WRATH PART 2

The crew, who had been cheering moments before, fell silent as I strode past them.

They saw not their commander, but a spirit of vengeance.
Triton, his face grim, relayed my command without question.

"HELM, BRING US ALONGSIDE THE FLAGSHIP! GUN CREWS, INDEPENDENT FIRE! SUPPRESS THEIR DECKS! I WANT A CLEAR PATH FOR MR. ARDA!"

The Obsidian Maw responded like a living beast, shrugging off the cannon fire from the surrounding ships as she turned her bulk towards the massive, spine-covered demon vessel.
Her cannons roared.

Tulote and Cassandra appeared at my side as we approached.

"Arda, what are you doing?" Tulote said, his voice tight with concern, "you can't face their commander alone. We fight together."

"This is not a fight for a soldier."

My voice sounded distant even to my own ears.

"This is an execution"

"I love a good execution," Cassandra said, "But even the executioner needs an assistant to sharpen the axe."

Before I could argue, we ground against the demonic flagship with a scream of tortured wood and chitin.
This time, there was no bridge of earth.
No stealthy phasing.

There was only a direct, brutal assault.

Tulote vaulted the rail, landing on the enemy deck with the force of a meteor.

He didn't bother with shields.
One hand was encased in granite, the other held the Flamma.
He sent demons flying with every blow.
His roars of fury drew the attention of the main guard.

Cassandra was a blur, a shadow that shifted through the chaos Tultoe created.
Her blade left a trail of silent, collapsing bodies.

They were carving a path for me.
A bloody corridor right through the heart of this wretched ship.

I stepped across the rail, my feet landing on the enemy deck.
The world of threads was screaming at me.
It was all a whirlwind of corrupted glyphs.

At the centre of it all was him.
The Greater Demon.

The Third out of Four.

He stood on the raised quarterdeck, a giant of a creature clad in obsidian armour.
His name, that ungodly name, I knew with a certainty that transcended all mortal knowledge was Malakor.

He held a massive, serrated greatsword that pulsed with a sickly purple light, and his eyes, those burning coals called eyes, were fixed on me.
He could feel my power.
My raw untamed Order.

The anathema to his very existence.

"So," Malakor spoke. "The little scout spoke true. A mortal wielding the fire of the First Ones. A candle trying to imitate a star. You reek of righteous fury. Tell me, little candle, whose death fuels your pathetic flame?"

The image of Yui, small and still, flashed in my mind.
My flame became an inferno.

"You don't get to speak his name." I snarled.

I didn't charge.
I simply raised a hand.
I focused on the threads of Malakor's being.

"Cease," I commanded, not with my voice, but with sheer will.

The air around Malakor warped. The glyphs that composed his being flickered violently.
He let out a grunt of surprise, his physical form wavering for a fraction of a second.
.

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But he did not unravel.

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.

With a roar of defiance, he stabilised, the chaotic energy of Dietha flooded his form and reinforced his corrupted threads.

"A clever trick!" he bellowed. "But my being was forged in the heart of the Maelstorm within Dietha! Your tame little energies cannot unmake me!"

The backlash was instantaneous and agonising.

The power I had unleashed, having failed to find purchase on its target, recoiled back into me.

It felt like my own soul was being torn apart.

I cried out, staggering back as fire raced along my nerves.

Blood trickled from my nose.

Malakor laughed a deep, cruel sound. "You see? Your power is a poison. It burns you more than it harms me. You are nothing but a child playing with a god's weapon."

He charged.

He was impossibly fast for his size, his greatsword scything through the air.

I brought up the Gladius Nobellus to block, but my strength was failing.

The impact sent me skidding across the deck, my arm screaming in protest.

The raw power was still coursing through me, uncontrolled, making my muscles twitch and my vision swim.

"Remember, my child, remember to use force! Otherwise, it'll kill you!" Usasha said.

"I will."

Gasping, I pushed myself up.

I couldn't unravel him with will alone.

I needed a focus.

A conduit.

I looked at the sword in my hand, Silus' legacy.

With a surge of desperate resolve, I stopped trying to project my power and instead forced it into the blade.

The Gladius glowed or pure solidified yellow and white.
The light was so bright it was painful to look at.

"You're thinking a lot like my husband now! I'm cheering you on!" Usasha went on.

Malakor's laughter died.
He looked at the transfigured sword with the first flicker of genuine fear.

"Impossible..."

I lunged forward, my movements clumsy with pain but driven by rage.

I no longer saw a physical demon; I saw a knot of tangled, corrupted threads.

And my sword was now the needle, sharp enough to sever them.

Our blades met.

It shook the entire ship.

Where the Gladius Nobullus touched his greatsword, the demonic energy of his blade was annihilated.
It's corrupted threads dissolved into nothingness.

The fight became more brutal the longer it went.

Malakor was the superior swordsman.
His movements were befitting of one who triumphed over many greater than myself.

But my sword was the superior weapon.
Every parry, every block, I could feel the Gladius Nobellus slicing through the corrupted essence of his weapon, weakening it.

But the cost was immense.

"BE CAREFUL! YOU'RE OVERDOING IT!" 

"I need to finish this Usasha."

Every time I channelled my power, the feedback wracked my body.
It felt like pouring molten steel into my veins.

My flesh was burning.

"You are killing yourself!" Malakor roared.

He battered me with a furious combination of strikes.
He was right.
I could feel my life force draining away, being consumed as fuel for the sword's diving fire.

I ignored him.

I saw an opening.

As he raised his sword for an overhead blow, I drove my glowing blade forward, aiming for the central nexus of his being.

I poured every last ounce of my will, my grief, my rage, into that single thrust.

The Gladius Nobellus sank into his chest.

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The effect was catastrophic.
A shockwave of pure white light erupted from the point of impact.
The glyphs of Malakor's being began to unravel violently, not just at the wound, but across his entire body.

He screamed.
It was a scream of pure agony and disbelief, as his physical form started to dissolve into black dust and fading light.

I had done.

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But the victory was hollow.

The final, massive surge of power had shattered my own limits.

The light from the Gladius Nobellus faded, and the sword clattered from my nerveless fingers.

The strength left my body, and I collapsed to my knees.

The world swam in a grey haze.

My own threads were unravelling.

The power, no longer contained by my will or the sword, was running rampant, consuming me.
This was it.
I had avenged Yui, but it had cost me my life.

As Malakor's final, dust-filled scream faded and darkness claimed the edge of my vision, I felt a presence.
I had seen Tulote and Cassandra speeding towards me.
But it was not them.
It was not Silus.
It was not Usasha.
It was new.

Maybe it was death.

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I found myself standing in a place of quiet stillness.
It was not a void, but a space filled with a gentle golden light.
Beneath my feet was a floor of what looked like polished granite, stretching as far as my eye could see.
The air was calm and silent.

A figure stood before me.
He was tall and broad-shouldered, with a kind, weathered face and a beard the colour of rich earth.
He wore simple, unadorned robes, and his presence radiated an immense, quiet strength.

But this was different.

It was not like Usasha's or Silus', but this power feels unyielding.

"You have fought with a great passion, son of Adam," the figure said, "and with great foolishness."

"Who... woh are you?" I stammered.

"I am that which endures. I am the foundation upon which all is built. Usasha and Silus, my children, are the artists who paint, but I, I am the canvas she paints upon. I am Erton."

Erton. The God of Terra. The First Great Calamity.

"Am I dead?"

"You are close," Erton said, "you have poured a star's fire through a clay jar, and the jar is cracking. The power you wield is not 'creation energy,' Arda. That is merely what your mortal mind can comprehend. Its true name is Order. It is the fundamental principle that gives structure to the formless, that binds the universe together in coherent patterns. Its opposite, the power Dietha wields, is Chaos. The two are in eternal opposition."

He gestured, and an image of me fighting Malakor appeared in the air.
I saw myself, burning with white light, my body convulsing with every blow.

"To wield pure Order without a perfect conduit is to invite your own destruction," Erton explained."It is the nature of mortals to be imperfect vessels. The power seeks to 'correct' your flaws, to burn away your imperfections until nothing is left. That is what you feel now. It is consuming you."

"Silus was wise," Erton affirmed. "He understood this principle. He did not forge the Gladius Nobellus as a mere weapon. He forged it as a regulator. A lens, precisely structured to focus the power of Order, to give it shape and purpose without allowing its raw, untamed nature to destroy the wielder. You have been using it as a crude club, forcing your will through it. You have not been working with it."

He stepped closer and placed a hand on my shoulder.
It was warm and solid, and a sense of immense stability flowed into me.

"The sword has a will, Arda. A purpose. It was designed to harmonise with the wielder, to create a balanced circuit. You must not force the river to flow; you must guide its course. Feel its structure. Listen to its song. Let it draw the power through you, rather than you pushing the power into it. It will take only what you can safely give. It will protect you. It is a shield as much as it is a sword."

He looked deep into my eyes, and in that moment, I understood.
It wasn't about overwhelming force.
It was about balance.
Harmony.
Partnership.
A perfect circuit between wielder, weapon, and Order.

"The child is at peace," Erton said softly, "His thread has returned to me, and is at peace. His sacrifice was not in vain. But your work is not done. The one who gave the order still remains. The Imperial Navy still needs its hero."

The golden light began to intensify.

"Go now," Erton's voice boomed, "go and be the hero you were meant to be. Not a candle. Not a star. But a swordsman. Wield the Order, Arda. Do not be wielded by it."

The world exploded back into being.

I was on my knees on the deck of the demon flagship.

The dust of Malakor was settling around me.

My body was still screaming in pain, but the out-of-control, self-destructive fire within me was gone.
I could feel it, waiting, quiescent.

I reached out, and my hand closed around the hilt of the Gladius Nobellus.
This time, I did not force my will into it.
I simply listened.

I felt the intricate, perfect structure of the blade.
I opened myself to it, and I felt it respond, drawing a thin, precise, manageable stream of power from me.
The sword glowed.
But not with an explosive, blinding light.
Rather, with a steady, controlled, and infinitely more potent luminescence.

I got to my feet.
The sword felt like a seamless extension of my own arm.
The pain was still there, a reminder of my folly, but my mind was clear.
My purpose was absolute.

Across the churning sea of battle, I could see the rest of the demonic fleet, now in disarray without their commander.
And I could see the beleaguered, battered ships of the Imperial Navy, fighting for their lives within the Serpent's Teeth.

My work was not done.

The execution was not over.