His sword flashed, catching the low blows on the edge of his blade. Burning steel bit amidst scale and bone, as dribbling purple ichor sizzled.
The thrill of the bloodsong roared. They could do this. The opening moves were theirs. First blood was theirs.
The Tyrant’s final blow to his left side was aborted as it hauled itself back, narrowly missing being cleaved in twain by a shining overhead of Yanera’s axe.
Her style was simple. She had a martial and primal-affinity class, enhancing her physicality without flashiness, but by gods was it effective.
It was just a shame the Tyrant was such a wily thing. Though their mage was wilier.
Glass shards erupted from the ground behind the creature’s back, a hail of fragments punching into its armour and spilling blood.
It cackled.
What in all the hells was this damn thing made of?
It was no controlled and mindless depthsborn. This was a thinking being that reacted to pain with revelry.
The Tyrant backed off.
Bronwyn pressed the assault, flooding in with Yanera at his side as the beast led him on a merry chase. They could do this.
Empowered claws ripped in a storm as the Tyrant gave more ground. He and Yanera weathered them as they always had, catching the blows on their shields and punishing them with tight, sharp chops and quick thrusts that left the thing bleeding and battered.
Still, it was swift and strong, with so many limbs that more than a few blows got through.
Bronwyn could feel the rents in his ribs slowly closing as his health burnt. The wounds would still weaken him. Even with his vitality, he wasn’t as heavily invested as Yanera.
He had the skills to push on, but he knew he shouldn’t.
Stepping back for a half-moment, Yanera reacted to his movement, covering his momentary retreat by planting her shield in the path of the Tyrant’s frenzied assault.
Bronwyn had a potion in hand a moment later, a recovery tonic pouring down his throat with a distinctive sour burn.
It only took moments, but the Tyrant’s tenacity showed as it fell upon Yanera like a storm.
Gods, it was monstrous.
He had to push it back, get it off his friend before she could be overwhelmed.
Bronwyn reached for another skill. Banishing Wing.
He cut, and the arcing black flames on his blade hung in the air like a half-moon before they tore forwards straight for the Tyrant.
It spun away, contorting its body to avoid the blow.
The pressure was off. Yanera rallied.
But Bronwyn wasn’t done. Again and again he reached for the skill, layering everything he had to hurl flames at a distance. Spikes of fire launched from thrusts, his mana draining precipitously as the Tyrant drew close.
He boxed it in with Yanera.
Then the moment came.
Dust erupted around the Tyrant, cutting off his view of the creature.
His next Banishing Wing plunged into the cloud and a conflagration erupted, consuming the Tyrant.
Yanera charged in, hitting it with a concussive roar, smiting with her shield. Her axe came down a second later, cleaving straight through one of the creature’s legs.
It howled, the very sound of it setting Bronwyn’s bones alight.
No matter what it was, no matter its strange abilities or the crushing pressure that made his skills feel sickly and anemic, they had the advantage.
Stone shattered as the Tyrant launched back, escaping the burning flames.
Its multi-segmented jaws crackled, snarling in rage as oozing wounds and blackened carapace made it look all the more grotesque.
“You may have fire, but I have ignition; I have essence — and I am enriched by its blessing!”
The pressure vanished, and a scintillating inferno erupted around the Tyrant’s body.
Bronwyn’s eyes widened. He had no name for the colour of those flames. They were richer than red, more strong and striking than violet, and shone with a brilliance that cut him to his very core.
“Be ready—” he started to scream.
The Tyrant was gone.
And Yanera was slumping over.
The creature was curled around her head like some decrepit pouncing cat. The claws of one of its hands were punched in the gap of his friend’s visor.
Red blood flowed.
Yanera hit the ground like so much scrap metal.
Crushing grief sparked Bronwyn’s fury to new heights.
“Yanera!” he screamed, surging forwards, a wild slash aimed at the back of the Tyrant’s head.
Red eyes snapped to him. He could have sworn that the thing smirked.
It kicked off, sailing over his head.
Bronwyn growled, ripping his blade upwards as an arc of black flame slammed into the creature’s midsection.
Fucking killed her.
His flames punched deep, a blackened wound opening in its belly. Bloody ichor spilled over him in a burning wave.
No matter the skill it had used, they could kill it. It was faster now, stronger, but no more durable.
He knew its target. Julis.
Dread gripped his belly.
Dust exploded around the mage as he dematerialised, his capstone skill unbelievably costly, but it saved his life.
Bronwyn breathed a sigh of relief, chasing after the Tyrant.
Yet to his horror, its scintillating burning claws snapped into the centre of the flowing dust, and Julis rematerialised with a gurgling cry.
The Tyrant’s clawed hand was planted where his heart should have been.
Bronwyn locked eyes with his friend; staring into the mage’s blue eyes; seeing his pallid face.
Julis didn’t say anything.
There was only the gut-wrenching fear, before his head lolled back and the Tyrant tossed Julis’s corpse to the side with contempt.
“No!” Bronwyn roared, charging in. “Not like this. Not after so many years. Why? Why?!”
His vision blurred as he threw everything he had. Recklessly, with no care for the torrent of stamina and mana that flowed free, burning wave after sundering slash after crushing shield charge slammed into the Tyrant.
Scales and carapace cracked; blood spilled; bones broke.
Yet it wasn’t enough.
He knew it deep in his marrow that it wasn’t enough. Anger roared — how dare it. How dare that monstrosity kill his friends; dare to be his end?
Eyes hard, Bronwyn charged in, venting every turbulent emotion he had into a roar. His shield bash crushed its arms to its side — staggering the creature. It was a risky opening — three more limbs were poised and ready.
He didn’t care — only enjoying his final moment of vindication as he plunged his blade deep into its chest.
The Tyrant let the blow land home uncontested.
Three hands clamped down around his head.
“Go with Honour,” it whispered, on the verge of crooning.
He barely heard the words.
Sorry, Dros. We tried.
A single sudden crack consumed his everything. It barely even hurt.