37

Snithan leaps into the air, brandishing his blade-arms as he blots out the light of the sun. He brings them down on Scima. Scima steps to the side, letting the blade just barely pass harmlessly by his body. When the blade slices into the dirt, Scima slams his fist into Snithan’s stomach. Snithan’s body folds over Scima’s fist. Scima sighs.

“You’re so boring. Too boring. Stay down this time and give it a rest.” Scima removes his fist and lets Snithan fall to the ground. As Scima prepares to rush at Hund and bring him down in a single blow, Snithan stands back up.

“Don’t run away! I am not weak! I am not weak! I am a swordsman! Fight me! It’s a duel!”

Snithan swings a blade-arm at Scima. Scima blocks it with the back of his own sword, then flips Snithan’s arm into the air. Before he can regain full control of it, Scima slams his blade into Snithan’s armored wrist, the thinnest section of his monstrous arms.

Scima looks at Snithan as though looking at garbage left to pile at the wayside. Snithan shivers from fear.

“Look, I get that you’re insane, or whatever. But I don’t care. I’ve had enough of crazy people. Fight one-hundred battles and you will lose one-hundred battles. Leave me alone.”

“It’s a duel! That’s a promise between two warriors! One of us will die here!”

“You think I have honor enough to care? You really are too far gone.” Scima laughs sharply to himself. “Well, if you need somebody dead so bad just bite your own tongue and die. You keep talking on and on and even killing you just sounds like it’d be tedious now.”

Scima turns away from Snithan and places a hand on the hilt of his sword. He holds his blade behind his body, obscuring it from his enemy. He begins to charge up a powerful slash, one strong enough to cleave through Hund’s chest, sever his heart from his brain, and save Eva. He imagines that in the instant it takes for the flash of light to cut through him, he would appear between him and Eva, and shield her from the shower of blood.

Scima begins to pull his blade out from behind his back, the path for the arc of light to take to cut through Hund clear to him.

Meanwhile, Snithan grits his teeth from the indignation and glares at Scima. He stabs into his own legs with his blade-arms then rips apart his pants, and the bandages covering his lower half with it. The bandages fall away to reveal two thin legs, covered in short feathers and ending in paws.

Snithan dashes forward in a powerful burst, a wide smile contorting his face. He lunges with a blade outstretched, aiming for the small of Scima’s back. Scima twists his wrist, flicking his blade up, parallel to his back. A large wall of light appears behind Scima, Snithan’s blade bouncing off it harmlessly. As the pillar of light vanishes once again, Snithan finds Scima staring back at him.

“Fine, fine. I’ll put you in the ground, weakling.” Snithan scowls.

“‘Weakling!’ That’s all you see! You look back at me and you still call me that!”

“Of course I would look back. It’d be embarrassing for a man of my caliber to die because of some weakling. The blind one is the least you’d need for me not to be shamed in death.”

“‘Shamed!?’ How could it be shameful to die in battle!? There is no greater honor!”

“It’s shameful for the strong to be killed by the weak.”

Snithan’s arm twitches as he begins his next strike. Scima sees it and drags his blade through the air. He slams the edge into Snithan’s moving wrist. Although it does no damage, the sword only bouncing off the hard carapace, it does keep Snithan from attacking. In the short moment of vulnerability, Scima plunges his sword into Snithan. The blade sinks into the side of Snithan’s torso. Scima looks dissatisfied as blood begins to gush out of the wound. He had hoped to perhaps puncture a lung at the very least, but alas.

As the blood flows, Snithan feels intense pain shooting throughout his entire body. His grafted limbs have never felt more a part of him than now. He screams loudly, his body shaking inconsolably.

“It hurts! It hurts! Why does it hurt so much!? Why does it still hurt!? I’m strong! I’m strong! I’m strong! It’s not supposed to hurt! It’s not supposed to hurt anymore! Stop hurting me! You’re the one who should be in pain!” Scima smiles in the face of his wails.

“Of course it hurts, freakshow. Don’t tell me this is your first ever battle? To go zero in one, dying at the first chance… In terms of honor, it might be better to just cut yourself open at this point.”

Snithan is eerily silent and still now. The wound has closed up and his expression is blank. With a sudden burst, he slashes. Scima parries the blow. He feels that the blades have gotten sharper in some way. The blade cuts through the base of Scima’s sword with ease, sending the metal blade flying into the air. With only the tiny sharp stub of metal still connected to the hilt, Scima thrusts his weapon forward. He can almost run the pointed tip of the sliver of blade remaining against Snithan’s chest before the blade-arms begin to close in on Scima. Scima ducks backwards to avoid the two slashes, throwing his weapon right at Snithan as he retreats. Snithan swats it away without much care, his previous mania entirely gone.

“I know what I said, but I’m missing the crazy.”

Scima places his hand near his hip, as though he still had a sword to hang there. A sword of light begins to glow, giving something for him to grasp tightly. When he realizes what a threat it poses, Snithan begins to dash forward once more.

Scima lets loose his arm, held tightly in place to prepare the spell. Light erupts in a powerful arc, cutting into the ground behind where Snithan stands, right through his legs. More bursts of light come from the scar in the dirt. However, Snithan, rather than collapsed onto the ground, his legs cut apart, crying in pain, is high in the air. He falls too slowly, with the winds to hold him in the air.

As Scima begins to charge the next spell, Snithan begins to fly at him, leg outstretched. Moments before the dropkick lands, Scima’s next spell is ready enough. He swings the sword of light. It begins to cut through Snithan’s leg. However, as it does, the leg comes back together again, as if never cut at all. Scima’s sword passes through the leg then fizzles away.

Though the kick was stopped, Snithan’s assault continues. As he falls, Snithan brings down his blades on Scima’s shoulders. They cut through until they strike bone. Scima grits his teeth, silently thankful that whatever sharpness Snithan had gained had disappeared just as suddenly. Snithan then pulls his blades away and plunges them both into Scima’s stomach. He drags them around, cutting Scima open even more, until Scima pulls himself off the blades.

With gaping wounds in his stomach, even Scima finds it hard to focus on a spell. His movements grow sluggish as blood pours out of him. As Scima takes a weak but resolute step forward, Snithan dashes and crosses his blades over each other. He then cuts into Scima’s side with both, turning the blades into scissors to chop Scima in half.

Scima reaches forward and just barely manages to grab Snithan’s exposed face. Scima creates a powerful burst of light at his palm. Blinded, Snithan recoils. In that moment Scima’s outstretched palm becomes a fist, and he slams his knuckles into Snithan’s face with all his strength. Scima pushes Snithan to the ground.

Scima pins Snithan’s arms with his shins, then sits on Snithan’s chest. He leans over with his large body and begins to punch Snithan over and over. Eventually, Snithan begins to cry, his whole face growing swollen.

“Please stop. I don’t like this. I’m supposed to be strong.” Snithan whimpers pathetically. “Mommy…”

“A supposed warrior calling his mother for help the moment things go wrong? What a joke! This is strength! Strength is domination! The strongest is the one who isn’t dominated! The one who stands above all others! I’ll never let a wimp like you stand above me! You’re weak!”

“I surrender. I won’t fight anymore. Please let me go.” Scima stares right at Snithan, a wicked smile on his face.

“Too late. I don’t have any honor to spare for weaklings.” Snithan whines in pain.

“I just wanted to be strong…”

“Then you should have worked! Grafting monsters to your body and calling yourself a swordsman, pretending you have any idea what that means! How laughable! Looking for a pathetic shortcut like this, of course you’re weak! Your spirit is weak! No wonder you’re so easy to dominate!”

“Stop…” Scima rises off of Snithan, then places a foot on one of his arms.

“Well, if you admire swordsmen so much, I might as well let you see the pride of one before you die. Y’see, a swordsman uses a sword. That’s the meaning of pride.”

Scima presses down on Snithan’s arm as he bends to reach for his wrist. Snithan feels the carapace on his arm crack open. Scima pulls, tearing the blade from the rest of the arm. As the rest of the carapace breaks and lets Scima pull Snithan apart, blood and a strange pink goo begin to pour out from the arm. Scima brandishes the blade-arm in his hand as though it were his own sword. However, before he can swing, severing Snithan’s head from his body, the blood loss gets the best of him. Scima falls unconscious, falling over Snithan’s chest, the weight keeping his arm and body in place. Snithan, meanwhile, faints beneath Scima.