Ragnarök, Eternal Tragedy.
Chapter 131: The ones who fell

Chapter 131: The ones who fell

It pulsed beneath her heels with the obedience of something sacred, spiraling into invisible rings that lifted Zafira higher until she hovered three meters off the courtyard stone, cloak rippling behind her in threads of gold and grey.

Kenneth spun his staff hard, anchoring his stance with one foot locked beneath him, the other sliding forward in preparation for burst engagement. Shylo circled wide, rope dart already slithering out from its coil, blade gleaming under fractured moonlight.

They didn’t speak.

She did.

"You two were sent for me?" Zafira asked, tone calm, almost curious. "That’s... generous."

She tilted slightly mid-air, descending at an angle—just enough to taunt, never enough to touch ground. Shylo made the first move, dart launching with perfect arc, the blade curving through wind toward her waist.

She didn’t block.

She drifted—pivoting in the air like water folding away from stone. The rope dart missed by less than an inch, slicing through her cloak but drawing no blood.

Zafira raised a hand.

The air around Shylo snapped backward.

Not a strike.

A pull.

He stumbled, nearly losing grip, dart retracting just before she could rip it mid-tether.

Kenneth lunged next, staff spinning outward, bladed end slicing diagonally across the open space. Zafira dipped back—still floating—then twisted upward, letting a controlled gust slam into Kenneth’s chest and send him skidding three meters sideways. He rolled, recovered, and charged again.

She smiled.

"You’re coordinated," she said, voice echoing unnaturally through the wind. "I suppose that’s cute."

Shylo launched again—this time with a double feint, rope dart flicking wide, then retracting instantly before a second strike came inward across her flank. Zafira raised her palm.

Air shattered.

The second strike reversed mid-motion, deflected by an unseen wall of pressure that cracked a nearby torch post. Shylo flew backward, skidding across brick, arms braced to avoid crushing against the pillar.

Kenneth roared—low, deliberate—and struck from behind her, staff aimed vertically toward her hovering figure. Zafira dropped half a meter, feinting weakness, and Kenneth surged upward—staff almost connecting.

Then she vanished.

Wind folded inward like a collapsing star, and Zafira reappeared five feet to the left, posture unchanged, expression almost bored.

"That was closer," she offered. "You might last another minute."

Kenneth charged again.

This time, she met the strike.

Air exploded between them.

The shockwave knocked Shylo back against a stone column, his rope dart tangled against his wrist as he coughed once, bitter and sharp. Kenneth slid back again, heels carving shallow trenches in the dust.

Zafira hovered over both.

Not panting.

Not bruised.

Just radiant.

A thin stream of light ran up her calves—Unco energy breathing through her bones in slow pulses.

"You really should’ve come alone," she said with a quiet laugh, looking directly at Shylo. "I could’ve taught you something."

She flipped mid-air—once—then crashed downward.

Kenneth rolled to dodge.

Shylo dove sideways.

...

The courtyard split into chaos.

Kingdom fighters poured into the fray with iron clubs, serrated blades, short-range shock weapons—men and women dressed in patchwork armor, some painted in animal blood, others wearing coats stitched from old banners. They came by the dozens, roaring into motion with voices cracked by war songs, eyes glazed with loyalty and the promise of pain.

Johnny stood forward first.

His grip tightened around the twin rods.

Then his breath held.

Freeze.

Time collapsed.

Two seconds.

The world curled inward—every movement suspending mid-strike, every attacker frozen in pulse and posture. Milo lunged past one guard locked mid-scream, stabbing clean through armor just before the window blinked closed. Johnny slid beside Maverick as the effect reversed and time unspooled itself like a spool of burning silk.

"Stack left," Maverick ordered, tonfa raised, stance sharpened.

His voice cracked the air.

"Collapse."

Three fighters dropped instantly.

Bodies convulsing. Nerves shutting down. Unco obeying command not by choice, but compulsion.

Milo split.

Not cleanly—but fractally.

A clone surged left, another circled wide right, both mimicking real posture, matching the grip on the sais—each one projecting false rhythm that made attackers hesitate. One man swung at a clone and passed through nothing. Another stumbled as the second clone disarmed him. Milo watched with quiet detachment, reading reaction before making his real move—two stabs, one slide, pressure through the ribs. He didn’t aim to kill. Just dismantle.

"Back lift," Maverick called.

Johnny vaulted.

Tonfa spun.

Time froze again—but only near Maverick. Three soldiers halted mid-swing, one foot still suspended mid-air. Maverick twisted through the stillness, cracked two jaws, swept low, and reactivated motion with a shift of pressure.

Noise rushed back.

Breath returned.

Pain landed.

They were holding.

Not just surviving.

Controlling.

The rhythm wasn’t theirs—but they’d hijacked it.

Johnny pressed into the second wave, freezing twice, disengaging before the numbers could fully collapse around him. Milo continued stacking clone formations, disorienting groups until Maverick could issue collapse or dispersal.

Every command landed.

Every movement reacted.

Even as dust curled and blood scattered, the three stood like equilibrium inside violence.

From above, one of Lionel’s captains snarled across the balcony.

"They’re not slowing!"

Lionel didn’t move.

His voice carried through the air like smoke with intention.

"They won’t."

...

Lionel stood beneath the flame tower’s shadow as if its heat had grown bored of warming him. His posture remained regal but loose, like he hadn’t just watched scores of his warriors crushed, disarmed, or frozen mid-motion. The illusion of control wasn’t cracked—it was intentional. He was choosing not to flinch.

Across the stone yard, Amari adjusted his stance, breath steady, Kusarigama drawn into a lowered coil, chain humming with residual tension. Around them, the battlefield throbbed with chaos: Milo and Johnny still carving through formations with tempo and feint, Maverick issuing commands that turned limbs into weapons and bodies into dead weight. Shylo’s rope dart clashed again with Zafira’s shield of air up top while Kenneth roared into another failed engagement.

But Lionel wasn’t watching them anymore.

His eyes were on Amari.

"It’s impressive," Lionel said quietly, voice cutting through the courtyard noise without effort. "Your friends... they’re holding up. I wasn’t expecting that. Still—this won’t last."

Amari didn’t answer.

Lionel walked forward slowly, dagger resting against his thigh, Unco flickering faintly behind his steps like a heat shimmer waiting to become flame.

"They’ll fall," Lionel said. "One by one. That’s not mockery. That’s inevitability. You know what kind of world we live in, Amari. And I know the kind you fight to survive in."

Amari’s grip didn’t change.

"You don’t have to lose them," Lionel continued. "You don’t have to lose yourself. I’m offering you something—longevity. Legacy. Protection. You’ve earned the right to choose survival. Join me. Let’s build something louder than war."

Amari raised his blade.

"I said no."

Lionel sighed like the wind had wasted its effort.

"Then we bleed."

Amari surged forward first—Kusarigama whirling in a low arc that drew stone sparks with every step. The first blade snapped toward Lionel’s arm, the second pulled in reverse to hook beneath his shoulder, but Lionel had already shifted—mirrored echoes blooming behind him in three directions.

Amari didn’t hesitate.

He dodged right, ignored the first illusion, shattered the second with a sharp slice that passed through empty shimmer—and found the real Lionel drawing close, dagger angled upward in a perfect intercept.

Steel met steel.

No echo.

Just weight.

Amari twisted, chain dragging across Lionel’s guard, blade swinging left—Lionel flipped his wrist, dagger pressed under the arc, redirected the strike.

Amari vaulted backwards.

Lionel pressed in.

Their battle spiraled tight.

Amari struck with precision—chain snapping forward, blade slicing clean across the right flank, but Lionel stepped into the motion, used the illusion to bait overextension, redirected the force with a shoulder twist. Amari spun low, kicked backward, chain recoiling with a hiss, then lunged again—but Lionel vanished.

Crown of Mirrors shattered.

Three copies exploded outward in a ring—each one feinting motion, breathing, mimicking reality.

Amari ignored them.

He felt the weight.

Turned hard.

Caught the real Lionel mid-strike.

Their blades clashed again—dagger versus Kusarigama in a whirlwind of proximity and betrayal.

"You don’t even need an Unco," Lionel said mid-combat, admiration dripping between beats. "That’s the part I envy."

"I survive without it," Amari replied, breath clipped.

"You shouldn’t," Lionel growled. "No one should. That kind of strength... born from weakness? That’s unnatural. That’s dangerous."

Amari spun the chain again.

Hooked Lionel’s wrist.

Pulled.

Lionel slid forward with the pressure—dagger twisting toward Amari’s chest.

They met again in a crunch of metal and tension.

Lionel retreated—then paused.

"I see it now," he said, panting. "You want to stay small. Stay lonely. Fight uphill and call it purpose."

"I fight because I have to," Amari replied.

Lionel smiled—not with humor, but with revelation.

"You could be more. I could make you more. You want blood. I can give you war. You want silence. I’ll give you command. You want respect? I’ll carve it into the spine of every kingdom."

Amari stared at him.

Then spoke—softly.

"I want you gone."