But no such pleasure was gifted to him--Barion was absent from the crowd.