CHAPTER 124: GRAND ARRIVAL

Rodrick hit the High Priest like a battering ram carved from hell.

His shoulder slammed into the gilded chestplate with all the momentum of a man who had decided that broken bones were a small price to pay for dignity.

The impact rang out across the plaza, sharp and metallic, echoing slightly before being devoured by the noise of battle.

For the briefest of moments—so brief I might have hallucinated it—the priest’s body actually tilted. Not much. Not enough to be meaningful. More like a statue swaying an inch because a bird had sneezed too hard on it.

But still, it was something.

And gods help me, in battles like these, something was worth more than miracles. That fraction of hesitation, that imperceptible flicker of diverted attention, was enough for me to claw my way out of the shallow grave I’d been digging.

I scrambled upright, spear back in my grip, lungs working overtime to convince my brain that oxygen was still a commodity I was entitled to.

My ribs protested violently, my ankle screamed, and my palms were raw from the heat of the cobblestones, but none of it mattered because the priest had paused. And when a man like that paused, you didn’t waste time appreciating it.

You used it to your advantage.

I thought, briefly, of the revolver. Vincent’s revolver, heavy in my coat like a secret whispered too loudly. The silver shine of its barrel flashed in my mind, one bullet gleaming with all the possibility and finality of a guillotine blade.

I could draw it. I could gamble everything on that one pull of the trigger. Maybe the gods would intervene and the High Priest would explode in a glorious shower of self-righteous confetti.

But then reality staggered back in, drunk and unwelcome. One bullet. One shot. The kind of resource you saved for the moment the abyss yawned beneath you and decided to charge rent. Wasting it now would be suicide draped in optimism. Worse, it would reveal that I even had the thing. No. Not here. Not now.

So instead, I pulled my pen again.

Ah, my pen. Faithful companion, cursed relic, harbinger of questionable decisions.

I felt the weight of it in my hand, its shaft gleaming faintly under the torches, tip already hungry for ink and blood. My other hand tightened around the spear. Together, they felt like the world’s least convincing juggling act, but it would have to do.

The priest, unfortunately, had recovered from his moment of indignity. His smile widened, childlike and grotesque, and then he reached out with one golden gauntlet. Fingers closed around Rodrick’s collar.

"Wait—!" I managed, before the inevitable happened.

Rodrick flew.

Truly flew. His body whipped through the air like a disregarded puppet. He tumbled in a graceful, if horrifying, arc before landing with a wet crash against a ruined cart, the wood collapsing around him in sympathy.

"Rodrick!" I shouted, as though my voice could magically undo spinal trauma. He groaned in response, which, given the alternatives, counted as a victory.

Then the priest turned back to me.

His sword gleamed brighter, golden light pulsing as though eager to carve me open. But something had shifted then.

His movements were not the wild, gleeful flares of before. He was watching me more carefully now, measuring, cautious. And that was terrifying, because if this was him cautious, then his previous self had been merely warming up

.

Still, it was a crack. And cracks, as I have learned, are for prying open with sarcasm and stubbornness until the entire wall falls upon you.

I lunged.

Spear jabbing, pen slashing, my body burning with enhancements until I felt like a puppet dragged by the strings of some unseen god.

My movements blurred, fast, frantic, each strike aiming not to kill but to etch. To mark. To find that perfect stroke of ink that would unravel him from the inside.

Yet still he moved like lightning, flashing between each desperate attempt.

And in that madness I spat the question, words tumbling out between clenched teeth.

"Why me? Why are you so damned obsessed with me? What is it that has you smiling like a lunatic every time you swing that sword?"

His eyes caught mine, and his grin sharpened into something crueler. "You?" he said, voice almost tender in its contempt. "You’re nothing but an obstacle. A noisy little scribble on the page between me and the true text. My devotion belongs not to you, boy—it is to the dawn beyond you. Remove yourself, and you are forgotten."

The words rattled me harder than his blade. Forgotten. Just a scribble. Saints preserve me, the insult almost stung more than the fight itself.

"That’s it, no more," I whispered, breathless, words spilling out between clenched teeth as I tightened my grip.

My lungs burned, my arms ached, and yet the fury at being treated like some child’s plaything drowned all else. I shifted my stance, one foot sliding back over the slick stones, my body coiled tight as a spring.

And then I hurled the spear.

All the strength in my body snapped forward, muscles screaming as the shaft left my hand with terrifying speed. It cut through the air like silver lightning, the runes along its length glowing faintly, aimed straight for the center of that smiling face.

For once—just once—I thought I saw his eyes widen.

Then, casually, impossibly, he tilted his head. Not even a duck. Just the faintest lean, a boy dodging an apple tossed across the market square.

The spear screamed past his cheek, close enough to slice a lock of golden hair free, before embedding itself deep into the wall of a nearby building with a crunch loud enough to silence the battle around us for a heartbeat.

My weapon quivered there, vibrating, mocking me with its sudden and absolute uselessness.

The priest’s smile sharpened.

My hands shook—but not from fear. Not entirely. Slowly, I reached for my belt. My fingers brushed the smooth, cold surface of metal. The stopwatch. Vincent’s cursed gift, heavy as guilt and twice as dangerous.

I drew it, my thumb resting against the latch.

My heart hammered, my mind screamed hesitation. I didn’t understand this thing, not really. I had only instinct, whispers in my blood, a terrible certainty that it would answer me if I dared. But instinct had carried me this far. Instinct and bad decisions were practically my brand.

Click.

The world bent.

It wasn’t silence, not quite, but the battlefield dimmed into syrupy echoes of itself. Arrows in the air slowed, their whistle dragging into warped sighs. Flames crackled like wet wood.

The priest’s sword nearly froze mid-swing, arcs of golden light stretching in slow ribbons that shimmered like molten honey.

My body buzzed, thrummed, every nerve lit as though some cruel god had plucked me up and wound me tight like a clock.

I moved. Gods above, I moved.

My pen flashed upward, silver nib catching the dim light as it sliced for his exposed ribs. For a heartbeat I thought I had him. For a heartbeat, I tasted victory.

But the priest tilted, just barely, his torso twisting aside with a dancer’s grace. My strike cut only air, the nib glancing past the edge of his gilded armor as though he had known it was coming all along. His grin never faltered.

I snarled and reset myself. The world lurched, dragging me back a fraction, and I pressed harder—inside his guard now, the tip darting for his throat. Again he slipped aside, golden hair scattering as though the air itself whispered my intentions into his ear.

So I drove faster. Harder. My strikes multiplied, lunges snapping for his wrists, for his chest, for his shoulder, even his eye. I was the storm given legs, a quill turned guillotine, and still—still he met me as if I were nothing but an annoyance standing in his way.

It was then that, somewhere at the edges of my vision, I saw them.

The others.

Salem stood soaked in sweat, his twin blades dripping with blood, chest heaving as his eyes fixed squarely on me and the priest. His grin was gone, replaced with something taut, dangerous, as though even he recognized this chaos as beyond his reach.

The naked knight, bloodied but grinning, stood a short distance away, sword slack at his side, his usual thunderous laughter silenced. He tilted his head like a curious animal, watching, waiting, but not daring to intrude.

Even the zealots and the Man in White’s forces seemed to stall, forming an unspoken circle around us. Not allies, not friends, but spectators caught in the wake of two storms colliding.

The plaza had bent itself around our fight. And I hated how much I felt their eyes.

"Cut him down!" one competitor bellowed, his voice breaking with desperate reverence.

"Faster my lord! Mark his cursed throat!" came a ragged scream from one of my freshly converted followers, who was practically vibrating with fanboy energy.

Even the naked knight cupped his hands around his mouth and bellowed, "Smash him with style, my lady! Make it glorious!"

As the scene intensified I saw the priest falter, yes, but still he refused to break.

Even slowed by the warping flow of time, his blade rose to meet me. Sparks burst in distorted bursts of gold and silver as his sword intercepted the nib of my pen again and again. His precision was maddening, terrifying, almost inhuman.

So I decided to take a gamble.

I let him slash me.

Not deeply. Shallow, just enough to draw fire down my side, pain ripping through my ribs. My body screamed betrayal, but I ignored it. Because the moment the blade grazed me, I clicked the stopwatch again.

Time reset.

The pain reversed. The blade rose again, repeating its arc. But this time, knowing where it would fall, I ducked beneath it, sliding past his legs with a desperate twist, rolling back to my feet behind him.

And there—finally—my pen struck.

One clean mark. Right across his neck.

The ink hissed, glowing, burning against his skin. The priest froze, his perpetual smile twitching, faltering. Then, impossibly, it broke. His lips twisted downward, curdling into a scowl so venomous it lit every nerve in my body aflame.

My stomach dropped. Saints preserve me, I’d done it. I’d made the priest angry.

The air itself shuddered. His sword blazed, golden light swelling until it was almost painful to look at, until the stones beneath us glowed with heat. I could feel it, coiled, dreadful, a storm of light about to erupt and erase me from existence.

And then—

The bells began to ring again.

Not the toll of mourning this time. No, these were different. These were bells of anguish, shrieking across the city with all the subtlety of a mad choir. The sound scraped bone, rattled teeth, each toll vibrating in my chest until I thought my heart might simply give up.

Above, the nobles began laughing. Pompous, indulgent, grotesque, their voices tumbling down from the balloons like rotten fruit.

The priest froze. His blazing sword dimmed, the light guttering as his head snapped toward the haze at the far end of the plaza. Panic flickered across his face—the first honest expression I’d ever seen from him.

And I knew. I knew what was coming.

The haze stirred. Then, suddenly, a cultist staggered forth, robes shredded, body crisscrossed with gashes that leaked rivers of blood. He stumbled, panting, eyes wide with a terror that no sermon could soothe.

"He’s here!" he screamed.

His voice was cracked, raw, breaking apart on his tongue. Then the ground beneath him lit. A sigil, purple and searing, erupted at his feet.

He had only a second to look down before the air itself crushed him.

Bones cracked like twigs. Flesh collapsed. His body burst in a wet explosion, flattened into a puddle of gore by an invisible force as though the weight of the heavens had chosen that moment to sit down on him.

Silence. A silence deeper than any the stopwatch had conjured.

And then—

Thump.

A metallic footstep. Heavy. Certain. A sound that carried inevitability with it, the finality of death.

The air shifted then. Pressing down until my knees trembled against my will. Dread spilled across the plaza like ink in water, choking and suffocating all at once.

Then from the haze, he emerged.

Obsidian armor, jagged and cruel, gleaming with a darkness that seemed to devour the fading sunlight, his tassel of deep purple trailing like smoke caught in a wind that wasn’t there. His helm was featureless save for two slits of burning violet, eyes that seared straight through the soul.

The King-Class mage was back.

And this time he wasn’t here to play.