CHAPTER 126: DIVINE JUDGMENT

I had precisely three thoughts when the obsidian blade came screaming for the Man in White’s head.

First: oh, good, finally someone other than me is about to get bisected by a nightmare.

Second: wait, he’s not even moving, he’s just standing there, smug as a cat who’d stolen the neighbor’s pantry.

Third: oh gods above, he bent.

Because he did—he bent, so smoothly, so elegantly, that the word "dodge" felt like an insult. He leaned back with his hands still buried in his pockets, spine arching in a perfect crescent, boots never lifting from the cobblestones.

The obsidian sword tore through the air where his face had been a breath earlier, the force so sharp it carved a literal ripple through the space, a wave of pressure that blasted outward like someone had cracked the sky open.

The gust hit me square in the chest, hot and sharp, flinging my hair back and scraping a hiss across my skin like the air itself had grown teeth.

I staggered, eyes wide, lungs heaving, and only managed to croak, "Well. That’s...a bit unfair."

Before I could elaborate on the subject of unfairness, Salem moved. Or rather, Salem erupted.

One moment he was three paces back, jaw clenched, sword humming in his fist. The next he was a streak of violence, every tendon screaming against the laws of physics as he cut across the stone and slammed his remaining blade into the mage’s side.

The clang was obscene. Steel against obsidian, sparks bursting, the floor cracking beneath the echo.

For one glorious, impossible second, his strike actually landed—deep enough to carve a jagged line across the mage’s armor. Not much. Barely more than a scratch. But saints above, the sound of that crack was like the tolling of a cathedral bell at dawn.

"Ha!" Salem barked, teeth bared, eyes blazing. "Not so untouchable after all!"

"Oh splendid, you’ve annoyed him," I muttered.

The mage didn’t stagger. Didn’t bleed. But his head tilted fractionally, the faintest acknowledgment of Salem’s existence.

And in that pause, the Man in White—coward, genius, bastard that he was—slipped backward. Not fled, not panicked. Retreated.

Calmly, carefully, like a spectator choosing the best vantage point for a play he already knew the ending of. His cloak fluttered white at the edges, his boots carrying him just out of range, leaving us, the unlucky souls, to wrestle with the monster in black.

And wrestle we did.

"Together!" I croaked, tightening my grip on the stopwatch in one hand and my pen in the other. "Form on me! Rodrick, move left! Salem, keep applying pressure! Dunny, I want barriers so thick I can mistake them for actual masonry!"

"On it!" Dunny muttered from somewhere behind, already sketching symbols with his wand in frantic arcs.

The naked knight barked a laugh and rolled his shoulders, blood dripping down his bare chest. "Finally, something worthy of my blade!"

"You found that sword ten minutes ago!" I shouted.

"Destiny works fast!" he bellowed, before charging headlong.

And then chaos resumed its throne.

The King-Class mage moved. Gods help me, he moved

. One moment he stood there, blade lazy at his side. The next, he was simply—gone. No blur, no dash, just absence, then sudden presence somewhere else.

My stomach lurched, brain shrieking spatial magic is impossible, but my eyes refused to lie. He flickered across the plaza like a nightmare skipping frames in reality itself.

"On your right!" I screamed, jabbing the stopwatch. The world stuttered. Time bent. His next swing slowed to a syrupy crawl, the arc of obsidian dragging just enough for Rodrick to meet it with his sword. The impact was still enough to split the pavement beneath him, but Rodrick held. By the saints, he held.

Salem was there in the next heartbeat, picking up his second sword along the way, twin blades flashing with deadly precision. He slashed a furious cross at the mage’s ribs, then ducked as the knight barreled past, his crude broadsword swinging with the grace of a collapsing cathedral.

Sparks erupted, each clash a thunderclap, the sheer weight of the mage’s defense sending shockwaves through our bones.

I clicked the stopwatch again, twisting time into bubbles. Nara darted into one, his small body suddenly accelerated, rabbits exploding from under his cloak like furry meteors. They launched themselves suicidally at the mage’s legs, biting, clawing, squealing.

Most were flattened instantly by a pulse of gravity erupting from his figure, reduced to furry pancakes, but the distraction gave Salem another opening.

His blade carved a jagged line across the mage’s forearm this time. Not deep. Not bleeding. But another scratch, another insult to his majesty.

Meanwhile, Dunny’s barriers flickered overhead, translucent domes catching stray arcs of pressure.

Fitch—serious now, gods above, actuallyserious for once—slammed bare fists into cultists who tried to encroach on the circle, each strike cracking bone with the precision of a butcher at market, his whistle gone silent, his grin sharpened into something grim.

Then there was me, dancing like a lunatic. Stopwatch clicking, pen slashing, I lunged for openings whenever the mage flickered too close. A bubble of time here, a reset there, my voice cracking as I screamed orders, desperate to turn this maelstrom into choreography.

"Rodrick, slash high! Nara, hit the left flank! Salem—create an opening for my mark!"

And saints bless them, they obeyed.

Rodrick surged forward like a war drum given legs, blade raised in a brutal overhead cut. It wasn’t elegant, it wasn’t precise, but it was committed—the kind of swing that promised to carve a canyon through anyone stupid enough to stand there.

The mage met it with terrifying ease. His blade flickered into place, catching Rodrick’s strike/

Rodrick snarled, his teeth bared, his whole frame straining as he bore down with raw, stubborn muscle. He wasn’t trying to outmatch the mage—no one could—but he was buying seconds, and seconds were the coin of survival.

That’s when Nara darted in.

The boy moved like quicksilver, his dagger flashing once, catching the mage’s attention, before he leapt clear, and then the real strike arrived—his conjured rabbits.

A storm of fur and fury poured across the stones, their squeaks shrill, their little teeth gnashing as they launched themselves at the mage’s left arm.

They clung, dozens of them, clawing, biting, hanging from the obsidian vambrace like demented ornaments. Tiny bodies piled higher and higher, squealing as they swarmed up his elbow, forcing his gauntlet down by sheer, improbable weight.

It wasn’t enough to wound, not yet, but it was enough for him to falter. The mage tilted, just a fraction, his balance stolen. His blade flickered slightly off-course.

And that was all Salem needed.

He lunged, twin blades slicing a vicious arc into the mage’s lower thigh. Not deep, not mortal, but distracting.

My heart kicked. This was it—this was the opening.

I slammed the stopwatch, the world dragging to syrup. Arrows crawled in the air. Screams became slow echoes. And I surged forward, my arm a whip of instinct and desperation.

The pen met fleshless obsidian. Hiss.

A single glowing line carved itself across the mage’s torso, shimmering faintly, mocking his perfect armor with my imperfect defiance.

And then he flickered. Gone. Vanished from my reach as though the air itself had swallowed him whole.

But the mark remained.

"One," I gasped, breathless, disbelieving laughter bubbling up in my throat. "That’s one."

Then he reappeared behind me. Of course he did. I barely ducked in time as his sword rushed past my hair, close enough to shear the edge of my cloak. My lungs squealed, my heart sprinted as I rolled away from his next attack, buying me a mere second before Salem intercepted again.

They broke free from each other just as fast as they met.

And then—

The mage raised his palm high into the air, fingers splayed wide like a priest about to deliver benediction. But no blessing came.

Instead, gravity pulsed.

Not down, not in any sensible direction—no, he dragged it toward the empty air above his hand, a new center of weight that wasn’t supposed to exist.

The world buckled, folding inward, cobblestones tearing free of the earth as though eager to worship him. Stones shrieked as they ripped upward, bodies flailing, men and rabbits alike sucked screaming toward that impossible point.

My stomach tried to crawl through my spine. My knees slammed together, the air ripping from my lungs as the sky itself demanded I kneel. My body rose, not gracefully, but in a sickening drag that promised my skeleton was about to betray me.

"Saints damn you!" I wheezed. "I liked having organs where they belonged!"

And then Dunny—sweet, miraculous, half-broken Dunny—slammed both palms into the ground. He screamed something vile about the mage’s parentage, and walls of raw near translucence snapped into being around us.

The barriers bent, buckled, screamed like ships in a storm, but they held. Just enough.

The weight of the pull eased as I braced myself against the one closest to me. A breath. A fraction. Enough for me to think stupid thoughts again.

Then I clicked the stopwatch once more.

The world lurched sideways. The torrent of bodies slowed, cobblestones dangling mid-flight.

I turned past Dunny’s barrier and sprinted, feet pounding against stones that weren’t entirely loyal to the idea of being held down. Each step tilted, skewed, a madman’s stairway toward his open side. My lungs burned, but momentum carried me.

I leapt.

The pull nearly ripped me sideways, my whole body angling toward his palm like a moth to flame. I twisted midair, ribs screaming as I forced myself into a spin.

The nib found its edge.

A second silver stroke flared across his shoulder, glowing bright against the matte obsidian.

The mage’s spell broke suddenly as he reached to clutch at the mark I’d burned into his pauldron.

I hit the ground in a graceless roll, teeth clacking together as I bounced off the cobblestone and sprawled myself in the dust. My vision blurred, ears ringing, but, by the gods, I had done it.

"That’s two, you smug bastard." I rasped, staggering upright.

The mage didn’t answer. He never did. But his sword blurred, faster than thought, cleaving arcs of destruction. The naked knight caught one swing with his broadsword, laughing even as blood poured down his chest.

But joy only carries a man so far. The next strike slipped through. A feint, a twist, a gleam of obsidian—and then the mage’s blade punched deep into the knight’s side, tearing through flesh and ribs with a wet, meaty crack.

The knight slumped, clutching the gaping wound with trembling hands, his weapon forgotten beside him.

His spirit burned, yes—but his body had failed him. For now, he was done. Out of the fight, left in a growing pool of his own blood while the battle raged on without him.

And in that fleeting opening—Rodrick rammed himself forward again, teeth bared, shoving the mage half a step back.

Half a step—but enough. Salem roared and slashed down, his blade sliding across the cracks in his armor.

That was when the High Priest decided to join the party.

Because saints forbid things ever remain simple.

Golden light erupted from the far side of the plaza, an arc of radiance lashing across the air straight for my face.

"Are you kidding me?!" I screamed, dropping flat. The arc hissed above, hot enough to scorch my hair. I rolled sideways, lungs burning, and dared a glance up—just in time to see the beam slam into the mage’s side.

For the first time, his armor glowed. A deep, ugly red shimmered across the obsidian, veins of molten color spiderwebbing beneath the surface. Not bleeding. Not cracking. But burning.

The mage tilted his head, almost curious, then flickered again—this time behind the priest.

"Oh, this’ll be good," I muttered, scrambling up.

Chaos spiraled tighter.

The High Priest wheeled around with surprising grace for a man who wore enough gold to bankrupt a small kingdom.

His blade of light roared into existence once more, burning arcs into the air as he brought it down with the fervor of a man convinced the gods were watching. The mage caught it one-handed. Just one.

The priest laughed then—actually laughed—eyes shining with manic delight as he pressed harder, holy radiance spilling out in a flood. The mage did not laugh.

He simply shifted his wrist, gravity bending in a sickening twist, dragging the priest sideways mid-swing until the man staggered, nearly losing his footing under the crushing distortion.

But the priest was nothing if not stubborn. He spat a hymn through gritted teeth, golden light detonating in a circle around him, forcing the mage to lift his blade fully to deflect.

The two collided again, a brutal rhythm of light and shadow, faith and inevitability. Each clash was a thunderclap, each recoil a promise that one of them would end this world if left unchecked.

And then, like moths to a bonfire, the rest of us darted to meet them.

I sprinted, stumbled, twisted, clicking the stopwatch again and again, bending time like an amateur trying to fold origami with his feet. Each bubble slowed the mage just enough, each reset let me scream a new direction.

"There—Salem, now! Rodrick, brace your right side! Nara, rabbits to the left, for the love of all saints!"

The priest bellowed then, voice shaking with unholy joy, and lunged—straight for the mage’s chest. His golden blade drove like a comet, radiant heat trailing from its edge.

The mage moved to twist away, but the priest had overcommitted with the kind of zeal only lunatics and prophets could muster. The tip of that divine sword crashed dead-center into obsidian armor.

The sound wasn’t a crack. It was a roar.

His armor buckled. Not shattered, not pierced, but dented deep enough that the mage actually staggered—yes, staggered, for the first time since he’d set foot in this square. His footing slipped, his blade swung wide, his perfect balance broken for a single, precious heartbeat.

The opening screamed at me.

In one fluid motion, I dove forward, every nerve burning, every bone shrieking mutiny.

And then—finally—my nib struck true once again. Across the mage’s exposed thigh, a burning streak of ink etched itself.

That was three. Saints above, three marks!

I froze, laughter bubbling in my throat. "Yes! Yes, that’s it! Three marks! Do you know what that means?!"

The mage’s sword answered as he whipped around to face me.

It came down like divine judgment, straight into my thigh.

Pain exploded, fire and iron, my scream ripping loose as my body twisted, half by instinct, half by panic. The blade missed bone by a whisper, but the gash tore deep, blood erupting in a crimson flood that drenched my boot instantly.

My legs betrayed me, buckling, the cobblestones rising to meet me with cruel familiarity.

As I hit the stones, a bitter laugh crawled up my throat—some part of me still alive enough to know that this fight had only just begun.