Argrave changed nothing about this new battle with Norman. The battlefield was the same, the time, the odds—the only thing that’d truly changed was himself, this time. He felt sharp, composed, and reinvigorated on this new day. And like all attempts before this one, Argrave felt fear. Good King Norman walked as boldly as ever, wearing his black velvet proudly as his cold red eyes wandered the training hall before settling on Argrave. He was undefeated, unchallenged, and had the bearing to match. His walk was long and lean, and his spirit hard and mean.
“My, my…” said the king, standing at the doorway to the training hall. He seemed blissfully unaware that, in Argrave’s mind, the battle had already begun. A blood echo slowly crept up behind the king. With a perfect view of it all, Argrave got it into the perfect position, and a mana ripple spread out from his right hand as he prepared a [Burst] of blood magic.
Argrave swapped places with the blood echo moments before the [Burst] completed. He appeared crouching behind Good King Norman, his hand outstretched toward the back of his knee. A blast of pure power infused with his black blood erupted before Argrave, unleashing unimaginable force. The doorway around Argrave crumbled from the resounding power, and he could feel the tremors in the ground ahead. He eyed the silver bracer on his arm that stored some of his blood magic—half empty from one attack, it looked like. Then, he refocused on his fierce opponent.
There was a huge gouge in the training hall before Argrave’s person. It was shaped in a cone. Far, far away from it, King Norman laid face down in the sands of the arena. He scrambled up, unkillable as a cockroach, yet his right leg failed him. Norman looked at his wound in ecstatic shock. Argrave had hoped to badly injure his knee, crippling his mobility. Instead, much of his calf had been blasted away to the bone. Its power was far beyond Argrave’s expectations—if things were this way, a blow to the head would’ve been the better option to start all of this.
Yet then, the good king’s resilience revealed itself in earnest. Though blood poured from the hideous wound, the roiling black power within him that gave him his strength soon replaced that gory drip. Argrave triggered [Minor Truesight] in the lens still socketed in his eye, observing, only to see black hands reaching out and gripping the king’s lower leg. Were he a normal human, Norman might not have even been conscious after such a gruesome blow, and his leg would forever be useless. But Norman proved he was more than a man as he rose to both feet, jutting out his barrel chest and licking his teeth in glee as flesh grew back.
But Argrave had yet more plans. To his right and left, lurking in the corners, two blood echoes prepared [Bloodfeud Bow]. Both fired at the king, where Argrave hoped to catch him unaware. The king saw them coming and threw his arms out with all the ease of swatting aside eager puppies. Both bolts dissipated, and the moment they did he lunged at Argrave in one smooth motion. In response Argrave teleported with a blood echo positioned on the wall overlooking the training hall.
The distance gave Argrave time, and he projected his echoes out as the king searched for him wildly. When the king’s gaze found him, Argrave felt conditioned fear beaten into him by countless failures before. The king did not rush—he was calm and serious, and observed Argrave’s echoes even as he maneuvered them around the hall. Argrave felt exposed and uneasy. The king headed to a nearby weapon rack and acquired a wooden sword, hefting it in his hand easily before facing Argrave once again. His mad dash began as though his leg hadn’t even been wounded.
Though nervous, Argrave stuck to his plan. The ambush had done some damage—now, it was time to truly fight. King Norman’s charge was half-hearted, and Argrave looked at one of his blood echoes in obvious betrayal of where he intended to teleport, then did so. As he predicted, Norman caught on to his trick after no more than two clashes. The king jammed the wooden sword into the ground to slow his run, then threw the shoddy training weapon at Argrave with reckless abandon.
Argrave side-stepped the spinning wooden sword handily, and even before Norman began his bull’s rush, Argrave was preparing [Burst]. In less than half a second after the weapon was thrown the king came near, lunging for Argrave’s throat with an outstretched hand. Argrave’s casting time practice had not been in vain. A blood-infused [Burst] unleashed its terrible power right into the king’s outstretched palm. The king’s arm contorted grotesquely as the skin and tendons on his hands were blown away by the fell power of his spell. He took it head-on with brutal tenacity, digging his feet into the ground. When the spell ended, Good King Norman did not fall back, did not reassess. He merely swung his other hand.
Argrave, by instinct alone, did what he’d done against the Flayer Knights. When they swung their swords, he countered it with a C-rank [Burst] of wind. It had been repeated so many times it was habitual—and perhaps that was why soldiers drilled. He did the same here as Norman swung. Before the king’s fist connected with Argrave’s jaw, he cast the wind elemental version of [Burst] to counter the blow. His humble magic rebounded an attack that had, many times before, ended the fight immediately. King Norman’s hand rocketed backward by the force of his magic.
King Norman, ever unphased, turned his failed punch into a tackle. As the king’s badly-bleeding shoulder impacted with Argrave’s chest, he remembered this time to [Echo Step] with one of his echoes. Heart beating fast, Argrave watched from the center of the hall as Norman tackled air onto the floor. His right arm had become a husk—broken bone and torn flesh, unable to grip or move at all—and yet still the king stood, turning his head to look at Argrave with the same deranged tenacity as ever. Blood had dyed his black velvet wholly red.
Norman walked over, studying his ruined arm and leg. “You came to me as if in a dream, darling. How I want to seize you, freeze you… but you move so fast I can’t even see you. You’re like breath on a mirror.” The king took steady steps back to where the wooden sword he’d thrown fell, and picked it up. Though it had broken, he held it before him and walked toward Argrave steadily.
Rather than insane brutality, the king now held his sword like a seasoned knight. At once, Argrave knew what he was doing—playing defensively, biding his time, licking his wounds. He studied Argrave’s moves and his blood echoes, like a hawk watching for prey. Argrave tried to pressure him with [Bloodfeud Bow], yet the wary king easily dodged the bolts of power. Argrave tried less damaging spells like [Nine-Tailed Bloodbriars], yet they were as effective as bramble bushes. All the while, the bone exposed on Norman’s leg faded away, the malignance within him stitching his wounds together.
You know what will hurt him, Argrave reasoned in his head. You only need to do it.
Swallowing his fear like bitter medicine, Argrave walked toward Good King Norman in long strides. The king backed away, holding the wooden sword’s point in front of him—it had very nearly become a dagger by this point, and had a huge fracture down the center, yet that broken wood could split him in half all the same if he was incautious.
Argrave sent his blood echoes to surround the king, then slowed his advance to a snail’s pace. As he crept, so did his echoes. The king watched each in paranoia, yet Argrave merely made his bloody reflections dance about in a circle as though he’d become a sacrifice to some dark ritual. And eventually… Argrave did teleport. Good King Norman reacted quickly, performing a wild spinning sweep to hit all targets.
But Argrave teleported far away, where he could observe from afar. And when Norman paused his rampage, Argrave called upon a blood-infused [Burst] once again, and then teleported once more—closer, this time. He saw Norman’s wide red eyes for less than half a second before the power of the spell struck him squarely in the face. Argrave’s supply of blood in the silver bracer had diminished, and so the spell hit Argrave just the same time it hit the good king. Norman flew backward, hit squarely, while Argrave crouched down in pain. A-rank blood magic was incomparably painful to use.
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When the pain faded, Argrave looked up, weak and drained. There was a hole in the wall of the training hall where Norman had landed, and Argrave walked toward it like an old lady with a bent back. He spotted the king’s black boots, and then his leg. He stepped atop some rubble, peering down upon Good King Norman. The left half of his face had been blown away from the attack, exposing a bloody and shattered jaw. Argrave breathed a sigh of relief, yet the sound caused Norman’s right eye to open.
“Dahling…” the good king muttered, his tongue flopping free of his shattered jaw. Argrave was horrified he could even get words out. As the king reached out with his good arm to help himself up, Argrave called upon one of his blood echoes to create a greatsword out of blood magic. He gripped it firmly, then raised it into the air.
Argrave hammered crude blows with the blade upon Norman’s body—face, chest, legs, arms, everywhere. Pure willpower drove him; fear, anger, and righteous punishment of a wicked bastard. After many minutes, he paused to catch a breath for half a moment. Good King Norman looked like little more than meat. Argrave raised the greatsword of blood up once more, then jammed it where he thought Norman’s brain would be.
Drained physically, magically, and mentally, Argrave collapsed to the floor. He looked at Norman with the lens lent by the Alchemist. That black power within Good King Norman had come to a stop, like liquid finally dried underneath the sun. Only then did Argrave relax somewhat, looking at his handiwork with battered triumph.
“What made something like you?” Argrave asked the corpse.
Good King Norman the Dead gave no answer.
#####
Argrave brought King Norman’s corpse to Sandelabara—half to confirm his death, and half to announce it to all the others. He dragged it through the castle, indirectly telling the whole staff. And when he dragged it into the city square, and loudly shouted, ‘the king is dead,’ pandemonium consumed the streets at once. Cheering, crying, fearing, all of it erupted bound so tightly that it became indistinguishable from each other. Leaving them to their thoughts, Argrave headed back to King Norman’s castle, where news had permeated the castle.
Argrave asked about Norman. They told him what he knew—the man was a devil in human skin, a warrior without peer, a killer and a cynic… but Argrave wished for more. He asked about King Norman’s mother, his father. The answers he received were dead-eyed stares of confusion, from the butlers to the leaderless Flayer Knights now without cause or master. In the end, the words of one of the Flayers was the only true answer Argrave got.
“King Norman was not a man. He simply was,” the knight said, as emotionless as a puppet cut from strings.
With all of that done, Argrave waited for time to pass, his mind distant and hollow. He wanted to go before Sophia, to tell her that her father was dead. But he knew she would not celebrate it as he did. She was a girl—battered, innocent, and broken. She didn’t need vengeance. She needed something else. A better life.
When the loop came to its end, Argrave saw his companions, perfectly in their places. He had told them their task, and they knew it well. All that remained, now, was ensuring this final loop proceeded without flaw. And with this in mind, Argrave perked his ears for a familiar voice.
“Who are you?”
Argrave turned around slowly, looking down at Sophia as she clutched Griffin’s doll, Mr. Knight. He walked to her steadily, then kneeled down. He studied the little girl. Despite everything he’d endured just far, he felt a little nervous. He could kill the king… but could he help Sophia? Was he someone that she could actually rely on?
All Argrave knew was that he had to try.
“Hi, Sophia,” Argrave greeted her quietly and gently. “We’re meeting for the last time, it looks like. I don’t know what happens after, really, but I do know this. I want to lend you a hand. Would you like some help?”
Sophia blinked at him, then tilted her head. “Help?”
“I want to help you to make sure you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.” Argrave pointed at the doll. “Just like Mr. Knight, there. And… just like your brother intended to do.” Sophia started shaking a little, and her eyes grew wide and teary. Argrave offered his hand out. “How does that sound?”
Sophia’s eyes went between Mr. Knight and Argrave’s face. “Do you mean it?”
“Of course.”
“You won’t make me go to the cellar anymore?”
“Never,” Argrave vowed.
“You won’t take Mr. Knight away?”
“You can bring him everywhere you want,” Argrave confirmed. “But for that to happen… I have to help you. If you’d like that, please. Take my hand.”
She looked at his hand cautiously… then reached out slowly, grasping his hand.
“Alright.” Argrave smiled. “I’m Argrave.”
Sophia looked prepared to give her elegant curtsy, but the knock at the door drew her attention. She looked panicked, but for the first time, she was too slow to hide the doll. The maid opened the door, and Argrave rose to his feet.
“Princess Sophia! Is—” the maid began at once upon spotting her, but paused when she saw the towering Argrave. “Who are you?”
“Cynthia. Twenty-nine,” Argrave narrated as he walked closer. “Your father is a baker, and your mother passed away. You can tell the king that he won’t be having lunch with Sophia.” She stepped away as he walked closer, and Argrave leaned in, adding in a low whisper, “The time has come for the other half to be collected, you see. Tell the king I’ll see him shortly. And if you don’t do it now… perhaps Ermengarde will meet an early grave.”
The maid Cynthia trembled fiercely, not daring to look up at him. Then, she nodded frantically, babbling, “R-r-right away, sir… sir Herald, sir.”
With that, she ran away, forgetting to shut the door. He shut it behind her, and when he looked back, Sophia stood with Mr. Knight in her hands.
“What was that?” she asked, confused.
“Nothing important,” Argrave shook his head, then looked around until he spotted a bag. “Okay, Sophia. I’m going to be gone for a little bit. We’re… going on a journey, far away from the people here. They won’t be able to punish you—not even your father. So, I need you to pack this bag with anything that you want to bring with you. Alright?”
“A journey?” Sophia repeated.
“That’s right,” Argrave crouched down. “You, me, and a few good friends of mine. We’ll keep you safe—you won’t even get a scratch on your hands. You won’t have to worry about anything.”
“Anything?” Sophia repeated.
“That’s right, anything.” Argrave placed the bag before her.
“Even…” she swayed her arms from side to side. “Even daddy?”
“Especially your father,” Argrave nodded seriously. “So… stay here for a little bit. I’m going to make a magic bubble that can protect you. While it’s there, no one can touch you, so don’t be afraid. Is that alright with you?”
Sophia nodded seriously, and so Argrave stood and left behind a ward encircling the room. Sophia stared at him mutely as he left, and he waved her goodbye.
It was time for the final three hours.
