Nomine’s transition from defender to aggressor wasn’t loud nor theatrical. It was worse. More than any possible rage, it was that muted undercurrent of restraint that made him frightening.
It began with wisps of electric blue light threading from his fingers, then moving along to the rims of Black metal, delicate as crackling spider silk. The intermittent voltage spread outwards, outlining his arm, shoulders and silhouette in a ghostly azure shroud.
[Skill: Deconsecrate Lvl 8]
Order all symbols to crumble.
Level eight. The highest Neon had seen so far —granted, it wasn’t like he had a particularly vast catalog of experience. Still, when even Soreisan, another veteran, was operating at such abysmal numerical disadvantage…
Neon found himself grateful, yet again, that it wasn’t him on the other end of that blade.
Of course, Soreisan couldn’t claim the same luxury. His bravado didn’t just evaporate. It combusted. The assassin’s stance crumbled, from predatory stalking to something more akin to a preparation for retreat.
That would certainly be the smart thing to do.
“Shit.” Soreisean yanked down his mask, revealing a mouth that had begun struggling for air. Fear and exhaustion had locked his jaw, yet he still managed to force out a bitter laugh through clenched teeth. “I… I thought you saved that one for sponsor trash.”
>> “Should I feel honored? Recognizing my strength already?”
His questions went unanswered.
Nomine simply moved. Yet it barely even looked like it, to the point that calling it movement felt inadequate. He crossed several feet of jungle with one single step, trailed by electric afterimages that lingered just enough to suggest he existed in multiple places at once.
Black Metal hummed with an actual, audible frequency that shook the air itself. When Soreisan made the attempt to dodge, the blade —or reality— appeared to deny him, forcing him into a path of assured destruction as if it was the act of an electromagnetic pull.
Both daggers blurred into motion, not as an assault, but as a shield. Some complex weaving pattern aided by Soreisan’s serpentine-named skill, used as a last-ditch technique to prevent the damage. Looked more like a poor excuse for a panic button.
And it lasted less than a heartbeat.
Nomine didn’t block, didn’t deflect. He didn’t need to. The authority of his blade simply overrode Soreisan’s gambit as if it didn’t exist. Everything happened too fast for Neon to fully understand it, the katana carving a path so pristine it felt like it had barely touched the world in its passage.
When steel met flesh, the sound that resulted wasn’t anything like neon had expected it to be. It was too clean, too effortless. Too final. An electric crackle followed, but that ended immediately drowned by the scream that tore from Soreisan’s mouth, raw and spine-chilling in agony.
The lack of any blood spraying from the point of contact made it difficult for Neon to measure how deep or lethal the wound had been. Still, the acrid smell of something deeper than flesh burning reached his nose to make that uncertainty worse. Soreisan dropped to his knees, letting go of his daggers to clutch at his stomach as if he tried to keep himself from splitting in two.
“God… Dammit…” His voice emerged between gasps, body coiling from a pain that appeared to transcend the merely physical. Neon doubted it could be only from electricity, or that Nomine had just merely cut him. “You… Sadistic bastard…”
Even knowing that Soreisan had attacked them first, even knowing that Nomine was his ally… This wasn’t easy for Neon to watch.
But he shouldn’t look away. Turning away from hard truths never made them any less real. Or so he told himself, at the inability to keep his chest from tightening.
“Rei, was it?” Despite the violence, Nomine’s voice remained arctic, untouched as always. He didn’t even advance for a finishing blow. He just stood there, drawing the now mobile hand along Black Metal’s edge, cleaning residual wisps of electricity that gathered at his fingertips. “Do you want to understand why you lost?”
>> “Your augment build lacks cohesion. Perhaps if you’d invested in leveling up your skills instead of modding yourself…” He took a pause, empty as a held breath. “Not like it makes any difference now.”
From his perch above the trees, with Gnaw’s deadweight growing heavier in his faltering grip, Neon found himself half-fascinated, half-horrified. It wasn’t like this was his first rodeo with brutality. He had seen it before, through the margins of society, cruelty to the full extent of the word.
But this felt so fundamentally different than anything from the real world…
Soreisan clawed his way upright, one hand pressed against his torso from where blood had begun pouring down. His movements were jerky, uncoordinated, yet his gaze never left Nomine —burning with a hatred that went beyond mere rivalry or wounded pride.
“This isn’t over… I’m not finished. I won’t allow it. Not here, and not like this.”
Synthetic light seeped through his skin, pulsing in rhythm with his labored breath. Was it another skill? Doubtful, or another notification would’ve emerged. Yet still, Neon found himself silently pleading for Soreisan to just stop, to give up and walk away.
“Right… I remember. You’re the one with the trait that activates once you know you’ve lost.” Nomine observed with the detached interest of an entomologist studying a particularly persistent cockroach. “It suits you.”
>> “I just fail to see how it would help you win anything.”
“Savour it while you can, pretty boy. Next time… Next time, you’ll be the one trapped in a corner. That’s a promise written in bone.”
Soreisan’s hand disappeared into the folds of his clothes, producing what looked like a crystalline orb around half the size of his palm. He hurled it downwards without ceremony, making it shatter with a harsh screech of digital static. Waves of pixelated interference rapidly devoured his surroundings, expanding into a dense and artificial fog.
This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.
Fanfare aside, the efficacy of the smoke bomb was questionable at best. Neon could clearly see everything that went down from his elevated position. And Nomine? Well… Nomine seemed as unbothered by the visual impairment as he was by everything else. The veteran stood his ground motionless, uninterested in whatever antics his opponent was up to.
Still, Soreisan’s dexterity was startling to witness. Gone was the writhing, bloodied figure clawing at his wounds. He now retreated through the murk like pain was just background noise. Neon thought it looked similar to a lizard shedding its tail to flee after playing dead for a while.
Perhaps that was a bit mean. Sure, Nomine had dismantled him completely, but watching Soreisan navigate his escape spoke of a hardened survival instinct honed through several close calls. Outclassed or not, he wasn’t some amateur who had gotten lucky once or twice.
As the smoke thinned, Soreisan burst from the dissipating edges with the same serpentine grace that Neon had borrowed. The assassin flowed through the second layer of tree branches with surprising agility, gaze cutting upwards until relocating his partner.
“Gnaw! You absolute idiot!” He yelled, strained yet carrying a commanding tone that sliced through whatever pain he still suffered. Neon winced as the movement lead the gash in Soreisan’s torso to widen, but no fresh blood followed.
Whatever kept him functional had a clear origin beyond human physiology, but that shouldn’t make up for the psychological barriers. Not in this way, making self-preservation and the potential of suffering an afterthought when pitted against Gnaw’s safety.
So Neon decided not to overthink it either.
“Here!” Answering his call, Neon swung the unconscious convict towards where Soreisan ascended and released before second-guesses could interfere.
Despite the haphazard throw, Soreisan’s catch was flawless —another reminder that beneath the blunders, he still held capabilities Neon had only begun to grasp. Efficiently, his strong arms secured Gnaw across his shoulders, quickly adjusting for the added weight before pivoting into a new trajectory for an escape route.
For a briefly passing moment, their eyes met across the living cathedral of trees. Soreisan’s gaze beheld his with an understated depth then. One of surprise blending into grudging respect. Maybe even gratitude, if not for a pride soonly reassembling itself like armor.
“Don’t think this changes anything.” Soreisan growled, though the venom in his voice sounded like it was trying to compensate for something. “We’ll make you regret it.”
“Yeah, sure. Looking forward to it.” Neon’s response came out flatter than intended, carrying a hint of conflict that made his jaw tighten. He thought of smiling —the usual method of disarmament for those who put him under pressure— yet something about all of this still felt too… Unreal. These kinds of rivalries and blood feuds remained an uncharted territory he wondered if he’d ever truly belong to.
But no matter his uncertainty, Team Carrion Reign quickly resumed their tactical withdrawal.
Soreisan bounded through the branches despite his wounds, carrying Gnaw like a sack of questionable groceries. Within moments, the jungle’s depths swallowed them whole, leaving only rustling leaves and the lingering scent of Nomine’s strike.
The silence that followed felt oppressive when contrasted with all the chaos that had just unfolded. Wind sighed through the overgrowth as a partner to Neon’s slightly labored breathing. Adrenaline began to ebb away, taking his shallow pretense of confidence with it.
Well, it wasn’t a rare occurrence. Just a classic post-social crash. He’d played his part good enough, or at least he thought as much. But now came the bill that charisma demanded back as payment. That hollow exhaustion that followed when he had to perform being someone else for others.
The only different thing was that those others had tried to kill him.
Planning his descent proved mercifully straightforward. Without Gnaw’s deadweight, and counting with plenty of time left to use Serpents Unleashed, his way down felt almost effortless. Each extension and retraction of his elongated limb felt natural and intuitive, and soon enough his shoes were touching grass.
But now came the part Neon had been dreading. Reuniting with Nomine. Confronting whatever judgment awaited behind those ice-cold eyes of his.
Would his partner berate him? For letting sentiment get the better of him when simple inaction could’ve eliminated half of Carrion Reign permanently? For choosing his stubborn ideals again and again?
For not playing the good little teammate, obeying his orders down to the letter?
Much to Neon’s surprise, there ended up being none of that.
Nomine simply rested Black Metal against his shoulder and swept his gaze across their surroundings, vigilant as ever, ready for any other team to come ambush them. No complaints, no arguments or lectures, no praises or verdicts. Just quiet efficiency.
“You mentioned the hunt of our marked team as the main objective.” Were his words, clipped and businesslike. “Does that mean there are more?”
Something about his questions nagged at Neon, though not for their content. He just struggled to see why would he even ask at all. Considering his nature and skill, wouldn’t it be easier for Nomine to just access the data himself rather than rely on a narrator?
Perhaps there was a story behind it, but… Was this a good moment to ask him? And would he even bother to answer?
There was also his last exchange with Soreisan —that brief instance where Nomine sounded more like a disappointed mentor. Somehow, Neon had the certainty that Nomine could’ve easily killed him if he wanted as much. Yet he chose to refrain. Chose not to impede Carrion Reign’s escape.
Which raised the uncomfortable possibility that everything Neon had seen so far might be performance. A carefully maintained shell designed to keep the world at a safe distance.
The thought made his chest tighten. He knew that loneliness, that of wearing so many masks you forget what your real face even looks like.
“Ah… Yeah, well…” Neon’s thoughts got scrambled, leaving him fumbling for coherence. This wasn’t the time to play amateur psychologist. Nomine had asked him a direct question, and he no longer had any reason to keep him from an answer. “More like alternative winning conditions, really.”
“Oh? Such as?” His casual interest made Neon hesitate, like a cat showing just enough curiosity about a mouse to make the rodent nervous.
He found himself weighing his words with more care than usual. If his suspicions were right, and there was some reason why Nomine couldn’t access the rules… Then he had the upper hand, information-wise.
Something inside him rebelled against the idea.
“One of them is surviving the time limit. Five days.”
>> “But it will yield no growth. Quote unquote.”
“That’s a credit penalty. A trap for the fodder that’ll get crushed in later stages. We won’t wait for that. What else?”
Neon blinked a little at the premature dismissal. He thought it might’ve been a valid strategy…
“Mmh… There’s another wincon.” He averted his eyes as his voice came out smaller. This was what made him consider manipulating Nomine in the first place. To keep this fact away from him could… “Eradicating three non-designated teams.”
Nomine went still in a way that had nothing to do with his usual alertness. He turned from his sentry role to fix Neon with a side-long stare, one that made Neon’s stomach knot.
“I should have killed them, then.”
He held absolutely no emotion aside from the arithmetic. Two steps closer to victory that they had failed to take. The fact that those steps had names, dreams, people who might mourn their loss —none of that factored into the equation at all.
Yeah. There it was. The ruthlessness he should’ve known as inevitable, as certain. He was naive to even consider it could’ve turned out any different.