Echoes of Wrath

Air gushed against Otaktay’s body, his fingers trembled slightly as they skimmed against the stubble on his jawline, his palm hovering below his lips. Otaktay’s brown eyes narrowed, analyzing Mephistopheles. The faint creak of leather from his glove echoed in the stillness, and the faintest exhale escaped his parted lips, carrying with it the unspoken words he seemed to be wrestling with.

“What do you think you are doing punching me?” snarled Otaktay's voice low and dripping with venom.

Mephistopheles finally met his gaze, his grip tightening on Bloodshed. His voice was cold, devoid of emotion, as he replied, “Trying to kill your emo ass.”

The word strucked Otaktay with a deep sense of confusion, raising his eyebrow trying to understand the statement directed to him. “Emo” but as if lighting stucked he realised what Mephistopheles meant. clasping his hand as he accouned “oh I understand now you have mistaken me with the wrong person”

The word hung in the air like a thick fog, wrapping itself around Otaktay’s mind. His brow furrowed, the faint lines on his forehead deepening as he struggled to make sense of the statement directed at him. “Emo?” he muttered under his breath, his voice barely audible. His brown eyes narrowed, darting slightly as if searching for clarity in the space between them.

Then, like a bolt of lightning splitting the sky, it hit him. His breath caught, and his lips parted in a silent gasp. His hands, one previously resting at his side and the other, hovering below his lips. flew up instinctively, fingers curling into loose fists before one hand clasped the other, as if grounding himself in the sudden realization. “Oh,” he breathed, the word escaping like a sigh of relief mingled with disbelief. “I understand now. You’ve mistaken me for someone else.”

Otaktay’s entire body shifted, his shoulders turning sharply as he pivoted to face Mephistopheles fully. The movement was deliberate, almost theatrical, as if he wanted to ensure there was no room for misunderstanding. His gaze locked onto Mephistopheles, steady and unwavering, as if to say, Look at me. Really look at me.

Mephistopheles’s lips twitched inside his helmet, a flicker of amusement dancing in his blue eyes. He tilted his head slightly, his voice dripping with casual indifference. “You’re not the person, I was just fighting so whatever.”

Otaktay’s jaw tightened, but his voice remained calm, firm. “Yes, that’s right. You’ve got the wrong person.” His words were measured, each syllable carrying the weight of his conviction as he stood his ground, his posture straight and unyielding.

Staring deep into Otaktay’s soul “If you're in Balisarda Sumernor castle, let me ask you something, are you one of the Principal working for Balisarda Sumernor’s? If so, what principal number are you?” asked Mephistopheles.

Disgusted by the question asked Otaktay didn't blink, only looking at Mephistopheles in his full black body army, “ as if I would answer a question from some vermin like yourself “

Mephistopheles took a deep breath, his fingers twitching as he activated his Ability—Visual Manifestation. Unlike the usual way he wielded his power through a sword, this time, it unfolded directly before his eyes, reaching into the fabric of Otaktay’s very existence. The air around them darkened, as if the weight of countless sins seeped into reality itself.

Suddenly, his vision blurred. The world twisted. Images crashed into his mind like a tidal wave—flashes of agony, screams that clawed at his soul, the stench of blood thick in the air.

A woman, her blue eyes wide with terror, struggled beneath Otaktay’s firm grip, her cries drowned by his laughter. A blade pressed against a man’s throat, a cruel grin splitting Otaktay’s face as he dragged it across, reveling in the gurgled pleas. Limbs shattered. Bones splintered. Faces frozen in horror as the torment dragged on longer than any mortal should have endured.

Mephistopheles staggered back, his breath ragged. His heart pounded against his ribs, rage simmering like an inferno barely contained. He gritted his teeth, his hands trembling at his sides—not from fear, but from the sheer disgust curdling in his stomach. His grip on his sword tightened with fury.

"You’re fucking disgusting," he snarled, his voice raw, shaking with wrath. His gaze burned into Otaktay, eyes reflecting the horrors he had just witnessed. "How many people have you killed? How many have you raped? How many have you tortured just to satisfy your sick, selfish desires?"

The words dripped with venom, each one laced with the weight of the suffering Otaktay had caused.

"You love to boast about the shit you’ve done, don’t you?" Mephistopheles took a step forward, his sword trembling in his grasp, not with hesitation, but with the overwhelming urge to strike. "Then give me a clear-cut answer. Right now. Because that arrogance, that twisted pride—" His grip tightened. His blade pulsed with raw, vengeful energy.

"is going to be the fucking reason why I, Mephistopheles, the current bloodshed user, will kill you by my sword!"

His scream echoed, thick with the fury of the countless souls Otaktay had defiled. And as Mephistopheles raised his blade, he knew—there would be no mercy. Not for him. Not for a monster like this.

A slow grin spread across Otaktay’s face. His gloved fingers curled idly tapping against the worn leather grip as if counting every soul he had taken. The trail of sweat and withered blood clung to his duster, mingling with the musty dampness of the hallway.

His dark brown eyes gleamed under the flickering sconces, reflecting something cold, something beyond redemption. "I've lost count of how many I’ve killed," he muttered, his voice low, almost thoughtful. "Tortured more than I can remember."

Then, a chuckle—hoarse, ragged, as if dragged from the depths of his chest. "But nothing," he continued, tilting his head, "nothing compares to the sounds of women." He let the words hang, savoring them like the last drop of whiskey on a parched tongue.

A shiver ran through him—not from guilt, not from regret, but from the memory itself. "The way they screamed," he whispered, shutting his eyes as if replaying the echoes in his mind. "Begging. Pleading. Telling me they didn’t want me to breed them." His breath hitched, but not with hesitation, with amusement.

His laughter came suddenly, sharp and jagged, slicing through the heavy silence. "How delusional they were," he sneered, opening his eyes, dark pools of emptiness. "Their opinions, their wants—" he scoffed, shaking his head. "It doesn't matter. Only mine does."

Otaktay’s word stabbed Mephistopheles to the depth of his core, rage and anger erupted from within, Wanting to destroy, annihilate this self-centered Individual in front of him. As he move his left foot forward the left foot is forward, and the sword is held pointing upright with the hilt in front of the right shoulder

Otaktay’s words cut through the air like a blade, piercing Mephistopheles with a force that reverberated deep within him. A low, guttural growl escaped his lips, barely audible over the metallic clink of his armored fists tightening. His chest heaved beneath the dark, polished plates of his armor, each breath a ragged storm of fury. The air around him seemed to thicken, like smoldering embers, locked onto Otaktay with unbridled hatred.

Mephistopheles’ left foot shifted forward, the heavy boot crunching against the ground, sending a faint tremor through the floor. His movements were deliberate, the weight of his full-body armour lending a menacing gravity to his presence. The black steel plates, etched with faint, seemed to absorb the light around him, casting him as a shadow given form. His sword, an obsidian coloured blade, rose slowly, its tip pointing skyward. The hilt rested just before his right shoulder, the grip firm and unyielding in his gauntleted hand. The weapon gleamed faintly, as if thirsting for the violence it was about to unleash. Every fiber of his being radiated destruction, a primal urge to obliterate the self-centered figure before him.

The air in the hallway was thick, charged with an almost unmistakable tension that seemed to press against the walls, making the space feel smaller than it was. The faint scent of oxygen lingered, a sharp tang that pricked at the nostrils, mingling with the acrid smell of heated metal and the faint, earthy dampness of cobblestone. The dim light cast long, jagged shadows across the floor, stretching and twisting as if alive, while the faint flicker of distant torches painted the scene in hues of amber and gold.

Otaktay stood tall, his posture rigid, his shoulders squared as if carved from stone. His dark brown eyes, sharp and unyielding, locked onto Mephistopheles with an intensity that could have bored through steel. The faintest curl of his lips portrayed a smirk, though it was not one of amusement but the smirk of a predator who had cornered its prey, savoring the moment before the kill. His voice, low and steady, cut through the silence like a blade, each word deliberate and weighted.

“Incinerating Cremator,” he said, the words rolling off his tongue with a quiet authority that seemed to reverberate through the very air.

As the final syllable left his lips, the space around him shifted. Violet light erupted into existence, not in a flash, but in a slow, deliberate bloom, as though the air itself had ignited. Spheres of radiant energy materialised, hovering around him like sentinels, their glow casting an eerie radiance that painted his features in shades of lavender and shadow. The light was cold yet searing, a paradox that made the skin tingle as if anticipating the burn. The spheres floated at precise intervals, encircling him in a perfect sphere of power, their hum a low, almost imperceptible vibration that resonated deep within the chest.

Mephistopheles, clad in his full dark body armor, stood motionless, his visor obscuring his expression but not the tension in his stance. The armor, polished to a mirror-like sheen, reflected the violet light in fractured patterns, making him appear as though he were standing within a kaleidoscope of energy. His voice, when it came, was calm but laced with a faint edge of curiosity, the kind that hinted at a mind rapidly calculating and reassessing.

“What a unique ability, I haven't seen something like this before,” he remarked, his tone even, though the faintest tremor in his words betrayed a flicker of unease.

Otaktay’s smirk deepened, his eyes narrowing slightly as he tilted his head, a gesture that was almost mocking. “Mephistopheles,” he said, his voice smooth and dripping with condescension, “This is nothing I haven’t even used my ability yet but what should I expect from a rodent like you.”

The words hung in the air, heavy with implication. Otaktay’s right arm moved with a fluid grace, extending straight in front of him, his gloved fingers poised as if to snap. The motion was deliberate, almost theatrical, and when his fingers finally came together, the sound was not the sharp crack one might expect, but a soft, almost intangible click.

The effect, however, was anything but subtle.

A heatwave erupted, not as a visible distortion but as a suffocating pressure that pressed against the skin, stealing breath and leaving the air dry and brittle. The violet spheres around Otaktay pulsed once, then erupted, each one releasing a searing beam of thermal energy that cut through the air with a precision that was almost surgical. The beams converged on Mephistopheles, their light so intense it seemed to bleach the color from everything it touched, leaving only stark contrasts of light and shadow.

Their environment pressed inward toward a vacuum state so that only airlessness lingered around them. The scorching temperature wrapped around objects as they descended in an unanticipated wave-free manner. The heat enveloped the skin forcefully and removed all moisture from the air through its persistent pressure until the skin felt dry and fragile while creating loud static sounds. The hallway smelled strongly of burning heat which combined with the burnt odor of charred stones. The air became increasingly difficult to breathe as each inhalation brought more discomfort from the burning sensation in their throat and lungs before they could finally catch their breath without distress.

The violet spheres orbiting Otaktay produced profound rumbling noises that spread throughout the hallway into all neighbouring areas. The luminous source shined with a disorienting blend of cold brightness which produced erratic moving shadows against the walls. The spheres remained suspended in the air with their fluctuating surfaces mirroring the behaviour of thermal energy shortly before release.

Searing thermal energy burst into existence through precise channels that an unseen force somehow controlled. The spheres produced intense light that stripped away all colours through perfectly monochromatic lighting effects, creating stark shadow-light contrasts. The intense heat emitted from the beams created such powerful condensation in the surrounding air that it distorted the vision through a mirage effect. These beams approached Mephistopheles with an inevitable power that revealed his dark tactical armour to the world. His surrounding atmosphere started to burn while a powerful amount of heat threatened the destruction of his soul.

Mephistopheles reacted with a speed that seemed impossible in his armory form. His left foot shifted forward, positioning him, while his sword rose in a practiced motion. The blade caught the light, gleaming as he held it above, the hilt positioned just in front of his right shoulder. The thermal energy surged toward him, the heat so intense it made the air shimmer and warp, but he did not flinch. With a single, decisive motion, he brought the blade down from above in a clean, diagonal arc, the edge of the blade slicing through the energy with a force which sent sparks cascading in all directions. The beams fractured, dissipating into nothingness, however the heat stilled lingered, making the air feel like the inside of a bushfire.

Mephistopheles exhaled slowly, the sound barely audible over the fading hum of the energy. His voice, when he spoke, was calm but laced with a dry, almost sarcastic humor. “It’s getting much more warmer in here,” he said, the understatement deliberate, though the faintest hint of strain in his tone suggested the effort the deflection had cost him.

Before he could fully recover, the thud of someone boot colliding against the floor echoed from behind, as Otaktay walked towards Mephistopheles his presence announced not by sound but by the sudden, oppressive heat that radiated from him. Placing His hand, gloved in worn leather, came to rest its palm on Mephistopheles cuirass, the touch was light but laden with intent.

“Blaze Crashing Bolt,” Otaktay announced, the words soft but carrying a weight that made the air itself seem to tremble.

The reaction was immediate. The heat in the area where the palm rested surged, with a sudden, overwhelming crescendo that made the air feel as though it were boiling. The temperature climbed at an alarming rate, Mephistopheles cuirass started to glow faintly as heat seeped into it. Then, with a force that seemed to tear the very fabric of reality, the energy released in a blinding explosion of light and heat, the shockwave rippled outward with a deafening roar that drowned out any other possible sound.

Mephistopheles was flung backward, his armored form crashing through the hallway with a force that sent debris scattering in his wake. The air was filled with the acid smell of scorched metal and the faint, metallic tang of blood from Mephistopheles. As the dust settled, he lay amidst the wreckage, his armour scorched and dented, though his voice, when it came, was as dry and unyielding as ever.

“God damnit, my body is in pain,” he muttered, the words barely audible over the ringing in his ears.

Otaktay stood among the chaos, untouched and unyielding, his coat swirling slightly from the aftermath of the explosion. His smirk had returned, wider now, and his brown eyes gleamed with a cold, almost predatory satisfaction.

“Mephistopheles,” he said, “you’re a brainless unprimitive barbarian. You will never win against me. I will always win, no matter the feeble attempt you try.”

Mephistopheles, still lying amongst the rubble, let out a low, breathless laugh. His mind raced, thoughts tumbling over one another in a chaotic whirl. What the hell is this bastard even talking about? he thought, his mental voice with clear frustration. His ability is... confusing. Unpredictable. How did he get behind me? What the hell am I supposed to do against something like this?

Otaktay’s voice cut through his thoughts, sharp and mocking. “Oh, what’s the matter, Mephistopheles? Are you perhaps jealous of my ability? Is it because it’s the strongest? Or is it because I just unleashed a nuclear explosion on you, shattering whatever hope you had left?”

Mephistopheles’ laughter grew louder, a deep, resonant sound that echoed through the ruined hallway. It was not the laughter of a man defeated, but of one who had found something absurdly amusing in the midst of chaos. His shoulders shook with the force of it, the sound raw and unfiltered, a stark contrast to the tension that had filled the air moments before.

Otaktay’s smirk faltered, just for a moment, as he watched the man before him laugh as though the world itself had become a joke. The sound was unnerving, a reminder that even in the face of overwhelming power, there were things that could not be controlled.

And in that moment, the balance of the confrontation shifted, though neither man could yet see how.

Mephistopheles' laughter reverberated across the hallway, a guttural sound that seemed to echo off the cracked walls. “You know, I just have come to realise something about you,” he said, his voice dripping with mockery. “You pretend to only care about yourself, however, why in the world would you care to ask anyone else if they have lost hope? You act like you think you’re better than everyone else. So then why do you work under Balisarda Sumernor? It’s because you’re just a pathetic coward, leaching off other people.”