"Ah, pray, I do apologise. I had wholly forgotten you. But you—good graciousness—you seem utterly overwhelmed by what has happened. Here, then," he said, gently setting Dash upon the ground. "After all your pompous claims of strength, it appears your steel is but glass—fragile, pliant to the will of another. Now, if you will forgive me, I have work to complete. Sit, and be silent. It is showtime."
Mr. Alaric rolled up his cuffs, joints creaking softly as he stretched, his gaze distant and measured, preparing himself for the task ahead.
"Then, it is time to undo the mirage," he intoned quietly. And, as if obeying some invisible command, all that had filled the sky—the fiery meteors, the descending angel of sufferance—vanished, dissipating into nothingness as though they had never existed.
Dash, though instructed to remain still and act with decorum, could not. The revelation sank into him like a weighty stone: all his fear, all the dread that had churned within his chest, had been naught but illusion, a fabrication of senses and mind. He had been caught as a fly in a spider's web, helpless and ashamed.
"Seriously, Old Uncle! Are you telling me…" Dash's voice quavered, tears welling in his eyes. "I… was afraid of nothing that truly existed? Damnit! I was deceived! Damnit, damnit! I shall ever be left behind, like refuse! I fancied myself strong enough to challenge my brother… yet… Maledizione. I was arrogant."
"Huh! Have you not read your history, strange-haircut boy?" Alaric teased, flexing his shoulders with a faint grin. "Goodness, you are like thy brother—though he has sharper wits. Methinks your father imparted naught but this strange haircut unto you."
Indeed, they say, "Whoever knows not his history is condemned to repeat it". True strength springs not merely from the flesh, but from the unity of mind, spirit, and body. To forge a mirage, all three must harmonize perfectly. Should one falter, the art collapses utterly.
A mirage is a deception wrought to ensnare the senses, convincing the observer of false truths. It is a subtle hypnosis, shaping perception until reality itself seems twisted. Such an art draws upon Manifesta and Synchron, energies amassed by disciplined synergy of thought, spirit, and flesh. Few achieve it, for any discord weakens the spell.
"Behold, boy, how it is undone!" Alaric declared, lifting a hand as faint arcs of energy shimmered along his fingers. "It requires naught but the union of mind, spirit, and body—and behold! A fine art indeed." He waved lightly, dissipating the final remnants of illusion. "Mark this well: it ensnares the weak-willed, as it did you. Yet still, it is a tool to scarecrow people like you are."
Dash could scarcely move, his mind awash with awe and lingering shame. Even though latent power slumbered within him, unawaken. If an eagle believes it cannot fly, its wings remain fettered.
"So, all that we saw… was but an illusion?" Dash whispered. "Yet what about the heat? The overwhelming aura of that angel? You are telling lies, Old Uncle. You are badly bluffing."
Mr. Alaric, now fully warmed, regarded the devil before him. The creature lingered, movements hesitant, restrained, as if awaiting an invitation to partake in. Its eyes glimmered, yet reason seemed absent, its mind obscured.
"Good grief, boy. Do you think a servant of God would tell untruths?" His tone was calm, almost instructional. "The heat you did feel was but a trick of your mind. Your senses were beguiled into believing that which was not. Should one be shown drowning within a mirage, the mind will convince the body of suffocation. Such is the peril of disbelief. Be silent now, and allow me my work. I am loath to hear the clamour of insects meddling in affairs beyond them."
Dash bowed his head, the shame settling deep. He understood fully now his own weakness, and the weight of his prior arrogance.
Alaric lifted his holy hammer. "Die Jungfrau Maria!" he cried, springing into the air. The devil reacted with unnatural swiftness, moving behind him, twin blades flashing as they struck. Alaric pivoted, parrying with a resounding clang. Sparks erupted, scattering like stars, each strike igniting brief rings of flame that mirrored miniature suns. The dance of weapons repeated, a rhythmic clash of will and skill, light and shadow intertwining.
The sun sank lower, tinting the battlefield with amber and gold—a portal between the realms of heaven and hell. Each strike echoed like a lament, the clash resonating in the air like a dirge. Blows came faster now, a blur of steel and divine intent, each parry and thrust a conversation of power and judgment, yet neither gaining dominion.
Alaric's eyes narrowed. "Ah, nearly sunset," he murmured. "Time to let loose the wilderness within. Long have I restrained mine own strength, holding this hammer with but caution. O Lord, forgive mine own tardiness! I shall honour Thy name and end this swiftly."
He gripped the hammer with both hands, the air around him quivering. "O God, purge me with hyssop, that I might be cleansed. Wash me, that I be whiter than snow."
And then he howls: "Akt Eins: The Purgery!"
The incantation summoned a blinding brilliance from the horizon. Light erupted, transforming the deepening blue of dusk into the clarity of midday ocean. The heavens shimmered with a holy radiance, scattering the lingering shadows. The darkness, the doubt, the lingering traces of the devil's presence were swept aside by the purity of the illumination, and the battlefield itself seemed to hold its breath in awe.
Dash watched, unable to make sense fully of what is really happening before him, feeling both diminished and inspired, and failing to understand who truly the devil is. The lesson of the mirage, the skill of Alaric, and the raw power of faith and discipline burned into his mind. This was no mere fight, no simple display of strength—it was a teaching, a revelation, and a test of spirit all were found in one man.
The devil, sensing the shift in power, hesitated. The wind carried the faint scent of ozone and scorched earth, and the battlefield vibrated with anticipation, as though the very world expected the next strike. Alaric's hammer glowed faintly, poised to deliver not just force, but judgment, and the aura of divinity radiated outward, pressing upon the darkness with gentle but inexorable might.
Dash could only stare, heart pounding, realizing at last the gulf between his fear and reality, between his arrogance and true understanding. He felt the weight of his own weakness, but also the faint spark of potential—a seed of courage that, if nurtured, might one day grow to rival even the illusions he had once feared.
At last, the devil's rage is suppressed—yet at what cost?
Next time on Soul Blade Brawl Z: The Crash of Legends— "The zephyr that follows the tempest."