Aetheral Space-Chapter 521 - 0.12: Mark of the Beast (Part 3)

Two gods clashed in the skies above Azum. A god of flesh… and a god of light.

Hellywood clung to the rubble around him as he watched the battle from far below. Each impact between the two forces -- between the two humanoid stars -- was creating enough air pressure to make a hurricane blush. It was a wonder that Hellywood hadn't been blown away already.

Aether, he marvelled, as golden flames collided with crimson, again and again and again. You need Aether to even survive watching this.

The instant after Azez had declared his supremacy, he'd launched himself at the strongest Gene Tyrant, as if that intolerable heat wasn't even a concern anymore. Perhaps it really wasn't. Looking at Azez now, his hair a shining white and his eyes points of light, it was hard to imagine him as a victim of something as petty as heat.

Before, Azez's flight had been a violent thing, launching himself with his flames like a bullet through the air. Now, though? Now he was like a fish in water, like he'd been flying all his life. Hellywood, who'd been born with wings, couldn't even imagine matching such dexterity.

Even if he could, his wings had burned away. His skin, too, was covered in the marks of Otrera's presence. It was all he could do to keep kneeling. The time for those as small as him to make a difference had come to an end.

So all he could do was look up, and watch, and pray.

Win, Hellywood begged the star named Azez. Win!

AETHERAL SPACE 0.12

"Mark of the Beast (Part 3)"

"Swords of Stillness!" Zarakhel screamed, wings pointed behind him like daggers as he dived towards his foe.

In the moment before he reached Victoria, he plunged his hands into his abyssal Aether -- and pulled out two pitch-black shortswords. Grinning wildly, he slashed at Victoria's top two arms, weapons leaving dark trails in the air behind him. A cross of the void painted over the world.

Zarakhel's ability, despite what most believed, was not to produce the Tyrant-slaying Spears of Stillness. It was to imbue whatever weapons he had stored in his Aether with Stillness. While he preferred fighting with a spear, there was nothing stopping him from using any other weapons he'd managed to swallow up between the sparks of black.

Hence, the Swords of Stillness.

Hence, the surprise on Victoria's face.

Hence, the delight on his own.

Zarakhel had chosen his timing well. Victoria had prepared to part her flesh again in preparation for the Spear, but the sudden appearance of these Swords -- and the new angle of attack they came with -- threw her off entirely. Two of Victoria's arms, still clutching greatswords, went flying off through the air as they were cleanly severed by Zarakhel's blades.

The Blindman wasn't done, though. Stillness only applied as long as the weapons were still in contact with the target's body. A slash was momentary -- the moment the blades cleared, Victoria would just be able to regenerate her lost body parts.

Zarakhel took action to prevent that.

His wings flapped once, launching him down towards the ground just in time to avoid Victoria's counter. Sliding between her legs, Zarakhel took one of his Swords of Stillness and thrust it right into the small of her back, positioning it to be as difficult to remove with her current body configuration as possible.

Locked into shape, Victoria snarled, whirling around and slashing at Zarakhel with her two remaining arms. Sparks flew as he deflected the slashes with lightning-fast strikes of his remaining blade, before his feathered wings propelled him up into the air once more.

"Shurikens of Stillness!" he roared, hurling a handful of black throwing stars down towards Victoria.

Most Gene Tyrants, Zarakhel had found, didn't quite appreciate just how much they abused their ability to shapeshift. Arrogant bitches like Victoria always thought it was nothing but a minor handicap when they got hit by Stillness. The form they'd assumed was still perfect for combat, they thought. They just had to be a little more careful, they thought.

Oh… they just didn't get it.

A Gene Tyrant barely ever even moved without changing their shape at least a little. When they swung a limb, they would subconsciously optimize that limb for that specific movement. When they went to look at something, they would subconsciously adjust their eyes for maximum visual acuity. They did it so much they didn't even realize they were doing it anymore.

So, when what had become second nature was suddenly sealed off… even a seasoned warrior like Victoria couldn't help but falter.

Five of the Shurikens of Stillness made their way through Victoria's defense, striking the joints between her armoured shell and sinking deep into the flesh there. Compared to Zarakhel's other weapons, the Shurikens were more of an annoyance than anything else. They could be removed far more easily than the sword buried in Victoria's back right now…. but the mental stress was another story.

Right now, Victoria was painfully aware that the tide of the fight was about to shift against her. She was hardly the first Gene Tyrant that Zarakhel had gone up against. She'd studied his fights, she knew how he operated. From where she was standing, she could see the death-from-a-thousand-cuts that awaited her.

That fact, combined with the blades now piercing her body from multiple angles, produced more hesitation.

And hesitation was nothing but an opening.

"Stave of Stillness!" Zarakhel cackled, diving back down.

Black Aether coalesced in his waiting hand, becoming a spiked mace that he raised high above his head, grin spread wide for the crushing blow. Victoria readied both of her remaining swords, her own mouth tightened into a grimace as she struck first, struck fast.

"That's not what a stave is!" she screamed furiously.

The three weapons clashed with an almighty gong -- but without shapeshifting to bolster it, raw bone could only do so much against steel emboldened by Aether. The gong became a crack -- and a second later, both of Victoria's remaining greatswords shattered into pieces. The Stave of Stillness continued downwards, colliding with Victoria's skull and smashing it to smithereens.

Zarakhel giggled, swerving to the side -- and back out of Victoria's range -- as he did so. He was more like a fly than a raven, darting in and out to attack over and over again. Even more than the damage to her flesh, the damage to Victoria's ego must have been immense -- she was being slowly disassembled by something that should have been unfathomably beneath her. Her remaining hands were clenched tight like claws as blood and brain matter spilled out of the stump of her neck.

"Enough," she gurgled, using a mouth that hadn't been destroyed yet. "Enough of this."

"Nah," Zarakhel grinned. "I'm still having fun."

The scream came from deep within Victoria's chest: "ATTENDANTS!"

"Eh?" Zarakhel scowled as his wings kept him aloft.

Then they came.

They must have been waiting in the wings for Victoria's command. Small figures, clad in robes and masks, scurrying out of the darkness and alleys to join the Gene Tyrant at her side. Zarakhel summoned a Sword of Stillness to start slicing his way through the mass… but he hesitated.

The sizes of those bodies… they couldn't be anything but kids.

Zarakhel clicked his tongue.

Four of the attendants were carrying a massive sword between them, and Victoria took it with her two remaining hands. That wasn't all her attendants had brought her, though. No… they'd come to give her a magic bullet of her own.

They planted their hands against her body… and sparks like electricity began to flow over Victoria's form. Aether. Just like how the Zeilan Morhan enhanced the Fool with Aether to power it up, these children were using Aether to bolster the strength of their mistress.

"Aether, huh?" Zarakhel sneered as he watched from above. "You damn hypocrite."

"It matters not," Victoria seethed, rising up to her full height.

Her attendants were dutifully pulling the Stillness-imbued weapons out of her body, but she surely already knew that Zarakhel wouldn't just watch that happen. She would begin her attack right here and now -- and even from his position, Zarakhel could tell it was going to be a hell of a blow. Sparks of many colours ran across her body, her arms, the sword she held high in the air, ready to swing. The monstrous raw strength of a Gene Tyrant, combined with the monstrous enhancement of Aether.

This was less an attack and more an event.

Huh, Zarakhel thought vaguely. I might actually die here.

Shield of Stillness.

He doubted the black buckler that manifested around his arm would do much to withstand this… but it couldn't hurt, right?

"Fine," he growled. "Do your --"

Victoria did her worst. She had no intention of listening to the last words of vermin. Before Zarakhel could even finish his sentence, the Chitin Knight swung her divine blade…

…and sliced the clouds above in twain.

Azez's fist crashed into Otrera's chest -- and this time his hand remained unbroken.

The Pinnacle of Physical Strength went flying through the sky from the impact, but quickly righted himself with massive wings that burst from his back. The wings existed only for a moment, though, replaced by thrusters of burning gas to rocket Otrera right back towards his opponent. Azez readied himself in mid-air, clenching his fist.

He knew that the strength he had acquired was not overwhelming -- against anyone else, maybe, but not Otrera. This was still a battle that he stood a good chance of losing. From here on in, this was a test of wit and skill. Otrera had had millennia to sharpen those things… could Azez really measure up?

Of course. Of course he could. He'd said so himself, hadn't he?

From here on in, I am Supreme.

From here on in, he wasn't allowed to lose anymore.

Azez Tazir swung the hand of heaven.

"SUPREME SHINE!"

A beam of unimaginable heat poured forth from Azez's fist, surging through the sky towards the incoming Otrera. His Noble Singularity didn't even attempt to dodge. The pride of the ultimate warrior wouldn't allow that. Instead, the god that was like a man simply braced himself -- transmuting his skin into a substance like black crystal.

The beam was reflected, and became many beams -- a spiderweb of light that shredded the city below.

Azez didn't even look. He couldn't afford to look. In a battle like this, the second in which you did not act was the second in which you died.

Instead, he took advantage of the momentary smokescreen, darting in as a ribbon of golden light and smashing his fist directly into Otrera's face. This form of his was designed to deal with heat, not blunt force. Shards of black crystal flew in every direction as Otrera's head snapped back.

Still, the god grinned with newmade teeth. This was what he'd been waiting thousands of years for, after all. A battle with his life on the line, against a foe truly capable of defeating him.

He didn't even bother lifting his head back up. He allowed it to bubble into his back and sprouted a brand new replacement from the stump. Still grinning, he raised his hands in the ready stance of some long-lost martial art.

It was the closest of close quarters. Otrera unleashed the technique he'd been honing for millennia. Azez countered it with the desperation of a madman.

Fist struck fist.

Leg struck leg.

Skull struck skull.

Each impact, each blow, each block -- each and every one of them was a disaster in its own right. Buildings were sprayed apart into rubble by the backlash. The clouds swirled in a spiral above them, heavy and tense with rain and lightning. With each purple flash, a new silhouette of the two could be seen projected large upon the cloudbed, still locked in combat -- a new legend to be spoken of for the next thousand years.

This was not the end of their battle. This battle between gods would continue for hours yet, until three days very nearly became four -- but if this story were to go into full detail about that fight, about every decision made, every moment of crisis, every apotheosis of violence… it would never end.

So, the end of their fight began like this.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

Azez swung his fist and struck Otrera once again, right in the chest. He'd landed blows like this so many times now he'd lost count. He'd even forgotten how many times he'd thought he'd landed the finishing blow.

But this time… it was just the tiniest bit different. Perhaps Otrera's exhausted mind had neglected the proper formation of his muscle-armour. Perhaps Azez's preceding blow had left just a tiny bit more damage than before. Perhaps the angle was just slightly different, or the thrust slightly faster.

Whatever the case, it happened.

The tiniest gap opened in that impenetrable armour.

Azez did not miss the only chance he'd ever get. Allowing Otrera's fist to just barely scrape by his face, flaying the skin away, he darted into his enemy's range. One hand seized tight hold of Otrera's shoulder, fingers digging into bloody muscle. The other hand was raised high, curled into a fist, turned into a gavel of the revolution.

He took a single breath… and then began.

"SUPREME SHINE!"

The first hit sent Otrera down towards the ground, a bloody comet falling to the earth. Azez followed without hesitation, kicking off of thin air to launch himself, an aurora of golden flames pushing him forth. Otrera's impact kicked up a mountain of smoke, but that would not last long.

Azez would not allow it to.

"SUPREME SHINE!"

The second hit cleared away all the smoke. All the smoke for miles around. All the clouds for miles around. All the roads for miles around. All the streets for miles around. All the buildings for miles around.

In the kingdom that Azez's fist created, nothing was allowed to exist save a pristine glass crater.

And then…

"SUPREME SHIIINE!"

…the strongest man in human history threw the strongest punch in human history.

Muscles shattered.

Bones crumbled.

Organs ruptured.

For a moment, time seemed frozen. Azez within the golden aurora, in the moment after his fist made contact, eyes still wide and mouth still open, a silent scream still pouring from his throat. Otrera was a shattered statue, body parts flying in every direction, his eyes still surprised even as they flew out of their sockets. Blood hung in the air like rain.

And then the light erupted.

The flames produced were beyond anything anyone on Azum had seen before. The darkest night became the brightest day as Supreme Shine devoured the horizon -- as if the entire world had suddenly been plunged into the desert. All across the planet, the furious fighting that had been ongoing for days stopped for a single moment -- as every single head turned to look at history.

And with that strike, nothing remained of the Gene Tyrant Otrera.

Nothing… save for the tiniest scrap of flesh.

It had very nearly been destroyed. It was charred. It was ragged. It was very nearly invisible to the eye. This scrap of flesh, two centimeters by one centimetre, should not have been able to sustain the consciousness of a Gene Tyrant. The path to the revelation of nine by nine had been a bloody one, but the Zeilan Morhan had confirmed the minimum size before a Gene Tyrant's flesh could no longer retain their mind many times during this campaign.

And yet…

…a tiny mouth opened on that tiny lump of meat.

"Not yet."

Perhaps there were secrets that only the Origin Strain were privy to. Perhaps there were blessings that Eve only granted to Its most favoured. Perhaps this was some automatic function that the Gene Tyrant in question had programmed ahead of time.

Perhaps the will of Otrera, the Peak of Physical Strength, could never have been restrained by such a flimsy rule in the first place. Perhaps it was just built differently.

Whatever the case, the scrap of flesh whispered those words as it slowly, slowly, fell past Azez's face.

Then it happened.

White needles, thinner than thin for maximum efficiency, lunged out from the scrap of flesh. Their target was not Azez. In this posthumous second, they would have stood no chance of scratching Azez, let alone killing him. No… their targets were many, and their targets were myriad.

A fly buzzing through the air.

Moss growing between cracks in stone.

A severed hand flung from the battle.

Dried blood encrusting the ground.

Dead skin lingering in dust.

There was so much biomass in this world, and the needles eagerly took advantage of every stray cell. When they connected, when they pierced, new white needles would sprout from what they'd connected with to hunt even more biomass. Again and again, over and over, lightning-fast, thought-fast. Within the span of 1.7 seconds, a pale tree of might had grown throughout the entire district.

Azez had just finished blinking when the needles pulled their bounty in.

Detritus hardened into bone. New flesh wriggled around the framework like so many worms. Eyeballs bubbled into sockets, locking onto Azez's face…

…and the half-finished being raised one fist high, shining with almighty body imaging.

"Die."

The explosion that followed the punch was nothing compared to what Azez had unleashed -- but, in that moment of vulnerability, it was enough.

"So…" Victoria said, voice low. "...it's true, then."

The slash she'd unleashed had certainly sliced the clouds above in half… but it had not done the same to Zarakhel Baras. He was just flying there, intact, his face pale as he understood just how close his own death had been. He hadn't done anything to stop Victoria. He wasn't the reason her arms -- and her sword -- had stopped midswing.

The reason for that was behind the Chitin Knight.

Margarethe the Tenderheart had assumed an octopoid form, eight strong tentacles wrapped around Victoria's limbs to bind them tight. Unlike the other Gene Tyrant, she wasn't enjoying the benefits of Aether, but her raw strength -- and the surprise of her appearance -- had still served to stop Victoria in her tracks.

Victoria's attendants backed away, hands grasping at air, masked faces looking from one Tyrant to the other uncertainly. They'd almost succeeded in removing all the Stillness weapons from Victoria's body. Should they continue? They didn't know.

In this situation, to assist one Tyrant would mean going against another. Even if one was clearly a traitor, that wasn't a distinction they were equipped to make.

"It's over, Victoria," Margarethe said, her voice echoing through the street from her bulbous brainsac. "Accept it with grace."

Victoria growled, and -- swinging around -- sliced off all eight of Margarethe's tentacles before one could even blink. She pointed her blade at the other Gene Tyrant with one hand -- and with the other, she plucked the final Shuriken of Stillness from her form.

The effects were immediate. The stumps of her missing arms shifted up her sides, becoming additional muscle for her remaining ones. Her head became cylindrical, covered in staring red eyes with which to keep watch over both Zarakhel and Margarethe. She even sprouted a mighty set of feathered wings with which to pursue the Blindman if he tried escaping to the skies again.

"Even more than this thing, you disgust me, Tenderheart," Victoria sniffed. "It killed Olga. You know that. It probably had a hand in Elizabeth's death, too. Do you understand that? Do you even care?"

Margarethe's bulk shifted upwards as she assumed a humanoid form -- a brown-haired young woman clad in robes of pale snakeskin, antlers curving upwards from her temples.

"Our time is over, Victoria," she said quietly.

"Pathetic," Victoria growled. "You can't even offer a rebuttal. Are you capable of talking at all outside of platitudes?"

"I'm not going to argue with you, Victoria."

"Of course not -- because you can't. Do you think you'll fare any better than the rest of us? If these things win, they'll kill you too. The thing behind me would only be too happy to do it right now, I'm sure."

Margarethe closed her eyes. "I've made my peace with that."

"Oh, I'm sure you have, traitor. These things might buy this tragic heroine act of yours, but I --"

Zarakhel took his chance.

At the moment Victoria's frustration reached its peak, he lunged in, black wings launching him through the air like a bullet. Inky black weapons appeared in his hands -- a Spear of Stillness in one hand, a Sword in the other.

Margarethe followed his lead. Her humanoid form became serpentine in an instant, a giant snake rushing down the street like a runaway train.

Victoria held her sword in both hands. Stray sparks of Aether still clung to her form. She was still the Gene Tyrant most skilled with the sword. It didn't matter that she was outnumbered. It didn't matter that she was facing another Gene Tyrant.

This would be a battle for the ages.

By the time they were done, Victoria the Chitin Knight had swung her sword 14,813 times.

By the time they were done, Margarethe the Tenderheart had sustained 2912 wounds that would have been fatal for any lesser creature.

By the time they were done, Zarakhel the Blindman had pulled 391 weapons out of his dancing black Aether.

By the time they were done, they were exhausted, they were spent, they were ragged, and they were still fighting. Zarakhel's wings had stopped working, so he stood on Margarethe's back as she lunged for their mutual foe. Victoria's sword had cracked, so she wielded it upside-down as a blunt club instead. Margarethe's mind, never suited for fighting, had been worn down by the hours of combat.

And as the three of them collided in the square one more time… a gargantuan plasmashot smashed into them from above.

There was no telling the source of the attack. It could have been one of the Gene Tyrant's bioships, or one of the Zeilan Morhan's mechanical. It could have been aimed directly at them, or it could have been a stray shot that went off course. There was no way to know, and none of them ever found out, either.

It was the least of their concerns.

That shot didn't kill anyone. In fact, quite the opposite. Before that attack struck the earth, there had been three people involved in that fight. Afterwards… there were four.

The edict that Lord Director Eve had enacted against unauthorized reproduction was only a mental block. No Gene Tyrant could turn themselves from one person into two without the explicit permission of their ultimate creator. That edict had no authority over the unintentional, however.

It was a miracle shot -- a blast that split Victoria's suffering body into chunks of nearly equal size. One half remained humanoid, continuing to swing its weapon against Zarakhel and Margarethe. The other half writhed for a moment as indiscriminate flesh before pulling together some semblance of a beastlike form.

For the briefest of instants, the two that had been one locked eyes…

…and then the original Victoria's scream shattered stone.

"Go! Find Edgar! Kill Edgar!"

As the second Victoria galloped away, Zarakhel and Margarethe went to pursue, but the original's skill had not been diminished. One slash of a sword-arm sent Margarethe's head flying off her body, and a second nearly did the same for Zarakhel. The original Victoria raised her blade high -- while she was like this, no enemy could break through her defense to pursue her counterpart.

And in that moment, Margarethe the Tenderheart decided that the time had come.

In this fight between Gene Tyrants, neither one of them had resorted to the ultimate sanction. To do so was nearly unthinkable. Preserving the Gene Tyrant population was a biological imperative for them. They would slash at each other, and they would claw at each other, and they would gnaw at each other, but when it actually came to one Tyrant killing another? They would always hesitate.

But… the time had come.

Margarethe let out a shaky breath -- and a tendril tipped with a stinger slipped out from beneath her tongue. It waved through the air, pointing between Victoria's eyes like a dagger. The venom of a Gene Tyrant pulsated menacingly within.

Victoria regarded it with solemnity. At last, the final betrayal had come. Her eyes flicked between her final opponents, Margarethe and Zarakhel…

…and a stinger of her own emerged from her wrist like a hidden blade.

"So be it," she said, voice low. "Dance with me, then."

Azez gasped as he slowly picked himself up -- as he picked himself up from within the crater within the crater within the crater.

He hardly had the time to check his injuries, but he was willing to bet he was a sorry sight. If not for the power granted by his flames -- this form of absolute strength he'd acquired -- he most likely wouldn't be able to stand right now. Hell, he most likely wouldn't be able to breathe right now.

It was a good thing he had that power, then. He needed to breathe. He needed to stand. He needed to fight.

"Make it mean something, Azez."

He'd made too many promises to do anything else.

"You've impressed me," said Otrera.

Azez braced himself as his enemy began to walk out of the wall of smoke -- but the figure that emerged from the smog wasn't what he'd expected. It was Otrera, without a doubt. The aura of certain death was far too potent for it to be anyone else…

…but now Otrera was looking at Azez through his own eyes.

"I acknowledge you as an equal, Azez Tazir," Otrera said solemnly, striding across the wasteland. "To honour your prowess, I shall now assume your form for the next thousand years."

It was just as Otrera said. The figure that now walked towards Azez, ready to deal the finishing blow, was himself. A version of himself without injury or imperfection -- that which was weak was made strong, that which was crooked was made straight. Azez watched as a better version of himself prepared to finish him.

"This next one will kill you," Otrera said. "Don't worry. I won't let them stick you in the Nerve Senate like the others."

Anger boiled Azez's brain. Otrera was talking like this was already a done deal. Did he think he was speaking to a corpse?

No.

No. It's the other way around.

I already killed you once, bastard.

That fighting spirit erupted inside Azez's heart, a need to destroy this enemy once and for all, a need to prove himself stronger, to prove himself supreme, to take all that this monster was and tear it apart. He clenched his fists…

…and Otrera grinned.

"Yes," he breathed. "That's the way! You truly are invigorating, Azez Tazir!"

Azez offered no rebuttal. He couldn't spare energy that could be used for fighting on words right now. Instead, he simply kicked off the ground -- and launched himself towards his enemy.

A single attack. That was all he had left in him. Still grinning, Otrera raised his own fist -- he would meet Azez's punch with one of his own. A cross counter to split the world in half.

But the single attack Azez had left was not a simple punch.

He had discarded the Lantern of Truth long ago in this fight. As a container for flames, it had served as a limiter for his power. Once he'd conquered that boundary, he'd thought there was no further need for it.

But, limiter or not, it was still a container.

Screaming out his fury, Azez the Absolute threw his fist forwards. Golden Aether crackled. His desperate speed was enough to weave past the weakened Otrera's final punch, but he didn't have enough strength to punch all the way through his enemy's body.

So, his eyes wide and his lips bloody, he punched halfway through his foe…

…and the broken lantern whipped across the battlefield, piercing through Otrera's back.

Hand and glass met in the middle. A payload of flames oozed into Azez's grip. Otrera looked down at the hand running him through, eyes widened in mild surprise.

"Oh," he said. "Good luck to you, then."

Supreme Shine.

Light exploded within Otrera's body, flooding out through his eyes and mouth and ears, golden heat visible through his skin. The radiance of the attack didn't even compare to what had illuminated the sky earlier in their battle, but it would suffice. Both of them had been on their last legs.

Azez had just managed to trip up his enemy first.

By the time the light cleared, Azez was no longer standing amidst rubble. Instead, what had remained of Otrera's body -- irradiated past the point of holding consciousness -- had expanded around him, becoming a warped and twisted structure of bone the size of a temple. Azez took one step back, two steps back… and fell right down.

At the last second before his mind had ceased to exist, Otrera had turned his body into a filter for the radiation the Supreme Shine was producing -- so that Azez wouldn't be killed by the backlash of his own attack. That had been the final grace of His Noble Singularity. Slowly, as he panted on the ground -- facing up towards the sky -- Azez raised a fist.

He had no words. No speech, no message. Instead, a soundless scream poured out of his mouth once more.

Victory echoed across old Azum.