With the witch at his back and a new found power at his disposal, Luke forewent his previous style in favor of that of the slugger — a high guard tight to his head and body used to block incoming strikes and returning furious counters in the form of hooks, straights, and devastating uppercuts. He pictured himself against an in-fighter, swarming him with relentless pressure and crowding him with repeated strikes. And just like an in-fighter with nothing to lose, he new the mistwalkers ahead of him would approach with reckless abandon.

He stepped into his stance, but opposite now to how he stood before. His lead foot was his right, southpaw and relying on his injured left leg only as a pivot, hoping it didn’t give out on him. He raised both arms, flaming fists up near the temples on either side of his head, and stood with his knees slightly bent, piercing stare focused on his enemies ahead.

To his left, one mistwalker took the bait, dashing in and swiping toward his head. Luke felt a tap on his left hip and the witch’s back no longer stuck to his own. He ducked, feeling the air pressure ruffle his shaggy hair as the creature’s strike nearly missed his head, but instead of countering Luke stayed knelt down, painful as it was for him to crouch. The dirt behind him crunched, another gust of wind bearing down on him was followed swiftly by the heavy crack of snapping stone. Her spinning back heel kick swung her around into position. Fazing into the mist, the witch’s presence seemed to fade from Luke’s senses. The sound of another crunchy thwack preceded the heavy thud of a fallen statue, signaling to the near-black-eyed man that she had moved on to her next target.

His forehead was almost pressed into the jagged torso of the mistwalker whose head creaked and cracked slowly back into place as the stone neck pieced itself together. Luke dropped his shoulder and sent a right hook followed by a left into the monsters abdomen, a clattering of stone shrapnel sent flying behind it. He stood, bringing his fist rocketing up with him and landing the flames of his knuckles square on the underside of what Luke assumed was it’s chin. A puff of ash and pulverized rock exploded where its head once was, body slumping to the ground.

The witch had done more than her fair share in that moment, dual-wielding a blade-like energy around her own cloth-wrapped hands that hummed with a foreign power, 3 more statuesque mistwalkers laid still on the ground, tactically incapacitate them. She fought with a natural intelligence that didn’t fall on deaf ears, Luke glad that the spirit was a benevolent one.

In this manner, the fight continued. Luke finished off two more of his foes with spectacular knock-out power relieving the mistwalkers of the heavy head they carried. The witch had dropped another in that same time, the speed and accuracy of her movements a feat in and of itself. Yet, the threat was not so easily surpassed. They could prevent them from moving for only so long, the stone of their bodies regenerating and granting them movement for a brief moment before Luke or the witch struck them down again. And though they were efficient and successful, Luke could feel the witch’s warning in his arms. They were like lead weights strapped to him. Exhaustion was kicking in and his arms, burning still with the flames granted to him, ached further from the energy draining from them — as if the flames themselves were fueled with his own life essence.

Luke punched down into the ground, slamming his fist into the neck of a mistwalker that had freshly rematerialized its head, a cloud of ash and smoke settling from the impact. “Every time we take one down, another comes back up!” He turned to the witch, voice rough with breathlessness. “Is there really no way to stop them besides the bells?”

“Do you grow weary? Rest and I will keep them at bay.” She struck two more down simultaneously, the pile around her a dozen shattered foes, until 3 more reanimated and jerked steadily back onto their twisted, jagged legs.

“You sure about that? You look a little busy. I’m fine for now… Oh, crap!” Another, not fazed by the fact that its companions had fallen to the flame-fisted youth, bull-rushed him in a head-on strike. Luke pivoted, dodging back with a wince as his back leg stiffened, sending him off balance. Sticking out a hand to the grass below, he steadied himself as he gripped the ground and turned once more with a fist cocked back, ready to strike. Instead, he found the witch staring at him, two clean holes in the mistwalkers back, laying firmly on the ground.

“I am sure. Are you?”

Luke cleared his throat, sweat beading on his brow and down the sides of his face toward his chin. He could really feel it now, his hands dropping to his sides. The pain of exhaustion as if he had gone through a full training session and straight into a fight after. He could lift them out of sheer adrenaline alone, but now the prospect of a rest was sapping him of any desire to keep fighting.

“OK, maybe you’re right…” Luke nodded to her, offering his flaming hands to the witch. She vanished, appearing in front of him in a puff of mist, and placing a hand on his larger one. The fire went out and he could finally feel the energy return to his arms, rather than being continuously sapped away. “Holy crap, that feel better…”He shook his arms, rotating them rapidly back and forth to let the muscles loosen up. “How long do…” He trailed off looking up at the battlefield around them. Where over a dozen broken foes previously laid defeated at the feet of their few remaining comrades, all but the one most recently defeated were beginning to rise, the sound of stone scraping and snapping against itself echoed along the heavy thuds and guttural moans of the undead rising to their full stature once more.

“Light me…” Luke demanded, eyes pinging back and forth between the mass of hulking figures reassembling into their undamaged forms. “Light me, now!” The warmth returned to his arms, growing heavy and tired almost instantly with the pain of renewed effort brought forth by keep them lit with the strange power he had gained. “I’ll never skip training again, Jimmy, I swear.” He brought his fists up, back to the shoulder roll stance he had first used as the creatures closed in and surrounded them. Luke could barely keep his hands in position, the desire to let them drop freely reminiscent of the times before where he trained to exhaustion to ensure even deep into the 12th round, his guard wouldn’t fail him. But the pain the flames created, that was more than anything he had every experienced. In a way, it was as if his muscles were being pulled taught, so much they threatened to tear off of the bone, gritting his teeth in rising agony, body begging him to stop. A mental war that didn’t come with just failure if lost, but death.

The creak of wood would have normally echoed into the quiet clearing. Muffled by the groans and howls of the maddened stone spirits, tentative steps walked meekly out from within the cabin. Hair blond and lush with life shimmered amid the mist as green eyes locked onto Luke’s dark ones with questionable determination.

“Mia? M-!” The witch grabbed his wrist, fading the fire from his hands and stopping him from yelling out to the girl. Luke turned to the white-haired woman, unsure if to thank her for halting his pain, or question her for why she had done so. Instead he turned back to Mia, glad to see that the mistwalkers had yet to take notice of her, relieved that the witch had prevented him from calling attention to the young woman. He could do nothing but watch as Mia took another couple of steps, fists still balled up tight, now more from nervousness and fear than frustration. Yet, she was determined. And closing her eyes with a calming breath out, and then a large one in, Mia’s emerald sight honed in on her companions and her voice rang out into the cool, damp air.

A bell rang out, audible only to the light-haired girl as she pictured the small object in her mind. She recalled its high pitched note, echoing in the mist. The fear she felt at first listen, the helplessness as it had closed in on them hiding in the cabin. But now it was a sound of peace, the call of the void for souls damned to hatred and insanity, a way out of madness. She focused harder on the sound and in doing so, recalled a fragment of her childhood. The wind chimes playing in the breeze. The warmth of her father’s lap as she sat merrily with him on a bench, and the melodic major tones of the black and white keys he manipulated with expert grace. And it was with that image in her mind that sound burst forth from lungs. A C# imitating the bell’s chime was a note belted from her sternum, the compact pressure of her core doing the work as her jaw relaxed and opened wide to let the “Ah” sound exit her vocal chords with a silken touch.

All sound faded to the powerful, hopeful note she carried. The slow rumbling and crackling of stone turning to face her, drowned out by a sweet vibrato honed in a lifetime of practice. For Luke and the witch, there was a long and drawn out moment were Mia’s effort served no purpose other than a light distraction. Whether it was the image of her father that spurred on the joyful, tranquil thoughts within her — or something far greater — Luke could feel that emotion penetrating his person. He couldn’t help but smile in response, a performance so captivating he wouldn’t dare to look away.

Mist clouded his vision, rising up from the ground below him, beginning to block his sight form the girl and breaking the pleasant trance he had fallen into despite the danger of the enemies nearby. Yet those enemies appeared as entangled in her voice as he had been, all but one. The only mistwalker who had fallen too recently to recompose itself now broke down, heavy lines cracking into it’s body and splintering into dozens, hundreds more. Though it’s body did not decompose into the fine powder the bells had achieved, the rubble left behind was broken down to a point where a mote of light now hovered above it, the last of the mist coming from the creature disappearing.

Luke turned to the witch, her mask facing him before she vanished into a cloud of vapor. A sharp snap led into a weighted thump against the dirt path. Luke turned to Mia, her eyes now closed as she focused on the steady release of her breath and holding the tone of her voice. More stone scattered around him as vapor rose in accordance of Mia’s song. Luke sprung now into action, feeling the still damp cloth around his hands tighten as he balled his hands into a fist. Several mistwalkers were now knocked down for good, bodies shattering as the spirits escaped their prison of hatred. The rest were beginning to awaken from the stupor, shrieks of anger exiting their jagged maws. Luke dashed past them, putting himself between Mia and their enemies, striking at the one closest to the girl and watching its chest implode in on itself and fall to the ground. He had beaten one with his flames before, but now they appeared weakened further still.

“Whatever happens, Mia, do not stop singing!” He pleaded, aware that the girl was not only releasing the souls in their incapacitated states, but weakening them even when unharmed. Three more rushed him, and though his body begged him for a moment more of rest, he could not acquiesce. Not now, when Mia had summoned the courage to aid them in their time of need. Not now, when he was he needed to protect her bravery. Not now, when victory was so close. Form was out the window, survival the only factor blaring in his mind. However didn’t matter, he just needed to bring them down. Left cross, two jabs into a hook, and a lightning fast overhand right finished the three. He felt a stinging cold on the underside of his arm and just below his rib cage, reckless desire to defeat his opponents causing him to abandon the overly cautious attitude he had demonstrated thus far in combat.

Two more charged at him and with movements bogged down by exhaustion, but precise enough to land flush — one to the head and the other to the body — by the time they fell flat and succumbed to Mia’s voice, the only ones standing in a see of fading water vapor and motes of light were the spirit witch and the two living youths.

Luke fell to his knees, unraveling the spirit water wrapped to his arms and revealing red, throbbing hands underneath. He wasn’t sure if his hands were burned or frozen, but all he cared for was that the fight had ended, fatigue beginning to get the best of him as he knelt unmoving for a few moments feeling the blood pulse in his arms. The underside of his upper arm, to the side of the triceps, felt stiff from his shallow wound, as did the one to his side.

“Luke!” His eyes were met with green jewels that peered up at him. Mia knelt beside him, bending over to check if he was still conscious. “Are you OK…? Oh, your hands!”

“He will be fine. The effects of the flames drain life essence, but his exhaustion will go as soon as he rests well. His hands will see no ill effect.” The witch spoke up, pacing toward them.

“Thank the gods. Luke, you were-”

Blood splattered, a blur of darkness slicing across the tan cheek of the boxer. He winced in pain, looking up to see where it had come from and catching the wide-eyed blonde doing the same. A few feet from where he knelt, the wall of fog closed over a small hole that had been blown into it. A projectile of some sort. He reached up to pull Mia away from the mist, arms slow and weighing heavier than he’s felt them before. The mist appeared right in front of them, materializing into the form of the witch, and the pair of living youths heard her grunt as two spurts of blood shot out from behind her. Feathers of black, sharp like knives, embedded in her — one under her right scapula, the other further down, less than an inch from her spine.

The witch fell forward, landing against Mia’s back as Luke did his best to reach out and hold her from falling helplessly to the ground.