NOVEL WEB Interlude: It's Over Tonight
Saiki Suzume, as a rule, is usually pretty busy.
In addition to being the Demon Queen (a fairly high-visibility position with a great deal of new responsibilities in the aftermath of the Demesne's devastation), she is of course the sort of person who has deep-seated problems with sitting still. Even when ostensibly performing innocent actions such as eating, napping, or staring vacantly into space, her fractally-complex mind is usually commanding minions, sending messages, casting stilled and silent spells through distant foci, or (most frequently) doing all three at once. And so it is something of a noteworthy event that she is sitting at a large wooden desk, her small dainty hands clutched with white-knuckle intensity around each other, and accomplishing absolutely nothing.
From everything she has learned since coming to this world, new Skills do not generally appear in one's Status after Level 90. There is, of course, the possibility of unlocking, refining, or evolving Skills that one already knows (such as when a spellcaster learns a new spell), but generic Skills are typically granted by one's Class and appear in a stately, reliable progression at Levels 5, 10, 15, 20, 25, 30, 40, 50, 60, 75, and 90. And so it has caused her no small amount of consternation that, almost precisely fifty-eight minutes ago, a new Skill labeled Last Hour appeared in her Status and appears to do nothing at all whatsoever.
She has tried every approach she can think of to activate it, but nothing seems to work; she has also managed to exhaust her considerable repertoire of ratiocinatory regimens regarding how she may have unlocked or achieved it, but has come up equally dry in that area. She and her new husband have scoured every source of knowledge and documentation available to them, but nothing has yet been fruitful; and thus, a few moments later, when news from the Demon King filters through her enchanted ring that he has located a new hidden library, she wastes no time in teleporting to his side.
Together, they wordlessly begin making their way through the long-sealed tomes -- he on the left side of the room, and she on the right, by unanimous silent assent. Quickly and efficiently, the numerous evidences of superannuated scholarship are examined, catalogued, and replaced on the shelves; and, with thirty seconds left, she is beginning to consider the possibility of thinking about worrying slightly when Kholoth frowns and sucks his teeth at what he discovers in a large codex bound in black leather on the other side of the room.
She does not get to find out what has drawn her paramour's interest -- and, somewhat less fortunately, does not reach the book two shelves down and three sections over which explains the Last Hour Skill, a hidden Arch Heretic ability which is unlocked only under very specific circumstances which shall shortly become very clear -- because a fraction of a second later a single, solitary footstep sounds in the hallway outside.
There is not supposed to be anyone else in this section of the castle -- or, indeed, anyone else in the castle at all currently -- and so the Demon King and his Queen react with alert consternation. In less time than it takes a hummingbird to flap its wings, he closes the book, takes her elbow gallantly with his other hand, and transports her effortlessly with an elegant economy of motion into the hallway to confront the mysterious trespasser. Saiki Suzume's small rosebud mouth drops open in a momentary instant of surprise.
A single heartbeat follows, in which a great deal of unseen, unspoken communication passes between her and the intruder. To anyone else, it might be mistaken for a frozen flash of poised readiness -- the drawing-in of a breath before the shout of activity. But packed to bursting within this poignant pause is an epic series of accusations, denials, pleas, entreaties, and no small amount of judgment and despair, communicated with the most minute microexpressions and picopostures imaginable. Then a blade is drawn, and everything quite comes apart at the seams.
Kholoth Rael Kheshnagon, Monarch of Fire, Bloodstained Lord of Unforgettable Sorcery and All-Seeing Keeper of Fears, is the apex predator of this world in pretty much every way that matters; his ability scores are far above S-Rank in every category, his Attack and Defense values are disgustingly astronomical, and in general he is so much better than everyone at everything in every possible way that he spends the vast majority of his effort holding himself back twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, and three hundred and sixty-five days a year. Among the hundreds of Skills he possesses, two -- one that lets him sense the Level difference between himself and another creature, and a second that allows him to sense the combat capability of an opponent -- have spent so long barely registering any threat that he has, on more than one occasion, forgotten he possesses them. But he's certainly aware of them now, because the disheveled, wild-eyed young man in front of him is clearly extremely low-Level (fifty, at best! Unbelievably trivial) but is also radiating a sense of threat so extreme that his calm, steady heart has skipped a beat for the first time since he learned of his parents' demise. And so, for the first time in his entire life, Kholoth Rael Kheshnagon does not hold back.
He and his bantam bride strike simultaneously, with perfect coordination (a fact which does not go unregistered by their opponent, piling another wound upon a very weary soul). Twin spells -- a lance of unholy flame, striking directly at a target's spiritual essence and bypassing their bodily defenses, together with a glacial burst of frost magic sufficient to slow and trap even the most fleet-footed of prey -- spiral out together, an exquisitely-timed assault carefully calculated to leave no gap for anticipation or evasion. And behind it, levied with severity and no expectation of abating, they pour a sustained assault of magic, minions, and malice so powerful and at such blistering speed that the very idea of survival is preposterous.
And still, it is not enough.
Sugimoto Sora, who by this point is quite psychotic with sleep deprivation and reeling from the triple traumas of treachery his erstwhile inamorata's presence here implies, is almost contemptuous in his response; he counters each sorcerous strike with a precisely-paired technique of exactly the correct sort to parry, negate, or outright overwhelm its intrinsic factors (a sweep of a flaming blade to dispel frost, a pearlescent explosion of holy power to atomize an unholy lance) and cuts down every eidolon and undead underling which vomit forth so quickly that the compressed air of his strikes alone batters the stone from the walls in rolling sheaves. His exhaustion-addled brain is so numb with shock and horror that he exists in a perfect state of emptiness, an abysmal and fathomless gulf of blind and brilliant reflex so violent that it sunders all before it like lies before the truth. In moments, the battle grows so horrific that the physical structure of the keep cannot contain it, and those residents of the Demesne which are located appropriately to witness it are granted the once-in-a-lifetime sight of the Demon Lord's Castle exploding violently as three figures rise high into the sky, bourne on the wings of war in what is extremely likely to be the very last battle most (if not all) of them will ever fight.
There is a brief, happy moment where Kholoth Rael Kheshnagon realizes exactly what he is up against; a tragically short span of time in which, unexpectedly gifted with the glory of a truly worthy opponent, he throws off his self-imposed shackles and exerts himself to his fullest. Summoning a long, aristocratic rapier of pure darkness in his free hand (his other still gripping the book which so recently occupied his attention), he closes to mêlée with a shout of fierce joy, trading blows and summoning spells with equal facility while Saiki Suzume rains ruinous sorceries down upon their shared foe. A great rotting fist emerges from swirling black clouds to strike down like a fifty-ton hammer; venomous green scythes, wielded by invisible shrouded forms, lash out in every direction with the speed and quantity of raindrops in a hurricane. But Sugimoto Sora is equal and more to these hazards, and though many slip through his guard -- a gashed eyebrow here, a pierced shoulder there -- it will take more than a few minor wounds to defeat his Battle Regeneration and Relentless Endurance Skills here, in the heart of his element and at the height of his power. Repeatedly, he falters under the assault; but again and again, his grim outrage sustains him, and he rallies each time with renewed purpose and greater intensity. Slowly at first, but then with increasing certainty, the tide begins to turn.
As one, they impact mightily into the still-exploding debris of the castle, their battle never pausing for an instant; among the fallen walls and jagged columns of collapsed halls, they dash and dart with impossible speed. The moment in which Kholoth and his bride turn from attackers to defenders comes and goes amongst the havoc of the conflict; step by step and inch by inch, they are countered, halted, and driven back upon their heels by the simple and uncomplicated expedient of a broken man with nothing to lose and a very, very sharp sword.
Kholoth Rael Kheshnagon, Demon King and Surprisingly Morally Complex Adversary, dies first; his head unexpectedly parts company with his neck during the sixth of a nine-part strike, never having seen the blow which ends his brief but harrowingly eventful reign. His severed head arcs high into the air, taking in a breathtakingly beautiful view of this land which was once his home for the very last time (and noticing, with the final flickers of thought, that the moon appears to have a big-ass crack in it for some reason, but he supposes he doesn't have to worry about whatever that is now). With a contented sigh, he acknowledges the superiority of his foe, and closes his eyes forever. A burst of love and longing -- for his world, his people, and the woman he all-too-briefly counted as his -- echoes within his heart (which is kinda far away from his head, but he feels it anyway) for a split second before his headless corpse explodes with incredible force beneath an onslaught of ninety-nine sword blows and disintegrates into ash.
Saiki Suzume does not let out a piteous scream of denial and despair, because she is caught instantly around the throat by an iron-hard grip which crushes and constricts her larynx so powerfully that even her Undying Fortitude spell is not proof against its violence. Choking (mostly out of reflex, since she doesn't need to breathe at the moment), she raises her eyes to meet her adversary's; the anger and hatred she sees startle her into stillness for the briefest of moments, because someone as full of love as Saiki Suzume is not, despite all evidence to the contrary, actually very well-equipped to deal with being hated. Her innumerable plans and strategems crumple like paper before her eyes as the Kiku-no-Tsurugi enters her ribcage, punching with the force of scorned passion through her heart and bursting out of her back in a glittering spire of vengeance; this is actually not at all fatal to her, but the subsequent burst of holy power which follows is another story entirely, burning her from within like white phosphorous in a slow but inexorable conflagration. She takes nearly five seconds to die, in excruciating agony; Sugimoto Sora watches, pitilessly, the entire time.
There is a long, mournful pause, after which the enormity of what has happened penetrates what might be charitably called his conscious mind; Sugimoto Sora drops to his knees and sucks in what feels like his first breath in one million years. He howls, bereft, exactly once; a long, drawn-out cry so haunting that, as it echoes from distant mountaintops, demons fifty miles away pause and cock their hideous heads in confusion. Then, exhausted beyond endurance, he collapses into the dust and ash which, only moments ago, comprised the woman he loved and his greatest enemy.
It would have been better by far for everyone (especially him), if Sugimoto Sora had surrendered to weariness here and simply gone the fuck to sleep; but, as fortune would have it, his fluttering and unfocused eyes instead alight upon the book Kholoth had clutched during their duel and regard it with dour disquietude. There is a long pause, during which the aching of his enervated limbs is almost audible; then he sighs, struggles to his knees, and opens the book to its first page.
For a long time -- perhaps twenty to twenty-five minutes -- he reads silently, reluctantly absorbing the import of the words upon its pages. Then, as though re-shouldering an impossibly heavy burden, bruised and bloodstained fingers seek, find, and grasp the hilt of the Kiku-no-Tsurugi, and Sugimoto Sora rises once more to his feet with a groan. He spends a moment consulting his Pursue Nemesis Skill, then another thirty or so puzzling over the results; but eventually, understanding dawns, and his gaze rises to that which so recently captured Kholoth Rael Kheshnagon's dying interest. Then, he crouches down, gathers his strength, and leaps.