Alemi - VIII

Alemi slams the table. Hitting hard enough to break its legs and cause it to fly up. As it does, he draws the sabre. In one clean motion, he stands and slashes at me with a horizontal cut.

I back-step it in the nick of time. The sabre nearly grazes my throat. A scant fingers' length away. I’ve skin of steel, and muscles of iron. But, doubtless, his sword carries enough force to cut through even that.

“Munaku!”

My apprentice and I stand back to back. She has her club drawn. In front is Alemi, pacing cautiously. While above is the sound of movement. Three—no four, coming from the rooftop, and aiming for the balcony.

I quickly shoot my head at Munaku. The moment I do, Alemi throws several daggers towards me.

Four of them come in rapid succession. Four daggers fall to the ground, swatted by my hand. However, with the fourth dagger comes a white sphere—sealed with glued paper at the tip.

It’s a common, cheap explosive. A hollowed-out egg, stuffed with a mixture of ingredients, that bursts on impact. If I swat it away, there’s a chance it shall explode.

Seeing the egg, Munaku dashes to the balcony, putting distance between us. I reach out with both hands. I encase the egg in an iron vice grip, and feel it explode between my palms, singeing it with heat and soot.

The moment I do, however, several more bombs come. This time, from the assassins on the balcony. A half-dozen fly over Munaku’s shoulder, landing in the space between us. They explode into a cloud of steam, smoke, and other things.

“Tsk.”

I’m finally understanding their strategy. The assassins are trying to separate us. Hoping to pit themselves against Munaku, while leaving me to Alemi.

“I’ll handle Alemi,” I say, over the hissing steam.

“Gotcha.”

She can handle herself. I’ll choose to believe that. For the time being, I have to divert all my attention to the man in front of me. And if there’s one thing I know, it’s that men with vendettas fight twice as hard.

“Not going to lecture me, Gamoun?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“Oh?”

“As you well know, there’s no point speaking sense to a fool. So, I suppose I’ll have to beat some sense into you first.”

I bend my knees a slight. I keep my legs shoulder-width apart. While stepping forward with my right foot, ready to launch at a moment’s notice.

“Officer Alemi,” I say, trying at reason. “Did the White Hands murder Prince Jasi?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?”

I kick the table off the ground. It flies towards Alemi. As he swings to cut it, I come from his side, closing the distance. A pincer manoeuvre, if you will.

Nearly there. A quarter-breath away from striking distance, I see his lips move. His pale, thin lips, uttering words of uncomfortable familiarity.

I leap back the moment I see it. It turns out to be the right choice. Almost immediately, blue steam shoots from his body, surrounding Alemi like a cocoon. When it fades a moment later, the difference is obvious.

His whole body is covered in blue-white armour. A helmet resembling a fierce snarl sits on his head, while a large shell covers his back, covered with scaled vents. In his right hand grips his sabre, and in his left, a circular shield resembling a turtle’s shell.

The realization roots me to my core. It’s the same armour as that day. The same outline, shape, and all, that I saw in the distance on that frozen lake.

“Don’t act so surprised, General Gamoun. You must’ve faced many a foe with such powers.”

Many a foe would be an exaggeration. Amongst the warriors of this world, perhaps one every so thousand is capable of such a feat. Capable of being a Learner. Capable of drawing from the power of the Divine Beasts below them, and imbuing their body with their might.

In Alemi’s case, it would be the Steam Turtle. The Divine Beast upon which Ineo is built.

Unlike Weavers, who are born with skills innate, Learners cannot conjure flame from nothing, or summon rain from clouds. Instead, their abilities are limited to themselves, changing their bodies, and imbuing them with renewed strength.

The difference between firing a heavy bow, versus summoning a flurry of arrows.

My opponent keeps his turtle shield forward, while raising his sabre above it. He stares at me through the gap in his helmet. Calm, blue eyes, assessing my every move.

I hear battle from the balcony. But I can’t afford to keep my eyes off Alemi.

Not for a moment.

Alemi dashes forward. I intercept him mid-way, throwing a right hook. He blocks it with his shield. Exploiting my opening, he slams his shield into my right forearm. Then, moving in, swings his sabre at my neck.

This proves to be his mistake. Given my shorter stature and lack of reach, he should have fought at length. Hoping to catch me with the tip of his sabre.

Now that I’m up close, things prove to be simple.

I angle my body forward, avoiding the already low sabre. Using that momentum, I slam into Alemi, grabbing him by the waist. We crash to the ground. Almost immediately, I make a move for his sword arm. Grabbing his wrist, I clamp both legs around his trapped arm, and drop to the ground.

—Gamoun Style: Armbar

His sabre drops. It hits the carpet in a soft silence. For a moment, my eyes fall on the balcony. The steam has lifted. I notice three daggers mid-air, flying towards Munaku.

My apprentice is sure to dodge, bat, or avoid them.

They’re too slow.

She’s well-trained.

She’s fast. Strong. Capable.

In spite of those facts, a line of momentary worry seizes me.

What if she can’t avoid them? What if they cut past her skin, and gouge an artery? Could I save her in time? Is there even anything I could do in such an instance?

Suddenly, I feel movement from Alemi. I turn my face towards him. I prepare to shoot my hips upward and dislocate his arm entirely.

But… a sound quickly emerges. Like a high-pitched whistle. Like steam, grasping for a place to escape to.

I stand at a crossroads. If I break his arm, I’ll effectively have won the battle. But assuming this attack is anything like his previous, I’ll effectively be steamed alive.

Ultimately, I continue. Gambling on an infinitely small moment. I shoot my hips upward, straightening his elbow beyond its natural length, and breaking his right arm to the sound of a muffled cry.

Releasing my grip, I try to stand and put distance between us.

“Fool.”

That’s the last thing I hear before it happens. Steam fires from vents in his back. It launches him forward, closing ten steps in a quarter-second.

With that speed. With that momentum. He drives his shield into my torso, unleashing a wave of pain so devastating that I all but lose consciousness for a moment.

The moment it connects, my body flies through the air. I don’t have the strength to move. Instead, I hit the stone wall at the other end. Bits of it break free. Bits of it in the form of pebbles and dust.

I collapse to the ground. I’m having a hard time breathing. A hard time doing anything, except lie there and wallow in my pain.

Prince Jasi… Munaku.

To give me strength. To force me to continue. I think of those I fight for, and with one quick exhale, bring myself standing.

“Still alive?” Alemi asks.

“A mere preliminary. Now begins the proper battle.”

He readies. So does I. We match glares.

It's only now that I hear something. A cough. And a wet-sounding one at that. When I turn towards that noise, I realise it's Munaku. With one hand against the wall.

The assassins by her are down. But something’s wrong. The depths of her injury are surface-level, and there's nothing to suggest such a level of pain.

“Munaku!”

Then, I see it.

On a wound across her right forearm is a strange mark: a growing darkness. And not just that. A growing darkness with what seems to be letters and script.

In other words, a curse.

“Alemi’s injured!” she demands, with a tired smile. “Just finish the job already!”

As if on cue, footsteps sound from the hallway and the roof. More assassins. That puts a dent in her approach.

In Munaku’s current condition, there's no saying if she can handle herself.

No.

Even if she could, my apprentice takes top priority. And I can't bear to watch her get hurt any longer.

I rush to the balcony at once. I spot six assassins on the rooftop. Their hands gripping more bombs.

Munaku sheathes her club. Their projectiles rain upon us, a dozen at once. In perfect synchronisation.

“Amtira.”

Munaku draws her weapon. A gust of black wind shoots from it, meeting the wave of bombs. It intercepts them a mere moment after they're thrown, causing steam to explode in the assassins' faces.

Exploiting that moment of weakness, I grab Munaku, and put her on my back. Leaping from the balcony. And heading through the steam garden to the city beyond.