Chapter 49: FAVORITES VS UNDERDOGS 2
In the top lane, the fight was no longer a match. It was a butcher’s floor.
Baines came at Lysandra with his axe swinging in a brutal horizontal arc, the blade whistling through the air. She ducked under it, felt the wind tear at her hair, and drove one rod into the side of his knee. The crack of bone was sharp and wet. Baines roared, stumbled, but the berserker rage was fully lit now. Pain was fuel. He didn’t go down. He swung again, wilder, faster, the axe reversing direction in a backhand that should have caught her across the throat. She dropped flat, felt the blade pass over her skull, and drove the second rod into his other knee. He collapsed to the stone, both legs screaming, blood pooling under him.
But he was still swinging. Even on his knees, even with his legs shattered, the axe came around in short, brutal arcs. One caught her across the forearm, opening a gash that ran from wrist to elbow. Blood sheeted down her arm, hot and slick. She didn’t stop. She couldn’t stop. The switch was in full control now, and the switch didn’t feel pain the way the shy girl did.
Trent fired from behind Baines. A bolt of lightning arced through the air. Lysandra caught it on one rod, the electricity crackling down the iron, searching for ground. She spun, pivoted, and drove the charged rod into Baines’s chest. The lightning discharged into him with a sound like tearing silk. His body convulsed, every muscle locking, smoke rising from the leather of his harness. He screamed, a raw, animal sound, and the smell of burnt flesh filled the lane.
"Did that hurt?" Lysandra asked. Her voice was distant, curious. Like a child asking about the weather. "Good."
Baines looked up at her. His eyes were wild, bloodshot, the berserker rage burning through the pain. He grinned through broken teeth. "Even this not enough," he growled.
He lunged from his knees, driving his shoulder into her stomach. She folded, the air driven from her lungs, and he was on top of her, the axe coming down. She caught it on both rods, the impact jarring her arms, the blade inches from her face. His weight pressed down. He was stronger than her. He was always stronger than her. But she was faster.
She headbutted him. The crack of her forehead against his nose was wet and sharp. Blood sprayed. He reeled back, and she drove a rod into his throat. He choked, hands flying to his neck, and she was already moving, already bringing the second rod around. It caught him across the temple. He hit the stone on his side, gasping, one hand clutching his throat, the other still reaching for the axe.
Trent fired again. She caught the bolt on the rod, spun, and this time hurled it back at him. The lightning hit him square in the chest. He flew backward, arms spread, smoke trailing from his clothes. He hit the far pillar and crumpled, twitching, his fingers still crackling with dying sparks.
Baines was rising again. Somehow. His legs wouldn’t hold him, so he crawled. His throat was swelling where she’d hit him, each breath a ragged wheeze. But he crawled toward her, dragging the axe with one hand, his eyes never leaving her face. There was no fear in them. No surrender. Just rage, pure and undiluted.
"You," he rasped. "You’re like me."
Lysandra looked down at him. Blood dripped from her forearm, her nose, her lip. Her tunic was soaked red. She was smiling. "No," she said. "I’m better."
She brought both rods down on the back of his skull. He collapsed. She hit him again. And again. The crowd was silent. The only sound was the wet, rhythmic impact of iron on flesh. Baines dissolved into white light before the fifth blow landed, his body unraveling into nothing, leaving only the blood on her rods and the echo of his final words.
She stood there, breathing hard, blood running down her arms in rivulets. Her smile was wide and cold and utterly terrifying. Somewhere in the back of her mind, the shy girl was screaming. She couldn’t hear her.
Trent was on his knees, hands raised. Lightning flickered weakly between his fingers, guttering like a candle in wind. His eyes were wide. He’d watched her beat a berserker to death with her bare hands, not a weapon, her hands, the rods just extensions of them, and he wanted no part of what came next.
"I yield," he said. His voice cracked. "I yield."
Lysandra looked at him. Blood dripped from her chin onto the stone. "Okay," she said.
She turned and walked toward the enemy control point. Behind her, Trent dissolved. He’d been out of the fight the moment he surrendered.
Dorian Hale’s voice cracked through the arena. "Lysandra Li has just... ladies and gentlemen, she just beat an A-rank Berserker to death! Baines is gone! Trent surrendered! She took them both alone! I have never seen anything like that! Absolutely phenomenal from Lysandra Li."
The first control point flared gold. Lysandra stood over the fading light of Baines’s dissolved body, both rods dripping. Her chest heaved. Blood ran from the gash where his axe had caught her, from her forearm where his blade had opened skin, from her nose where his headbutt had connected. She looked down at the empty stone where the berserker had been. The switch was still active. The switch wanted more.
The crowd was on their feet. The west side, was a wall of noise. Someone in the public galleries was crying. Someone else had both hands on their head, mouth open, no sound coming out.
She started walking toward the second control point. Her boots left red prints on the stone. The river was ahead, dark water moving slow and cold. Across the river, the second point pulsed, waiting. Beyond it, the enemy barrier gate. Beyond that, the core.
The comms crackled. Seira’s voice, strained and desperate. "Greer is barely holding! Reyes is in his head—he’s frozen, he won’t swing—"
A sharp cry. Static. Seira’s dot went dark.
Lysandra stopped. Her grip tightened on the rods.
"Seira’s down." Kellan’s voice now, breathing hard. He was running, she could hear it in his voice, the rhythm of boots on stone. "Greer is still up but he’s not moving. Aldis is on him. I can’t reach them in time—"
Another pause. Then, quieter: "Greer’s gone. Bottom lane is gone. They’ve taken the first point."
Silence on the comms. Dominic should have responded. He didn’t. He was still fighting Victor, she understood the constant pressure of his focus, the grinding exhaustion of holding an S-rank at bay. He couldn’t answer. He couldn’t give orders.
Lysandra understood.
"Kellan," she said. Her voice was cold. The switch made it cold. "Fall back to base. Help Seira when she respawns. Hold as long as you can."
"And you?"
"I’m pushing. If I can reach their core before they reach ours, we win."
"That’s—"
"I know. Go."
A pause. Then Kellan’s voice, steadier now. "Understood."
Lysandra crossed headed towards the second control point was fifty feet ahead.
Baines was waiting for her.
He’d respawned. Of course he had. The berserker rage didn’t die with the body. He stood at the control point, his axe in both hands, his eyes still wild. The wounds she’d given him were gone, erased by the respawn, but the memory of them wasn’t. She could see it in the way he held himself. The anger. The hunger. The need to prove that the first time was a fluke.
"You," he growled. "You got lucky."
"I didn’t get lucky. I got you on the ground and beat you until you stopped moving."
His knuckles went white on the axe. "That’s not happening again."
"It will. But I don’t have time to enjoy it this time."
She came at him fast. The rods were a blur. He swung, a horizontal arc meant to take her head off. She ducked under it, drove one rod into his ribs, felt them crack. He didn’t go down. He was ready this time, braced for the impact, and his axe came back around in a backhand that caught her across the shoulder. She spun with the hit, used the momentum, brought both rods down on his wrist. The axe clattered to the stone. She drove a knee into his stomach, felt him fold, and brought the rods down on the back of his skull. Once. Twice. He dissolved into white light.
She didn’t wait for the light to fade. She walked to the control point, touched the crystal, watched it flare gold. The barrier gate flickered and dropped. The enemy base was open.
Her vision blurred. The wounds were catching up, the gash on her, the new hit to her shoulder, the blood still running from her forearm. She was leaving a trail of red on the stone. But she kept walking. The switch wouldn’t let her stop.
***
Kellan ran through the top lane toward base. His left arm was dead at his side, flopping uselessly with every stride. He’d been trying to reach Lysandra, to support her push, but she was already too far ahead. The order had come through, fall back, defend the base, and he was running. The top lane was safe. Lysandra had cleared it. No enemies. No obstructions. Just empty stone and the distant roar of the crowd.
Seira was already at the base when he arrived. She’d respawned, her wounds gone, her hands already glowing with healing light. Her expression was tight. She’d died once already. She wasn’t planning to die again.
"They’re pushing," she said. "Reyes and Aldis took the second point. They’re heading here."
"How long?"
"A minutes or less."
"Then we hold."
Seira looked at him. At his dead arm. At the short blade in his working hand. "You can’t fight like that."
"Heal me as much as you can, we’ll do our best to be a nuisance to them." He positioned himself in front of the core. "My captain’s still fighting. So am I."
***
In the middle lane, Dominic was bleeding.
Victor’s assault had been relentless. The shield was gone, shattered three exchanges ago, the shards still glittering on the stone. Dominic’s sword arm was numb from deflecting blows that should have killed him. A cut above his eye poured blood into his vision. His ribs were cracked, he felt them grind with every breath. The Wobbly trait was the only thing keeping him upright, absorbing impacts that would have caved in his chest, but even the trait had limits. He was reaching them.
Victor pressed, his blade a blur of golden light. "You’re slowing down, Kane. Even your summon can’t save you now."
Dominic parried. Dodged. Took a hit to the shoulder that spun him half around. Blood sprayed across the platform. He stayed on his feet.
"You’re still here," Dominic said. His voice was rough, but steady. "Still fighting me. Your top lane is gone, Victor. Lysandra took both points. She’s walking into your base right now."
Victor’s eyes flicked to the top lane. The barrier gate was down. The control points were gold. His jaw tightened. "Reyes will handle her."
"Reyes is still pushing bottom. It might even already be too late to stop her."
"Then I’ll end this and go back."
"You’ve been trying to end this for seven minutes, by all means end it."
Victor’s face twisted. The easy smile was a distant memory. He came at Dominic with everything, a combined assault, magic and steel woven together, the overwhelming strike that had finished everyone except Pembroke. Golden light flared around his blade. His off-hand threw a bolt of energy at Dominic’s chest.
Dominic didn’t try to block the magic. He let it hit him. The bolt slammed into his ribs, and the Wobbly trait absorbed some of the impact, but the rest went deep. He felt something crack. His vision went white. But his sword was already moving, his body acting on Florence’s training, and the blade caught Victor across the forearm as the Magic Swordsman overextended.
Blood sprayed. Victor stumbled back, staring at the wound. The first time Dominic had touched him. The first time anyone except Pembroke had made him bleed in this tournament.
"How—"
"You leave your left side open when you press an advantage, dumbass," Dominic said with a chuckle. He was on one knee now, gasping, blood dripping from his mouth. "I’ve been waiting for you to do it."
Dominic pushed himself up. His legs shook. His vision swam. "Hold the base, Kellan. As long as you can."
"And you?"
"I’m going to keep Victor here." He raised his sword. "You focus on your job. I’ll focus on mine."
"Understood."
The comms went quiet. Victor watched him, the wound on his forearm still bleeding.
"You can’t even stand."
"I don’t need to stand. I just need to be here." Dominic smiled through the blood. "What? Is our golden child scared? You’ve been fighting a C-rank Summoner for minutes now, you should be ashamed. It’s such a bad look for you, I wonder how your father is feeling right now?"
Victor’s face went pale. Then red. He raised his blade.