A Venomous Kiss

“—Dad, is that you?!”

Only silence, nothing more, yet I am sure it was his voice.

My body twists as I feel powerful currents of energy coursing through me, swelling and throbbing as if it is about to explode. I cannot help but release a piercing scream of pain that completely tears my throat apart. Blood keeps pouring from my mouth. I begin to feel dizzy, I stop breathing, and finally everything turns black for an instant, until another burst of energy restores my consciousness. However, I am no longer lying on the ground. I am standing, and not only that—my body is unharmed. My bones are no longer broken, nor are my organs pierced, and despite still tasting blood on my palate, I am no longer bleeding. My legs no longer resemble an accordion, and I can move normally once again.

“I don’t understand what’s happening… but I feel amazing!”

Aside from the change in my body, my clothing has changed as well.

I feel a thin, soft fabric brushing against my skin, from my neck to my thighs. I cannot see it, but it is a long tunic that reaches halfway down my calves. From the waist down there is another similar garment—loose trousers. They seem to be made of the same material as the tunic, though they feel thicker. They are held at my waist by a filament whose ends are tied in a knot beneath my navel. Over the trousers, from my ankles to my knees, strips of another padded fabric wrap around my legs, filled with a plush material. Over the tunic I wear a lightly fitted padded vest that does not restrict movement or press against my chest to make breathing difficult. It feels as though it were made to measure for me. In fact, the same could be said of everything that makes up this outfit. It looks like the work of a skilled tailor from an ancient era, were it not for the upper garments that reveal the ensemble as armor.

It begins with a black chainmail that appears to be made of welded scales. To the touch, they feel more like bone than any kind of metal. It does not seem like anything that belongs to this world, just like the rest. A jacket and trousers of grayish leather are covered by a silky reddish fur. Tiger? Fox? I am unable to identify which animal it might belong to. Holding the leather trousers in place is a leather belt around my waist, carrying several knives, a broad-bladed dagger, and a pair of iron knuckles. On my forehead I wear a polished silver buckle engraved with the same symbol that appears on Vanily’s letter—the emblem of the feather.

To crown the outfit (quite literally), around my forehead rests a golden crown. I remove it to examine it. It resembles a pair of serpents with their bodies entwined, their faces meeting at my forehead as if sharing a venomous kiss.

Not even in my best cosplay projects back in my high school days would I be capable of achieving this level of style—but this is not cosplay. It is real: the armor, the crown, and… the Warhammer.

I hold it in my left hand. Peculiarly, it feels short, yet its shape still seems predictable to me. Even so, this does not diminish the visual impact of finding it before my eyes. Its weight forces my spine to bend forward. When its metal mass strikes the ground, it releases a burst of air that runs through my entire body, as if the force of its blow were amplified tenfold. Such an intimidating power—it is as if this object possesses a dominant presence that commands both my respect and my fear.

It looks exactly as I imagined it: a massive, rectangular head made of a white metal that gleams when touched by moonlight, engraved across its entire surface with a series of strange symbols, unrecognizable to my eyes as anything belonging to any form of human writing. These symbols consist of oval vortices twisting in different ways—some distinguishable as letters of the alphabet, like an s or a c, others resembling numbers, like a three or a nine. It is as if several white worms crawl across each of its four faces. The striking face of the hammer shows an increase in thickness, presumably to reinforce the force of impact. This causes an imbalance in the weight. At the opposite end, the peen consists of two sharp spikes, slightly curved downward. Such a design makes me swallow hard as I imagine receiving a thrust from that pair of fangs.

As for the handle, it is cylindrical and slender, reducing its width from the base to the tip. This should allow for a more comfortable grip and better absorption of vibrations at the moment of impact. However, it also further accentuates the weight of the head, which sinks into the roof as if it were quicksand.

“So this is the Warhammer? It looks powerful, but… it’s incredibly heavy! No—wait. Will. It’s heavy because that’s how I perceive it. It responds to my will. I must believe I am capable of lifting it.”

And it works. The Warhammer answers my desire and begins to free itself little by little until I am able to raise it above my head. It is as if it were now made of aluminum. I perform a few movements while switching it from hand to hand. My body moves on instinct—it spins, leans, and slides, performing choreographies I have never practiced. It feels like experiencing “muscle memory,” the result of excessive rehearsal, yet without having rehearsed at all.

I juggle the Warhammer like a mace until I build enough inertia to execute a hammer strike into the air. The moment it unleashes into the void, it produces a burst of air that pushes my entire body backward until my heel meets the edge of the building’s ledge. A few more centimeters and I would have plunged down to the asphalt.

“What power!”

Amazed, I gaze at the mighty weapon in my hand, then lift my eyes to the sky, to the gray cloud from which I descended toward what seemed like an inescapable death. Yet now I am more alive than ever, and I am ready to ascend. Now I know that my will will grant me the power I need to do so. If I am capable of believing even in the impossible, I will be capable of making it real.

“To fly,” I declare with unrestrained confidence. It is not a suggestion—it is a fact.

I extend my hand toward the remains of my Arcontis, now reduced to nuts, bolts, and scraps of metal scattered around the crater left by my impact against the roof. They begin to gather and return to their places. The destroyed parts regain their shape, the fragments fuse back into what they once were, restoring the object to its original state—now black, like the night sky above my head.

The Arcontis attaches itself to my back once more and connects with my mind, where there is only one command.

“Fly.”

A pair of wings extends from my back—not those of an insect, but like those of a hawk. I am bathed in their shadow as black feathers rain down around me.

I plant my feet, bend my legs, and launch myself upward. My wings beat with force, releasing powerful gusts of air, and I shoot skyward like a cannonball.

Within seconds, I find myself once again before that gray mantle, surrounded by lightning while being bombarded by shards of water. It does not take me long to locate my enemies when I hear their laughter mixed with moans of pain that I recognize as Vanily’s.

My Arcagen erupts, enveloping me once more in crimson flames whose heat evaporates the crystals around me. I move toward the source of the sounds and come upon a macabre scene. Vanily is being passed back and forth like a basketball between the two Sparkia, who play at catching her—not with their palms, but by sinking their claws into her. Though I am unable to estimate how many turns have passed since the exchange began, Vanily’s body is already soaked in blood, unable to defend herself due to the poison that has paralyzed her. Earlier I hear her moans of pain, but now she makes no sound at all. Her pupils roll in her eyes—she has lost consciousness from blood loss.

Vanily arches in the air, about to fall into the claws of one of the Sparkia. I rush to intercept her midair and flee before the pair of monsters can react. Despite the burning fury that urges me to fight, my priority must be to put my companion somewhere safe.

“The hero?! The hero is alive?!”

“Impossible—go after him!”

I hear the two Sparkia exclaim in astonishment at my unexpected return to action. I take advantage of those seconds of confusion to slip out of their sight and carry Vanily back to the same rooftop where I had landed. I carefully lay her wounded body down.

The Sparkia do not take long to find me. Only seconds after setting my injured companion down, they are already behind me, launching a double ambush from the rear.

I feel the breeze of their wingbeats just in time to execute an evasive maneuver. I tilt my body downward and watch from the corner of my upper vision as a pair of stingers fly over my head, brushing the tips of my hair.

I quickly throw myself to the left and roll across the ground, gaining a few meters of distance—apparently enough to exceed the reach of the Sparkia’s tails. They hurl them toward me again with the intention of stinging me, but fall short, as the pair of curved black spikes stop just centimeters from my neck. A fortunate stroke of luck that helps me determine the length of my opponents’ primary biological weapons—potentially useful information.

I manage to get back on my feet in time to receive the next attack from the Sparkia, who lunge with agile, lightning-fast slashes that I barely manage to evade. Each time I avoid an attack, I retreat, careful not to fall within the range of their stingers. Yet I keep edging closer to that dangerous point as their speed overwhelms me. When that happens, it will be impossible to protect myself. Ideally, I should counterattack, but I cannot find a weakness in their offensive movements that would allow for a clean strike. They hide their bodies with their wings and move in a chaotic, zigzagging pattern without rhythm, yet chillingly coordinated—as if they could read each other’s minds. By comparison, my evasions are clumsy. I even begin to consider the idea that perhaps this pair of maniacs is playing with me.

Panic begins to take hold. In moments like this, all I can think of is running. But… is that not an option? Or is it?

An idea explodes in my head in a way I have only experienced a handful of times in my life, and if I have learned anything from those moments, it is not to question that “flash,” as I call it, and to let my instinct handle the rest.

I spread my wings while retreating until I reach the edge of the roof—and let myself fall. The Sparkia dive after me in pursuit. So far, everything is going as planned. I must draw them away from Vanily first.

Just as my body is about to crash into the ground of a wide parking lot, I propel myself upward with a powerful wingbeat. I command the Arcontis to retract the wings, then throw my elbows back, striking the faces of my enemies. The concussion prevents them from maintaining flight. I pass between the two of them, and once I am above them, I redeploy my wings, pushing them both downward.

The Sparkia slam onto a black car, crushing it like a flattened cockroach as its alarm blares.

The pair of winged creatures remains motionless, but I know I cannot let my guard down. I must make sure they are truly dead.

I concentrate all my will on envisioning my next action. I raise the Warhammer. Crimson flames once again cover my body, but suddenly they begin to swirl and concentrate along my arm, reaching my wrist where I grip my weapon with murderous resolve. The hammer starts to emit a golden glow as the flames make contact with it.

The Warhammer absorbs the flames, and the more it absorbs, the more it shines. I feel something similar to when blood samples are drawn from me with a syringe.

Once the Warhammer feels satisfied, I am ready to end this fight. I dive toward the destroyed car, intent on annihilating the Sparkia.

I am like a meteor, and I spare no mercy for these beasts that nearly took my life and reveled in my companion’s misery while torturing her.

My attack is ferocious and allows for no subtlety. I strike like a meteor, unleashing a deafening roar. The asphalt ignites, a cloud of dust and ash erupts, nearby vehicles are overturned, and their windows shatter under the shockwave.

In the end, all that remains is a vast, deep crater reeking of burnt metal and charred flesh. I emerge from it wrapped in ashes, admire my reflection in shards of glass scattered across the parking lot, and a shiver runs through me at the image of the black-winged angel that seems to have risen from hell itself.

I inspect the crater to behold my work, finding the smoldering remains of only one Sparkia, to my surprise.

Suddenly, I feel a familiar burning in my back. I turn around to find the missing one driving its stinger into me with a twisted smile. I grew too confident, and now I find myself in trouble once more.

The Sparkia pulls its stinger from my back, tearing my flesh the way I used to remove a hook from a fish’s mouth after catching it.

I turn to face it, my gaze meeting the grinning beast that boasts of its victory too soon, unaware that not even its venom can stop my will—something the confusion on its face clearly shows. It is startled to see that there is also a smile on my face instead of a grimace of terror.

The bloodlust consuming us both hangs thick in the air. It is time to end this, once and for all.