Revenge

***

Fortunately, the flames around him prevented the worst.

He struck, lunged, and cut through the air. But she countered, each movement a perfect mirror of his attacks. He ducked, struck again. Then he jumped to the side and delivered a powerful kick to her legs. She leapt backward. Even as she spun in mid-air, she threw the spear.

Lyren twisted his hips and dodged skillfully. A second later, she had the spear in her hand again, as if it had never left.

He swung with full force. The strike was diagonal, but she blocked it with the shaft of her spear. Her reaction was extremly fast. She shoved the spear violently aside, let it go, and grabbed his broken arm with a frighteningly swift movement. Then, she simply tore it off.

A bone-chilling scream escaped his lips. The flames that stopped the bleeding couldn't dull the searing pain.

With a confident laugh, she lunged forward. Her long, slender fingers reached for his throat. But in the last moment, he extended his sword arm, the pain in his body unbearable.

Time seemed to stretch. Her eyes widened in shock as she realized what was happening. She was racing straight toward the tip of his sword.

"Damn", the realization sank in for Lyren – he had no strength left. The adrenaline was gone, and his body refused to keep fighting.

Powerless, his arm sank. The sword missed her heart by a hair's breadth.

 *** 

Azrael was more than just content with his blessing. Yet one question haunted him: why was he still alive? Hadn't he already been destined to die?

"Bartho…" His throat tightened as the memory of the blacksmith flashed before him. A wave of leaden dread washed over him. Without sparing a glance at the ongoing battle, he knelt down beside Bartho.

The old man didn't stir. No breath. His body had already grown cold. Azrael stared at him, unable to believe it. "Why? Why does everyone I care about have to die?"

His parents were gone. The blacksmith was now dead too. Who knew what had happened to Lyren? And yet, he was still here.

Something inside him shattered.

Tentatively, almost tenderly, he reached for his new sword. It was the final gift. The last memory of the man who had been like a grandfather to him.

He unsheathed the blade. The hilt was made of dark, almost black wood, and the blade gleamed with a silver light.At that moment, something brushed against his hand. He noticed a folded piece of paper, hidden away. Azrael unfolded it, and the words written on it fell into his hands like an unfamiliar weight:

"Twilight – a sword that saves the good and punishes the wicked. Command: Do not close your eyes to injustice. Ability: Endurance – the bearer grows slower to fatigue and exhaustion. Steel Will – as long as the bearer's spirit is firm, the blade will not break."

"A truly beautiful sword, I will hold it in high regard."

"Pfft, you're supposed to use it, idiot. What do you think a sword is for?" The blacksmith's voice echoed in Azrael's mind as if it had just come from nearby.

Suddenly, he heard someone rise behind him. "What happened? Why was I on the ground?" Bard shook himself, still confused. "Right, there was that person, but what exactly happened?"

"Person?" Azrael pondered. "Does this have something to do with my sudden lapses? They feel... unnatural. As though someone is trying to achieve something through me. Like everything was meant to be from the start."

Thoughts of the Church and the deep mystery behind these events grew within him. "This will be my priority from now on: destroy the Church and find out what's really behind all of this."

"But first..." He turned away from the dead body. "You will die now."

 *** 

The scimitar found its mark just below the heart. In a final, desperate surge, she hurled him through the air, straight into a burning building. But he didn't feel it. Consciousness slipped away from him before he even touched the ground.

The woman watched him with disappointment. Then, she sank to one knee. The madness in her eyes faded, as did the blazing flames flickering around her. She stared silently at the burning village, as if unable to believe the destruction around her.

 *** 

Bard shuddered slightly. The look from the hated boy was so cold that he almost felt like a dead man. Everything about him felt foreign, cold, and empty. Before, he had been fragile, uncertain, almost weak. But now… now he was different.

The atmosphere around him had changed. No trace of emotion left on his face. He appeared as an empty shell, and that only made the coldness around him all the more unsettling.

"Take your sword," the boy commanded calmly. His voice was completely devoid of feeling, as if it were the result of the highest form of discipline.

Quickly, Bard went to his sword, but as soon as he turned away from Azrael for just a moment, the boy was already standing next to his wife. With icy precision, Azrael grabbed her by the neck.

"No!" Bard screamed desperately, the scream shattering the tense silence. But Azrael simply raised his hand and slapped her in the face.

Slap. Slap. Slap.

Several blows later, she slowly opened her dull eyes. "Darling..." she groaned, the pain in her voice so evident that it sounded like a physical attack. Her eyes struggled to focus. Then, she met the gaze of his green eye. It was cold. Merciless.

Boom

Her nose broke.

"Raise your hand if you want to say something," he mocked scornfully.

"I bet my parents weren't as pathetic, were they? What am I even asking, of course not. They probably wanted to protect me even in their last breaths."

With a precise motion, his sword sliced through her thighs. Her two legs dropped to the ground with a dull thud. She screamed. Shrieked. Howled. The pain made her vision blur once again.

"Please, let her live. Fight me, you coward!" Bard roared, overwhelmed by a mix of desperation and uncertainty.

Azrael simply looked at him with an empty stare, as though his words made no sense. "I would love to continue talking to you," he said in an oddly calm voice. "But unfortunately, I don't have the time anymore."

With one last, fluid swing, he threw her body into the air as though she were a mere toy. With a precise cut, he split her vertically in two.

Bard stared at the bloody rain in a rage. "This is the face I wanted to see. Now come and die too. An insignificant death, meant just for you!"

With a wild scream, he charged forward, the sword raised high. A vertical strike rushed down toward Azrael.

"Slowly," Azrael remarked with a nearly satisfied smile. The death of the woman had only further amplified his newfound strength. He felt much stronger than he should be.

At the perfect moment, when the strike was only a few centimeters away, he delivered a precise punch to the sword. It barely deviated from its path. The rush of air from the failed attack brushed through his hair.

Gracefully and with fluid motion, Azrael lunged forward. His sword plunged deeply into his relative's leg. He wanted to see the fool suffer a little.

Bard screamed in agony, the cry echoing through the air. He retaliated with a vertical strike. Azrael easily bent backward, just a few millimeters away from the lethal cut. The wind of the sword hissed past his nose. In a swift, almost dance-like advance, he shot forward, his hand extending rapidly.

With a precise thrust, his index finger plunged straight into the once-powerful man's eye.

"Nice, isn't it?" A crooked smile played on his lips, but the howling giant seemed not to hear him.

"Listen when I speak," Azrael hissed. Bard had no time to resist. In a single, merciless strike, the sword severed one of his arms. The remaining stump gushed a torrent of blood, like an erupting volcano.

 ***

"What a beautiful sight. He really created a fine Vaelthar," the masked man nodded approvingly. He sat on a nearby rooftop, hands folded in his lap, watching Azrael's battle attentively. "The focus is clearly on the swordsmanship. An interesting choice. Using my life force for him was definitely a good decision. It has stabilized and enhanced his strength quite well. Of course, that was to be expected. After all, the command came from HIM."

 ***

Meanwhile, Azrael had taken Bard's remaining arm and began to break each finger with merciless precision. With every crack of the joint, Bard screamed loudly, but Azrael remained calm, almost mechanical in his approach.

With each scream of pain from Bard, he lost his strength bit by bit. The third finger snapped. The fire in his eyes went out. Azrael noticed this and resorted to other methods. With a cold gaze, he slapped Bard a few times across the face, as if trying to break one last spark of resistance.

Slowly, as though it were an insignificant moment, their eyes briefly met.

Azrael raised his sword high, stretching it toward the sky, a triumphant yet almost meditative moment.

"Know this, my dear relative, you are to blame. I will bring about the fall of your beloved church."

With a fluid motion, he brought the sword down upon Bard – like a guillotine.

With a final, heavy thud, Bard's head rolled across the ground as his body crumpled lifeless to the floor.

His vengeance was complete. A final, deep breath, and the calm of fulfillment crept into Azrael's movements. The battle was over and he had won.