The Sanctuary(22)
Niko gritted his teeth.
He knew it. The bastard was holding back.
The First Prophet hadn't moved a muscle beyond necessity, hadn't even tried. His posture hadn't shifted. His stance hadn't broken. One arm—that's all he was using to fend him off. The rest of him? Calm. Relaxed. Almost bored.
Niko launched another tendril, curving it to feint low and strike high—but this time the Prophet grabbed it.
Before Niko could retract, the Prophet swung him like a hammer, slamming him into the ground with spine-snapping force.
The air left Niko's lungs.
And then—just to mock him—the Prophet sheathed his blade.
What followed wasn't a flurry of sword strikes.
It was a beating.
The First Prophet stepped forward and began whacking him—palms, elbows, a knee to the stomach—as if punishing a misbehaving apprentice. It was humiliating and surreal. Almost playful. Each blow landed with ridiculous strength, compressing air and shaking stone.
Niko tried to block, raising an arm—but the Prophet casually slapped his hand away and kept going. Another slap, this one across the cheek. Then another. A backhand. It wasn't even personal—it was instructional. Clinical.
But the weight behind them—
Each "slap" felt like a slab of concrete crashing into him.
Whap.
Crack.
Whap.
And then, with a casual grace, the First Prophet grabbed Niko by the collar and hurled him across the hallway. He smashed into the far wall—hard—his body cracking the stone and sinking partially into it like a cratered statue. Dust plumed outward in a choking cloud.
Niko's ears rang. His head pulsed. His arms twitched.
But his eyes—
His eyes flickered.
From dark obsidian to a burning blue.
In the next instant—he wasn't there anymore.
A blitz—one faster than any before—and Niko reappeared behind the First Prophet, crouched, breathing hard, eyes narrowed into daggers.
He was done playing around.
No more games. No more humiliation. No more hiding.
"I'm not gonna die here," Niko whispered under his breath. "I'm not a pawn in this sick world. I'm getting out of the House. I'm going to burn this cult to ash."
And the air shifted.
From his right hand, a blade began to form—not forged, not summoned, but willed into existence. Lightning twisted with blinding energy, raw force solidifying, lengthening. The weapon hummed with instability, then stabilized—into something thin, elegant, and deadly.
A blade. A jian. Sleek and pulsing with white-blue arcs of energy, as if reality itself was barely containing it.
The First Prophet turned, eyes now amused—truly amused.
"Oh?" he said, voice touched with genuine interest. "You're not just flailing around anymore. Must be a real master of essence, huh?"
"Essence?"
The word flickered in Niko's mind—foreign, alien, unspoken knowledge clawing at the edge of comprehension—but he ignored it.
It didn't matter.
He had a sword now.
He had purpose.
And he had someone to bury.
Niko rushed forward, blade humming, eyes blazing.
The Prophet smiled.
And raised his hand again.
This time—two arms.
And the real fight began.
Niko gritted his teeth.
He knew it. The bastard was holding back.
The First Prophet hadn't moved a muscle beyond necessity, hadn't even tried. His posture hadn't shifted. His stance hadn't broken. One arm—that's all he was using to fend him off. The rest of him? Calm. Relaxed. Almost bored.
Niko launched another tendril, curving it to feint low and strike high—but this time the Prophet grabbed it.
Before Niko could retract, the Prophet swung him like a hammer, slamming him into the ground with spine-snapping force.
The air left Niko's lungs.
And then—just to mock him—the Prophet sheathed his blade.
What followed wasn't a flurry of sword strikes.
It was a beating.
The First Prophet stepped forward and began whacking him—palms, elbows, a knee to the stomach—as if punishing a misbehaving apprentice. It was humiliating and surreal. Almost playful. Each blow landed with ridiculous strength, compressing air and shaking stone.
Niko tried to block, raising an arm—but the Prophet casually slapped his hand away and kept going. Another slap, this one across the cheek. Then another. A backhand. It wasn't even personal—it was instructional. Clinical.
But the weight behind them—
Each "slap" felt like a slab of concrete crashing into him.
Whap.
Crack.
Whap.
And then, with a casual grace, the First Prophet grabbed Niko by the collar and hurled him across the hallway. He smashed into the far wall—hard—his body cracking the stone and sinking partially into it like a cratered statue. Dust plumed outward in a choking cloud.
Niko's ears rang. His head pulsed. His arms twitched.
But his eyes—
His eyes flickered.
From dark obsidian to a burning blue.
In the next instant—he wasn't there anymore.
A blitz—one faster than any before—and Niko reappeared behind the First Prophet, crouched, breathing hard, eyes narrowed into daggers.
He was done playing around.
No more games. No more humiliation. No more hiding.
"I'm not gonna die here," Niko whispered under his breath. "I'm not a pawn in this sick world. I'm getting out of the House. I'm going to burn this cult to ash."
And the air shifted.
From his right hand, a blade began to form—not forged, not summoned, but willed into existence. Lightning twisted with blinding energy, raw force solidifying, lengthening. The weapon hummed with instability, then stabilized—into something thin, elegant, and deadly.
A blade. A jian. Sleek and pulsing with white-blue arcs of energy, as if reality itself was barely containing it.
The First Prophet turned, eyes now amused—truly amused.
"Oh?" he said, voice touched with genuine interest. "You're not just flailing around anymore. Must be a real master of essence, huh?"
"Essence?"
The word flickered in Niko's mind—foreign, alien, unspoken knowledge clawing at the edge of comprehension—but he ignored it.
It didn't matter.
He had a sword now.
He had purpose.
And he had someone to bury.
Niko rushed forward, blade humming, eyes blazing.
The Prophet smiled.
And raised his hand again.
This time—two arms.
And the real fight began.
Niko lunged.
Blitz surged beneath his feet, launching him like a thunderclap down the corridor. His blade—white-blue, jagged with coiled energy—cut through the air like a comet. Essence burned at his core, rage steadying his grip. He was done being thrown around. Done losing.
The First Prophet didn't move.
Niko's speed doubled mid-charge. A second blitz. A tendril whipped out and pulled him forward like a slingshot.
He was a bullet now.
"Who am I? Me? I am the raging star of hope."
And then—
Clink.
The world stilled.
Just inches from the Prophet's face, the blade stopped—dead in the air.
Blocked.
By a single finger.
The First Prophet stood calmly, one arm folded behind his back, the other extended just slightly. His index finger pressed gently against the flat of Niko's blade, stopping its momentum like it was nothing more than a drifting leaf.
No recoil. No strain. No effort.
His expression didn't even change.
Niko's eyes widened. The power behind that strike could have cracked stone. Shattered metal. Split bone.
But this man hadn't even blinked.
"Star of hope, huh?" the First Prophet murmured, tapping the blade once with his finger—and the entire sword vibrated violently in Niko's grip. "Cute title."
A second later—he moved.
His hand flicked forward.
And Niko was launched back.
Not thrown. Not punched. Just a tiny, casual flick—and his body blasted down the hallway like a ragdoll, crashing through air and stone before smashing against the far wall, hard enough to leave a crater of dust and fractured rock.
He slid to the ground, coughing, dazed.
"I'll give you credit," the Prophet called out, brushing off his coat. "Most people break before they even draw a blade. But you?"
He smiled faintly.
"You're still pretending this is a fight."
Niko didn't respond right away.
He was too busy forcing himself back to his feet. Shoulders shaking. Blood running from his temple. Blade humming weakly beside him.
But his eyes—
His eyes still burned blue.