Ragnarök, Eternal Tragedy.
Chapter 109: A fight without a name

Chapter 109: A fight without a name

The clearing had become a battlefield in ruin. Trees lay splintered across the ground, roots torn from the earth, and the air was thick with the scent of scorched bark and blood. Smoke drifted lazily through the broken canopy, curling around the four figures still locked in combat.

Amari stood at the center, his coat torn and soaked through, the fabric clinging to his ribs where the gauntlet had struck him earlier. His mask—black, gold-eyed, and jagged across the cheek—remained fixed in place, unreadable. His sword hung low in his grip, the blade streaked with blood and dirt, but his stance was still solid. Wounded, yes. Slowing, maybe. But not broken.

The three men surrounding him were in no better shape.

The spear wielder’s leg bled freely from a deep cut, and his grip on the haft had grown tight and desperate. The blink dancer’s left arm hung limp at his side, his breathing shallow, his blinks growing erratic. The gauntlet fighter’s armor was cracked along the back, and his shoulders rose and fell with labored effort, each breath a struggle.

None of them spoke. There was no need. The fight had passed the point of words.

The spear wielder moved first, lunging with a wide sweep of his weapon. A gust of compressed air followed the arc, sharp enough to strip bark from the trees behind Amari. But Amari had already stepped inside the swing, letting the wind shear past his shoulder. He brought his blade up in a tight slash across the man’s thigh, drawing another line of blood before retreating just beyond reach.

The blink dancer flickered into view behind him, aiming a short blade at Amari’s exposed side. But Amari didn’t turn. He pivoted on his heel, catching the strike with the flat of his sword, then slammed the hilt into the man’s jaw. The dancer blinked away mid-fall, reappearing several feet back, stumbling to one knee.

Before Amari could recover, the ground beneath him buckled. The gauntlet fighter had slammed both fists into the soil, triggering a Tremor Pulse that cracked the earth in a jagged line. Amari staggered, his footing thrown off just long enough for the gauntlet to crash into his ribs.

Pain flared through his side. He gritted his teeth and twisted with the blow, using the momentum to roll away. He came up low, slashing across the gauntlet fighter’s shin, then rose into a spinning elbow that caught the man in the ribs. The fighter grunted and stumbled back, but didn’t fall.

They reset again, circling. All of them bleeding. All of them breathing hard. The dancer blinked in and out of view, trying to mask his limp. The spear wielder dragged his foot slightly now, but still kept his weapon raised. The gauntlet fighter’s glow had dimmed, but his fists remained clenched, ready.

Amari adjusted his grip on the sword. His shoulder ached. His leg trembled. Blood trickled from a cut above his brow, blurring the edge of his vision. But his eyes stayed locked on the three of them, reading their movements, waiting for the next mistake.

The dancer blinked again—left, then right, then behind. Amari didn’t chase. He watched the dust. When the man reappeared, Amari was already turning, catching the strike and driving a knee into the man’s gut. He grabbed the scarf around the dancer’s neck and yanked him forward, slamming him into the ground with a twist of his hips. The dancer blinked again, but not far enough. Amari followed, slicing down the man’s forearm—non-lethal, but enough to take him out of the fight.

The spear wielder shouted and charged, swinging wide. Amari ducked low, stepped inside, and drove the flat of his blade into the man’s ribs. The impact knocked the wind from his lungs, and he dropped to one knee, gasping.

The gauntlet fighter came last, fists glowing again. He roared and threw a heavy punch, but Amari stepped into it, letting it graze his shoulder. He spun with the force, redirected the second strike, and drove his elbow into the man’s throat. The fighter choked, staggered, but stayed upright.

The spear wielder roared and hurled his weapon like a javelin, not at Amari—but at the tree behind him. The gust it carried detonated on impact, splintering the trunk in a thunderous crack. The tree groaned, then toppled, crashing through the canopy in a storm of branches and leaves.

Amari didn’t flinch. He was already moving.

He sprinted toward the gauntlet fighter, blade low, shoulder forward. The man raised his fists, but Amari feinted left, then rolled right, coming up behind him. He slashed across the back of the man’s knee—deep enough to drop him—then pivoted to parry a blink strike from the dancer, who had rejoined the fray with a snarl and a dagger in his good hand.

The blade scraped across Amari’s ribs. He hissed, twisted, and slammed the hilt of his sword into the side of the dancer’s head. The man blinked away mid-fall, but not far. He reappeared against a tree trunk, barely upright.

The gauntlet fighter, still on one knee, slammed his fist into the ground again. This time, the Tremor Pulse didn’t just crack the earth—it tore it open. A jagged line split the clearing, roots snapping, soil erupting. A nearby tree tilted, then collapsed sideways, its fall shaking the ground like thunder.

Amari stumbled, caught off balance. The spear wielder, now weaponless, charged with a broken branch in hand, swinging it like a club. Amari ducked the first blow, caught the second on his forearm, and drove his sword into the man’s side—not deep, but enough to send him sprawling.

The dancer blinked again, this time above—reappearing in the branches of a tree overhead. He hurled a flurry of knives, each one sparking with flickering Unco energy. Amari raised his blade, deflecting two, dodging a third. The fourth grazed his thigh, slicing through fabric and skin.

He grunted, then leapt forward, slashing through the trunk of the tree the dancer perched on. The blade bit deep. The wood groaned. The dancer blinked away just as the tree collapsed, crashing into another and setting off a chain reaction of falling timber.

The forest was coming down around them.

Smoke and dust filled the air. Birds scattered in panicked flocks. The ground trembled with every impact.

Amari pressed forward.

He caught the gauntlet fighter mid-rise, slamming his knee into the man’s face. Blood sprayed. The man fell back, dazed, but still conscious. Still breathing.

The dancer blinked in again, this time behind Amari, blade aimed for his spine. Amari spun, caught the wrist, and twisted. The dagger dropped. He drove his elbow into the man’s throat, then kicked him into a falling tree trunk.

The spear wielder tried to rise, but Amari was already there. He kicked the man’s leg out from under him, then pressed the flat of his blade against his throat.

The man froze.

Amari didn’t press down. Not yet.

Around them, the forest groaned and cracked. Trees fell in slow, shuddering waves. The clearing had become a graveyard of splinters and smoke.

All three men were down.

Not dead.

But broken.

Amari stood in the center, chest heaving, blood dripping from half a dozen wounds. His sword trembled slightly in his grip—not from fear, but from exhaustion.

He looked at the destruction around him. The shattered trees. The torn earth. The silence that followed.