The armored figure now stood about ten feet from Noctis, a sea of thread separating them, bits and pieces of yellow-covered marvel, rough structures peeking out between the environment's pure golden luster.
One in dark rags, his appearance ungroomed, unmoving like a statue.
The other, draped in plated metal armor, not showing the slightest bit of vulnerable skin, a demon-like mask draped over its face.
Each figure stood out like a thumb within the pristine and holy atmosphere of the forest made of fates.
The metal figure said nothing, and neither did Noctis, as they fell into a silent standoff.
Noctis might have enjoyed wondering about the environment and its origins before the string of fate descended and bound all in its wake, but right now his mind was in turmoil, unable to even wander in such direction.
Should he strike?
No… Speak then?
But what could he say?
It was a human, a real human.
What was he doing here?
Were there more?
Were they a threat?
'It's... the first I have seen one since… that day.'
To say Noctis's emotions had fallen into turmoil was to make light of his current state. As a result of the conflicting and splashing emotions, he had frozen up, unable to say a thing. A tremor ran through his hand, uncertain whether to strike or speak.
Was he supposed to feel happiness, or fear at the prospect of such a meeting?
He wasn't even sure how he should feel.
He should say at least something, right?
Starring at the unmoving figure with wide-open eyes until water began to build up under the strain of the knowledge-filled sight.
When Nocit finally managed to mutter, his voice raspy and barely audible, his vocal cords not used to the motion, the scared lips of his probably creating a horrifying sight.
"Who are you…" I come in peace…
He wanted to add on, but could not.
Not because of a mental block. It was a far more dire reason.
As he contemplated, just as his words began to ring out, the standoff broke.
A familiar but unexpected premonition hit the back of his mind, so strong it almost threw him off his feet.
Nocits had not acted first.
He did not have to.
He had given up the chance.
The figure in metal suddenly dashed forward as the golden shades blinding his vision blurred and melded together. Worse, the premonition trying to warn him wouldn't stop.
Confused and almost petrified, Nocits could not decide on an action when sudden pain shot through his stomach.
A metal fist had just made contact with his wounded stomach.
"Itch," Nocits spat a mouthful of blood as his body was hurled back.
Suddenly, the confusion that had taken over his mind briefly receded as he suppressed every thought not related to his survival.
The figure in front slowly no longer resembled that of a human, a possible companion, but that of a threat a threat that had to be eliminated.
The first thought that came to his slowly sharpening mind, under constant pressure from his own ability malfunctioning, was to summon his symbolism, attach it to the surrounding environment, and, if not stop the inevitable impact, at least take the brunt of it.
Before he could, however, in his increasingly blurred vision, a shifting mosaic of gold, a cold shiver ran down his back as his fingers, already moving with the familiar motions, ceased under the sudden rise of the blaring sensation at the back of his mind.
The Idea of using his symbolism died in its cradle. At least, it seemed, his senses, and therefore his premonitions, weren't being puppeteered by some ability of the thing in metal.
The moment he would even graze the surroundings with his threads, the confrontation would be lost.
He'd be thrown into one vision after another, and unlike the first time, the threads would be connected with the strings of fate for a longer time, making the visions longer aswell.
Noctis might experience years of a person's fate in the blink of an eye, but with multiple prolonged visions, each disorienting in its own way, he'd be dead, slain by the armored figure by the time he got free of the influx of information. Ignoring the possibility that his mind might not even sustain such abuse.
Before he could get another Idea to escape his circumstances, his back suddenly met a wall or mound; it was difficult to accurately classify the strings that made up the environment and what they formed. Sometimes soft and embracing, and at other times sharp and rejecting, there was no structure like another.
The rune inscribed on his flesh glinted with a golden luster just before impact. He could do nothing more, as every tendon and muscle fiber in his body stiffened in an attempt to minimize damage.
Noctis had taken too long. The force with which he had been thrown had been too great, at least on the level of a mid-tier rank two, far above those scavengers that could be compared to a high rank one at best.
Feeling his back in a world of pain, sharp slashes bit into his skin, surrounded by the silken substance that had before embraced him in his sleep. Some felt painful, others nice and comforting. Sadly, only the former were the ones he noticed at the moment, and they would probably be the only ones he would remember henceforth.
Not given the time to fully distinguish the pain or pleasure the sensation of the surrounding strings brought, the armored figure was upon him once more.
Jumping higher than a man in armor should be able to, Noctis watched the armored man's fist, draped in a thin layer of blood, his blood, close in on him.
This time, however, Noctis didn't freeze; his body rolled quickly to the side just as an impact devastated his original position.
"Argh," Noctis let out another pained gasp.
Not because he was hit, but because the warning was far too loud to dismiss as an afterthought, and it was flaring up and dying down at seemingly indiscriminate intervals.
Bang!
He wasn't in time again; the fist was no longer in his previous position as it redirected and scratched along the wall of thread, ripped them apart with scary might, and suddenly smashed into Noctis's side, hurling him a few meters to the side once more.
Luckily, he reacted a bit more precisely this time. Being flung away, he grabbed a random branch of strings that looked sturdy, somersaulted around it using it like a metal pole, and landed on his feet.
From there, Noctis didn't stop for a moment as he jumped back carefull to not get entangled within the threads hanging about.
"What a monster," Noctis muttered, loud enough for the armored man to hear.
The man, however, did not react at all, making Noctis narrow his eyes in a mix of disappointment and suspicion.
This seemed not to have been a show of strength to intimidate.
The man in armor had not been so fast as to make Noctis unable to dodge attacks of that caliber. Each strike had been simple and straightforward, in some ways unskilled even, but Noctis had not seen anything.
His senses had never been too far above average, and if he thought of Authority Wielders of the same rank, their physical capabilities usualy were far above his own. However, from the beginning, he could dodge and outmaneuver them easily, to the point that his most-used fighting style relied heavily on his slipperiness, and over time that trait only got better.
After all, he could see a person's future movements. After assimilating the mind with the authority of fate, premonitions would occasionally warn him of future occurrences, mostly aligning with the future movements of those surrounding him.
But this didn't align with that.
The man attacking him had no future.
Noctis still got premonitions, which were disorientingly strong… but there… were… strings to guide.
Wait?
Dodging another crushing strike barely, as he jumped back in the process, he almost tripped over a tightly woven bundle of strings around the height of his knee.
Suddenly, his eyes widened, the golden-streaked surroundings filling his sight.
Was this strengthening of premonitions because of his oversaturated Notium supply, or worse, was it because the environment was filled with the rules of fate, ending in his own authority being augmented?
Barely dodging another strike from the armored figure as he was steadily pushed into a corner, Nocits was troubled. If this went on, he would be unable to get back at him. He would die without having achieved anything!
Then, with a determined glint in his eyes, he decided to change his approach: he wouldn't rely on his ability to see the strings of fate, instead leaning into a certain compartment of memories.
Suddenly, his eyes opened wide as a reddish glint rose within. His hands moved behind his back, his stance seemingly open, as the next hit moved in.
If he took the full force, scary force, of the figure's punch, now he would die.
Then, just as death approached, Noctis's torso moved to the side in a seemingly leisurely movement, and the armored fist… missed.
Not letting up on its attack, it swung another fist and another, each being dodged with ease.
Not giving up, the man in metal swung both arms, trying to embrace the boy with a white strain in his marvelous black hair who was right in range.
It should have been impossible to dodge, but the white, strained youth did, as a quick kick landed on one of the armored man's legs, making him kneel, which was followed up with another kick from where on he used the demonic mask protecting the metal man's face as leverage to jump up and, in an elegant somersault, landed a few feet away.
It all happened in a fraction of a second, each skillful, well-planned movement.
One could not compare the white, strained youth to the man now standing above him.
Noticing the shift in atmosphere, the armored figure quickly stood up and jumped twice, opening a distance of tens of meters in a fell swoop.
Peculiarly, the two of them had fallen into a similar position to where the conflict had started.
No, something seemed different.
The man with his singular pronounced white streak mixed in with a head of raven-black hair, Nocits, had somehow changed.
It was nothing specific that could be put into definite words, but the air seemed to have shifted around him.
A proud air, so very unlike him, who usualy was filled with self-deprecation, seemed to surround him as his posture changed slightly, his chest sticking out, an arrogant smile tugging at his lips.
The armored man, on the other hand, stayed silent, watching the change around him that could only be described as if he were possessed, or at least, Noctis would have assumed he was.
In truth, at this moment he couldn't care less.
Under the hidden gaze of the moving armor, five thin, almost unnoticeable threads poured out of the tips of the man's fingers.
In the act, the arrogant air surrounding the white strained man receded for a moment's time.
Each thread moved as if having a mind of its own, intertwining and reforming, at times giving off glinting sparks. Under the two's eyes, first it resembled a truly thin stick, then layer upon layer of thread surrounded and embraced it, the form slowly molding into one more long and rectangular in shape as a few threads, each holding a sharp glint to them, traced along one side of the construct.
With a strong, self-confident movement, Noctis's hand grasped the construct, the sword, in one fluid motion, his hand tightly wrapping around its perfectly fitted handle as the wavering glint in his gaze returned to its pride-filled radiance.
Taking one last glance at the hard, formed blade he had made, a satisfied expression crossed his face, then he cut his connection to each thread.
Manipulating the threads' affinities and attributes to become effective only after a time was a trick acquired only recently.
As far as Noctis could see, its uses and applications were only limited by his own imagination and creativity.
A moment later, that glint of interest faded, replaced by a cold, murderous glare, and the arrogant air returned with a stronger weight to it than ever before.
Turning all of his attention towards his adversary once more, his eyes opened wide to track even the slightest of movements. It was something very uncharacteristic for him to open his eyes to the extent he was doing currently.
This habit of keeping his eyes closed had not come out of some social norm or a familiar's influence…. No, he had trained himself to do so deliberately. With what he saw daily, it had been the only option if he wanted to survive and close his eyes before the cruel truth, but now he had shed that self-defense mechanism.
Not fully of his own accord, one might add.
He shook his stiff arm a few times in a lighthearted way, each muscle not accustomed to the sensation of holding the hilt and the weight attached to it.
The boy had never held a sword in hand before…
He had thought about trying it out, but never gotten the chance in his early days, and then when he finally had the time, he was too far along another path. So he had never spent a moment of his life learning the basics of wielding such a tool, not even speaking about any stances, katas, or the like.
Lamenting this, the next moment his pose changed as the pristine white cutlass, its threaded surface giving it an organic shine, moved to his chin and pointed toward his opponent, while his free arm moved behind his back.
Each movement held a certain strictness, something one got through years of repetition, which he did not have despite the looks of it. From an outsider's perspective, if one ignored his leaner appearance, he probably appeared to be an experienced swordsman.
But he had truly never struck one down with a sword before…
Dashing forward towards the seemingly frozen-in-time, metal-armored man, its reaction was a tad late for some reason.
Was he startled?
Ignoring the pointless thought, he went on with each movement, seemingly practiced and accustomed to it, honed through countless battles, a lifetime of them.
The cutlass moved in an instant, from beside his cheek downward, where his other arm, currently behind his back usualy would be, then arced upward in a wide slash.
The sequence of movements happened in a blink of an eye, the tables having turned.
Unable to adjust to the sudden change in attacker and defender, the figure moved back, but just a bit too late. Its already rather clumsy movements, only backed by brute force, were unable to dodge or read the sword's trajectory, leaving a small but noticeable cut on the weathered, almost rustic-looking chestplate.
He immediately followed up with a second strike, the blade's edge glinting with murderous light as he angled it downward, its force this time propelled by the inertia of gravity, still far too close to the heavily armored man.
Without the slightest hesitation, Noctis struck downward with impeccable skill, as if done thousands of times before.
"Klang"
The threaded sword slashed across the helmet.
He had struck true… the fight was… over?
To Noctis's brief confusion and disappointment, he had struck the metal helmet, but only left an insignificant mark on its visage.
His confusion didn't last long, and a self-deprecating laugh, mixed with emotions, escaped his mouth as he pressed on, not letting his clearly inferior opponent catch his breath.
If one wasn't enough, then two.. Then three, then ten strikes would do the job!
"Ha haa haaa…"
The metal figure did not react to his seemingly arrogant laugh. Noctis wasn't quite sure what he was even laughing about. It just seemed natural, so he did not reject the notion.
Retreating as Noctis closed in, each strike grazed its armor, yet less so than the first, and with each strike the scars left grew less noticeable.
Despite his thoughts, he was slowing down, with less force bundled in each strike, and he was painfully aware of this, barely trying to hold up the facade. Despite a lifetime of experience, his body was not honed by that lifetime.
The only question was how long the man in metal would need to figure that out aswell and use it to his advantage.
Suddenly, the figure turned its entire body, as if trying to run in a lowered, almost bestial crawl.
For a moment, Noctis's blade felt the craving to strike. Turning one's back to one's opponent was never a wise decision, and yet the metal man had just done so.
Perhaps out of desperation or in the belief that his armor would protect him, he made such a foolish decision.
Noctis narrowed his eyes, almost fully overcome by the scarlet murderous glint that guided his blade.
Feeling something was off, Noctis slashed at the back of the man's knee. It might not have been a fatal area, but it would leave him less open to a counterattack. After all, he was unaware of the man's abilities. Perhaps this foolish mistake was a mere ruse for a fatal counter.
Certain that he would meet his mark, Noctis was baffled by the continuation of events, as the leg moved to the side perfectly, as if the guy had eyes on the back of his head.
Continuing to use the gap in Noctis's offense, perhaps brought by his conflicting emotions or by the sheer shock of having missed an almost defenseless target. The metal-clad man reached towards a place near a thread-covered wall, surrounded by the golden string, where something more brown or bronze was protruding, standing out among the sea of gold.
"I'm not him. How could I be?"
Unsure what it was reaching for, its large build obstructing his view, Noctis's blade slowed his mind, still occupied with his own thoughts, some born of years taught by the sword, screaming at him to never be distracted while in combat, the other thoughts much more daring and unsuited to the current situation.
Not letting himself hesitate for any longer.
Not giving the metal man the chance to recuperate or use the opening he had just shown, his blade pulled back, a bit less skill seen in every movement than before as Noctis noticed a trickle of blood running down his eye, his vision growing more blurred by the moment, what he still saw clearly now taking on a red tint.
Not perturbed by the common occurrence, yet slightly troubled.
This style had a time limit.
Intending to end this clash quickly, with his vision draped red, he prepared his next strike as he muttered, perhaps to the figure in metal, the first human he had seen in a long while, or to himself.
"How could I be?… Truly… He was destiny… and I fate!"
With the last drawn-out word, Noctis's blade pierced forward with a force incomparable to before, aimed at the back of the helmet, where it would exit the dark eye socket of the demonic visor. Feeling the run carved into his flesh glow with a fierce strength, each tendon in his body working in unity to create a blow of terrifying might.
"klang"
He felt the blade move forward, his vision at this point more than half blinded by the steady trickle of tears and blood escaping his eyes.
Finally, slowly closing his eyes, the hand, before behind his back, threw to the side a small knife he had conjured out of thread, discarding it.
His now-free hand traced the contours of his face, wiping away the built-up blood clogging his vision as a thoughtful expression slowly replaced his relief and the ecstasy of victory.
It was replaced by a loud ringing, thumping through the back of his head.
Danger!
Bang!
In a quick movement, Nocits pulled back his sword, which should have pierced the assailant's head.
The sound that had resounded as he pulled back the sword had not been that of flesh being scraped apart, but rather only his own blade scraping against metal as it freed itself from its embrace.
The only sound was metal scraping against something else, thread-like in substance, peculiarly rather similar to metal.
It was the sound of blades meeting in a fierce struggle, a head-on struggle where Nocits, at least strength-wise, was clearly inferior.
The metal figure had slashed forward all of a sudden with a large sword, one-edged, two meters in length, and lightly curved.
Confused and baffled at the apparent vitality of his opponent, whose brain should have been turned to mush, Noctis tried to pull back, but the blade, now in Noctis' vision, red, blurred, draped armor, that fused with the harbinger of death, a few golden threads wrapping around its limbs, unclear where they originated. It was a very disorienting sight, if one could call it that, and the tingling sensation blaring through his head, inducing goosebumps across his body, did not help.
One thing was clear, however.
One thing was felt and reverberated through every fiber of his body.
It was that no matter where that indistinct and blurry blade had come from, it was clawing towards his neck, and if nothing changed, it would achieve its desire.
"Hm hm ha, ha haa"
Despite the desperate struggle, despite the red shot, wide-open eyes that had lost most function, despite all apparent logic.
That arrogant smile had yet to fade; that air of confidence, which could not be assigned to one of Noctis's natural traits, had yet to recede.
With that, he pressed onward, his bald head tightly held in his grasp, pressing down on the armored man's blade, the golden rune carved onto his flesh, before only flashing in short bursts of golden light now brightly seen through the rags that should have veiled it.
With its constant glow, the steady retreat of the now red-eyed youths blade suddenly stopped, as the struggle fell into a standstill.
Just for a moment, as the golden luster blinding his eyes dimmed, replaced by a darker texture, his body's weight leaned onto the blade, forcing it down; a clear picture broke through the veil of red.
It was that of the demonic mask mere centimeters away from his own visage, scarred by a few minor scratches, with a hole at its forehead. The metal exterior bent outward, surrounding the hole a few red droplets.
It was blood.
Deep red blood.
Was it the man's blood?
No.
As his gaze met that of the mask below, which revealed nothing that lay behind, one droplet after the other fell down, with each strained movement of their blades, and shattered on that mask, droplets of blood that originated from him, from his bloodshot eyes.