Dimensional Descent

Normand crashed into Leonel’s body, impaling himself further. However, Leonel didn’t move an inch. As though a steady mountain that had stood since an ancient era, he remained unmoving even as Normand’s chin fell over his shoulder.

Normand sputtered, his mouth, already leaking with blood, suddenly beginning to flow with it. The tears that fell down his face only seemed to make the crimson stream down faster, sapping away the heaviness of his life’s blood and washing it away as though it was meaningless.

A light chuckle left Normand’s lips, his raised sword slowly falling to the side. He no longer had the strength to hold it up. Even now, the only reason he could continue to stand on his feet was because of Leonel’s spear and shoulder.

”… How… pathetic…” He coughed violently, shards of flesh flying from his mouth and coating Leonel’s back as though to mark him for a lifetime.

”… I… Normand the… Swift… Lost because… I tripped…”

He found it hysterical.

He could see through the difficulty in doing such a thing to him. The location of the change to the earth had to be precisely chosen, it had to be well hidden, and it had to be perfectly timed.

At the speed he was going at, his feet hardly touched the ground even once in tens of meters and the intervals weren’t even evenly spaced. Depending on the attacks he chose, the acceleration or deceleration he could choose mid combat, any number of changes could occur.

At his speed, any one of those changes could cause deviations of several meters. Yet, Leonel still chose the precise point where his toes would strike the ground, causing the greatest amount of devastation to him.

He understood all of this well. To be a Pure Speedster, he had to have a thinking speed that could keep up with his legs. However, he still found it all to be hysterical. If he had the energy to laugh into the skies, he would do it.

Normand’s mouth sputtered with another mouthful of blood, this time completely drenching Leonel’s back through.

”Thanks… For the battle…” He said softly.

His eyes dimmed, his body going completely limp.

Leonel stood in silence for a long while, his spear still running through Normand’s body, the latter’s chin still resting on his shoulder.

He couldn’t see it now, but he could feel it. He could feel the light smile on Normand’s face, that satisfied upturn of his lip, that peaceful dimming of his eyes.

It was the look of a man who had finally died on his own terms. Not in a cell surrounded by rotting mold or scurrying rats, but on the battlefield fighting with all he had.

Silence rang over the battlefield.

There wasn’t a single hint of the cheering one would expect to hear after a successfully won challenge… None of the pride, none of the adulation.

There was only a brewing heaviness, an unwillingness that radiated outward in the syncing of their heartbeats.

’… I was Normand the Swift… The Wind called me Brother… The Light called me Friend… The Gods tried to Strike me down… But my Speed is Eternal…’

Eternal.

Leonel’s spear vanished as he slowly lowered Normand to the ground.

Kneeling to his side, he closed the lids of his eyes with two fingers, uncaring as the tips of his hands were drenched through with blood.

Leonel’s head slowly turned to the sky above the castle in the distance. There, there was a man who stood amidst the clouds.

His black hair, dotted with strands of grey, was immaculately well kempt. Even as it shifted in the wind, whether it was his short hair or his partially greying beard, not a single strand seemed to leave its preordained spot.

He had long, flowing imperial robes wrapped in the body of a golden dragon. His crown sat upon his head, completely straight. It seemed to connect him to the skies above… Even as his robes fluttered and his hair shifted, this was the one constant that never seemed to change.

Looking down on the world, he seemed indifferent to it all. As though a passive observer rather than the King of a Nation that had lost almost all his land, he didn’t seem angry, nor saddened, nor even somber.

If one didn’t know better, one would think that he was a deity, observing the work of his creation as though it was passive, middling entertainment rather than the lives and hard labor of real people.

His demeanor was worse than any debasing snicker, any snide remark, any cruel chortle.

Leonel looked back down to Normand’s corpse. Even now, his lip was curled into that very smile Leonel had imagined. He was unmoved by the supposed Apex.

Rising to his feet, Leonel’s palm flipped over, a glistening, double bladed, silver spear appearing in his hands.

The moment it did, for once, it seemed to be completely docile. It didn’t move or rattle, it didn’t fight back against Leonel’s control, it didn’t throw a tantrum. It was as though it could feel that if it pissed Leonel off now, it would never see the light of day again.

Leonel’s steps didn’t make a single sound. In fact, they were as light as a feather, as soft as a gentle breeze. And yet, every one resonated with the beating of their hearts.

As light as they were, they only seemed to grow heavier.

There were no piles of rubble, no tall fires, no single warrior that could stop his path forward. As though he had decided that he would go straight ahead from the very beginning, he didn’t deviate an inch from that path.

He stared toward that man in the skies, his gaze expressionless.

Leonel’s foot rose as he stepped into the city.

When it descended…

BANG!

Massive stones of earth jetted out from his back, shattering the ground beneath his feet as he shot into the air.

There was nothing in this world that he wanted more than the death of this man.

The crown of a King… He didn’t deserve it.