With a flick of his wrist, he tossed it into the air, eyes locked on the spinning blade as it fell…
Every pair of eyes followed it. Gael shifted his stance, greatsword tilting slightly as if ready to counter anything in reach. The shield-and-sword wielder tightened his grip, squaring behind his slab of steel. The katana wielder's knees bent low, the tip of his blade hovering inches from the muck. Behind them, the two archers had already drawn, fletching brushing their cheeks as they attempted to keep their breaths steady.
The dagger's spin slowed, its arc tipping marshbound.
Deacon angled his twin blades forward to exit out of his defensive stance and into an offensive one, mana coiled through the Inconel-Tungsten of Echoform Reliquary until faint blue veins pulsed along the edges beneath the already glowing blue of the Spectral Grease that remained atop it. Manipulating his mana within his mana channels to sink into his muscles as well to boost his physical strength ever so slightly, it created a thin layer of very faint, light blue that crawled over his skin.
The dagger was less than a meter away from kissing the ground.
Sam's staff flared faintly in his right hand, his left palm open, fingers splayed, the air between both already rippling with gathered wind mana. He had two casts already primed and locked.
The earth barely had time to swallow the blade before one side of the marsh erupted into motion. Sam's hands snapped forward, twin Gust blasts roaring out with enough force to whip mud into the air. The katana wielder's footing gave instantly, the slick ground sending him sliding to his ass. Gael, anticipating Sam's usual opener, stomped once, activating the enchanted soles of his boots, locking himself in place as the wind crashed against him. The shield and sword wielder braced in time, knees shaking under the blast of Gust, but only sliding back half a step.
Behind them, both archers loosed, but their arrows barely cleared the gap before Sam's winds robbed them of speed, the shafts tumbling uselessly into the mud.
Not even a heartbeat later, Deacon's twin blades burst into orange flame, the heat licking his forearms as Flame Armament took hold. He was already moving, boots splashing through shallow pools of water atop the muddy marsh, his burst of speed snapping the shield and sword man's eyes wide as the man peeked over his guard.
The shield and sword man surged forward, shield high and leading, ready to crash into Deacon and skewer a blade through him in the same breath, his anger wouldn't allow anything else. But a meter out, Deacon was already gone, boots leaving the wet, muddy marsh in a burst of movement. His right foot landed square on the man's helm with a wet clank, the metal ringing under the sudden weight before Deacon kicked off, mud and rainwater spraying in his wake – the sudden weight and force that both landed and vaulted off of him only further pushed him away from his target and sent him stumbling forward.
He vaulted their front line entirely, not forgetting to give Gael a wink as their eyes met for a brief moment, as he soared right past him for a brief second, twisting midair to land where their formation was thinnest, right in the archers' space – the backline.
Gael didn't hesitate. His greatsword ripped through the air as he used its obscene weight to pivot his entire body towards his backline, the blade's edge drawing a white arc through the mist as it came for Deacon's ribs. The force he was placing behind it was enough to cleave through breastplate, flesh, and bone alike.
At the same time, the katana wielder scrambled upright, swamp muck dripping from his armor, face flushed red more from embarrassment of falling onto his ass from the very first attack. He launched himself at Sam with a wordless roar, blade flashing silver under the violet glow of the barrier.
Sam's eyes didn't leave Gael – the only one he believed to be a real threat out of the five. His staff slammed into the muddy marsh, the impact sending a ripple through the marsh like a stone dropped into still water. His left leg drove deeper into the mud for anchoring, while his free hand twisted sharply.
The earth and water answered in kind.
The ground beneath the enemy's boots seized, the mud clamping up around ankles and dragging them backward as if the swamp itself wanted them gone. Gael's next step halted mid-stride, muscles locking as the earth yanked him down and back. The shield and sword man's forward bash died with a hard jolt, the top rim of his shield catching him under the chin as his own weight betrayed him. The katana wielder pitched forward mid-swing, the blade's tip carving an awkward line through the air instead of Sam's chest.
Gael's swing missed Deacon by inches, the wind of it tugging at his cloak as he sailed past.
Still airborne, Deacon's eyes narrowed. Undying Flame roared awake from deep in his core, bleeding heat until the air inside the glowing violet barrier rippled like it was mid-summer.
The exhaustion of the night, the mad rush for banners, and the raw memory of her body smoldering within the fire – all of these emotions simmering within him were now used to fuel his Undying Flame.
He came down on the first archer like a hammer through glass. His right-hand blade traced the opening stroke of a diagonal line, the edge biting through the joint of shoulder and neck. Blood erupted in a hot spray across the violet-lit mud. The second stroke from his left blade came low, cleaving clean through the archer's bow just above the grip.
The wood of the bow split in two as they left the archer's hands and tumbled into the mud, and the archer let loose a howl of pain as his body caught up to the pain.
For a breath, the world froze around him, those two burning trails still hanging in the air where his blades had passed, like scars of flame carved into the space itself to form an X. Then they ignited in perfect unison, flaring brightly before fading into curling smoke.
The archer let loose another howl of pain as he was now set aflame.
The second archer loosed in panic, the arrow sliced past Deacon's face, leaving a thin cut across his cheek as he stepped into his next strike to deliver a debilitating blow to the other archer. But before he could finish it, a deep bellow cut through the fight.
Gael had torn free from Sam's earth and water manipulating bind with brute force, mud exploding outward with the motion, and was already pulling his greatsword into another wide, brutal arc aimed square at Deacon's spine.
The howl of the burning archer behind him barely registered. Deacon threw himself sideways in a low roll, the heat from Gael's passing blade licking the air where his back had been. Mid-roll, his left hand snapped forward, short sword spinning away in a flat, vicious throw.
The blade buried itself deep into the thigh of the second archer with a dull thunk, the force twisting the man's leg inward unnaturally. The archer's scream cracked through the violet haze, stopping him from notching back an arrow at him as he scrambled back up.
"I give! I give!" the archer he de-armed shrieked, collapsing into the muck, scrabbling for something in the pouch at his lower back. His fingers were clawing at leather and mud to find his Healing Crystal as well as his arm.
Deacon's boots splashed hard as he pushed himself upright, but the shield and sword wielder was already on him, closing the gap with a low, driving slash aimed to open him from hip to ribs. Deacon dipped under it, feeling the wind off the edge graze the leather of his backpiece. The man's shield came swinging a half-second later in a brutal follow-up bash, but Deacon was already gone, sliding sideways through the churned muck, boots kicking up mud in Gael's direction.
The grin that cut across his face wasn't friendly; it was one put on when everything was going to plan and was celebrating.
Gael caught it, and for a breath, his own expression didn't change. Then his gaze shifted just enough to track where Deacon's eyes had flicked.
Sam was retreating, stepping backward through the shimmer of the violet barrier, staff low, posture loose. Smirking as Gael's eyes caught his own.
Then Gael noticed it. The faint curl of flame blooming in Deacon's left palm, heat building in waves. His stance widened, shoulders rolling back, every inch of him pointing toward Gael. That heat carried weight as it pressed into the air between them, heavy, dry, biting at the edges of his skin and its innate mana resistance that was formed by his Endurance and Willpower stats.
Gael's gut tightened.
No.
He brought his greatsword up vertically and planted his feet, locking himself in behind the steel. The wide blade would act like a wall between him and the coming blast, every muscle coiled tight against the shock to come. The air grew hotter by the second, tension sharpening as five within the barrier knew they would face egregious burns when Deac's Ignis blast would be let loose.
And then–
Nothing.
No rush of fire, no pain... No impact.
Gael risked a glance over his blade's rim.
Yamato, seemingly in a suicidal move, was already there. The katana wielder's boots splashed through the marsh as his blade tore upwards through the air with vicious precision. The edge cut Deacon's left arm clean off at the middle of his forearm, the cut so sharp it barely slowed until it bit into empty air. Blood burst in a hot spray, the severed limb still faintly wreathed in aborted flame as it flew into the air before tumbling across the muddy marsh.
The heat in the air dropped instantly.
Deacon's face contorted into one of pain, his teeth bared as he clenched his jaw through it. But there was no staggering backwards, no retreating to lick his wounds.
Instead, he pivoted into Yamato, boots grinding deep into the muck for leverage, and drove the steel-backed knuckles of his right fist, still gripping his remaining short sword, straight into the man's jaw.
The crack of bone was sharp beneath the squelch of mud. Yamato's head snapped sideways, blood and spit spraying from his mouth in a red arc. Deacon stumbled from the force of the punch he delivered, but caught himself, swaying on ruined balance from the loss of his arm, breath coming ragged between clenched teeth.
Gael's grin split wide as he charged, greatsword carving a furrow through the mud before he lifted it, leveling the blade to skewer Deacon. Each stride splashed muck into the air, boots thudding over the marsh, the sound almost lost beneath the low hum of mana building at the sword's tip. Then, with a lunge, he drove the blade forward.
However, it wasn't Deacon he hit.
A translucent shimmer of blue flared into being between them, rippling like glass under strain – a Manashield. The greatsword slammed into it with a crack that rang across the Outer Moorlands, the impact reverberating deep in the air.
At the exact same moment, an arrow from the crippled archer, one of Deacon's short swords still jutting from his thigh, slammed into the same spot, shattering into useless splinters that bounced off the barrier.
Sam stood just inside, staff up and being held with both hands as he concentrated on maintaining and strengthening his Manashield.
Gael snarled low, as he'd been denied his strike for the third time now. "Fucking mages," he growled, the words vibrating in his chest more than in his throat. His grip on the greatsword tightened, shoulders stiffening. His gaze slipped off Deacon, weaving beneath Yamato's strike, and locked onto Sam.
The smirk Sam gave Gael was small, but it was there and added just enough salt to his wounded ego to cause veins to pulse visibly across his forehead.