Mikhail remembers that day very well. Carved into his memory like words onto a stone tablet.
The winds howl in the desolate wilderness of Centre-West Northwind, the freezing realm of the north. In a small cave, Mikhail finds refuge. Lighting a fire and putting his sword by him, he grills a salmon and eats it as his dinner. The next morning the blizzard remains, but it appears much weaker than the previous day.
He scans his map, confirming his location, before scanning the region around him. A mini mountain stands before him. Mikhail climbs to the top, and finds nothing. He’s not in the wrong place, that for sure. The map doesn’t lie.
On the small mountain is a pond, about a metre deep, half frozen. Mikhail sweeps aside the snow, but finds no secret entrance or trapdoor. He finally uncovers a small movable stone wall, but all that’s inside is a chair, a desk, and several empty bookshelves. The candles have been blown out and the chair is flipped.
He heads out and in front of him stands a man. A man with no good intentions. Approaching with his masamune, Mikhail draws his own blade to defend himself. The man’s silver blade shines brightly among the blizzard. A sinister aura surrounds him.
“It appears we seek the same thing,” the man says. His voice is raspy, straightforward and above all, menacing.
“There’s nothing in there,” Mikhail speaks bluntly, “it’s abandoned.”
“I’ll see it for myself,” he says as he takes two more steps forward.
Mikhail blocks his way, boldly standing in front of him.
“Who are you?”
The man tightens his fist.
“Why tell a dead man my name?”
The man lunges straight at Mikhail, aiming for his neck, but Mikhail dodges it. Mikhail slams his sword and kicks him, before aiming for a cut towards the heart, but is blocked. Their blades clash causing a screeching sound. The man clearly has an advantage, with his seven foot long masamune proving superior. Mikhail fires an orb of blue aura, but the man cuts it with his blade, before stretching his arms and summoning a dark shadowy aura enveloping him. The aura emits skull-headed beams straight at Mikhail, but he responds by raising his staff and conjuring jade dragon-like beams. They collide and dissipate, and Mikhail jumps back, raising his staff to unleash a bombardment of jade orbs. The man shields himself in a veil of water, protecting himself from the blast.
Their duel continues with Mikhail using a stone ledge to propel himself and strike the man with a heavy blow. He rolls and lands another slam. Their blades fall upon each other, but it is clear that the man is stronger. He pushes Mikhail to the snowy ground and tries to lynch him, but Mikhail rolls around and attempts an uppercut.
Mikhail blocks a blow from the man, but staggers back. The man shrouds his left arm in water and punches, generating a shockwave that knocks Mikhail all the way back to a wall. Mikhail points his blade at the man, firing a blue laser, but the man absorbs it with a shadowy hole. Mikhail charges fearlessly, blasting him with a blue burst of energy before attacking ferociously, landing several strikes. The man knocks Mikhail back with his elbow and nearly slashes his neck. He tries to chop him in half, but Mikhail blocks it and forces him back, delivering several more slashes.
By now both men are breathing heavily. Despite the freezing weather, both men feel their bodies boil. Mikhail readies his blade, determined to fight to the very end. The man bends his knees and holds his masamune with two hands, pointing it at Mikhail.
Mikhail holds the blade with both hands, and surrounds himself with a glowing blue aura. A blue ray emits from his left eye. The man’s deathly aura grows stronger in response.
He starts off with an uppercut and slash combo, but Mikhail blocks it and blasts him, following up with a downwards strike. Mikhail launches three ferocious strikes before he switches to his staff and fires a radiant beam at the man, who counters it with a shadowy beam. The two magics clash, forcing both men to shield themselves with their hands against the pulsar emitted. It results in an explosion that sends the two men back.
Mikhail leaps up, knocking the man’s sword and stabbing his blade into the ground. The man swipes his blade but Mikhail ducks. Their blades clash several times in a dance of thorns, but Mikhail gets the upper hand with another burst. The man unleashes a gale slash and Mikhail retaliates with his own. The man fires a bigger, vertical gale slash, which Mikhail dodges. The slash crashes into the boulders behind, and Mikhail draws his staff, levitating smashed rocks and hurling them at the man. His blade makes quick, tidy work of them, and Mikhail unleashes another horizontal gale slash. Despite reacting quickly and parrying it, the sheer force sends the man flying, slamming onto a wall. He pierces his blade into the ground, supporting himself.
Mikhail breathes heavily, knowing the longer the battle, the lesser his chances of victory, or at least, getting out of here alive. Mikhail charges energy into his blade, and strikes the man heavily, but he responds with a burst of black energy. He fires a spear-shaped matter at Mikhail, it misses and hits a tree instead. The tree’s leaves fall and the trunk dissolves, withering and decaying instantly.
The man slams the ground with his fist, and generates a great shockwave, knocking Mikhail into the air. He leaps up and charges at Mikhail, and Mikhail barely manages to block his proficient strikes. He hurls a ball at Mikhail, who shields himself with his staff, conjuring an orb surrounding himself. The man’s blade slams onto Mikhail, and he is forced back even further.
Mikhail unleashed an uppercut and a down slam, striking the man’s blade four times, before getting pushed back. The masamune screeches and scrowls. The man performs an uppercut and two slashes that Mikhail dodges. He lunges and grabs Mikhail, and throws him away. He leaps up to stab him, but Mikhail rolls away just in time, and his blade pierces into the snow. He pulls it out, seeing a tired Mikhail pointing his sword at him, willing to fight to the bitter end.
The man lowers his blade, “I haven’t fought a worthy opponment like this…… for a very long time.”
Mikhail’s eyes flicker, not sure whether it is a compliment or mockery. His hands remain firm, his blade resolute, his determination unflinching.
The man levitates and summons six shadowy skulls, hurling them at Mikhail. Mikhail blasts them and hurls a giant orb of aura at the man, who traps it in place with his magic and vigorous force, before dissapaiting it.
Mikhail dashes forward, doing an uppercut, stab, and triple slashes. The man envelopes his hands with water once again and punches, staggering Mikhail. He grabs Mikhail and throws him into the air, kicking him and giving him a dropkick that sends him straight into the wall. He aims for Mikhail’s throat, but Mikhail narrowly blocks it. The man continues to push the blade, inching closer and closer to Mikhail’s neck. A big, fat drop of sweat falls from Mikhail’s face. Mikhail charges his blade and summons an explosion, dealing damage to the man. He summons more skulls, this time doubling the amount, and Mikhail slams his staff into the ground, conjuring a barrier that dissolves the skulls, before spinning the staff to transform the barrier into a dragon. The man dashes away but the dragon trails him. He resorts to a blast of his magic.
Once more their blades clash, trading blows, but Mikhail’s exhaustion is beginning to show. Whoever this fighter is, he is clearly much younger and his endurance is far greater. The constant use of weapon aura has taken a heavy toll on him.
Mikhail fires another burst, causing the man to stagger. Mikhail uses his staff to trap the man, then with all of his energy, summons a series of orbs from the sky, falling upon the man with no mercy. The man shields himself with a veil of water, as the orbs coverge onto him, unleashing a devastating bombardment, and causing a huge cloud of smoke.
Mikhail uses his staff to support himself, breathing heavily and coughing. He holds his blade in another hand.
A silver wind emerges from the smoke. In a flash Mikhail parries it, before swinging it away. The man emerges from the smoke, his clothes slightly torn. On his arm, a small scar is apparrent.
“All that for a measly scar,” he scoffs.
His torn cape with holes flows behind him, as he stretches his arm, his blade flashing.
The man hurls another gale slash which Mikhail parries. He jumps and attempts to lynch Mikhail again, but he evades and blocks another blow. The resolute Mikhail steps back, weakened and tired. His blade is still steadfast, and his will is blazing, but his body cannot sustain much longer.
The man remains steadfast, holding his masamune with two hands and silently watching his opponent. He grips on his blade tightly. Only then did Mikhail notice his eyes: two shining red pupils.
“I think,” he says, “it’s my turn to ask some questions. What the fuck are you doing in the middle of nowhere?”
“I could ask you the same thing.”
“Heh,” he snarls as he lowers his blade, “you clearly are something else. Some victim of the Legion, I presume?”
“That’s one way to put it.”
“The Legion…….”
“What has the Legion done to you?”
The man stretches his arms and stabs his blade into the snow, “what did they do to me? Isn’t it obvious? Here I am – the ‘monster’ that they created.”
“From what I know the Legion has no successful experiments.”
“True. In their eyes I was a failure, because I proved too rebellious. Because I was wrong to slaughter them after so much abuse, pain, and suffering! Well, now I burn their fortresses and walk in their blood, and hearing their screams bring me…… relief.”
“So you’re a failed monster.”
“In a way, yes.”
“…”
Mikhail continues to hold his blade, showing no sign of letting his guard down.
“Let me guess. Parents killed by the Legion?”
“Along with half of my friends.”
“Ouch.”
“You seem very strong. Working alone or for someone?”
“Do I look like a slave? No, of course not. I work alone. Besides, it’s much more fun to do the butchering myself.”
“Tell me your name, and I’ll tell you mine.”
“……Phrixus. Or Azrael, call me whatever, I don’t care. Your turn.”
“Mikhail.”
His eyes widen, “the disgraced commodore.”
“That is not a title I am proud of.”
“Too bad. So, you ended up here after the incident a year and a half ago. Hunting Legionnaires, I presume.”
“Sort of. I’ve heard of a maverick assassin the Legionnaires call The Angel of Death. I assume that is you they were referring to.”
“Indeed I am,” Phrixus speaks, “a name that strikes fear into their heart. I’ve become pretty notorious amongst their ranks now.”
“What do you want here?”
“Same thing as you do. The locations of Legion bases.”
“You’re wrong. I’m looking for something else.”
Phrixus smirks.
“I believe we are done here, worthy adversary,” Phrixus says as he sheathes his blade, “now I shall leave. Do not speak of this duel we had today.”
After Phrixus takes a few steps, he hears a “wait!” and he turns around.
“If we share a common goal,” Mikhail explains, “perhaps we could be allies. I’m looking for strong, worthy warriors to fight alongside me.”
“I’m not your servant,” Phrixus scoffs.
“You are not. In fact, I can provide you with materials and funds that you need.”
Phrixus steps forward, “really? Well, I could use a drink right now.”
Three hours later the duo find a small town and a tavern. Phrixus barges in. “Bartender! Any Raithian beer here?”
The bartender, slightly intimidated, replies politely in broken English: “erm, yes. Have beer, Raithian.”
He takes two cups and grabs a large bottle filled with golden coloured beer, and pours it into the cup for Phrixus.
“And you, gentleman?” He asks Mikhail.
“I’ll have the same.”
The bartender nods and pours it for Mikhail.
“How ‘bout a little bet,” Phrixus suggests, “see who gets drunk first. Loser has to pay.”
“You sure you can afford this?”
“No, but I’m sure I won’t lose.”
Phrixus chugs down the bottle of beer and Mikhail does the same. The bartender pours another bottle and they finish it in two seconds as well.
“Actually, just give us the whole bottle,” Phrixus orders, and the bartender reluctantly complies.
The two begin to drink vigorously, both refusing to lose to the other.
Mikhail wakes up with his vision still blurry. He struggles to remember what happened, before looking at the thirty empty bottles of Raithian beer near him. His hair is messy and his face is red, absolutely no way for a gentleman to behave. He wipes off dust from his cloak as Phrixus wakes up as well, scratching his head and looking at his own thirty empty bottles of Raithian beer.
“Alright, we will call it a draw,” he says.
The bartender looks at them both innocently as he cleans a glass cup with a cloth.
Mikhail takes out a cheque, “how much for all of these?”
“Erm, sixty-thousand.”
Mikhail sighs, and writes the amount on the cheque and signs it, handing it to the bartender. He drags Phrixus out of the tavern.