Renegade Reborn (44 page)

Mind Rush, Rolce? A rudimentary play. Let me show you what happens when I use it too . . .
Purah’s voice said within his mind.

Suddenly, from Rolce’s perspective, Purah’s speed went from slowed to accelerated, but Rolce wasn’t worried. He had found his answer, and now, simply raised his hand. As he did, the sand within the arena became his to command, and command he did as he halted Purah’s advance with rising walls of kernels on either side of the Dragon Sybil, trapping him.

Purah halted himself mid-air and spun about again, riding the swing of his Berserker Blade into the wall, but rather than crush the kernels of sand together to harden the wall, Rolce released his grasp, allowing the blade to pass through the wall as if it were gas, throwing Purah’s whole body off balance, and giving Rolce the opening he seeked, and like a conductor leading a choir, Rolce moved his hands about, and corkscrewed a stream of green, essence filled sand up into Purah’s stomach, lifting him up and out of his created walls of sand and straight into the arena wall opposite of him.

The crowd erupted into thunderous applause as the two warriors, with their backs to each halves of the circle wall, stared at one another, breathing hard.

Touche
Purah spoke within Rolce’s mind.

More where that came from,
Rolce snapped back.

Well, let’s get this started then, shall we?
Purah mentally replied.
Like me, your boon is dead, gone, thanks to your friend Gisbo, but as you know, there is potential, within everyone with enough essence, even non-Renegades, to unlock something far greater in power than Boon abilities. I speak of course about, The Pneuma Art, the grandest achievement an Elekai’ Warrior can achieve in his or her life, for such power only reveals itself when you are not just a master of Elekai’ abilities, but a master of yourself. No doubt, finding your Pneuma Art was the main focus of your preparation for our fight, am I correct? A risky gamble considering some never find it. I know for a fact that even Falcon and Moordin never found theirs, but even if you managed to discover yours, it takes years to master, and unfortunately for you, I’ve had years. You see where I’m going with this, don’t you, Rolce?”

Rolce said nothing, only readied himself in an attack stance.

Well, why spoil the surprise? I’ll find out soon enough if you learned your Pneuma Art in time . . . but if you didn’t . . . this fight was a wasted effort . . .”
Purah mind spoke, as he swung his sword up, and around so it rested across his shoulder blades. He then raised his head to the sky, closed his eyes, and with deep concentration, channeled all his essence into the center of his chest as it began to glow like molten gold, causing his hair and clothes to flap wildly about, and like a base drum, Purah’s heart could be heard thumping loudly, echoing through the arena.

Words have power when uttered . . . mine are no different. Prepare yourself, Rolce.
Purah mind spoke, as he suddenly stood up straight and stabbed the tip of his sword in the ground.

“PNEUMA ART! ZAEKON!” Purah yelled.

Upon the final uttered word, there was suddenly a loud, familiar snap, but this time, it came from Rolce’s arm as his ulnar nerve snapped cleanly, leaving him crying out in pain as his arm hung useless at his side, just as Purah’s had done earlier. Purah grinned from ear to ear as he walked slowly toward Rolce.

“Unlike my weapon, it’s going to be quite hard to use a pole arm with just one hand . . .” Purah said, his grin growing wider as he spoke. “Zaekon, Ancient Soarian term for, ‘sorrow’. Here’s how my Pneuma Art works. Every blow you make against me is recorded in a line. So far, you have hit me three times, and three times you have caused me pain. At any moment, at my choosing, I can choose to either inflict the pain back at you, one at a time, whenever I please, or, I can choose to activate the entire line at once, inflicting so much pain and misery in one, epic blow, your brain will shut down from the sheer, unnatural pain.

Now, this is where it gets interesting. You don’t have the power to defeat me in one, clean blow, so, tell me, Rolce . . . what do you do when every strike against me, leads to your undoing?” Purah asked.

Rolce said nothing, only held up his pole-arm in one hand and stared at it, weighing his options. Purah was right. A pole-arm was made for two hands, especially one as big as his, and with Purah’s Pneuma Art activated . . .

Rolce started to walk forward, slowly, calculative.

“You don’t believe me? Fine.” Purah said as he raised his hand, snapped his fingers and out of nowhere, a green blast erupted up into Rolce’s stomach, throwing him off his feet and giving him the same pain and damage that he had given Purah just moments ago.

Rolce hacked up blood and noticed that the blast had gone right through his Renegade uniform. With a grunt, he got back onto his feet, wiped the warm blood and spittle from his mouth, took off the top part of his uniform, and tore a piece of his cape off, making himself a sling for his arm, before tossing the rest aside in a heap upon the ground.

“This is the best part of my ability you know. You’re a thinker, Rolce. Right now you’re examining all possible outcomes with that brilliant mind of yours, and soon, you will realize, as I already have, that despite your best efforts, we, as humans, were only put upon this planet to suffer . . . sorrow . . . that is my word, and my word, has power!” Purah said, now leaning on his sword in a haphazard stance. “So, son of Shax. What will you do? Accept your reality? Or go down swinging like the fool you want to be?”

Rolce answered by powering his staff up into a roar of green energy. Purah let out a sigh.

“The route of the fool then . . . I’ve misjudged you,” Purah said, as he stretched out his arms, leaving his body open for Rolce to strike, and Rolce obliged him. Spinning his staff in one hand like a baton, the Renegade Sybil struck Purah across the pectoral, the meat of his shoulder, chipped his hip bone, split open his defined chin, and ended the combo with a backhanded strike across Purah’s chest that sent him bouncing across the floor, but rather than chase him down, Rolce remained where he stood.

Calmly, Purah got back up, dusted himself off and fingered at his chin’s dripping wound.

“I feel as if I’ve just been slapped. What is this? You mean to toy with me with such ineffective strikes as to not receive major pain yourself?” Purah asked.

Rolce did not reply, only stood his ground.

“What is that brain of yours up to? Do you know something I don’t? I almost don’t want to send the pain back to you. It’s almost as if you want me to do it . . .” Purah said as he raised his fingers, ready to snap them.

Rolce remained silent.

“As they say, silence is consent, but, call me curious,” Purah said, and with that, he snapped his fingers. All at once, as if four different people attacked him at the same precise moment, Rolce’s chin split open, all the strikes he gave Purah rebounded back onto him, and he was thrown off his feet. When it was over, Rolce merely groaned, got back up, rubbed at his chin, then charged again. Purah shook his head, not knowing what to make of Rolce’s strange behavior.

“Ok, you’ve obviously lost it.” Purah said, as he met Rolce’s charge with his own. “You forget, I can still attack you, as well as rebound any taken blows. It’s over.”

“Not if you can’t see me.” Rolce said, breaking his silence and firing a blast of green at the ground ahead of them both, spraying up an enormous sand cloud that enveloped them both in a temporary fog. Purah was forced to cover his eyes.

“Really, Rolce? What is your . . .” Purah asked, when suddenly his lower back erupted in pain. Purah swung his sword around, but hit only air, and that’s when he felt a blunt stab to his stomach. The strike keeled him over, readying him for the strike across his cheek that stunned him and sent him staggering back, putting him in the perfect position for Rolce’s pole-arm to fall down and break the bridge of his nose, and like a broken bridge, it fell into liquid, red liquid, and blurry blotches of purple and green spread like ink before his vision. If Purah wasn’t a master of the air, he may not have felt the next strike coming, but fortunate for him, he was. Quickly, to prevent the next oncoming attack, Purah expanded his Soarian essence outward into a defensive bubble, clearing the sand from his immediate area, as well as Rolce, who now was pushed at a safer distance of fifteen feet away.

“That strike . . . actually hurt . . .” Purah said, blinking furiously, wiping away the blood dripping from the bridge of his nose, and sniffing back blood up through his nostrils to spat it out his mouth. “Your turn,”

Rolce braced himself as Purah snapped his fingers. Again, Purah activated the strikes all at once, forcing Rolce to keel over as Purah had done, but he did not cry out, nor did he fall off his feet. This time, he remained standing, as if somehow, with each strike, the pain was losing its potency, and with a sly grin on his face, Rolce raised himself back up to full height, wiped the blood away from his broken nose, sucked up blood in a snort, and spat it out as Purah had just done.

“What do you know that I don’t, Rolce? It’s as if you’re becoming stronger with every rebounded strike.” Purah said. Rolce laughed at this, and rather than charge at Purah again, walked forward in a calm, confident stride, dragging his pole-arm behind him and leaving a thin, snake like trail in the sand.

“I want to thank you, Purah. If it weren’t for you, weren’t for this fight, I may have never reached my Pneuma Art. I’m just a fool after all. I failed in my preparation. I failed to learn my Pneuma Art in time, but now, well, it all seems so clear . . .” Rolce said.

Purah said nothing. Only watched him carefully.

“To reach your Pneuma art, you need total control over yourself, and to a point, I had it, but part of being in control is knowing how to let go of it, and unleash something, something . . . unbridled, unchained, and that’s something I’ve struggled with my whole life, but not because I fear my own power, but because I fear, if I release it fully, that it would never be enough . . . I've struggled with confidence and belief in myself all my life, always wondering if I have what it takes, if I got the right stuff, but now? Oh, I was right to stand with the fools . . .” Rolce said, laughing an unbridled laugh, a free laugh of a chained prisoner released.

He then flashed Purah a wicked stare and smile, a smile that he had seen many times in people like Falcon, and Vice, and Gisbo, but, back then, it wasn’t a smile he understood. Now he did. It wasn’t a smile of crazed, recklessness. It was a smile of release, a smile that said, ‘I know who I am, I make my stand here, and death doesn’t frighten me.’

“My name is Rolce Moordin. I'm powerful beyond reason, beyond measure, because, unlike you, I faced my sorrow, sat down with it, and rather than let it get the best of me, I used it as leverage to reach heights I didn’t believe possible.

You on the other hand, Purah, you took your sorrow, catered to it, gave it breathing room, negotiated with it until it became your cage, and now, you believe only Drakearon can release you, but you’re wrong! You have the power to release yourself! We all do, as long as the ability to choose remains, and as far as I know, it still does, and as for me, and my choice? I'm letting my sorrow go, right here, right now!

You said that words have power . . . I believe you. You let sorrow define you, but my word? Oh, it’s yelling, screaming in my head! It wants to be shouted from the rooftops, from the moon, from the throne of heaven! Oh, it’s only right your word has the power to enslave where mine does just the opposite! It's a Naforian word, and what’s my word mean in the common tongue, Purah? Listen well! From this moment forth, I will cling to it, I will live for it, and I will die for it! FOR FREEEDDDDOOOMMM!!!” Rolce said, as suddenly, just as Purah’s did before, his essence channeled into his heart, making it glow like a green, neutron star, and the sound of it, boomed, and boomed, like a drum solo, preparing for the chorus . . .

“PNEUMA ART, FAE-LOOSTRO!”

Purah’s mind raced now, clambered about really. Usually, the word of power for the Pneuma Art gave hints to abilities. Over the years, sometimes, people had the same words. He wracked his mind for it, and finally gave up, realizing he had never come across anyone with the word, “Freedom”. Such a word, it could be anything, and for the first time in the fight, Purah, had no idea what was coming next. He knew that it was Rolce’s first time using the ability, but much like Boon abilities, sometimes, they came as natural as breathing. But what was it? Quickly he did the only thing he could do, he poured all his essence into his ring, and tossed it in the air. Upon landing, the ring threw out a yellow dome, the ultimate defense as Purah had called it, the very same one that had kept the warriors of Heaven’s Shelter at bay.

“Your move, Rolce. Let’s just see how this, Fae-Loostro fares against my barrier!” Purah said, folding his arms.

Rolce paced around the dome now, walking in a perfect circle, eyeing Purah closely, as Purah did the same to him.

“Better act soon. You wouldn’t want to waste it. I can already see, just by the way your energy flickers, it’s not a constant technique like mine,” Purah said. “From the look of it, it seems to be time restrained, connected to your very essence. When the technique runs out, so will you. How appropriate. In the end, that’s all freedom gives you . . . death . . .”

Rolce continued his pacing, not saying a word, as he looked up and down at the crackling energy field.