Chapter 44: Non-conformists
Evil is just what the weak fail to justify
Herla Juelmen
_Flaming Sword Crescent_
An arc tore across the battlefield, rendering the frontline of the duke's forces decapitated.
Chris bent slowly, his one leg stretched back, his sword bent forward.
_Boom_
He thrust forward, the ground beneath his foot caving in.
"The Army of Duke Riveria." He said, moving down from the sky.
_Undisputed sword pierce_
He touched down.
_Boom_
Flame burst in every direction, the army dwindled massively.
"You shouldn't have come." Herla's voice echoed from the back.
Some turned.
Her eyes were gradually turning red.
Blue veins popping across her body
_Boom_
Chris moved again,
Step
Slash
Pierce
He tore through the army.
_Growl_
Growls resounded.
All the soldiers he took down.
They rose, their eyes white.
Blue veins across their body.
_Unholy Infection_
On the other side of the battlefield.
Zethar stood face to face with a general of the duke's forces.
"What is your name?" The general asked, flicking his daggers through his fingers.
"Il'Zethar." Zethar replied, summoning a giant flaming bone broadsword.
"Fargon." The general introduced, stopped flicking and entered a battle stance.
"It's really rare to meet a humanoid beast."
"Don't bore me." He used one hand to fix his collar, and pointed his blade at Fargon.
_Boom_
Impact.
Sonic waves blew in directions opposite the attacks.
_Bone earth_
Bones rose up from beneath Fargon.
He was fast, he jumped back just in time.
"You are a non-conformist mage," He said. "It seems most of you are."
"No." Zethar shook his head "I'm a dragon god."
Fargon frowned. "You are a blasphemer."
_Boom_
Their blades met once more.
_Swoosh_
Fargon side stepped,
Moving to Zethar's back.
He slashed, creating a huge indention at Zethar's back –
However, no blood flowed.
_Boom_
Zethar kicked him, sending him flying, and only stopping when he hit the base of the highlands.
Fargon coughed out blood, raising himself out of the rubble.
He exhaled once.
Controlled.
Measured.
"You're not using flame," he said, eyes narrowing. "Not truly."
Zethar didn't respond.
The "burning" blade in his hand flickered—
—not like fire.
Like something failing to stay defined.
Fargon noticed.
Good.
"Then I'll stop treating you like a mage."
He vanished.
No flourish.
No wasted motion.
Just absence—
—and then impact.
Clang.
His daggers struck Zethar's neck.
A perfect kill angle.
Except—
The blades didn't sink.
They stopped.
As if space itself refused to let them pass.
Zethar turned his head slightly, just enough to acknowledge him.
"You're adapting," he said.
Then—
Fargon felt it.
Not heat.
Not pressure.
Displacement.
The space around Zethar bent—subtly, but wrong.
Break.
Zethar swung.
Fargon crossed his daggers to block—
—but the moment the blade touched them—
They fractured.
Not shattered.
Not cut.
Fractured, like their existence had been denied.
Fargon jumped back instantly, abandoning both weapons mid-air.
They dissolved before hitting the ground.
"…So that's your trick."
Zethar stepped forward.
Each step left no imprint—
yet the ground warped anyway.
"I don't use elements," he said flatly.
"I decide what is allowed."
Fargon wiped the blood from his mouth, eyes sharpening further.
"Authority-type ability…" he muttered. "Non-conformist indeed."
He reached to his side—
and drew a third dagger.
Different.
Duller.
He spun it once—
then stabbed it into his own arm.
Blood spilled.
Zethar didn't move.
Fargon smiled.
"Let's see you deny this."
He dragged the blade down—
and the blood didn't fall.
It hung.
Suspended.
Then—
It split.
Each drop becoming a blade.
Dozens.
Hundreds.
They hovered, trembling—
not bound by gravity.
Not bound by anything.
Zethar's gaze shifted slightly.
For the first time—
interest.
"Good," he said.
"Something worth breaking."
Fargon moved.
So did the blades.
They didn't fly straight.
They skipped—
space to space—
ignoring distance.
Zethar swung once.
Break.
Half of them vanished.
Not deflected.
Not destroyed.
Gone.
The rest—
Adjusted.
They changed trajectory mid-existence.
One grazed Zethar's cheek.
A thin line formed.
And this time—
Blood followed.
Silence.
Fargon's grin widened.
"So you can be touched."
Zethar raised a hand to his cheek, staring at the blood on his finger.
Then—
He smiled.
Not wide.
Not loud.
Just enough.
"Correction," he said.
"I allowed that."
Boom.
He stepped forward—
—and the battlefield compressed.
Distance folded.
He was already there.
Fargon's eyes widened—
Too late.
Zethar's hand closed around his throat.
No wind-up.
No motion seen.
Just result.
The suspended blood blades—
froze.
Then dropped.
Useless.
"You're close," Zethar said quietly. "Closer than the others."
His grip tightened.
"But still inside the rules."
Fargon's hand twitched—
Not in panic.
In calculation.
Then—
He laughed.
Even while choking.
"…Then I'll step out."
Crack.
Something shifted.
Not in the air.
Not in Zethar.
In Fargon.
Zethar's grip faltered—
for the first time.
Just slightly.
Enough.
Fargon moved.