Menma VS Garrick

Garrick stood silently on the thick branch of the old pine tree, unmoving, like a vulture waiting for its prey.

The wind tousled his tattered cloak, carrying with it the scent of smoke and blood. The battle down below had long ended—but this one, the one that mattered, was just beginning.

With a sharp pulse of energy, Menma appeared beside him in a blink, sword recharged and crackling with crimson light.

His sudden presence snapped the branch beneath them, the brittle wood unable to hold the weight of two killers anymore.

Their eyes locked.

Menma didn't blink. "Why come all the way here just to die again?"

Before Garrick could answer, the branch split with a loud crack, and both men fell. Neither panicked.

They flipped midair with practiced ease, blades drawn and clashing mid-fall with a metallic screech that echoed across the forest.

Sparks rained as their weapons met again and again—precise, vicious strikes exchanged in fractions of seconds—until their boots hit the forest floor.

The ground trembled under the weight of their landing.

Menma didn't waste time. He took one breath, then released a controlled surge of demonic energy—20% of his power. A red-black aura wrapped around him like fire, distorting the air around his body.

He lunged forward with terrifying speed.

Garrick parried the first strike, barely holding back the force, then grinned, mocking him. "How much can you control before going berserk again?" he asked through clenched teeth. "Like back in Lulusia?"

Menma's answer was a sharp smile, colder than ice. "Enough to kill you. Over and over again."

The two broke apart. Garrick immediately summoned illusion clones—dozens of them flashing into existence around Menma, each holding a blade, each identical.

But Menma just shook his head, his aura flaring brighter. 30%.

A burst of demonic pressure rippled outward. Every illusion around him cracked like glass, dissolving in an instant.

"Is that it?" Menma asked, tone casual, almost amused. "What's wrong? Scared of me?"

Garrick didn't respond immediately. His fists clenched. His throat tightened.

Why… why does this kid still unnerve me? he thought. I've killed witches stronger than him. I've led attacks on entire covens. I've slaughtered anyone who dared oppose me. And yet… this kid… this fucking kid…

His voice trembled. "I've killed hundreds of witches… and anyone who helped them. But you… I'm afraid of you?"

Menma didn't give him the chance to reflect. He dashed forward again, their blades clashing in a fierce volley of strikes. Garrick retaliated fast, pushing Menma back just long enough to activate hidden traps—glass vials embedded in nearby trees shattered mid-air, releasing flammable mist and razor-sharp metal fragments.

But Menma's aura surged again—40%.

The shockwave from his power alone incinerated the mist and sent the weapons clattering harmlessly to the dirt. He wasn't even breathing hard.

"You're stalling," Menma said, stepping through the smoke, untouched. "You're hoping someone else is coming."

Garrick growled, then snapped back, "And what if they are?"

Menma raised a brow. "That's what I wanted to ask you. Why are you here alone? You've got more mercenary friends. Where's your old man? The uncles? The ones that used to wipe out entire cities?"

Garrick's smirk faltered.

"They said it wasn't worth the effort," he finally said, voice low. "Said the witches were already doomed. That I could handle it myself."

(When in reality they couldn't come because they all had their own targets to kill, they advised Garrick to wait until they are free, but he didn't listen and came alone.)

Menma scoffed. "So they sent the weakest of their family?"

A flicker of anger lit Garrick's eyes, but he didn't deny it. Instead, he shifted into a lower stance and muttered, "You'll regret underestimating me."

"No," Menma replied flatly, "You'll regret overestimating yourself."

The next burst of power came like thunder.

50%.

The ground beneath Menma's feet cracked. Trees swayed. Even the air screamed. His form blurred, vanishing for a blink, then reappearing in front of Garrick with a swing aimed at his neck.

Garrick blocked just in time, but the impact sent him flying back. His illusionary skin cracked and fell away, revealing the truth underneath—his real form. Bald, bearded, older than he let on. Wrinkled from years of bloodshed.

Menma chuckled, lowering his sword slightly. "Nice beard."

Garrick didn't move. His legs trembled beneath him. He felt it now—not just the difference in strength—but the sheer intent behind Menma's attacks.

This wasn't the reckless boy from Lulusia anymore. This was someone controlled. Precise. Terrifyingly calculated.

And he was staring death in the face.

"I should've brought an army…" Garrick muttered under his breath.

A second later, Menma closed the gap, kicking him full-force in the gut.

CRACK.

Garrick slammed into a thick tree trunk. Bark split from the force, and blood spewed from his lips as he collapsed to his knees. His vision doubled. The taste of iron filled his mouth.

Menma walked forward slowly, every step echoing like judgment.

"This time," he said, sword glowing crimson with his aura, "for real. Don't come back."

He raised the blade, the tip gleaming, humming with death.

But just as the blade descended—

CLANG!

It met a wall of light.

A glowing flail, radiant and divine, blocked the strike.

Annie.

Light Creation // Light Hands

She stood between them, her eyes unwavering, her arm outstretched, holding back Menma's fury with nothing but will and creation.

Menma's eyes opened, and he quickly removed the sword, so that it wouldn't hurt Annie.

"What the hell, Mother?!" Menma roared. "He deserves to die! He was the mastermind in Lulusia! He tricked everyone, pretending to be a witch just to kill them!"

Annie's eyes didn't waver, but a shadow of sorrow passed through them. "I know," she said quietly. "But we might need him. His power… his knowledge… it could be useful. For what's coming."

Menma clenched his jaw, furious. His sword trembled in his grip. "You want to use him?"

"I want us to survive," she replied. "Even if it means saving someone like him."

Behind them, Garrick's body slumped, barely conscious. Blood trickled from his nose and mouth. He looked up at the fading light of the sky, eyes glossy.

"I'm sorry… brothers… I failed you…"

And with that, his head dropped to the ground, and he passed out cold.

"Move Mother!" Said Menma with a angry expression "If i don't kill him now, he will trick us again."