Collin J. Earl & JC Anderson
patreon
Chapter 47 Arcane Merceary - Ghost of the Waste
🕑 Added 2026-01-09 16:24:48 +0000 UTCCale
I said, “Restoration.”
The cross in my hand changed instantly.
The weapon that unfolded from it was long and narrow, but not curved for ceremony or tradition. Its edge ran straight for most of its length before tapering subtly near the tip, built for reach and control rather than sweeping cuts. The balance sat forward, intentional, favoring structure and follow-through instead of flourish. This blade was either ceremonial or decorative.
The metal drank in the light instead of reflecting it, a muted, matte surface etched with faint channels that weren’t runes so much as pathways—deliberate routes for power to move without resistance. Every line served a function. Nothing was wasted.
I didn’t layer the magic like I would with most other blades. I fed it directly.
Lightning Elementa Arcanum flowed first, with clean and disciplined flow, sinking into the blade as if the steel had been waiting for it. Aura followed, heavier and denser, threading through the weapon’s core until the air around it tightened, pressure building without sound or spectacle.
The blade hummed with that distinct sound that only comes from lightning and reinforced Aura—the low, steady vibration of something under strain and perfectly contained.
I raised the blade, elbow out, sword parallel to my body. I pulled power inward and let it settle where it belonged. Application of power that threaded my blade I also applied to my form. Aura reinforced my grip, my stance, my spine. Elementa Arcanum layered over it, the lightning adding to my processing, reflexes, and cognitive perception. I adjusted the pressure and flow, tuned for movement rather than defense.
We stared at each other for a moment. Then we moved. The space between us collapsed.
Steel met steel.
The impact rang sharp and clean, a sound that cut through the chaos around us. The force of it shuddered up my arms and into my shoulders, controlled but heavy. He didn’t overcommit. Neither did I. We slid apart a half step, then closed again, blades crossing at a different angle, testing leverage instead of strength.
He was fast, applying the same Aura–Arcanum mix that I was; though it was obvious that his focus was different—earth Arcanum, maybe, or metal. He was clearly focusing on defense, so that made sense.
He attacked with measured movement. I attacked with speed. Every strike was placed where I would be, not where I was. His footwork stayed low and grounded, weight transferring smoothly from heel to toe, each movement feeding the next. He became more aggressive, and I could tell when he added an application of Wind Arcanum to aid his motion, stripping drag, smoothing transitions, letting momentum carry without excess.
I adapted.
I added Kinetica and locked down my body while I opened my stance. Aura thickened around my joints. I shortened my movements, stopped trying to overwhelm his defense, and started cutting into his rhythm instead. I let him lead just enough to show me where his limits were.
The blades met again.
Sparks burst where power bled off into the air. The ground beneath us cracked, not from force, but from pressure—two systems pushing against each other without giving ground.
He shifted tactics.
The next strike wasn’t meant to hit. It was meant to force a response. I parried, felt the blade slide along mine, then he twisted his wrist and reversed direction mid-swing, the sword snapping back toward my ribs with brutal efficiency.
I barely cleared it.
The edge kissed my suit, heat biting through fabric, but the reinforcement held. I stepped inside his reach and drove my shoulder forward, Aura flaring just long enough to disrupt his balance.
He rolled with it.
Of course he did.
We broke apart again, circling now, both of us breathing evenly, neither willing to give the other the satisfaction of showing strain. Around us, the world had narrowed to the space of our blades and the line between them.
“You move like you were trained to survive,” he said, voice steady despite the clash. “Not to win.”
“I learned where losing gets you,” I replied.
He nodded once, as if that answered something for him.
Then he pressed harder.
The blade came down in a tight arc, power driving through it in a focused surge. I met it head-on. Aura slammed into Aura. The impact shuddered through the air, strong enough to make nearby wards flicker. For a heartbeat, neither of us moved.
I felt the cost start to climb—microfractures forming in my stance, the quiet tally of strain adding up. He felt it too. I saw it in the tightening of his grip, the way his shoulders locked down as discipline took over where endurance was starting to fail.
This was going to end one of two ways.
And I still didn’t have time for either.
I broke contact deliberately, giving him just enough room to commit. When his weight shifted forward, I slipped inside his guard. My blade skimmed his cuirass, close enough to score the metal and disrupt the flow of power feeding it.
He reacted instantly, pivoting, the long blade snapping back toward my throat.
I raised my guard, caught it, and shoved.
Aura surged.
Not to throw him back. Just enough to break alignment.
He staggered half a step.
That was all I needed.
I drove forward and struck cleanly—precise, controlled, undeniable. The blow landed where his defense couldn’t follow fast enough. Power traveled through him and out, leaving his stance empty.
The fight ended.
He dropped to one knee, breath leaving him in a slow, steady exhale rather than a gasp. His sword slipped from his hand and bit into the stone at an angle, humming faintly as the last of its charge bled away.
For a moment, I thought he might rise again.
Instead, he reached out and pushed the blade toward me.
“Take it,” he said.
I didn’t move. He looked up, meeting my eyes without defiance. Without regret.
“You’ve done what no one else could,” he continued. “You ended it.”
“Ended what?” I asked.
“The burden,” he said quietly. “The oath.”
His fingers trembled as they released the weapon completely. “There’s a detonation coming,” he said. “Soon.”
My breath caught.
“They’ve rigged the building,” he went on, voice steady despite the blood at his mouth. “The ones you’re running toward. If you don’t stop it, everyone inside dies.”
The words landed hard.
“Save them,” he said. “That’s all I ask.”
His gaze flicked to the blade between us. “And if you survive… return it to my sister.”
I looked down at the sword. At the careful construction. The discipline forged into every line of it.
“Where is she?” I asked. "Where can I find her?"
He gave me a soft smile. "Ask her. When she is ready she will respond?"
I lifted and eyebrow. "Ask who--I don't..."
I trailed off. The light left his eyes a moment later, not with drama, but with relief. I stood there for half a second longer than necessary, then took the blade. Some debts don’t end when the fighting does.
I turned away and ran.
People were still inside and the clock was counting down.
