Chapter 25: Two Back to One

Arwyn had to scramble around Level 2 of the keep to cross back to the West's Level 1, though this guard wanted otherwise. Unlike those other men, his spear wasn't the usual lance every guard had access to on their duties.

This one had a new aura. Red, black, like dried-up blood covering gray metal. The spear was as long as the guard's height, and his armor still glistened from some sort of light even when the corridor had nothing but darkness. He wasn't an ordinary guard.

He was a Royal Guard, and a worldwide one at best.

Guards achieve this role by partaking in several wars and competitions with the risk of life and death. They tend to have abilities that most people wouldn't have, whether it be speed or strength, magic or tech.

The guard relaxed his stance, but his grip on the spear tightened, Passion Energy seeping from the weapon like a slow, dark leak. "Delacroix, huh? Haven't seen one in centuries," he said, his voice smooth and low, laced with a mocking edge. He sounded like he was commenting on the weather, not facing down an intruder.

Arwyn's jaw locked. He didn't have time for this guy's games. "Pretty nice, huh? I'm not here to chat." His hand gripped his sketchbook, scar itching under his sleeve, but he pushed the distraction aside. Every second wasted brought the execution stage closer to disaster.

The guard—Marcelo, though Arwyn had no name for him yet—tilted his head, a smirk curling his lips. "Oh, so you think you could just stroll through my keep? Adorable, sketcher." He gave the spear a lazy twirl, the air humming with its weight. "I'm afraid I'll have to do my job and keep the people entertained."

"Prove it," Arwyn shot back, flipping his sketchbook open. But—

Marcelo moved like lightning. One moment he stood still, the next his spear slashed through the dark, a streak of red and black. Arwyn threw himself aside, boots slipping on the damp stone, and scratched a quick sonic pulse into his sketchbook. 

He slapped the page down. A low whump pulsed outward, vibrating the air. Marcelo didn't even blink. He twisted mid-stride, landing lightly, his spear already arcing back toward Arwyn's chest.

"That's a neat toy," Marcelo said, his tone dripping with fake admiration.

Arwyn swore under his breath. This guy was too fast—inhumanly fast. He scribbled again, pencil flying over the page to form a jagged rune. Slapped it down. A flashbang erupted, white light flooding the corridor. 

Marcelo grunted, staggering back, but his spear kept moving, slicing blindly. The tip caught Arwyn's cloak, ripping a gash through the fabric as he stumbled away.

"Hoh! I almost had you," Marcelo chuckled, blinking the glare from his eyes. "But not quite, though."

Arwyn's pulse pounded in his ears. Marcelo's strength and speed were overwhelming—every move precise, every strike deadly. The spear alone felt like it could shatter walls. Arwyn couldn't match this head-on, especially with his poules going dead-low. He needed an edge. 

His gaze flicked to the corridor's cracked stone walls, worn by time. Perfect. He sketched a resonance fork, its serrated tines aimed upward, and slammed the page down—

He couldn't. Three-digit amount of poules left—too low to bring that to life.

His stomach twisted as he shoved the book back into his jacket, mind racing for a new plan. Across the corridor, Marcelo's smirk grew even sharper, with his spear twirling again. "Out of tricks already, sketcher?" His voice slid through the dark, smooth and taunting. "And here I thought Delacroix blood might actually impress me. Disappointing."

Arwyn gritted his teeth, forcing his focus past the Royal Guard's jabs. He had to get around Level 2 of the keep and back to West's Level 1. The execution stage was ticking closer, and Nathaniel and Santina's lives hung on it. 

Marcelo, with his fancy spear and his attitude that'd piss off even Blue-Hair, was just an obstacle. He was a deadly one, sure, but Arwyn had faced worse odds with less… perhaps. He scanned the corridor: cracked stone walls, damp floor, no light but the faint gleam off Marcelo's armor. Not much to work with, but he'd make it enough.

"Keep talking," Arwyn muttered, edging backward. "Maybe you'll bore me to death before that spear gets the chance."

Marcelo's laugh was low and sharp. "I like the ambition." He lunged, spear thrusting forward in a blur of motion, the air humming with its force.

Arwyn dove aside, boots skidding on the slick stone. The spear's tip grazed his shoulder, slicing a thin line of fire across his skin. He hissed but kept moving, rolling to his feet and yanking his Glock from its holster. 

One bullet left. It wouldn't punch through Marcelo's aura-laced armor, but it didn't have to. He just needed a distraction.

Twip!

The shot cracked through the corridor, streaking toward Marcelo's chest. The Royal Guard twisted so fast—too fast, too smooth for the bullet. It pinged off his shoulder plate, sparking into the dark. Marcelo didn't even flinch, just tilted his head with that same mocking grin.

"Really?" he said, stepping closer. "That's your big move?"

Arwyn's chest tightened. No bullets now, no sketches worth a damn with his poules this low. Marcelo's speed and strength were crushing—every move screamed years of war and blood-soaked victories. 

But Arwyn wasn't done. 

His eyes flicked to the wall again, then down to the floor. A puddle of stagnant water glistened faintly near a broken pipe jutting from the stone. An idea sparked.

Arwyn chuckled all of a sudden.

Marcelo tilted his head. "Oh? What now?"

"You like shiny toys?" Arwyn asked, voice tight but steady. He kicked the pipe hard, snapping it free. Water sprayed out, soaking the floor and splashing toward Marcelo's boots. "How about a bath?"

Marcelo's smirk faltered, just for a second. "What's this supposed to—" 

He stopped as Arwyn grabbed a loose chunk of stone and hurled it into the growing puddle. The Royal Guard sidestepped, spear slashing down instinctively, but Arwyn was already moving. He sprinted through the spray, using the water's mist as cover due to its unusually steaming temperature, and bolted for the stairwell at the corridor's end.

Behind him, Marcelo's spear sliced through the air, missing by inches as water hissed against its aura. "Slippery little rat!" he called, voice still calm but edged with irritation. "Do you think this changes anything?"

Arwyn didn't answer. His lungs burned as he hit the stairwell and took the steps two at a time, the damp stone slick under his boots. The execution stage was close—West's Level 1, just beyond this maze of a keep. Marcelo's footsteps echoed behind him, steady and relentless, but Arwyn had bought a moment. 

He'd scrape by on wits and whatever scraps of Passion he had left. Noon was coming fast, and he wasn't letting Nathaniel and Santina down—not while he still had a pulse.

Arwyn flicked his eyes to the watch strapped to his wrist, a beat-up relic from the whole damn trip. Did it even work anymore? He'd never bothered to check till now.

Nope, not a chance. The wormhole jump from Earth to Terra Incognita had screwed it good—gears jammed, face cracked. But as he tore down the hallway, boots slapping wet stone, he caught the second hand twitching. Faint, stuttering ticks echoed in his ears over his ragged breaths. One tick. Then… another?.. 

Nuh uh.

Just pure silence.

His gut clenched mid-stride. The damn thing wasn't just broken. It was stuck, mimicking Earth's time while he ran through this alien hellhole. Every shadow in the corridor stretched longer, every clack of Marcelo's spear behind him sharpened, and that frozen tick burrowed into his skull like a warning he couldn't shake.

Then finally, a stairwell going upwards marked the end of this narrow hall. The portcullis was fortunately open, and above it was a wooden label.

West Level 1.

Almost there. Almost reaching the light of the rising sun.