Cryptic interaction

Mephistopheles stirred, his eyelids heavy, his breath slow and deliberate beneath the weight of his dark obsidian armour. The air around him was sharp, carrying a biting chill that clung to his skin even through the thick plates of metal. A looming darkness stretched across the sky above, as though the heavens themselves were holding their breath. The scent of rain wasn’t there—it wasn’t a natural storm. No petrichor or damp soil, only the oppressive stench of something foreign, something ancient.

As he sat upright, the coldness deepened, sinking into his bones. It wasn’t just the temperature; it was the kind of chill that carried malice, a forewarning of something terrible. He muttered to himself, his voice muffled inside the helm. "Fucking hell, where am I now? How far did that emo-looking bastard throw me?"

His words echoed in the emptiness of the castle’s open-air training yard. The yard was eerily quiet, save for the whisper of the wind dragging dust and debris across the ground. The worn stone beneath him felt coarse and uneven as his gauntlets brushed against it when he stood. The sky, visible through the absent roof, churned with clouds so black they seemed to swallow the light. He tilted his head upward, the smooth metal of his helmet clicking faintly as it moved.

Then, he saw it.

Far above, a glint of silver broke through the dark veil of the sky—a streak of light growing larger, faster. The distant object wasn’t a star or lightning but a sword, impossibly massive, falling with a deliberate, deadly trajectory. A sense of inevitability settled over him. The cold wasn’t just external anymore; it was inside him, gripping his core like a vice.

“Well,” he growled, voice low with resignation, “I’m fucked.”

The sword descended with terrifying speed, the air shimmering as if reality itself were warping to its will. Runic symbols etched into the blade glowed ominously, faint red pulses that seemed to beat with a life of their own. Mephistopheles barely had time to react before it struck.

The blade collided with a deafening crash against the crown of his dark helmet. The impact sent a violent shockwave through his skull, reverberating down his spine. His vision went white for a split second, a brief void of nothingness, before the explosion detonated.

The force of it wasn’t just heard—it was felt in every fibre of his being. A deafening roar erupted, and a wave of heat washed over him, searing the air around him. Chunks of stone and shards of metal rained down, pelting his armour with high-pitched clinks. The acrid stench of burnt rock and sulphur filled his nostrils, mingling with the thick, choking dust that clouded the air. Yet, despite the chaos, Mephistopheles stood unfazed.

The blast rolled off him like water, leaving him standing amidst the debris with only a slight tremor in his posture. His obsidian armour was streaked with soot, a few flakes of ash drifting down from his blackened plates. The glowing runes on the sword faded, leaving behind nothing but a shattered hilt embedded in the cracked earth before him.

Mephistopheles snorted, shaking his head as flakes of soot fell from his form. His voice was cold, dripping with disdain. “Right,” he muttered, stepping over the remnants of the blade as if the attack had been a minor inconvenience. “The fifth Principal’s dead, and now I’ve got some emo lunatic throwing goddamn explosion swords at my head. Wonderful.”

Inside, the castle’s interior was a stark contrast to the chaos outside. The air was cooler, heavy with the scent of ancient wood and damp stone. His boots clanked rhythmically against the flagstones as he reached for his belt, retrieving a folded piece of parchment. It felt oddly out of place, almost fragile, against the cold steel of his gauntlet.

Aham had given him this note before dying—a final act of desperation or trust. He unfolded it carefully, his glowing red eyes scanning the words. Only a letter and two numbers marked the page: T 13.

“What in the hell does that mean?” he muttered, turning the paper over as though the answer might lie hidden on the other side. But it was blank. He sighed, his frustration mounting. "Figures. Just more cryptic bullshit."

He folded the note back and tucked it into a compartment on his armour. For now, the mystery could wait. His mind returned to the chaos outside and the growing storm brewing—not just in the sky, but in the shifting tides of whatever this world had in store for him.

The long, narrow hallway of Balisarda Sumernor's castle stretched ahead of Deimos, its towering stone walls casting long shadows in the dim light that barely filtered through the high, narrow windows. The air inside was heavy with the scent of old stone, dust, and something vaguely metallic, as though the very walls held onto the remnants of past battles. Deimos stood at the edge of the corridor, where the floor had been marred by the force of his recent battle, his boots firmly planted on the cold, stone ground.

He ran a hand over his face, wiping the sweat that still clung to his brow despite the cool temperature of the castle. His body ached with the aftermath of his fight with Mephistopheles. The echoes of the battle reverberated in his mind—how he had hurled the man, sending him crashing through walls, breaking stone like brittle glass. But now, as the dust settled in the silence, Deimos found his mind wandering. He had no more interest in the so-called ‘intruder.’ Mephistopheles was nothing more than a fleeting distraction.

Deimos exhaled sharply, his breath a puff of visible frustration. He turned away from the scene of the wreckage, his eyes focusing on the grand staircase ahead. It stretched from the second floor down to the fourth, its steps wide and imposing, the faintest echo of footsteps coming from somewhere above. A clapping sound suddenly reached his ears—slow, deliberate, self-congratulatory. He stiffened. He didn’t need to see the source to know exactly who it was. That particular rhythm of clapping could only belong to one person.

Principal three Otaktay.

Deimos's jaw tightened, and without turning to face him, he muttered under his breath, "That bastard…" His voice was low, but the animosity was unmistakable.

"Great job, Deimos. You defeated the intruder," Otaktay's voice rang out from the top of the staircase. It wasn’t a genuine compliment—Deimos could feel it dripping with mockery, with a sense of self-importance that made his skin crawl.

Deimos’s hands clenched into fists, his body vibrating with the raw, unfiltered irritation that Otaktay always seemed to provoke in him. He slowly turned his head, his narrowed eyes flicking upward toward the figure now descending the staircase. Otaktay’s posture was effortlessly regal, every movement dripping with arrogance. His long, dark coat swirled around his legs with each step, the edges of it whispering faintly as he walked. His eyes gleamed with that same superiority, that sense of absolute entitlement that he wore like a crown.

Deimos’s voice was sharp, cutting through the air like a blade. "Shut the hell up, Otaktay."

Otaktay’s smile only widened, the clapping continuing as he descended with measured steps. "Oh, my, do you hate me, Deimos? Is it because I know your little secret?" His voice was a playful sing-song, as though he were trying to draw out Deimos’s anger like a child poking at a bear with a stick.

Anger surged within Deimos, an undercurrent of rage rising from the pit of his stomach. He could feel his muscles tightening, and the air around him suddenly felt too thick to breathe. His gaze remained locked on Otaktay, but his teeth ground together as he struggled to keep his voice steady. "For someone whose ability has scorched entire towns, you sure have a big mouth." The words were slow, deliberate, and laced with the disgust he felt for the man.

Otaktay didn’t flinch. If anything, his expression brightened, as though Deimos’s words only amused him further. He chuckled lightly under his breath, each syllable dripping with the self-assurance that grated on Deimos’s nerves. "Deimos, boy, you forgot one thing about my power. It’s not the heat you should worry about. It’s the shape." Otaktay’s voice was low and conspiratorial, as though he were imparting some great truth, a secret that only he knew.

Deimos’s chest tightened. He had heard enough of Otaktay’s infuriating nonsense. The man’s arrogance had no end. His complete disregard for anyone but himself made Deimos’s blood boil. He knew that Otaktay didn’t care about what had just happened—didn’t care that Mephistopheles had been thrown through multiple walls with enough force to crumble stone and leave nothing but debris in his wake. Otaktay only cared about the next moment, the next chance to flaunt his superiority.

"Stop the act, Otaktay," Deimos growled, his voice a rasp. His fists shook at his sides, and his heart pounded against his ribcage. "I know you. You don’t care about anything but yourself. You’ve got an ego bigger than any ability you’ve ever had, and you’re too busy admiring your reflection in your own damn shadow to notice anything else."

Otaktay tilted his head slightly, his lips curling into an almost affectionate grin. "True," he said as if it were the most natural thing in the world. "I only give a shit about me. No one else matters. Hee-hee, for all I care, everyone can die." He laughed again, a cold, hollow sound that sent a shiver down Deimos’s spine.

The words struck like a slap. It wasn’t just Otaktay’s words that sent a sharp jolt of frustration coursing through Deimos; it was the complete and utter indifference in his tone. The man had no empathy, no regard for anything beyond his self-interest. Deimos could feel the rage welling up inside him, his body trembling with the urge to lash out, to grab Otaktay by his throat and squeeze the arrogance out of him until there was nothing left but a pitiful, helpless shell. But Deimos didn’t move. He couldn’t afford to lose control—not with Otaktay. Not with someone who would only see that as another chance to prove his superiority.

"I need to leave now, Otaktay," Deimos said, his voice a cold, controlled whisper, as if the words themselves were the only thing holding him back from violence. He turned on his heel, his cloak swishing around his feet as he began to ascend the staircase. Each step was deliberate, and his back straightened as he walked away from the conversation, away from Otaktay's toxic presence.

Otaktay didn’t seem to care. The man continued his descent, his clapping still echoing in the hallway, growing louder as he neared the bottom. He was enjoying this—enjoying the power he felt just by existing in the same space as Deimos. The claps were rhythmic, and calculated, like a metronome that measured Otaktay’s dominance over the moment.

Deimos didn’t look back. He couldn’t. The thought of seeing that smug grin again, the self-righteous gleam in Otaktay’s eyes, was enough to make his blood pressure rise. Instead, he focused on the stairs ahead, the cold, hard stone beneath his feet offering a strange, grounding sense of calm.

As Deimos reached the top of the staircase, Otaktay’s voice called out again, barely a whisper but carrying the weight of his ego. "Life is about being on top of everyone else," he murmured as if he were saying it to no one but himself. Though quiet, the words seemed to fill the entire space, clinging to the air like a bad memory.

Deimos didn’t respond. He didn’t have to. He knew Otaktay’s thoughts. He knew the man’s philosophy—he was untouchable, above everyone else, and he relished that belief. Deimos didn’t have the energy to deal with it anymore.

As he turned the corner and disappeared from Otaktay’s view, the sound of clapping continued behind him, a constant reminder of the man’s presence, of his power. Deimos had walked away, but the feeling of Otaktay’s arrogance lingered in the air, heavy and suffocating. And for a moment, Deimos wondered if he’d ever be able to escape it.

Otaktay descended the final step, his boots echoing in the silence as he moved down the hallway with fluid, purposeful stride. His lips would curl into a satisfied smirk, one he always wore when he knew he had the upper hand. Deimos’s departure allowed Otaktay to have a moment of reflection.

“Deimos… always so predictable,” he thought, letting out a soft, almost inaudible chuckle “A man torn by his restrain, constantly battling his instincts, and for what? So he can hold back his rage just to have a momentary sense of control? How Pathetic.”

Otaktay turned his gaze to the shadows across the walls, stretching his arms out in an exaggerated indifference. He had always seen things from above—both literally and figuratively.

The air in the corridor grew thick with tension, the stillness that made every breath feel laboured, every heartbeat a drumbeat echoing too loud in one’s chest. Otaktay’s voice, dripping with mockery, filled the space as he sneered, his words slicing through the quiet like a sharpened blade. His laughter was like nails on a chalkboard, cruel and unrelenting, but—everything stopped.

A crack—a jagged, sickening sound—ripped through the silence as Mephistopheles’s fist connected with Otaktay’s head. With such fierceness and instant impact, time itself appeared to freeze. A deafening roar like a thunderclap, created by the collision, drowned out Otaktay’s words. From the strike, a pulse of force radiated outward, vibrating the air and trembling the ground beneath them as if an unseen force had struck it.

Otaktay’s head violently jerked to the side, his body shuddering in the aftermath of the brutal blow. His once smug grin faltered, twisting into an expression of stunned disbelief and agony. The force of the punch sent him stumbling backward, his hands reaching out to regain balance. His fingers scraped across the stone walls, their rough surface scraping against his skin like sandpaper, but it was no use. The blow had already taken its toll.

As Otaktay’s body lurched against the wall, the faint, sharp scent of stone dust lingered in the air, mixed with the metallic tang of blood, sharp and unmistakable. A cascade of fragments—small, jagged pieces of stone—rained down around him, their descent interrupted by the dull thud of his body hitting the wall. The dust they left behind hung in the air, clouding the space with a stench of crushed rock and a faint trace of sulphur, the aftermath of the impact still settling like a storm that hadn’t quite passed.

Mephistopheles stood unmoving, his chest rising and falling in slow, controlled breaths, the heat of his anger lingering in the space between them. His eyes, cold and unyielding, locked onto Otaktay’s trembling form, his gaze like an ice-cold blade, each second stretching longer than the last. The silence after the storm was suffocating, heavy with the weight of what had just occurred.

Otaktay, his face pale and slack with shock, straightened himself, his hand pressing against the rough stone to steady himself. The taste of iron filled his mouth as he spat a trail of blood, his vision swimming as the sting of pain pulsed through his skull. His ears rang from the intensity of the blow, the echoes of the thunderous impact still reverberating in the hollow of his head.

Mephistopheles’s breath steadied as he gazed down at the blackened hilt of his sword, Bloodshed, lying just a few feet from him. The air was thick with the remnants of the previous battle—the metallic sting of blood, the sharp scent of charred stone, and the quiet hum of tension that hung between them. The sword’s blackened steel absorbed the light around it, as though the weapon itself was a void, a symbol of what it meant to sever connections, to destroy.

His fingers curled around the hilt, and the moment his palm made contact, a ripple of cold energy washed over him. It wasn’t power; Bloodshed had none. There was no magic, no mystical force behind its blade—only the pure, raw ability to cut through anything. No defence, no protection, no obstacle that could stand in its way. A deadly weapon that ingrained itself in history

Mephistopheles stood, lifting the sword with deliberate slowness, his eyes never leaving his target. Otaktay—or what he thought was Deimos—was slumped against a nearby column, blood dripping from several wounds, His breath came in short, ragged gasps, the sound of his laboured breathing echoing in the otherwise silent corridor.

But then, something shifted. Otaktay gasped for air; as soon the noise of his ragged breathing ceased, there was only silence. Silence fell over the two for a moment and in the blink of an eye, Otaktay filled himself to the brim and stood tall nonchalantly despite the blow that Mephistopheles just gave him.

Otaktay’s eyes flickered with a malicious gleam, and a mocking smile spread across his lips as if nothing had happened. He took a slow, deliberate step forward, the soft scrape of his boots against the stone floor breaking the silence. His posture was no longer one of weakness but of unwavering confidence. Each movement was precise and controlled, as though he had been playing a game all along.