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The weapon is heavy in Kythra’s hands. It hums with their frustration. Unwieldy. Aggravating.
Rhulk dashes at them again, his own glaive raised high to slice through the air. The blow cuts clean through their form, lethal to any solid opponent. As it is, however, it only serves to irritate Kythra further.
“You think far too much,” says their fellow disciple with a flourish. Smug in the moment’s victory.
The truth in his flippant critique grates against their pride. “I am nothing but thought.”
“Then you are nothing.” He readies his stance, low and mocking. “Again.”
They clash once more. Kythra’s glaive – if a cleaver with all the finesse of a club could be called such a thing – is disarmed to the pyramid’s floor. It skates just outside their grasp as Rhulk drops his entire weight to the knee pressed through their chest.
“I cannot begin to fathom why the Witness chose you.” It is said with such sincere condescension that there is no doubt he finds them no more than a particularly boring puzzle. Beneath him. Unworth his time.
Kythra shoves him off with the strength of all Dari’s decimated suns, their talons shredding through the armored flesh of his abdomen. Their multiplicity crystalizes. Ichor and darkness dripping from fractal claws as their body heaves against itself. It is not meant to be a body, and yet here they stand. Solid. Furious.
They are Kythra. The last of their people because they alone were clever enough to confront the creator of their destruction and strike a deal with it.
–- How many did you kill to reach us? –-
As many as I needed to. No less.
Their life at the price of all others.
They alone carved a place into this thing called salvation.
They alone will stand when everything else has fallen.
They will not be bested by some acolyte handy with the simplest weapon known to time.
They will show him just how they earned their place at the Witness’ side: with blood.
Kythra grasps their blade in those same bloodied hands, feeling the resonance within tune to the frequency of their fury. What had been a dull unresponsive mass shifts into a finely curving point. Working edge honed to a wicked gleam. Both a tool and weapon made to cut the very fabric of reality.
It will cut through Rhulk just as well.
Their fellow disciple has barely the time to right himself before Kythra descends like a charged meteor storm. Their scythe shrieks as it rends the air to clash against his glaive. The edges lock, grinding like the memory of bone against bone. Kythra can see themself reflected in Rhulk’s eyes. Many once more. A clever twist breaks Rhulk’s hold over their stalemate and their blade fits neatly against his throat. They pin him to the floor with the weight of every soul they carry within themself.
“I was not chosen . I was not gifted anything by your precious Witness,” they snarl with too many teeth. Rhulk struggles under their hold, eyes blazing, but they have more arms than he has strength in this contest of force. “I saw an opportunity and I took it because I am not weak like you.”