“A new helmet, Chronicler?”

No reply arrived. None needed, the reproaching aura was enough to clue Orwell on Hikma’s disapproval.

“This is combat. You can’t afford to be nice.”

Hikma gestured with his index finger. A tiny sphere of sigil blipped in contact with Orwell’s Adamakles. Hikma’s [Surtr] flared in a conflagration of flames, much to Orwell’s annoyance.

“Really?” Orwell’s outrage hopped over the Alps. “For fuck’s sake! Fire? Again? How can you folks be so insane? You keep repeating a trick which constantly fails against me. Isn’t that the textbook definition of insanity?”

Orwell ignored the fire and retaliated with the classic.

[Tundra Ice Create: Cold Sentence]

Orwell fired his ice-beam, robbing the thermal energy from all surface the ray touched. Under the pale light, frost condensed and air chilled. Temperature dropped to level where breath become visible white mist. The same attack that defeated Shyme repeated its chilling devastation to full effect.

But if Orwell expected the result to repeat, he was in for an awakening.

An ice pillar — erected under cover of flames — stood between Hikma and Orwell’s freeze-ray. Orwell almost facepalmed as he realized Tundra’s energy obvious weakness — no one can freeze frozen water. Behind the transparent screen, Hikma pointed downward.

Orwell’s heart sank. Against his better judgement, he glanced at his foot. A block of rock bound his ankle. The Horizon Dawn’s knight must have immobilized his feet, using his flames as a distraction. Orwell’s Adamakles may be invincible against kinetic attack, but said protection didn’t extend to the ground beneath him.

Hikma index finger flipped, revealing a [Conceptual Seal] for [Earth].

“Aww fuck,” Orwell cursed.

[Earth Shift]

Orwell shot backward — dragged by Hikma’s rock manacle chaining his feet — as the ground beneath slid him away like a supersonic conveyor belt. He sped past the rubbles, a stun Princess Velnia and into his tower of Spiritium stone in a roller-coaster ride funded by hell.

Hikma glanced back at Shyme. Good. His heal was patching her worst injury.

Crash!

Orwell reunited with his headquarter at an exploding speed, slamming into the Spiritium tower with enough force to create a dust cloud.

…

Albert Starlight blinked. He rubbed his eyes. Did Orwell Mehest — the mage who effortlessly manhandled Shyme Enma at her full-power — lost a magical trade. Albright knew about [Divine Beast Raiment]. Who didn’t? With [Divine Core] and [Raiment] at their disposal, the Enma clan dominated Phantasia for centuries. Those Inherited Skills were among the most unrivaled. Those who overcame those gaps and defeated a recognized member of the Enma’s line were all elite of elite — The Holy Church Executioner, Vampire Royalty, The IK Chancellor, Special Asset Unit of Seven Continental Alliance, the Untouchables.

Albert Starlight could accept the 33 Stars as a member of these exclusive elite. What he couldn’t comprehend was a masked nobody from nowhere fisting the elite back to the ring’s corner.

The masked man strolled toward them, carrying the semiconscious Enma in his arm. Starlight blinked. Is the color started returning to Shyme’s face? That was ridiculous. No amount of recovery magic could heal the girl this close to death.

“Take care of her,” the modulated voice from the mask is unrecognizable. “She will survive, but she needs time to recover.”

The masked man placed an object in Shyme’s palm.

“Take care of this, okay? This is a gift to protect you while your friend leave the picture. It will protect you.”

Shyme’s fading eyes watched the forged green necklace traced with Cytortia’s scent and allowed a shed of tear to roll down her cheek.

Hikma left to confront his enemy. Shyme watched her savior slowly stepping to a fight she couldn’t believe he would triumph.

“Wait… Don’t go… you will…”

Hikma turned back to the girl. Shyme sensed a reassuring smile was behind that helmet.

“Wait,” Velnia looked at the enigmatic hero. “Who are you?”

Hikma’s answer reflected the might of his power in proportional to his humility.

“No one important. I am just a weakling.”

Hikma walked, leaving his tormenters to become something more. The two girls watched the legend in the making marched off to his first mythical battle.

Mercia’s silent opinion was universal

If that thing is weak, no one is strong.

…

Orwell wondered why his track records against these folks were so miserable.

He stomp Venistalis, destroyed the nobilities, and squashed Shyme Enma like a bug. Then these unknown bozos appeared from nowhere with numbers and resources far inferior to any above and hurt him. He got arrested before the battle begun. His invasion succeeded except for their stronghold. Unexplainable barrier dropped from the sky, rendering his invasion attempt moot. A surprise ambush prevented despite his overwhelming Mana and bodies. Three of his crystal went to dreamland within half an hour. The day ended with a peace-deal and a textbook’s case steam-rolled, concluding in bruises.

Adding to the list humiliation; the second bout open with his fourth crystal getting blown up at the start-line and Chronicler — arguably the most comprehendible of Hal Jordan’s threat — sent him home feet-first using via sliding-earth deliveries.

Orwell calmed himself. First, he launched a reboot program on the Amalgam. He must update his Hive-mind’s firewall, but with Chronicler approaching him like a particular unstoppable warrior massacring his way through a darkened hallway, sparing time to do magic-coding was an impossibility. Orwell’s only preventative measure was patching the leaking ship and hoping his mental anti-virus would prevent more damage from Rem’s logic bomb.

Orwell grunted and walked inside the tower. Honesty time, he originally believed Chronicler was a mage possessing an unrivaled variety of attribute. Facing the man again made him realized that knowledge existed as an assumption, answering practically nothing Orwell needed to pull a victory.

Orwell Mehest concluded his opponent was an enigma, jumping in blind would risk his death now that Trimegal was his only reassurance. He must muster all advantages under his belt.

The child of the Deathless Clan waited for the Chronicler’s reckoning in his tower — his home-field.

…

Chamomile ran without looking back, but sins weren’t that easy to escape.

Said sins slammed the rock she stood ten seconds ago to ash, and howled, shattering stones and blasting Chamomile to the wall. Chamomile took a full look at the corrupted corpse lumbering to kill her. The image broke her heart.

Hex was a five-meter high, lumbering ogre of a corpse. Orwell must engineer his body in some ways, given his newly earned muscle. Two diamonds replaced his burnt eyes. His once luxurious hair now clean shaven with rows of crystal electrode embedded into his skulls. Implants at his chest were intricate metal pieces surgically designed for durability. Hex’s burnt skin was gone. Instead, smart metal grafted his flesh. A mechanical contraption of Orwell designed replaced crippled hand. Back-extension of twin canon robotically clicked as they mounted into firing position and blasted Chamomile with such fire-power her Cultivation Technique’s automatic safety deployed and failed to keep her in fighting-shape.

Chamomile traveled violently through a brick wall, flipped over a dozen rough piles of brick before hitting one last wall and falling to the earth in bloods and tears. She sobbed — her resistance crumbled — waiting for Hex to finish her.

Hex drooled a black saliva, growled with burning pain as it reached the destroyed Chamomile.

Chamomile clench her eyes shut, waiting for the inevitable to happen.

Crack!

Funny. Chamomile thought at the impasse of utter despair. She believed violent death should be painful.

Crash!

Chamomile pried her eyes open.

Hex was lying at a ruin of a house.

Chamomile found the causes of this miracle Infront of her.

It was a man wearing a black trench-coat emblazoned with a familiar symbol. In that black pit of despair, he stood as an unparallel beacon of hope.

“The worst meeting I hope never occurs went off as expected,” Rem sighed, Uzi submachine gun in his left hand. His right hovered over a hand-canon custom made by Melody. He hesitated for a second and abstained.

“What is—”

“Stuart Hex is pretty much 95% through death door when Wayward carted him to Orwell. Patching him back is impossible, so Orwell avoided wasting valuable resource and prolonged his life by adding some… change.”

Rem loaded his weapon. Orwell’s obsession with robotic modification was downright ridiculous. A skin-graft that rendered Hex immune to magic. A fucking Mana-powered laser cannon. An artifact eye that performed god-know-what function. World Enemy’s DNA graft. Even Rem didn’t understand Hex the Abomination’s full schematic. He was likely up against the biggest threat next to Orwell and Trimegal.

“Get away from here, Chamomile. You don’t want to see this.”

“But Captain is in there! I can…”

“Six explosives throughout his body tie to his brainwave pattern. Intense mental pollution via artificial Amalgam. An intense cerebral re-engineering. A hormonal control so complicate, even Empress admitted defeat. One trace of original Hex spook from that thing, and the programing will commit an override to murder everything in proximity. That appeal-to-your-better-self-trick is so classic a kid can predict it from the 2nd episode. Do you seriously believe Orwell don’t have countermeasure for that?”

“But, but,” Chamomile crumbled in tear spring of emotion. “I DON’T WANT HIM TO DIE!”

“Stop being a drama queen,” Rem lifted his gun. “The person who suffers the most is—”

Then Rem stopped.

Maybe it was an illusion — or stress, or something more. But a familiar man in red-cape and an S-shield stood in front of him. No doubt it was a hallucination. Superman wasn’t real, but the sadness as he gazed at Chamomile sure was. Rem halted mid-sentence. The appearance of his humanity made-flesh put the stopped to every excuse he prepared,

Rem realized what he must do — his moral duty. He hated such an idea, but he believed Superman wanted this. Once again, Rem the protector of Dream triumphed against Rem the callous tactician,

Rem turned toward Chamomile as Clark Kent of Kansas faded into his heart.

“It is your decision.”

Rem tossed his Uzi away.

The Vice-Capian blinked at the terrifying knight’s change of heart.

“My decision?”

“Yes, I am partly responsible for Hex ending up like that,” Rem admitted. “His fate is my failing. So, I will leave the decision to you. To free him from mortal coil or to chain his ghost in this world. It is your choice to make — not mine. My job is to stall him until you decide.”

Chamomile realized the utter absurdity.

“That is impossible!” She uttered, staring at the rising abomination. “You aren’t planning to take him down alone.”

“No, it is a sparring match until you gave me an answer.”

The Man of Steel marched to his next trail. Given Chamomile’s inherent cowardice, Rem would probably die before she asked him to spare Hex.

But that who Superman is, the man who has faith in humanity’s positive quality despite knowing all contrary evidence and risk. The manifestation of hope would never surrender to pessimism. As a follower of such ideal, dying on that rampart in service of hope was preferable to surrendering to laziness disguise as wisdom.

…

Rem wanted to issue some complaint.

Justice shall prevail, they say.

Barack Obama is a good president, they say.

Diversity is our strength, they say.

Well, anyone above grade 5 with half-functioning brain cell would remember ‘they’ say many things, most ending as utter bullshit. Diversity of thought is a strength, assuming people can agree with the ‘wrong evidence’. Diversity of race was downright crippling in an era of purity spiraling. Barack is a good president when you wanted to pay for the monolithic government to manage your healthcare or created domestic disaster as the princes in power constantly committed seppuku to save the emperor’s naked ass as he accomplished nothing of value.

Acknowledgment that something failed spectacularly was the first-step toward improvement. Diversity could cripple if you get radical on board. Obama’s only positive accomplishment was being presidential on camera and staying from the veto button when competent people dealt with Bin Laden and fracking.

Justice shall prevail; well, Rem sure had a tough time proving it.

Crash!

He fell to the floor and rolled from Hex’s gigantic clash-landing, which reduce the ground to crater. Hex’s eyes glowed crimson as he screeched. Rem cursed and side-flipped from an energy beam, detonating the earth behind him. The explosion sent him flying. Thankfully, his three-years’ training kicked in. Rem quickly righted himself mid-air, landed, and dove desperately as Hex’s laser cannon obliterated his previous location.

[Firewhip] + [Territory]

Rem employed his [Territory], gaining full magical authority in 100 m radius from his epicenter. Flaming whip shoot from the ground to bind Hex. The Abomination roared and flexed its magic-resistant flesh, destroying Rem’s binding in soul-rendering cried.

Rem sighed. Well, that was his best suppression EAPS. [Clairvoyance] already suggested 99% failure chance for traditional [Holy Force] to slow him. Only one power in his arsenal could suspend Hex, except Rem barely scratched the foot of mastering that.

The battle was an ongoing devastation. Rem wasn’t an upfront fighter to begin with and his three-years of training borne fruit by showing the stage need to reach the root of [Mentalism]. Among Horizon Dawn, only Rem’s have yet to complete his training. His foot was half-way through that gate. All he needed was a final epiphany that kept eluding him for years.

The current Hex was a ball of rage and swinging kill-program, mentally rewriting those directives took time Rem didn’t have. The implant Orwell employed to put Hex in this state also constantly cycle his brain-activity, ensuring a mind-trick would last a second at most. Hex the Abomination was Remus Breaker’s perfect counter. Rem simply lacked the raw force of Hikma, Melody or Lux to stop him.

More importantly, Rem promised not to play offense until Vice-Captain Burden finally defied his expectation. A promise that he was quickly regretting.

To make a matter worse, his exhaustion was peeking for a return.

It was obvious the next few minutes would suck.

…

“What should I do?” Chamomile whispered to herself.

She was never strong. She was weak, constantly needing pillar and validation. First her father. Then Hex—her brother figure. Chamomile desired a normal girly life in the world where death and misery were commonplace. Her heart couldn’t possibly tolerate another lost. Chamomile Elragorn already lost too much.

The building nearby her trembled before blasting apart to smithereens. Rem’s body flew, landing in a smoking heap beside her. The man climbed back up. Blood trickled down from the cut above his eyes as he slowly staggered to the fight he didn’t plan to win.

“Why!?” Chamomile didn’t know when she devolved to scream. “Why don’t you just end him? Why do you want my permission to do it? Why is an utter loser like me worth risking your life to save?”

Rem sugarcoated nothing.

“Totally agree. You are a worthless weakling, but…”

Hex emerged from the rubbles. His contraption hands opened, revealing a flame-thrower charged with Mana. The beast growled like an injured, lost animal fuel by rage. The contraption spun, focusing the energy and flexing the spell’s formula to generate obscene temperature.

“… a great hero once said only those who know weakness can become truly strong.”

Hex screamed. A pointed his flamethrower at the duo.

“Stop this,” Chamomile finally sensed the pain drifting in the air. “I don’t want this.”

Rem looked at Chamomile, tried his best for a reassuring smile and refused to let the woman behind him ate the incinerator.

Because that is what Superman would do.

…

Chamomile responded with stun, witnessing an embodiment of heroism she could only dream of being. But something else took her attention. It was the animalistic screams of her friend and commander.

Hex wasn’t supposed to scream like that. He was gallant, brave — an exemplar of Grand Empire’s courage. With her adrenalin and feared subsided, Chamomile realized Hex’s screams weren’t the yelling of triumph but a pained animal. The fact she was still alive proved Stuart Hex painfully kept a hint of awareness behind that monster. That living weapon worth double as Hex’s torture.

Hex let out another agonizing screamed as he readied his flames-throwers, putting Chamomile up for an ultimate choice.

Either let her brother’s figure die or let him suffered perpetually — the moment of truth was now. Chamomile reflected on everything Hex meant to her and squeezed out an answer.

“Please…” She sobbed. “Please let him rest.”

The fireball the size of a house sailed toward the two, digging a searing trench where it passed.

But the hero’s eyes responded with undying light.

The second battle of the conclusion has officially begun.