Chapter 225: Chapter 213 – Fallen Crown II

Chapter 213 - Fallen Crown II

The duel was scheduled immediately upon the monarch’s return. It was set to take place on the last day of the fifth month. Marked for 1600 hours, it would officially determine either the passing or retention of the crown. All the necessary paperwork was filed, and while his informants had discussed seeking reconciliation, Ferdinand himself had agreed to and signed off on the death battle with no questions asked.

Many of his less trusting subjects suspected hubris. They thought his eagerness to do battle born of a will to prove himself better than his nephew, but Cadria’s reigning god-king had no such desire. That was not to say that the monarch’s pride played no role in his acceptance. Nay, it was precisely because he was proud that he so quickly assented. It was his duty as king, as a man whose role it was to accept the consequences of his actions, be they for better or for worse.

And the problem at hand, as he understood it, was precisely that—a natural outcome of a choice he had made in days long past, its head reared from its empty grave to bite him one last time. He had always known that it was a mistake, but against his better judgement, he had gone through with it regardless and granted clemency to a man whose blood was due to stain his hands. And for that, it had come time to pay the price, be it with his life, or that of one he had sworn to protect.

It was with those thoughts that he stepped into the arena and greeted the hundred thousand observers crowding Valencia’s colosseum. Cheers erupted from the stands, flooding the amphitheatre with enough noise to force a weaker man to his knees. Ferdinand, however, proceeded with his head held high. He took his place center stage, raised his spear, and channeled his magic through its frame. Its tip split into a dozen blades of wind, spinning around three times before returning to their coalesced position.

A gasp spread throughout the crowd. The weapon was Dewdromn, the legendary armament bestowed upon the king by the goddess of war herself. And it was not the only piece of divine regalia he carried. The armour he wore was forged by the god of the inner flame, and the mantle a runecloak woven of cotton hand-raised by the goddess of harvest. All but the spear, treasures pillaged from kingdoms that Cadria had stomped underfoot.

It was a set of equipment that no amount of money could buy, fit indeed for a god-king that lorded over a country of warriors. But remarkable as it was, it was in no way superior to the gear that Virillius wore upon his person.

The younger cervitaur was dressed not in his usual full plate, but a shabby piece of leather easily overlooked by the unknowing. It too was a relic sculpted by the divine, a piece of Severantus' scalp, retrieved by the god of the hunt following the blasphemer’s cull. His weapon was another from Vella's collection, a shieldlance with a spiderwebbed face and two of the goddess's own claws serving as its blades.

His arrival was followed by another booming roar. The air shook, the building trembling beneath the intensity of the cheers. He was the clear favorite, but the defending monarch was unperturbed. Ferdinand greeted his nephew with a stone faced nod before lowering his weapon and speaking with confidence.

“Virillius Augustus. You stand before the crown with your weapon drawn.” His voice was magnified by the arena's magical functions, loud enough to be heard by the crowd even in spite of the uproar. Still, its members were quick to grow silent, dampening their cheers and murmurs. So that they could listen to the words spoken by the man that had ruled the country for over a thousand years. “Declare your intentions.”

“I challenge for the right to rule.”

“By Vella’s mandate, I shall not refuse your challenge. But before I accept, I must ask you for alternatives. Is there no way for us to reconcile, nephew?”

“There are two.” There was a brief pause. “Provide Constantius’ current location or deliver me his corpse.”

A gasp echoed through the stands, particularly amongst the ranks of the military and nobility. There had been many rumours and theories that attempted to speak to the duke’s intentions, but now they understood the truth.

Virillius’ personal history was not unknown to the people of Cadria. It had been adapted into many plays, and a few particularly lucky soldiers had even made their fortunes off the first-hand accounts of his deeds and struggles. He had been studied by fanatics and critics alike, both of whom would occasionally suggest supposed shocking truths, the validity of which was rarely confirmed. The man in question said little about anything related to his achievements and accomplishments, save for when he discussed them with his confidants or leveraged them to make political moves, but the circumstances at hand were neither. The words carried from his heart, his spite ringing true in the ears of all.

The crowd stirred. It was one of the first times he had ever willingly divulged his motives before the public eye. And it brought to light a falsehood wrongly assumed by the historical record. Constantius Augustus was still alive.

“Forgive me, Virillius, I cannot comply." The king raised his blade and steadied his breath. “To do as you ask would be to disregard your father’s will.”

“My father was slain. You are defending the man whose hands are stained with his blood. And Violet’s as well.”

Their words were broadcasted, but they spoke personally, as they would have behind closed doors.

“I am aware, Nephew. But I cannot allow you to slay him.”

“Truly a shame.” Virillius raised his weapon to his chest, his hand positioned directly over his heart. “I have always respected you, Ferdinand, both as a man, and as a ruler.”

“You and Constantius… I thought of the two of you as my own sons.”

“Perhaps, perhaps not. I know only one thing that is sure to change.”

“I will not allow you to stain your hands with your brother’s blood.”

“There is no can or cannot. He will fall by my hand, no matter the cost.”

“If you are that determined, then reconciliation is truly impossible.” The king lowered his gaze, his eyes clouding. “I would prefer for us not to engage in battle, but alas, I cannot allow you to inherit the throne. The Cadria that you would lead is too different from the one that I have envisioned. To acquiesce would be a disservice to those that so loyally followed my orders, and a betrayal to the ideals I have worn upon my sleeve.” He took deep breaths as he tightened his grip on his weapon. His eyes were moist, but his gaze was firm. “Very well. Let us settle this not as men who dine at the same table, but proud Cadrian warriors.”

After waiting for an affirming nod, the king stepped thirty paces away from his foe and took a moment to reflect upon the inevitable battle. Both men knew the tools in the other’s kit. They had divulged most, if not all their secrets during the many mock battles that they had entertained over the centuries. Together, they had grown from survivors that had happened to reach their thousandth levels to true aspects with full mastery of the powers that breached the immortal realm.

And it was precisely those powers that would decide the duel’s outcome.

“I am ready. Begin at will.”

No sooner had the words left the king’s mouth than Virillius charged. Hooves pounding against the ground, he lowered his horns and aimed them straight at Ferdinand’s chest. The monarch matched the motion and met his nephew’s headlong rush with a reckless charge of his own. It was not a traditional initiation, but the same that the two men had always used. Throughout their many long years together.

There was a loud smash, a powerful clatter that rang through the ears of all that sat within the arena. Neither’s bones gave, and neither was pushed back. They stayed locked in a futile struggle for dominance. Ferdinand was older and larger, but Virillius’ limbs were enhanced by blood. They were evenly matched.

Though he knew the assault to be a drain on the other man’s magic, Ferdinand was first to disengage. He bent his knees, allowing his foe to rise above him as he drove his divine spear towards his stomach.

Virillius parried the blow and retaliated with a wide, sweeping slash, but it was caught in midair by a shield of wind. The bright green blades had erupted from the tip of Ferdinand’s weapon and formed a canopy that turned the lance into an umbrella. The king rotated the weapon before his foe could recover and, with a shout of its name, released the magic contained within.

A tornado shot through the arena, a hurricane that tore through the earth and sky alike. The violent gale winds ate the other cervitaur's clothing, ripping it apart before parting his skin from his bone and his brain from his skull.

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But his efforts were made moot in an instant. Virillius appeared beside him, perfectly restored, gear and all.

Having already expected the outcome, Ferdinand did not let up for a moment. He turned his whirlwind spear and attacked Virillius again. His second strike, the general blocked. He deflected it with his shield and brought its blade down on the monarch's helmet.

Ferdinand evaded by a hair's breadth, losing a few strands off the side of his ears with each of the dozen dodges that followed. His silver-blue fur was scattered to the wind, but he ignored his presentation and sidestepped until he found an opening. He struck with his fist, an antler growing from its tip and barely missing the duke's frame.

Virillius' blade crashed straight into his exposed wrist, but his god-forged armour held true, not even bending beneath the backbreaking pressure. Digging his hooves into the ground beneath him, he pushed the younger moose back with a powerful grunt and delivered another swing of the spear. The runes engraved into his cloak lit up, concealing not just the cervitaur, but his weapon as well.

He employed not a standard cloak of invisibility, but a goddess-blessed cloak of true stealth. Its effect was fueled by a divine force that Primrose herself had fed. It silenced his footsteps, hid his figure, and filled the surrounding air with a stuffy floral scent that left the general’s nose without a response.

From his divine veil, he struck, driving the tip of his spear towards Virillius’ core. The soldier himself remained unmoving, but an arm made of blood erupted from one of the vials mounted on his waist and grabbed his blade, disengaging his stealth. A second hand erupted from a flask on the opposite side of the blood mage’s body and morphed into a saw as it whipped towards his victim. 

When his weapon met the king’s armour, he concentrated his magic and invoked his right to sever. The godforged armour was not so easily destroyed; he was unable to cut straight through it, but he cleaved a piece off its side as his concept won over the diamond defense. Equipped with an identical enchantment, his shieldlance flew towards the king’s exposed face, but a gust of wind knocked it astray. A sharpened blade of the same make met the general’s arm, but it was unable to get past his skin.

He had already died to Dewdromn’s blades. They would not be able to harm him again.

Backing away, Ferdinand raised his spear with two hands and called for the wind to calm.

All of the oxygen within the arena stalled to a perfect standstill. It sat exactly where it was in space, stubbornly refusing to budge, no matter the circumstances. That, of course, included the oxygen within his opponent’s body. Virillius’ blood was unable to manipulate it. It was the divine artifact’s trump card, an infinite sky entirely under its direct control.

In one moment, Virillius suffocated to death. And in the next, he was back on his feet, completely unaffected by the wind that the other man had seized.

Because it too was barred from harming him again.

A grimace in his heart, the king moved onto the last of the three plans he had prepared. 

Rearing up onto his back legs, he called upon his ultimate skill and invoked the divinity that flowed through his veins. He closed his eyes and channeled the power of all seven hundred thousand that had, throughout history, acknowledged him as divine.

As the aspect of the raging wilds, he embodied the relationship between predator and prey, the very moment where the hunter and the hunted reached the end of their joint performance and became as one. He himself was neither, but also both at once, existing only in the frame that the two overlapped.

When he lunged at his prey, it would be devoured, its death and consumption already inevitable. And Virillius Augustus was no exception.

His nephew was already in his spectral jaws by the time he took off the ground, his concept unresisted. He was crunched, torn to bits, slain.

But again, Virillius was not defeated.

He appeared two steps away, pristine as ever, not a single drop of blood atop his body.

Just as the king had predicted.

He had known, going into the fight, that it would be a struggle. Because as the Aspect of War, Virillius was not allowed to perish when faced with an ability ranked ars magna or higher. If slain, he would be restored in perfect condition, immune to the effect that had bested him. It was a disgusting skill befitting the rank of ultimate—a true trump card that ensured he could only be truly defeated by an individual capable of dismantling him with nothing but their most basic abilities. While he was allowed to make use of every card in his hand.

Ordering his death was as simple as finding the right person.

But no such person existed.

Not in Cadria, nor the known world.

Still, the king refused to yield. He lowered his stance and charged as he roared with a battlecry infused with all the raw belligerence of the war goddess herself. He would need to overcome his limits and beat Virillius in close quarters. Spurred on by his raw energy, he delivered a flurry of blows with the spear. He attacked one, two, ten thousand times, each flowing perfectly from the last. But even with his antlers thrown into the mix, the eleven-horned king’s offenses fell short.

Every single one was parried, no matter how desperate or unorthodox it may have seemed.

Virillius countered only after he exhausted himself, fifteen seconds—three hundred thousand and seventy six strikes—later. He delivered another heavy blow to Ferdinand’s flank, digging past his armour and into his flesh. A blade of blood was bashed into his helmet from above, forcing him to face the ground, followed by a kick that raised his head back towards the sky.

His hazy, unfocused eyes fell upon a bloody shieldlance, Vella’s claws beneath the brilliant sun.

“Yield. Tell me Constantius’ whereabouts.”

“I refuse.” He gurgled the words out through a mouthful of blood, before swinging his spear again, but it was stopped, caught by a hand made of blood and lowered with raw strength far eclipsing his own. “I shall take them to my grave.”

“Then so be it.”

The general lowered his blade.

And felled the crown of another king.

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