Mercy

Aham stood over him, his chest heaving and his grip on his katanas tight enough to turn his knuckles white. The faint glow of his protective light dimmed, the flickering flames of the sconces now the only illumination source. He could even taste the iron of Mephistopheles' blood, mixing with the old, musty smell of the castle, and his chest pulsed like a war drum.

For a fleeting moment, the corridor was still, except for the low whirr of Bloodshed and Aham’s stuttering gasps. He couldn’t let his guard down—not yet. Mephistopheles was not someone who could be easily defeated, Aham was certain this battle was far from finished

Mephistopheles surged forward, his blade a blur of silver as he slashed at Aham's throat. The air hissed as the edge carved through space, but Aham twisted away at the last possible moment, feeling the wind of death graze his skin. Without hesitation, he retaliated, lunging low and aiming both blades at Mephistopheles’s midsection.

Steel met steel in a flash of sparks. The clash rang out like a tolling bell, reverberating through the battlefield. Mephistopheles gritted his teeth, bracing against the force of Aham’s assault. Aham, relentless, pivoted on his heel and leapt, bringing both swords down like twin guillotines. Mephistopheles caught the strike with his sword, his muscles straining, and with a sudden surge of power, he kicked Aham in the stomach.

Aham staggered backward, boots scraping against the dust-smeared ground. His chest heaved, pain flaring through his ribs. But he couldn’t falter. Not now. He barely had time to react before Mephistopheles pressed the advantage, driving his sword toward Aham’s exposed throat. Aham ducked, feeling the edge carve a shallow cut along his cheek, hot blood trickling down his face.

Mephistopheles’s voice was cold and certain. “I will kill you today.”

Aham coughed, blood splattering onto the dirt. He forced himself upright, gripping his swords tighter. “Then do it,” he rasped. “Kill me.”

Mephistopheles inhaled sharply, then charged, his sword singing through the air.

“No, please… don’t,” Aham whispered, but it was a feint. As Mephistopheles brought his blade down in a killing arc, Aham’s body coiled like a spring. At the last second, he twisted sideways, both of his swords snapping up in a brutal counterattack. One blade smashed against Mephistopheles’s descending sword, redirecting it away from his body, while the other struck his helmet, slicing through its dark black metal. A thin crimson line appeared where the blade bit into the flesh beneath, the first sign of blood drawn in their battle.

Mephistopheles snarled, staggering back, his grip tightening around his sword’s hilt. The pain barely registered. He lifted his blade just in time to parry as Aham launched into a relentless flurry of strikes, his swords weaving a silver web of death.

Aham’s every move was calculated, his feet gliding over the battlefield in a deadly dance. His blades whistled through the air, striking at every opening, forcing Mephistopheles onto the defensive. Sparks flew as metal crashed against metal, the shriek of clashing steel filling the air.

Then, with a sudden burst of power, Aham unleashed a shockwave. The force erupted outward, slamming into Mephistopheles like a thunderclap, forcing him to stagger backward. Dust billowed around them as Mephistopheles dug his heels into the ground, steadying himself.

Aham didn’t hesitate. He lunged forward, spinning mid-air, aiming both swords at Mephistopheles’s skull. But at the last moment, he adjusted his strike, slicing toward Mephistopheles’s torso instead. Mephistopheles recovered fast, his sword rising just in time to intercept the attack, and with a powerful twist, he sent Aham flying backward.

Aham hit the ground hard, rolling with the impact. He barely had time to breathe before Mephistopheles was upon him again, sword aimed at his heart. Instinct took over—Aham caught the descending wrist, twisting it sharply. Mephistopheles grunted, momentarily losing his grip, and Aham drove his knee into his opponent’s ribs. The impact sent Mephistopheles reeling, but he retaliated instantly, lashing out with his elbow. The blow connected with Aham’s jaw, sending him stumbling back, stars bursting in his vision. Aham knew that to make Mephistopheles bleed, he would have to slice through his dark black armour. He steadied himself, eyes locked on the slight opening at the helmet’s edge, searching for his moment to strike.

Both warriors stood panting, circling each other like wolves. Blood dripped from their wounds, their muscles burned, and yet neither yielded.

Mephistopheles smirked, wiping the blood from his cheek. “Why did you hesitate?”

Aham exhaled heavily. “You observed correctly.” He pointed a sword at Mephistopheles. “I call that mercy. I’ll give you one chance to leave. Or else, I will kill you.”

Mephistopheles tilted his head, his expression unreadable. “What are you talking about? What chance?”

“You do not understand, do you?” Aham’s voice was calm, yet resolute. “If I continue this fight, you will die. You cannot beat me.”

A grin stretched across Mephistopheles’s lips. “Are you sure about that?”

Aham’s gaze darkened. “I am.”

Mephistopheles’s laughter was quiet, humourless. Then, without warning, he struck.

Their blades met again in a brutal clash, their battle renewing with savage intensity. Mephistopheles’s strikes came with greater speed, his crimson eyes glowing with murderous intent. Aham blocked, parried, evaded, but the sheer force of Mephistopheles’s blows sent shocks up his arms.

Then, Mephistopheles feinted left, drawing Aham’s defences, before driving his knee into Aham’s gut. Aham doubled over with a choked gasp, pain exploding through his ribs. Mephistopheles seized the opportunity, swinging his sword toward Aham’s throat.

But Aham wasn’t finished.

He dropped to one knee, ducking under the strike, and with a roar, he slashed upwards. His blade carved across Mephistopheles’s chest, ripping through fabric and flesh. Mephistopheles hissed, staggering back, blood spilling from the wound.

Still, he stood tall.

Aham, breathing hard, tightened his grip on his swords. His body screamed for rest, but he ignored it. He had fought too long, and bled too much. He had to end this.

Mephistopheles lifted his gaze, his red eyes burning with something unreadable. “Why are you still fighting?”

Aham coughed, wiping blood from his lips. “Because I am Principal Five—one of the ten Principals serving Balisarda Sumernor in his conquest for the salvation of the world.”

Mephistopheles gave a small nod. “How noble.”

And then they clashed one final time, blades ringing like war drums, each warrior giving everything they had left in a battle that would be remembered for ages to come.

The clash between Aham and Mephistopheles seemed to stretch time itself, the battlefield a suspended moment between life and death. The air was thick with the scent of blood, sweat, and burnt earth, the sharp tang of iron mingling with the coppery taste of spilled life. The ground beneath their feet trembled with the weight of their battle, each strike reverberating like a drumbeat in the vast silence around them. Aham could hear the faint crunch of the earth beneath his boots, the soft hiss of his breath as he fought to keep his composure.

Aham’s chest heaved, his heart beating erratically, a steady rhythm of pain punctuating his every movement. His vision blurred around the edges as his body screamed for respite, but he refused to surrender. Each time his sword met Mephistopheles's blade, a shockwave of agony rippled through his arm, but he pushed through, his eyes locked on his enemy with a burning resolve. His sword was slick with blood, his grip slipping as his fingers became numb from the strain.

"You’re still standing?" Mephistopheles’s voice rang out with a chilling calm, his words a stark contrast to the fury of the battle. His tone was smooth and effortless, as though he were discussing the weather rather than engaging in a fight for survival. "Impressive. I thought by now you'd have fallen to the ground, begging for mercy."

Aham didn’t respond. His lips were cracked, and dry from the exertion, and his breathing was ragged, but his eyes, bloodshot and determined, spoke louder than any words. He couldn’t let himself fall. Not yet.

With a roar, he lunged again, his sword flashing through the air in a desperate arc meant to slice through Mephistopheles’s defence. The strike was swift, but Mephistopheles was faster. His blade moved in an almost fluid motion, deflecting Aham’s attack with a resounding clash. The impact sent a jolt through Aham’s entire body, and his knees buckled, nearly giving way beneath him. His breath hitched in his chest, the taste of copper filling his mouth as blood splattered onto the ground from a fresh wound on his shoulder.

"You can’t win," Mephistopheles said, almost bored, his gaze unwavering. He moved like water, effortlessly flowing around Aham’s attacks. "You should accept it. This is your end."

Aham’s teeth ground together as his sword arced back up, narrowly blocking another blow that would have cleaved his skull in two. The force of the strike sent him stumbling backward, his boots dragging through the blood-soaked earth, and his heart thudded painfully in his chest. He could feel his legs trembling beneath him, his body on the verge of collapse. His muscles were screaming in agony, his body heavy with the weight of his wounds, but he refused to give in. Not when so much was at stake.

Mephistopheles took a step forward, his sword raised high. The air seemed to crackle with the anticipation of the next strike, and Aham’s entire body stiffened, instinctively preparing for the impact. But this time, instead of attacking Mephistopheles paused, his eyes narrowing as he surveyed Aham with a mixture of pity and disdain.

“You fight well, but it’s all in vain,” he said coldly. “you could have spared yourself this suffering by cutting my head. but instead, you chose mercy which is why you have lost. For what? For honour? For a cause you knew you could never win?”

Aham’s hand tightened around his sword, his knuckles turning white. The words hit him like a slap, but they only fueled the fire in his chest. He couldn’t let Mephistopheles see him break. Not now. His voice was hoarse and rough, but it carried the weight of a thousand lifetimes of pain.

“I fight... because I have no choice. I fight because I refuse to let you take everything.”

Mephistopheles’s eyes flashed with something unreadable. For the briefest moment, there was a flicker of something—something almost human—before it vanished behind the implacable mask of death that defined him.

“You never understood, did you?” Mephistopheles whispered, his voice low and dangerous. “You were never meant to win, Aham. You were never meant to be more than a mere obstacle. A speed bump in the road to the inevitable.”

The words hung in the air, suffocating, and Aham felt a wave of crushing despair wash over him. But deep within, there was something else—something stronger than despair. It was anger, pure and unyielding. The pain, the exhaustion, the overwhelming sense of helplessness—it all boiled down to this final moment. He wasn’t going to let Mephistopheles have the satisfaction of watching him break.

With a fierce cry, Aham surged forward again, his sword raised high in a final attempt to break through Mephistopheles’s defences. His legs burned, and his body screamed for rest, but he didn’t care. He would fight until he had nothing left to give.

Mephistopheles reacted with a speed that was almost too fast to track. His blade moved like a serpent, slick and deadly, and before Aham could even react, the edge of the sword bit into his side, cutting deep. Aham gasped, the air rushing from his lungs in a strangled cry of pain. His body jerked as the blood flowed freely from the wound, and he staggered back, his vision swimming with red.

“You’re finished,” Mephistopheles said, his voice cold, final. He stepped forward, his blade poised for the killing blow.

Aham, barely able to keep his footing, forced his gaze up, staring into the eyes of the man who had taken everything from him. His vision blurred, his breaths shallow and ragged, but the spark of defiance still burned within him.

“No,” Aham whispered, barely audible. “Not yet.”

With a final, desperate cry, he pushed himself forward one last time, his sword cutting the air with a roar of fury. The blade collided with Mephistopheles’s in a brutal, bone-rattling clash, the sound of steel against steel ringing out like the toll of a bell.

But it wasn’t enough. Mephistopheles’s blade moved again, faster than Aham could react, slashing through his defences with brutal precision. Aham’s body crumpled beneath the force of the blow, the air rushing out of his lungs in a guttural gasp. Blood pooled beneath him, his life slipping away with each passing second.

As he collapsed to the ground, his sword falling from his hand, Aham felt the last flickers of consciousness fade.

“Fujisaki... I should’ve never listened to him... it’s all my fault... I deserved this fate,” he murmured, the words tasting like ash on his tongue. His body trembled, not just from the wounds, but from the crushing weight of his guilt. The faces of those he had failed flashed before him—friends, allies, the ones who had believed in him. But now, there was nothing but darkness, closing in on him like a final, unforgiving embrace.

The world around him began to slowly fade the colors of the hallway draining into shades of grey. the distance noise of Mephistopheles’s footsteps, once so full of Promise and death now salad like the ticking of an ominous clock each step ringing them closer to the abyss. Aham’s heart thudded weakly in his chest, each beat like the final drum of a funeral march.

But even as his vision blurred and his body grew cold, one final thought flickered in his mind. He had fought. He had given everything, even when the odds were stacked against him. He would not be forgotten.

His body was covered with black marks, where Mephistopheles’s sword struck him. His eyes were closed, and his chest was rapidly rising and falling. As Aham's consciousness, slowly started fading away Aham let out one last cry “Please, take this note. When you have the time to read it, I beg you to read it. Please... please.”

He then passed out.

Mephistopheles stood over him, his gaze unwavering as he looked down at Aham’s broken form. There was no satisfaction in his eyes, no joy in the victory. Only the cold, indifferent certainty of inevitability.

Mephistopheles stood up and walked towards Aham, “you’re dead.”

Aham’s body slowly went cold, his breathing stopped and his heartbeat slowed down.

Blood dripped off Mephistopheles’s vambraces and splattered on the floor As Aham’s body lay there motionless

He bent down, his hand reaching for the parchment Aham had held so desperately, the bloodstained paper trembling in the dying man’s grip. With a casual flick of his wrist, Mephistopheles took the note, folding it neatly before slipping it into his bag.

Aham’s body lay motionless on the ground, the last remnants of life leaving his body. The battlefield, once filled with the roar of their combat, was now eerily quiet, save for the distant wind that whispered through the grass.

For a moment, Mephistopheles stood there, looking down at Aham’s lifeless form. The air was still, the only sound the steady drip of blood from his sword. Then, without a word, he turned, his cloak swirling around him as he walked away, leaving the field of death behind.

"So, this is how it ends," Mephistopheles murmured to himself, the words a quiet echo as he disappeared into the shadows. The darkness seemed to swallow him whole, and with his departure, the silence of the battlefield was complete. The fight was over.