Chapter 26 : Kickstart My Heart (Patreon)

Sesus Siata, Water-Aspect Dragonblooded

Realm Year 764, Descending Wood

House of Hale Mind Outskirts, An-Teng, Satrapy of the Realm

There was a certain kind of euphoria, he found, in throwing his sense of caution to the winds.

He swung in heavy, broad arcs with enough force to split timbers in twain. Red Wing sung as it cleaved through the air, carrying wisps of his anima with it. A few years ago he’d have trouble seeing where the sword was going, and now it felt almost slow to his perception. Quick chops with a twenty pound blade that parted air and burned with seafoam essence.

Chops that ran straight into a thin blade of polished steel and was pushed aside, diverted well before it reached his foe. Siata’s limbs shook with the reverberation of the parry, even as he adjusted his grip, ducked under a vision-blurring swing, and chopped again. 

“YEH-AH!” 

This time his enemy was forced to block outright, and the heavy sword forced him back across a field of ash and stone, feet dragging along the disintegrating earth. 

Shuri was quick enough to follow and press the advantage, his blade blurring into a hurricane of blows against the unbalanced enemy. The serpentine prince dueled against a bonfire, skin peeling back with every clash and revealing a layer of pale scales and droplets of blood. 

Siata followed immediately, adjusting his grip and lunging forwards in a massive thrust, trusting his ally to keep the enemy’s attention. He roared again, throwing himself forwards and abandoning any pretense of defense in the attack. 

What would his family say, seeing him act like this? 

‘You were always a fool, but at least you had the decency to be useless before, rather than an active hindrance. Attacking another dragon to defend a mortal sorcerer- what sense do you have?’

A thin smile grew on his face. His heart pounded like some immense wardrum, and his eyes burned from the pains of staring at such a bright aura of power so long. His limbs ached, and the feeling of imminent death hung over his every breath.

And he had never felt so full of purpose before. 

‘YAH!” He roared into the thrust, using his sword like a great lance, piercing through a wall of fire and towards the blurred enemy within. Sword occupied by Shuri’s flurry of blows, the enemy should have no way to avoid the attack.

Form flickering with embers, the enemy blurred and was suddenly in a different position than before, flipped entirely around, hanging briefly in the air, upside down with sword pulled back. Bright eyes, burning with red flame, stared into him. The time of the moment compressed as Siata watched the sword trace a path down to cleave off his extended limb.

A sword that was suddenly dragged off course by a hand being pulled away, a hand that was pulled away by a body that was being kicked away. A sandaled foot planting itself into the enemy’s midsection.

Time resumed its normal flow, and the enemy was sent flying back with a pained grunt, smashing into an ancient rock wall that surrounded the ash-covered courtyard. 

Brahm landed a moment later, pants burned away and hand clutching a sword with bleeding fingers. He flipped it around and gripped it by the handle, raising it defensively. Brahm had managed to disarm the enemy in that singular moment, Siata huffed with a grin, recovering from his unbalanced thrust and returning to a neutral stance. “My thanks, Immaculate one.”

“He’s not defeated yet.” Brahm muttered warily.

“I would suggest that you return my sword, mortal.” Galan muttered, pulling himself up from a collapsed section of ancient wall and awash in fire. “Lest I forget to be merciful.”

“I cannot do that.” Brahm replied firmly, grimacing.

“You are disarmed, Peleps. I would suggest surrender.”

Galan stared at them silently, a look of contempt in his blazing eyes. Instead of answering directly, he slipped into a steady form. Brahm’s eyes widened, and he yelled out a warning.

“Stop him-” 

“Five Dragon Form.” The elder dragonblooded intoned, the dull scream of a stoked furnace echoing in his voice. A trace of primal arrogance and danger settled over his shoulders. 

And then he blurred, and was suddenly before him. Siata raised Red Wing to defend-

“Five Dragon Wrath.”

-One blow, three blows, five blows. Galan’s arms moved with grace and ferocity that Siata couldn’t keep pace with, only counting the blows with the ringing of fists on blade and the explosions of pain in his chest. 

His vision blurred with pain, and swam as he was tossed about, clouded in ash and rolling across a long stretch of the courtyard. Moments were lost with every skipped impact against the earth, making speech sound stilted and jittery. 

“S-ta!”

“Fiv-rago-force blow”

“-Ah!”

The reassuring weight of a sword in his hands was the only thing that stabilized him. Red Wing. The blade that Rhomon gave to him.

Siata could feel nothing for the sorcerer right now, no friendly warmth, no brotherly camaraderie. Nothing.

But he could remember what the sorcerer had done.

He pulled himself up, briefly staggering and bending low as fluid welled up in his throat. He retched, spilling the contents of his stomach out on the field. Opening his whoozy eyes, he made a correction to himself.

That wasn’t the contents of his gut. 

That was blood. 

He grit his teeth, stabbing Red Wing into stone and using it as a crutch to stand. The blood he spilled boiled away in the weakened aura of destructive power that surrounded him. His torso was aflame with pain, and scorched marks in the shape of fists littered the front of his armor. 

“This is the difference between Dragons and mortals.” Galan spoke with the whisper of a distant inferno, holding Shuri by the throat and standing in a blaze of fire. No matter how the beastman struggled or thrashed, he could not break the grip, nor budge the dragonblood. The aura of fire was beginning to rip through not just skin, but scales as well, and burning away hair and clothes. 

Nearby, Brahm laid on his side, a hand to his gut, a scorched hole the size of a man’s fist punching right through his torso. The monk was gasping in agony, trying and failing to push himself up. 

Galan tightened his grip, Shuri gurgling in agony as the bonfire began to rip scales off and reveal raw, red muscle beneath. “We were charged with Creation, to protect it, to nurture it, to rule it. We were given the strength to wrestle gods and smite devils.”

Galan’s lips pulled back in a disdainful snarl. “Sheep should learn to regard the Shepards.” 

“What does that make me then?” Siata yelled, pulling Red Wing out from the earth and turning it around, pointing it at his enemy. “I’m a Dragon too, Peleps!” He roared, a nauseating euphoria building behind his eyes. 

Galan turned to him, before grimacing and tossing the choking beastman aside. Shuri flew away, smashing into the stone that Galan just recently hit and being buried in the rubble. “It makes you young and stupid, Sesus.” 

The lips pulled down as he stepped over, reaching down to rip his sword out of the monk’s hands. The monk writhed in agony as he was suddenly engulfed in flame, the dragonblooded stepping away and leaving the injured man in burning cloth. “You convinced your allies to oppose me, and for what? To protect some sorcerer who abandoned you to do some ritual?”

“I’m not going to regret doing good just because it's inconvenient.” Siata grinned, bloody spittle boiling away and leaving his teeth spotless. 

Galan leaped forwards, upon him in an instant, sword flashing. Siata parried the first blow, and the second, but the third cut deep into his shoulder and made his arm hang limply at his side. He staggered back, before readjusting his grip and chopping with a one-handed grip.

Galan caught the blade with his hand, pulling him with it and thrusting forwards.

Siata coughed another spray of blood as the sword punched into his chest, straight through his breastplate. There was a dull sense of pain, like someone had just punched him a bit too hard. It wasn’t sharp pain, despite it being a sword. 

He staggered as the sword was ripped out sideways, leaving an immense gash in his chest. The once-dull pain immediately turned sharp and sour, and left him gasping for air. 

His collar was caught in a strong hand.

“Where did you get this motivation, whelp? Five years in An-Teng and you’ve done nothing but drift around parties and hope someone would take pity on you.” Galan asked, fury briefly pushed aside, staring down at him. 

Their raging animas continued to rip away at their surroundings. Siata grinned even as his skin seared and his hair burnt away, and forced his sputtering seafoam aura to return to full strength. “I’m experiencing a new kind of high, Peleps. The high of someone depending on me.” 

Galan held him for a few moments, blood spurting from his nose and quickly boiling away in their shared destructive power. 

He sighed and raised his sword, hilt faced down. “Go to sleep, whelp.”

Siata’s eyes drifted, for some reason, as the sword rose and readied to bludgeon him. His injured allies laying in heaps, the destruction and ash fields that followed, and mighty Bollock, dumbly staring at the battle taking place.

Bollock.

‘He asked me what the fuck I thought I was doing.’

Siata’s knee rose with a blaze of seafoam essence. A dirty, dishonorable, thoughtless blow the likes of which you’d find in a schoolyard and not a righteous battlefield. 

Galan’s mouth opened in a silent scream of pain, throwing himself back, reaching down to clutch at his groin for a moment with knees pulling together. Out of reach of any followup attack Siata could launch. 

Sword freed, Siata arm exploded forwards, and his fingers loosened. Red Wing flew forwards in an instinctive throw, blazing with his seafoam anima.

There was a spray of red as Red Wing cleaved halfway into Galan’s hand, passed through meat, bone, clothing, and finally hit meat again.

A visceral roar of pain followed, as Siata’s blade sliced into the elder dragonblooded’s groin. 

Those burning red eyes locked onto him a moment later. Siata smirked defiantly.

A blazing fist smashed into his face. His head hit the stone. The fist crashed into his face again.

And again. And again. And again. 

His world ceased to have location or time, and was filled with pain instead. 

—

Mnemon Rhomon

Realm Year 764, Descending Wood

House of Hale Mind Outskirts, An-Teng, Satrapy of the Realm

Getting Swan Dragon through the initial steps of meditation was easy, but time consuming. As soon as it was done, Rhomon began to dash back through the manse and towards the entrance, teeth gritting as his boots pounded across the ancient stone. 

As he moved, he began to think about how exactly he was going to fight if he needed to. Presuming that everyone else was dead, and he’d need to hold off an army for as long as possible, how would he go about doing that? Presuming everyone else was alive but critically injured, how would he go about doing that? Presuming everyone else was alive and still fighting, how would he help?

All three answers were more or less the same here, he realized while thinking about the matter, dashing through the stone halls and back towards the entrance. He needed to make himself as difficult to damage as possible, while giving himself the capability to heal others, and damage those who try to attack him. 

He already had Virtuous Guardian of Flame active, so that was step one. He paused at one doorway and raised his staff, forcing himself through the mnemonics of sorcery as fast as possible. Handseals and incantations and wrangling the essence of his surroundings- it was another delay to going to help his allies, but he’d be rather useless in a battle without it.

With the feeling of metal settling into his flesh, The Invulnerable Skin of Bronze was formed around him once more. The added durability the spell would provide was absolutely necessary if he needed to fight soon- he was just too fragile without it, but it also wouldn’t be enough.

He’d need more. 

He retrieved a pair of fluids from his bag- the two poisons required to synthesize the mutagen that would make his body into a chemical factory. He hesitated briefly, before gritting his teeth, spitting to the side, and downing both vials.

There were two types of alchemy. External alchemy, which processed ingredients into a complete product and was then utilized. Internal alchemy, in which the user ingested the ingredients and through force of will and shaping of essence, brewed them into a complete product and then made use of it. 

The downside being that internal alchemy was much more difficult and ran the risk of poisoning the unlucky alchemist who overestimated his abilities. Rhomon was fairly confident in his abilities here, thanks to all his practice with this specific kind of process.

The only difference was that he normally did this with a mutated body that was suited for it. 

Needs must at the moment, it was an advantage he couldn’t afford to waste, and one that took slightly too long to prepare. He should’ve brewed it yesterday instead, but Rhomon was an idiot so he didn’t think he’d need it again so soon. 

Carefully isolating the chemicals in his stomach with a lining of essence, he brought them to a mixture and raised his internal temperatures. Steam began to escape his lips as he continued to dash, making sure to run inefficiently so as to raise his internal temperature faster. 

He was still attempting to bring the mixture to a boil as he reached the doorway leading outside, a terribly quiet outside, broken up only by the sound of flickering embers and a wet, pulpy noise. 

The courtyard was empty of ash now, dirt and soot ripped away leaving stainless stone over most of its surface. The outer courtyard wall was collapsed in two places, and a pair of raw, bloody legs stuck out of one pile of stone. A thoroughly burned body laid in the center, clothes crackling with remnant licks of flame. 

And near the distant wall, a burning man punched down into a body washed in seafoam green essence, again and again and again, the limbs bouncing slightly with each impact. The bloody form of Siata’s sword was discarded off to the side.

The ram lizard was in the distance. Rhomon snapped his fingers to it. “Attack burning man.” He ordered imperiously, trying to not spill the concoction in his gut and poison himself. Hotter, hotter, hotter. He needed to boil away the impurities while keeping them mixed, then vomit the waste.

The burning man paused in his beating of a bloody form Rhomon recognized as Siata, standing up and looking over at the suddenly enraged and charging ram lizard.

As the bipedal lizard approached, it lowered its head and bellowed. Like a battering ram made of hardened bone and a thousand pounds of muscle.

The burning man’s fist blurred, and the battering ram stopped suddenly, feet lifting off the earth from the shock of the blow before it collapsed again, falling into a pained heap.

Its heavy armored skull was cratered inwards, bone split apart like a sledgehammer smashing a rock. Rhomon almost lost concentration on his internal alchemy then and there, teeth gritting worriedly and steam escaping his nose instead. 

“Sorcerer.”

“Galan.” Rhomon greeted, glancing around worriedly at his fallen comrades, before glancing back to the clearly-angry dragonblooded. His face was blank, but the fire around him expressed his fury like radiation. There was blood trailing from his nose and lips, which boiled away soon enough and was replaced. He turned with a slight limp, clearly favoring one leg. “Your entourage is staying back?”

“My entourage is dead, thanks to that beast. I’m going to hunt it down and murder it after I’m done with you.” Galan spoke like he was commenting on an advertisement for a novelty product, disinterested and detached. The flame around him flicked into a snarling face a few times. His head tilted with a dangerous crack. “Did you summon it?”

“My life would be simpler if I had the power to command such a beast.” Rhomon grimaced, raising his staff, flaming guardian flickering in its head.

A burning fist smashed into his gut with the sound of a hammer hitting a heavy gong. Rhomon staggered, engulfed in a roaring bonfire, almost ruining the contents of his internal alchemy yet again. 

Another fist came, his virtuous guardian of flame rising to bat it aside- being caught in bleeding fingers.

“Did you think fire would hurt me?” Galan growled like an oven being fed charcoal, other hand lashing forwards and snatching him by his bronze throat, lifting him off the ground. “A fire dragon?”

“I-” Rhomon growled, breathing only slightly restricted by the grip, his invulnerable skin keeping him well protected from the blazing fire. His skin began to warm and his clothing very quickly began to burn away. “I have limited options, Peleps.”

“No, you have one option. Failure.”

He was slammed against the stone wall, a loud crack following as his steel-hard back impacted the rock face. Rhomon growled, his virtuous guardian straining to escape the dragonblooded’s fingers. 

One hand on his spell, the other on his throat- the dragonblooded was open. Rhomon’s bronze fist lashed forwards with two fingers raised. 

He was suddenly tossed with a yelp of pain, rolling across the ground and almost losing control over his alchemy once more. He pulled up to see Galan snarling, clutching at his now-bleeding eye. 

“Gonna cry?” Rhomon asked with a grin and a glare. 

Galan froze suddenly before pulling his head back, a snarling vortex of fire built up and swirled, compressing into his mouth. The dragonblooded leaned forwards, one bloody eye staring at him.

Rhomon pushed up from the ground just in time for a wave of awesome flame to wash over him. An inferno that ripped away his staff, his clothes, the air he could breath, everything. He was blinded, having to keep his eye closed to protect it as he was submerged in a furnace of elemental fire.

Slowly, his bronze skin began to grow red and sear, and his chainmail grew red hot against his torso. Waves of hot, irritating flames overcame him.

And in that heat, the concoction in his gut was finally hot enough to boil.

His alchemy was completed, and his body began to mutate. 

The fire died down after a few moments, flames dissipating into the air around him. Finally Rhomon chanced to open his eye. His clothes were utterly burned away, leaving him clothed in just a red hot tunic of chainmail and artifact boots, everything else too fragile to survive being bathed in such fire. 

Galan’s eyes were wide. 

Rhomon smirked, and he wanted to say something clever, but he leaned over and started vomiting black waste-product sludge instead. 

After a few moments, his gut was cleaned, and he pulled up to his feet again, breathing heavily. His virtuous guardian of flame flickered like a burning laurel around his head. 

Distracted by the vomiting spell, Rhomon forgot what he was going to say, and instead raised his fists in a martial stance.

“Come on, dragon, why don’t you teach this arrogant mortal a lesson.” Rhomon muttered, shoving essence towards a poison that he had memorized, starting the process of manufacturing it. 

Galan growled, stepping forwards, aura of fire flickering. He looked like he wanted nothing more than to beat Rhomon into a pulp.

That’s what Rhomon was counting on, of course.