Chương 118: CHAPTER 115 - Forgetting How To Live

Edvard Ross advanced through the trembling shadows while the origin of that phenomenon let himself drop from his perch, silent and swift. The air, already cold, began to turn sharp and painful to breathe. The rigid soles and the thud of the staff broke the silence as the two watched each other wordlessly. Angel was cloaked in a veil of sorrow, while Edvard was wrapped in constant tremors. The young man shifted his gaze to the other's weapon, so intense that it gave the impression the pommel had frozen.

"Do you consider me a noble because of my bearing? Or because of my clothes?" Edvard smiled, tapping the decorated piece of wood against the ground again. Angel followed him with his eyes, keeping one hand always resting on the velvet pouch.

"I hate to disappoint you, but this is a NOIR armored suit. Nothing precious, yet decidedly functional." He pinched the fabric of his chest with his fingers, causing small ripples to spread across the surface of the entire suit: from the scarlet coat to the black shirt, undulations began to spread, almost imperceptible were it not for the weak light in the room.

"I recognize that it's interesting equipment, but that's not the reason I'm asking you questions." The figure vanished, leaving black droplets suspended in the air behind him. Edvard's senses moved together with the staff, meeting the blade of darkness that had manifested before him. The wood clashed against that unnatural material, unleashing a shower of frozen spheres of shadow. Dense smoke covered the weapon, and both combatants were hurled away.

"From the reports, I didn't imagine you were a direct fighter." He brushed his beard, bringing the staff in front of his face just like a foil. Angel, on the other hand, rested in the shadow, with barely his foot and the tip of the black blade visible.

"I was asking to see how I should behave with my past." The jingling of coins intensified as he stepped out of his dark crevice, his dull face streaked with clear tears. Looking at him, Edvard felt a strange sensation, perhaps all too familiar. An evanescent memory of flames shot through his nerves, loosening his grip on the staff.

"I really hate this guy..."

"You're Angel Meris, right?" The boy nodded, letting two salty drops clump on contact with the grainy dust.

"That pouch gives you enough freedom to leave. Why are you here?" Angel looked around, lingering on the column of light filtering through the large opening above.

"I'd be hunted anyway, no? By you or by my own, it matters little. A man can never be free when he flees, and fleeing takes away life's beautiful moments. Fleetingness becomes something to chase, but nothing guarantees that one day I won't overtake the fleeting moment. I wanted a master to stop running, to stop being free." The blade of darkness quivered in contact with the light, swelling and bubbling.

"A marionette is free without strings, yet it can no longer move. Currently, one is cut. Only one remains, and then..." The two sized each other up, breathing almost in unison.

"Are you truly free when your way of life robs you of the time to stop?" Edvard tilted his head, staring at the pile of rocks where his foot now rested. For an instant, it seemed to him that a golden ring glinted in the dust, but it was only for a moment.

"I'd like to console you, to tell you that's not true or that we aren't the same and that you can find the knot of your pain… But I know you're not here for that." Edvard unsheathed the whip-blade stored inside the staff, making it hiss through the air. The exchange happened in less than a few instants. Angel's black blade pierced Edvard's forehead, then was enveloped by dense, whitish smoke. The young man turned immediately, only managing to see the metal whip slice off his arm.

Black liquid poured from the wound while the rest of the flesh fused with the shadows. Without changing expression, Angel stomped his foot on the ground, causing dozens of shadow spines to explode. Dense fog spread around him, beginning to distract him with various whispers. Some were distant echoes, others weeping prayers. From the darkness emerged various bronze barrels, unloading all their ammunition in every direction. Amid the metallic barrage, Edvard and Angel clashed blades.

"Modified bullets for hunting Metas?" Edvard stamped his foot on the ground, smiling as he saw his opponent sitting in the shadow with one arm vaguely longer than the other. Angel nodded, regenerating his mangled shoulder.

"A convenient invention, but nothing too special." Angel appeared before him, this time armed with black claws. They exchanged blows again, with darkness cleaving flesh and the whip passing through Angel's body, slashing rock. Edvard snapped his fingers, unleashing an explosion of smoke. In the midst of the fog, Angel felt himself grabbed and pulled away by familiar voices.

"I don't have those bonds for you to use." He drove his claws into the fog, piercing the other's chest. Not a drop of blood gushed. Edvard simply vanished into the mist. Immediately after, a hiss, and his back was slashed by iron. Angel spun around sharply, extending his arm to such an extent that it cleaved the entire fog. The darkness cut through part of the wall, briefly extending to the sunlit exterior before vanishing. The smoke dissipated again, revealing Edvard's figure, seated atop the rubble.

"It's useless to hide it since I've challenged more than one of your members in the past, but my ability consists of transforming my Frequency into that smoke and using it to dig into the mind." Angel nodded, retracting the claws into the same penumbra from which they had emerged.

"I do believe it causes strong hallucinations based on how strongly one is tied to the past. Unfortunately, I have completely separated mine from the person I am." Edvard tilted his head, scratching his scalp.

"The past defines a person, no? You're so determined to run from everything that you've even stopped looking back." The boy's expression was the usual: relaxed muscles, chin slightly lowered, vacant eyes, and not even a small variation of his thin lips.

"I really don't like admitting it, but you are no longer a person. I pity you, boy." His gaze pierced Angel's, yet his eyes were relaxed.

"Tell me, Edvard Ross." He stopped, lowering the whip.

"What does it mean to live as a noble? Is it a fulfilling life?" Edvard's body seemed to freeze. Memories of a century past assailed his mind, and had it not been for the smoke surrounding his body, perhaps even Angel would have seen the solitary tear staining his cheek.

"You might think the words I say are false, but I will answer you honestly." Edvard slid down from the rubble, planting the staff in the ground as he stared into the boy's eyes.

"Despite the wealth, the possibilities, and everything else… Mine was not a good life." Angel furrowed his brows, his first change of expression since the beginning of their encounter.

"You may be surprised, but perhaps I was the only noble to have had an oppressive life even before the war." Edvard drew the smoke back into his body, lighting a half-consumed cigar hidden inside his jacket.

"The Rosses have always been a very closed-minded family, very attached to their roots even though I personally could never find the sense in it. The history of the world is largely a mystery, and we cling to phantom ancestors to give luster to a name?" He chuckled as he spoke, savoring the smoke.

"That is not a question I wish an explanation for... But I have no wish to interrupt your words. I didn't receive any orders regarding time." Edvard now started to laugh, puffing smoke from his lips at every movement.

"Well, if you wish... I had no brothers or sisters, and frankly I wasn't even a direct descendant. My father's wife, the one who should have been my mother, was infertile and bore no heirs. My father took one of the best maids from the aptitude trials and got her pregnant. That's what I was told. She died after childbirth, and the first wife began to hate me as soon as I started breathing, perhaps because I was, in her eyes, the phantom of her failure."

Edvard toyed with the cigar between his fingers, now almost consumed.

"I had luxury, yes, so much money it would have made the entire capital pale, but even among nobles, discord arises, and I can assure you it's worse than any conflict that can happen in the city. Embittered by money, no blood flows but poison, lies, and underhanded stratagems to devour a family without ever dirtying one's hands." He tossed away the cigar, rising to his feet while supporting himself with the staff.

"We Rosses had a branch known as the Anchored, the name of the first merchant band that unified Andimica. Catherine Ross, my ancestor, was one of the key figures of the Dark Epoch, but evidently she wasn't a saint if all the other noble families began to obstruct us." Angel tapped his temple, staring at him.

"The client… He mentioned it. That among your ranks there would be some individuals with knowledge regarding the Dark Epoch." Edvard's gaze darkened, leaning more and more weight on the staff.

"Your contractor? The same one who appeared in the cathedral? I know that's too many questions in a row, but are you sure she knows that era?" Angel remained motionless, shifting his pupils between the dark corners of the room.

"I only report what was stated during the meeting. If I'm not mistaken, he also mentioned that it was irrelevant whether to inform you." Edvard nodded, relaxing and sitting back down. He licked his lips, almost missing the cigar.

"To conclude the answer to your question…" He rested his fist on his chin, reflecting in silence.

"The smoke around him is rippling. If I attack now, I might seriously get injured." As relaxed as he might seem, Angel's body instinctively knew that a single step would be equivalent to the loss of a good part of his limbs.

"I led a life that was, on paper, excellent and rich in stimuli, yet I was alone. Abandoned by everyone except my tutors. I desired something more, and in the end, I decided to run away with a person dear to me." He vaguely sketched a smile as he spoke.

"In the end, responsibilities caught up with me, and I had to accept becoming a man, facing my father and leading the family, and perhaps deep down I hoped I could improve it, could change the attitude of that environment." In the smoke that escaped from his fingers, an image began to manifest, visible only to him. Fire, smoke, metal, burnt, screams, red, buzzing. Edvard Ross crawled through that cacophony, dragging the mutilated mass that was once his leg.

He felt the bones protruding from his muscles scrape against the debris, while distant detonations buried his desperate cries. Wherever he rested his bloodied eyes, he saw only a horizon glowing red and a black sky. The smoke blocked the stars, so loved by the city. Love this story? Find the genuine version on the author's preferred platform and support their work!

"RIA! ROUND! WHERE ARE YOU?!" He had lost sensation and hadn't even realized that, from dragging himself, his nails had been torn off. He fell from the collapsed balcony, landing in the garden eaten by flames. There he saw the white gazebo, or what remained of it. Among the little white pieces left on the charred wood, he noticed a glint. With effort, he lifted himself, limping toward the rubble. Despite everything, he smiled. He knew he could start over, that his family would allow him to recover.

He was already imagining a new life as he dug, laughing, far from the burning manor. Thus, Edvard Ross dirtied himself with blood and dust, burned himself, as he silently uncovered the hand that wore the ring.

"Let's get out of here, Ria! Round will be waiting for us with Vima and Riccardo!" He pulled and realized he was falling down the pile of debris. Landing on the grass, he noticed he was clutching something. A bomb illuminated what he held, along with his pale, bloodied face: an olive-skinned arm with a splendid golden ring on the ring finger. He began to whimper, retreating backward like a man possessed, unable to detach himself from the vaguely cold flesh.

Thick tears darkened his vision, yet he could see the silhouette of the owner of that arm perfectly.

"Ria... Ria… Riadne." He began to cry, screaming between one sob and another until his voice died in his throat. Feeling his vocal cords tear, he let out a final scream, drowned out, however, by yet another metallic drone born from the sky. All was lost in the dark atmosphere, embraced by dense smoke. With his wet face turned to the dark sky, he felt hatred extinguish, followed by the instinct to flee.

He carried the arm with him, perhaps unconsciously, continuing to run as military echoes spread around him, as if hunting him for the last piece of that ideal future that remained to him. The smoke dissipated, and Edvard's hand returned to normal as it had always been.

"In the end, I was left alone." Angel, throughout that narration, had remained motionless and impassive, ignoring the shadows that flickered near him. He looked Edvard in the eyes and nodded in complete silence.

"I sought a mediocrity that never came, despite having all the means to have it. Mine perhaps wasn't a good example to answer you." He smiled, tilting his head onto his shoulder as usual. Angel vanished, appearing on the ceiling above him.

"Regarding your story, I also have a few notes to give." His face appeared paler than usual as filaments of darkness supported him.

"Before the war, I killed a noble. One from a minor family, not of terrifying importance but not a nameless scion either." Seeing him speak, Edvard felt the blood freeze in his veins. His eyes were vacant, pushed to gaze at an imaginary horizon and detached from the tragedy he murmured with that thread of monotonous voice.

"He proudly wore the glorious black star on his chest. I still remember how those jewels shone on his chest when I drove the nail into his heart." The mass of shadows between his fingers began to vibrate, elongating and extending until it resembled a pike.

"Since you've told me your life, perhaps I should offer you a glimpse into mine." He didn't move. Angel simply let slimy spheres slide to the ground, as if they were ink. From them formed three silhouettes: a divinely dressed man, a woman in a frilly dress, and a young man lying in a thick sheet. They were only shadow images, but Edvard could distinguish a vague semblance.

"Quite the gory theatre you have here..." Edvard smiled, but Angel acted as if not a single word had been spoken.

"An orphan is small. He can tremble, thrash in the few rags that the world has provided him, but in the end he is always too small to be noticed." The scene shifted, with the huddled shadow clutching a cloth to itself under a large arch, or at least what Angel's shadows could reproduce. A figure suddenly formed from the black puddle, resembling the same woman as before.

"Like all conjectures, there will always be an event that dislodges them from their unassailability." The figure began to caress the boy, pulling an apple from an imaginary basket and offering it to him.

"And so I spent a pitiful year in that woman's company. Her name was Lucia. She took me to the workshop, left me in the care of a master. Life was hard, but deep down I considered it a cradle." Angel manipulated those slimy shapes, transforming them into various little scenes: a boy working wood, meetings with that woman, the old man's fiery scoldings.

"However, a child is torn away from the placidity of that wooden cage, and unfortunately there were no arms to welcome me, only the cold blade of a rapier." Now the young man dressed in rags had stood up, pushed against the wall by the blade wielded by the initial man.

"Lucia was supposed to marry one of those military leaders… She detested the idea and cried every day to me." Angel descended from his niche, landing precisely among the figures.

"She was discovered, and I was forced to duel. Obviously, my hopes were low." A black spike manifested in his palm.

"I saw that gaze full of apprehension and fear, and then I, bleeding and now almost blind…" Before Edvard's horrified eyes, Angel pierced the shadow's chest, making it explode in a mist of black foam.

"Again and again I pierced his flesh, shifting as necessary to open new wounds but not enough to stop feeling the strenuous resistance of the collapsing heart." Angel, completely pervaded and damp with that darkness, sketched a smile.

"And this is how you understood your powers?" Edvard tapped the staff on the ground.

"Those came later, when I realized how happy I was to live in the dark." He pointed at the lady-like figure.

"This is the expression with which I would have liked to reciprocate hers… But in her gaze, stained with blood, there was only fear." The remaining intact figure fell to the ground, tearing at its smooth face in the hope of giving meaning to its mimicry of a scream. Angel stared at it, narrowing his eyes slightly.

"She told me she wanted to run away, that she didn't want to live trapped there…" Without further words, the young man hurled himself at the shadow, decapitating it with a single gesture. Edvard watched him motionless, gripping the pommel of his staff ever tighter.

"She had neither the makings of a fugitive nor of a marionette. She needed too much to fulfill her vision." Angel turned, finally staring at Edvard with his usual face.

"So I freed her from the world, from what bound her most of all. And to me, the shadow's spoils." The shadows vanished, and between the two fell a silence marked by glances. Neither wanted to advance nor take a step, silently trying to find meaning in their respective stories, something that could somehow validate them. Both finally realized that their realities were incompatible.

"I have no remorse for what I did. To this day, I consider it a necessity." Edvard nodded, drawing the whip again with a hiss.

"I, on the other hand, detest that the same fate befell so many people." Angel nodded, stretching the shadows until they formed claws on both arms.

"Tell me, son of the Rosses." His ears twitched as he swung the blade mixed with smoke.

"Aren't we, being so tragic, the most worthy to feel the marionette's strings?" The simple movement of the black blade instantly slashed the rock. The smoke pierced the shadows, piercing the dome. Both of them clashed, feeling smoke and darkness spread around them.

"We Metas, with more power than humans but still human, have only more tools to be in the wrong." Thus, in total silence, the two vanished. Dense mist clogged the room. The curtain extended outside as well, engulfing the entire floating structure. Suddenly tentacles of shadow pierced through the fog, impaling rock and iron. Edvard slid outside, skating across the cement with smoke at his feet. The weak sun disappeared for an instant before hundreds of dark pikes impaled the ground.

"Your words are fitting for a tragic hero like you." Angel emerged from the rubble, watching as his tentacles ripped open Edvard's abdomen.

"Really? But... I never saw myself as a hero." He started to laugh, and with each sound, his voice became more and more distorted. Angel reacted fast, splitting him in two, but only smoke appeared. The shadows bubbled, growing into a colossal and smooth maw. Its bite destroyed the island, yet only more smoke appeared. From the greyish mist, dozens of Edvard Ross manifested. The orbs hovering behind Angel's back shimmered before exploding into a swarm of arrows.

The whips snapped into the air before turning into vapour.

"What do you wish to do now?" Angel suddenly turned, feeling the iron of Edvard's sword near his face.

"Well... Darkness isn't an element, but the privation of light. I'm confident that you made enough smoke." A huge column of mist impacted the higher island, slowly pushing it aside. A ray of light finally appeared again. Angel's shadows started to boil, and his blade shrank in size. Edvard's eyes met his, and with a resolute smile, he continued to push his blade.

"I will end both of our tragedies... Angel Meris!" While the gash in the sky generated by Lance Klint devoured Icarus, a grim reunion was taking place at Ursa.

"I didn't think you'd arrive so soon." A mass of dark, oily tendrils spoke, writhing as it detached from the ruins of concrete and metal. Before that horror, a man in a tank top with his shoulder covered in metal and cables clicked his tongue.

"I believe it's part of our destiny. We must complete this duet." From the metal plates emerged dozens of small vibrating fragments, forming a small tuning fork between Lautre's fingers. The beast in the tendrils growled, thrashing before compacting and sliding to the ground. Lautre moved his head, avoiding the braided blade hurled at him.

"Today the funeral will be for both of us, Lautre Clerc." From the protrusion emerged Roman, with part of his face devoured by his own ability and one arm now completely enveloped by black, trembling tendrils.

"Frankly, I don't wish to die in this shithole. Have you finally chosen what to play for her? Are you sure those were her wishes?" This time the blow was faster, grazing the back of his hand.

"SHUT UP! HOW CAN YOU PRESUME TO UNDERSTAND HER!" Lautre accepted those screams, all the venom that hung in the air, together with that soul now lost in the madness of hatred.

"Please, forgive Roman if you ever have to face him again." Maica's words hovered in Lautre's head for a brief instant, pushing him to chew his lip. He planted the tuning fork in the rock, making the entire area vibrate.

"You've even forgotten the exception to the teachings you gave her… You drowned out her cries with your own shouts." The two hurled themselves at each other, Lautre brandishing vibrations while Roman swung that gigantic, grim, grotesque arm." Requiem: Acte 1."" Dush: уничтожение." The impact of those forces split the atmosphere, reducing the entire Ursa area to shreds in their very first clash. The vibrations heated the air, while the shockwave reduced the floating islets to dust.

Amid that devastation, Lautre Clerc's arm was faster. The tuning fork flew into his palm, vibrating furiously to the point of becoming almost distorted. His rival's face split open, vomiting even more tendrils into the arm, which now resembled a column more than a limb.

"This score… will be terribly painful." The metal fell like a meteor onto Roman's black eyes, stopping any noise around them for an instant. Moments later, the island detonated with enough force to be heard across all of Icarus." Crescendo." In the midst of that devastation, Lautre could still perceive the writhing beats of hatred.