NOVGO.NET Chapter 103: It Is His Duty
Mata disappeared.
Malik reacted on instinct.
His sword came up, blocking a strike that had not existed a moment before.
Mata reappeared in front of him, her wings beating hard, driving him downward.
He caught himself with his fire and struck back.
Their clash sent shockwaves across the continent.
Mountains cracked, valleys split, and rivers changed course.
The entirety of Devil’s Maw groaned beneath the weight of their battle.
They fought so fast that the impacts were only visible to high Class Magi. Flashes of white and gold, appearing and disappearing across the sky.
Here, then there, then somewhere else entirely.
New wounds were constantly carved into the landscape: craters the size of cities, fissures that stretched for miles, peaks that had stood for millennia collapsing into rubble.
It was as incredible as it was terrifying.
Mata activated another Rune.
The lances returned, but they were different now. Faster, they did not fly in straight lines but curved and twisted, seeking him from every angle.
Her wings beat in rhythm with her attacks, each beat sending waves of Rukh crashing towards him.
At the same time, she summoned steeds of Rukh that charged at him from all directions. And then, without pause, raised walls of Rukh around herself, barriers that deflected his fire and sent it scattering across the sky.
Mata was going all out.
Though an Angel couldn’t use all Runes at once, she sure tried. Because once more, she activated another Rune.
She began to drain.
The Rukh around them—the very fabric of the world—began to flow toward her.
She was pulling it in, consuming it, adding it to her own reserves.
Trying to starve him out.
Malik felt the pull.
The fire at his feet flickered, and the white blade in his hand dimmed.
But, of course, not for long.
He did not slow.
Never.
Mata didn’t know just who she was dealing with.
Again, his reserves were technically not infinite, but for the duration of his Soul Glyphs, they might as well have been.
Malik did not draw from the world around him like she was currently doing. He drew from the Fear Points he had spent, the power he had stored.
Mata could drain the world dry.
She could take all that there was to take.
It would not matter to Malik.
He was beyond that.
Thus, they went hard.
Hundreds of strikes in under a second.
Each exchange lasted less than a heartbeat.
Their weapons met again and again, the sound blending into a single continuous note.
A scream of steel, fire, and light.
Though their fight seemed long already, barely half a minute had passed since it began.
That showed just how intense it was, and yet, they didn’t show any sign of slowing down.
Malik’s sword found her shoulder.
Her lance found his side.
He healed.
She healed.
He attacked.
She blocked.
He pushed forward.
She retreated.
He attacked again.
She attacked as well.
They clashed.
And the world rumbled.
Then, suddenly, she stepped back.
Her wings carried her high into the sky, higher than before, until she was nothing but a speck of light.
She raised her lance above her head.
It was a Holy Relic.
He realized that in their first clash and could now feel it from all this distance, pulsing with power, drinking in the Rukh around her.
Yes, it was not only her Runes doing this, but also her lance, siphoning from him directly.
Its tip momentarily glowed brighter than the Suns.
This attack, even if interrupted, would tear through the very crust of this planet.
Malik had to block it entirely.
He raised his white, fiery blade.
All around Devil’s Maw, the hoofprints he had left behind—each step taken during the battle—suddenly flared brighter.
From each hoofprint, a piece of flame rose.
A sliver of white fire, no larger than a candle flame, but burning with the same intensity as the blade in his hands.
They shot into the sky.
Hundreds of thousands of flames streaked across the continent, leaving trails of light behind them.
They converged on Malik’s position, flowing into his sword, feeding it, growing it.
The blade expanded.
It grew longer, wider, and even brighter.
Ember’s Touch intensified until it outshone the two Suns themselves.
Truly, he was the Second Sun.
"You will Fall."
Malik took a stance.
His sword before his chest.
His left hand behind his back.
The Royal Sword Style.
He knew the name now.
"You will be pierced."
Mata lowered her lance.
Her back leaned forward.
Her wings flexed behind her.
Fire stood against Rukh.
Rukh stood against fire.
And the world held its breath.
***
Across Devil’s Maw, people looked up.
Duban stood in the ruins of the faction base he had just destroyed. But the general wasn’t looking at the carnage around him, forgetting it.
His eyes were fixed on the sky, on the one light dominating it.
"My Sultan..."
He fell to his knees.
"Please..."
Please don’t die.
***
Zafar, from somewhere in the South, stood on a hill overlooking a destroyed outpost.
His Arcane had done its work, utterly destroying many a faction, this being another.
He was about to go report to Kabir when the sky erupted so brightly he couldn’t miss it.
"...Sultan?"
***
Aladdin stood at the edge of a cliff. Sinbad was on his shoulder, both their heads tilted upwards.
At first, they thought that it was a sandworm, perhaps a Great Demon going berserk and destroying the land.
Then they saw the lights, the fire that streaked across the sky, and since then, they haven’t been able to do anything else. Neither could their men, who were done with the wave of Demons.
They all raised their hands towards the sky.
Prayers left their lips.
Fate.
This battle would decide their Fate.
If their Sultan lost against this Angel, then...
"PREVAIL, MY SULTAN!"
"WE ARE HERE, O SULTAN!"
"PRAISE THE SECOND SUN!"
There would be no ’then’ for them.
***
Safira sat in one of the sultanate’s temporary outposts, in a medical hub for the injured and the dying.
The eastern front was quiet, a bit too quiet, as even those in pain couldn’t utter a sound.
What their eyes witnessed was simply too mesmerizing.
This was a battle of Angels.
But Safira...
"No..."
Safira was worried.
Was she going to lose him again?
Lose him without being able to do anything?
***
Azeem stood alone, his rings glowing faintly on his fingers.
He was smiling bitterly at the sky, tears welling in his eyes.
"Why must you always fight for us, O Sultan?"
Once more, the Right Hand felt useless.
***
Noor sat behind her desk, which was stacked with papers upon papers upon papers, looking through the window beside her.
For once, she had nothing arrogant to say, or rather, nothing to say at all. She just stared at the sky, her face unreadable.
Huda, next to her, was much the same.
But a smile made it to her face.
’Big brother.’
Her faith in him stopped her from worrying.
Never again would she doubt the Sultan.
So, unlike most, she only felt pride.
This was her Sultan.
***
Hakim sat in a lotus position on the peak of a mountain, his circulating Rukh calm despite its incredible heat.
This was where he’d gone to recover his lost strength and heal from his many wounds.
The winds whipped around him; land for miles was destroyed, but he did not move.
Above him, the sky kept exploding with light.
His golden gaze—so similar to his son’s—tracked the two figures fighting above.
"...soon, my boy."
***
Far in the West, Scheherazade stood atop her castle walls.
She had felt the Angels’ Rukh before any burst of light materialized.
This battle, she had calmly watched it from the very beginning, even from such an incredible distance.
Her hands were clutched to her sides, and no, it wasn’t anger but... helplessness.
It seemed that she so wished to help him, but, for some reason, couldn’t.
"I’m sorry... again."
***
Sweet Dunya sat in a dark place.
She seemed to be silently preparing for something while changing her clothes.
"Hee."
There was no time for watching.
Like always, she would act.
Even with little means.
***
Layla stood on the massive roof of the Holy Palace.
Her purple hair blew across her face, but she did not push it aside.
Her eyes were fixed on the sky, on the white fire and the battle that would decide so much.
Beside her, Amal sat on the gold, her small hands clasped in her lap, her purple eyes wide and tearful.
"Father..."
Layla reached down and patted her daughter’s hair.
"Please triumph."
The purple strands were soft beneath her fingers.
"He will, daughter."
Her face held the same bitter smile.
"...it is his duty."
Malik always did his duty.