Lācanwildē

The final day of the tournament had arrived at last, and so many had come to attend, even some Scholars had shut down their classes early to allow the students to watch. For the Combat and Spellweaving Scholars, it was easy to make the excuse that watching was an easy lesson for the students, but the truth was that the biggest piece of drama flowing throughout the Institute was the Maleos versus Jericho fight. The seats were so full that some students were sitting on each other or standing at the back and in any space they could find to watch. Going around were some other students, collecting bets for the winner. It seemed that this was a fairly standard practice during school matches, with everyone putting Institute Points on the line. This was the currency of the school, since everyone came with the tender of their own homes conversions were required. The tension between Mortius and Jericho could be felt throughout the entire building and, though the other combatants were fighting well, everyone continued to glance between Jericho and Mortius, almost feeling the hatred brewing between the two.

“I can’t stand arrogant dirthoods like him…”, Mortius grumbled, still glaring daggers at Jericho.

“Ironic coming from another arrogant dirthood”, Saminha laughed, causing Clive to stifle a giggle as well. Mortius looked at them both, without anger but still unamused.

“Yes, but I’m a different kind of arrogant.”

“Well, I’m not surprised you hate him. Both Warlocks and D�"monas have a specific hatred for Anglas. Though Anglas are generally disliked by almost everyone”, Clive said, watching the match between the Warlock and Merweard with interest. The Mer was much older than the Warlock but was getting beaten rather spectacularly. 

“Is there anything else Anglas are hated for, or is it just the superiority complex?”, Mortius replied.

“Oh no, it’s more complicated than that. Some Anglas, like Pr�"dphīn and Ceruphīn, are nice but most other types, Healdaphīn, Cierrephīn… ones like that. They are the arrogant ones. Most of the Anglas rankings are hated for one thing or another”, Clive explained, glancing over to Jericho who was now showing off for some Ælf ladies in front of him, though they didn’t pay attention. 

“The thing about Anglas is that they use their natural beauty and flawlessness to entice people. The fact that we are supposed to be perfect beings strokes the ego of many Anglas.”

“Huh… so why aren’t you like that?”, Mortius asked. Clive merely shrugged and didn’t answer, giving off a face of complacency that seemed to indicate, at least in Mortius’ opinion, that Clive genuinely didn’t know and didn’t care much either. Though it seemed to not bother him, Clive lingered on the question for a moment. Why was he so different? It’s not like there was any difference in how he was made, why couldn’t he be just like the rest of his brothers and sisters? It was mostly easy to keep that question out, but time and time again when he was reminded of this, it hit him hard.

“Well, I will say that it’s better to be a cowardly and pathetic loser than a stone headed idiot like him.” Clive frowned a little, though didn’t respond knowing that this was probably a D�"mon way of inadvertently giving a compliment. Or at least, he tried to see it that way. Mortius was also left a little surprised by the accidental compliment, though he was certain that it wasn’t meant to be that way in the first place. Looking ahead at the stage, the last two combatants left the platform, with the loser forfeiting after receiving her first blooded head and crying her way to failure.

“It’s really sad the way some of them end up… I bet she’s never gonna go to the Gamble again”, Clive watched as the girl started getting bandaged.

“Good, it’s pathetic, honestly”, Saminha scowled. Thinking about this gave Mortius a small flashback to the Black Ward and the events of the Wardstone, then further to the path and the gate. He could only imagine how much Drower would have loved the Gamble, and the amount of times he’d likely challenge Mortius as well. It was strange to think that everything that happened really wasn’t that long ago, and yet somehow it felt like ages had passed. Mortius wasn’t one for an uneasy stomach, but that was an image he wasn’t ever going to forget. With that thought in his mind, he felt that it wouldn’t be the last time he’d see some true horrors either.

“Well, either way, people who can’t handle it are smart to stay away from it”, Mortius commented as everyone sat in the pause before the next match up. The stage cleared and there was nothing but dead silence as the new and final contestants were up in place. He couldn’t wait to put this scourge in his place and everyone watched carefully as they both began walking toward the stage. The room was still with anticipation, even the remaining Scholars in attendance leaned forward to properly get a good look at this. Not a single sound from the audience could be heard as Mortius and Jericho stood across from each other, staring each other down like two predators ready to wrestle over prey.

“Hey, Clive. What is the worst thing that can happen to an Angel?”, Mortius shouted to the side, keeping his eyes firmly locked on Jericho. Clive gulped for a moment, wondering what Mortius had in mind for the student.

“Well… erm…”, he stuttered.

“Just tell me! Come on!”, Mortius pressed again for answers.

“Well… the worst thing for a graduated Angel already in Elier would be having their wings taken away. For a student Angel… I guess never being able to have wings in the first place. If their back, where the wings would manifest, is burned severely with Angel fire then they never get to have their wings, but that’s something only high order Anglas do!” Clive urged Mortius not to consider this but seeing the face of that cocky Jericho made him want the worst. Saminha seemed ecstatic at the prospect, looking both impressed and almost disappointed that she never tried that for herself. She made a little mental note of it for another time, thinking it would be worthwhile to have a few less Anglas out in the world after the Institute. Standing upon the stage, Mortius scanned Jericho up and down, while he in turn shook his head, likely believing that Mortius was not serious about burning away his chance at wings.

“Well, now you’ll have a one of a kind story to tell people”, Mortius replied in a manner most vile as he readied his staff and the jewels activated once again, revolving in perfect unison with greater speed and vigour, as if Mortius’ resolve had strengthened the very staff itself.

“The final match of the Tournament is Mortius Maleos against Jericho Remael. Contestants, name your stakes”, the Echo announced.

“If I win, I get to use Angel fire and burn away your wings!”, Mortius announced proudly. The audience began murmuring and students talking amongst themselves. At the front of the room, Emeritus had leaned forward a fair bit and some of the other Scholars in attendance had begun to look around, seeming either worried or confused. Mortius folded his arms in triumph, hoping this had rattled his opponent at least a little bit, but Jericho remained calm. His posture was still but slightly relaxed. He wasn’t smiling but didn’t look concerned either.

“Idiot. Warlocks can’t use Angel fire for very obvious reasons. But I can. So then if I win… I purge you with my divine light”, he announced with just as much pride carrying his words. There was a collective gasping from the audience, the chatter got louder and even one student yelled at Jericho.

“You can’t do that! It’s against the rules!!”, he screeched, throwing a shoe at Jericho which missed. The audience was in an uproar, arguing with each other and almost fighting over this decision. Clive was pale again, never thinking that this could possibly be accepted. He looked over at Saminha, who seemed completely stoic, arms folded and glaring at the two.

“He’s not serious about that, right?” Clive asked her, somehow thinking that she might give him reassurance. Saminha simply shrugged as the crowd screamed and got in an uproar.

“So much for this project, I guess…”

“QUIET!”, Emeritus bellowed and everyone settled immediately. He looked around a bit above his head, as did everyone else, waiting for the announcement.

“The stakes are accepted. The match may begin!”, the Echo announced and a satisfied Emeritus sat back down. Mortius looked around and saw the looks of concern from everyone in attendance, especially his coaches. Clive looked like Mortius had already died, and even Saminha didn’t seem hopeful for his safety, if she were to care at all. He had no idea what this ‘purging’ could alternatively be, but he could imagine what it meant from context, and he wasn’t willing to lose and find out the finer details. The match began and the two took their places before the sigils. Mortius placed his hand down on the defence sigil, keeping his staff held on the healing sigil just in case.

“Fe’ore woulth”, Jericho almost whispered his fers, not allowing Mortius to hear it. On command, a ring of fire surrounded Mortius and closed in on him slowly. Thankful that he chose the defensive sigil, he pressed his hand to his jewel.

“Thra’er dunes”, Mortius said and a whirlwind of sand erupted from his hand, surrounding the stage and blocking off sight for everyone. Clive stared at the sandstorm and smacked the side of the stage in annoyance, not knowing what might happen next. Emeritus and all of the scholars watching still stared into the sand as if they could see what was going on despite the cloud. Inside, Mortius pulled the trick he had up his sleeve and took his staff of the healing sigil, pointing his staff forward. A deep green light emerged from the jewel and surrounded Mortius. He could feel replenishing energy filling his muscles and seeping through his bloodstream as if it were being cleansed of all possible negativities. Mortius had no idea what the fers had done but it seemed to be quite helpful so far. The only problem persisting was the impending fire circle around him, still lurking closer. However, the reveal of his tactic wasn’t as much of a stroke of genius as an apparent attempt at cheating as some managed to see what went on in between the whirlwinds of sand.

“Hold on! How did he do that?! That’s not in the rules!”, one of the female students yelled out. Protests began to surround the arena again, as the students and viewers became riled up, spreading the sight of the Zorumond Rule in effect. Emeritus stood up from his chair and the silence took over again. Looking slightly upwards, he waited in anticipation with everyone else.

“The rules remain unbroken, the battle continues”, the Echo announced once more. There were gasps and mutters across the room and Mortius grinned at the decision. Looking back at Jericho, his expression turned to confusion as he saw his opponent smiling as if victory had already been his.

“Now the real sport begins. No more silly incantations, just raw power!”, he shouted enthusiastically as he smacked his shield on an attack rune and ran toward Mortius. A blast of pure light shot from his shield and hit Mortius dead centre in the chest. The light was blinding and seared his skin, making his blood feel like it was on fire. All he could do was hold his hand out in front of his face and hope that the light would dim even a little bit but it was so intense, almost like staring straight into the sun. All the while, Mortius wondered what he meant by raw power. He understood that the weapons they held had their own unique properties, but clearly he had more to learn about other weapon physiology than he thought. After the light finally settled down, Mortius looked across at Jericho who was on his left, already having his shield on a sigil. Giving him the narrowest of narrow eyes, Mortius slammed the tip of his staff down on the Īdelcræft sigil. What better way to fight light than covering it in darkness? Jericho lifted his shield and pointed it at Mortius, the same done from Mortius’ side, and the fers were cast. As with the ring of fire round Mortius, a similar ring appeared above him and began moving down. Jericho looked almost too gleeful but his smug face soon died down thanks to Mortius’ fers. A mass of tendrils seeped up from the floor and began attacking Jericho, smacking him here and there and throwing him around violently, propelling him back to his original place. The beating didn’t last too long but long enough to leave him with plenty of bruises and had him holding his chest, breathing inconsistently.

Jericho gasped for as much air as he could capture and Mortius had the upper hand, despite the oncoming fire circles around him. Jericho closed his eyes and muttered something before stamping his shield down for a third time on the attack sigil. Thrusting his shield forward, albeit weakly due to holding his ribs intact, he cast one more fers and a final two rings of fire appeared at Mortius’ sides. Mortius tried to not look scared but he couldn’t help feeling concerned as his head darted between the four rings. Just as suddenly as they were cast, all four rings enclosed Mortius, causing a small scale explosion. There was smoke everywhere and everyone began coughing loudly. Clive frantically waved away the smog, hoping to see if his friend was okay. Jericho stood, clutching his shield and smiling almost maniacally but Mortius stood as well. He held his right arm, with his staff now in his left hand, and looked around at himself. Bits of his flesh had blown off, leaving distinct holes in his arms, legs and even in his midsection. There was blood pouring from his jaw where his face had become somewhat severely disfigured, revealing his inner teeth and gums and bits of hanging flesh. However, he wasn’t in pain. Mortius couldn’t feel much of anything and he noticed his injury spots pulsed green. The effects of the Līfcræft spell had thankfully stopped him from feeling the pain of the explosion, leaving him concerned for what he would feel next but raising his confidence that he would be allowed to focus in the battle. Meanwhile, Jericho was getting frustrated, slamming his shield down on the Ābiscræft sigil and hoisting it in the air. 

“Alright, fire against fire”, Mortius mumbled, finding it difficult to speak due to his mouth hole. He too pressed his staff to the same sigil and pointed it directly forwards as both spells took effect. Everything began to feel extremely heavy as if gravity had become much more forceful. Mortius felt the weight of the very air he was encased in crushing down on his bones and body. Everyone else felt the tremors but didn’t feel it as much as Mortius did. Clearly the Līfcræft spell only handled physical injuries as Mortius felt every single bit of this enclosing spell making life extremely difficult for him. He could hear his bones crunching and ribs collapsing. Were it not for his own spell, he might have been crushed into a bloody smear on the floor. From Mortius’ spell, a translucent vortex emerged, wrapping itself around Jericho and making him look like he was stuck inside a whirlpool of mirrors. Jericho looked around at the vortex for a moment, wondering what was to take effect but nothing seemed to happen. Grinning almost maniacally, Jericho placed his shield gently on the attack sigil.

Mortius was gripping his staff for dear life now, beginning to feel the effects of everything after the Līfcræft spell. His flesh burned, his skin felt torn and massacred and he was almost ready to stop trying and give in. It was possible that he’d finally reached his limit and now was a better time than any to stop. It wasn’t until Mortius looked up and saw Jericho’s smug look of victory that he felt the strength fill his muscles. The thought of wiping the floor with Jericho’s face was overwhelming and it took hold of him like puppet strings, and pride was his master. Bringing his arms back up to a level height, he had his hands wrapped around his staff once again. If he was going down, he would go down fighting for his life. Mortius readied himself as Jericho lifted his shield from the floor and took aim. No matter what everyone else may think of him, Mortius knew he fought hard enough to challenge any of the pathetic urchins around him. He placed his staff on the attack sigil for one last act of defiance but he was too late, Jericho had already pointed his shield ahead and fired his spell, a brilliant beam of light emerging from the end. Mortius closed his eyes to accept the end of the match, but nothing happened. Opening one eye, he looked ahead and saw Jericho just as confused. Suddenly, all around him, the beam of light seemed to emerge and encompass him. Low and pained groans like that of a wounded animal escaped him as he became bathed in Angel light, which didn’t hurt him very much but still seemed to cause a lot of discomfort. Mortius looked up to the High Scholar who gave him a wink, looking extremely impressed.

“What is this?! What have you done?!”, Jericho screamed. Mortius just continued looking on in confusion but also slight amusement as Jericho chose the attack sigil again and fired off another shot, only managing to impale himself on a giant metal spike. His breathing was heavy and his muscles were weak as he kept trying to attack but the mirror spell only caused him to damage himself.

“N-no… I won’t fail… I-I won’t be beaten h-here…”, he wheezed as all the damage he inflicted upon himself was too much even for his natural Angel regeneration. Soon enough, Jericho collapsed to the floor and the horn sounded.

“Jericho is unable to continue, Mortius Maleos wins the tournament!”, the Echo announced and all the students jumped up to cheer. Emeritus was clapping, calmly but still with a hidden enthusiasm and on the sidelines, Clive was going berserk with cheering, leaping up and down and screaming with delight. Mortius breathed in the accolation for a moment, looking down at Clive who never seemed so proud. Glancing at Saminha, she still had her arms crossed, but was smiling a little and gave him an acknowledging nod. Then, the time came to collect, and he wandered up to Jericho’s body heap on the floor. Slowly bringing himself to his knees, Jericho grimaced at Mortius and spewed out blood before trying to speak.

“So… come to collect your prize then? Good luck! Warlocks can’t use Angel fire!”, he screamed in defiance, as he inhaled deeply and laughed. Mortius glared at him for a moment, gripping his staff tightly. He wanted to burn him, more than anything. Mortius wanted the screams to echo in his head forever, the mangled image of Jericho’s melted back would be a happy memory in his mind. 

“Actually, the rules of the Gamble bend all reality to accommodate the Bet. So, in this one instance, he actually can”, the High Scholar commented, with an interested gaze on the two. Immediately, Jericho’s defiant face dropped and turned into a very badly concealed look of dread. Drawing closer, Mortius could almost feel Jericho’s heart racing as he prepared for something that would ruin his life forever. All the Scholars in attendance leaned in closer to watch, seeming like they’d never witnessed this before and it was going to be a once in a lifetime opportunity. All of a sudden and to the surprise of all in attendance, Mortius lifted his leg and swung it forward, delivering a bone breaking kick swiftly up Jericho’s jaw. The force propelled him backwards, blood and spit shooting from his mouth as he fell back and landed roughly on the stone floor. The entire hall was still. Jericho coughed and spluttered, barely able to get himself back up. Mortius walked up to him slowly, turning him over so they were face to face and kept him pinned down with the end of his staff. There was an intense silence between the two as they glared into each other's eyes. It was a moment of high emotion as they looked at each other, and Mortius knew he'd eventually reached an understanding. The two despised each other, yet, there was also a hint of respect. After the stare down, Mortius pushed him down to the ground and almost collapsed as he hobbled off the stage, walking out of the arena to claps of pure respect from everyone. Mortius stood outside to be examined by the Priestess, along with Clive who was shocked to say the least.

“You really are something different. Last time you were just… sadistic. Now you’re being noble. To an Angel as well!” Clive exclaimed with his mouth almost wide open.

“I agree, what is your problem?! I wanted to see some Angel flesh burning!” Saminha yelled at him angrily.

“What? You didn’t really think I was gonna burn him, did you?”, Mortius laughed back. Clive let out a tiny laugh that sounded uncertain of itself before looking over all the injuries. This man truly was a mystery, with motives so unclear that it was impossible to guess what he really wanted. Saminha, disappointed, only scoffed and walked out of the Arena.

“You really do continue to surprise me…”, Clive mused, staring searchingly into Mortius’ eyes. Mortius simply laughed it off and gave Clive a pat on the shoulder before retreating with the Priestess to the Chapel where he would be in recovery for quite a few days.