This wasn’t what I was revealed.

Avalel looks at the woman before him, the assassin who nearly ended his life just days before. She should’ve been injured, out of commission, recovering somewhere in those wretched slums, an obstacle removed from his road to dominance. Going by the intertwined threads of fate, the inescapable destiny laid out for him, she should not even be anywhere near the battle, her body far too frail and weakened to even get past one soldier.

Yet here she is, her expressionless mask blankly staring into his face, concealing the anger bursting from within, as she blocks his blade, the blade that should’ve now beheaded Nasition.

The Black Maiden is defying Fate itself, going against the script that has been revealed to him.

“Stubborn assassin—”

He leaps back, narrowly avoiding the knife thrust at his chest. The eight blades respond quickly, shielding him from a follow-up slash as he staggers back. There is no grace in the Maiden’s attacks compared to his previous encounter, but replacing it is an increasing rhythm, the blade hammering down on his defenses with rapid precision and immense strength. There are no openings to counterattack, nevermind finishing a retreating Nasition off, his blades locked in a stalemate as he constantly redirects them to block and parry the next attack. Ferocity overwhelms elegance as the Avalel is slowly backed into a corner, his muscles almost moving on instinct alone.

The path of Fate, originally so clearly revealed to him, is warping, twisting, mixing into a chaotic, directionless mass in his mind. Nasition should be dead by now, the battle already over. The enemy should’ve now been thoroughly exhausted, their will to fight drained by his invincibility. In a few moments, he should be proclaiming his dominance above the ruins of the Izatur, to announce the ascension of the savior, not just of the New Rule, but the world. The Elydeia, the instrument and vessel of Fate, the author’s pen upon this world. Everything that he has fought for should be in his hands as the undisputed, unchallenged ruler of the entire world.

Wait… What exactly have I been fighting for since Thille?

He should’ve been in a state of clarity by now, his mind cleansed and blessed by Elethien, by Fate, by I. His magic should’ve been unstoppable through the Anapadeia, the unfaltering blades whittling down his opponents until they are reduced to ash. He has submitted himself to the sword, to Elethien, to Fate, to be the vessel for I’s will, the avatar of divinity, perfection incarnate. Then why? How? How is it that even now his mind is in a state of chaos, his many blades still being barely able to keep up with the Maiden’s relentless attacks?

How is it that even now he cannot defeat this single mortal?

The large blade strikes straight for his head. He ducks, the eight blades once again a shield to redirect the immense force away from his body. He swings his arm, yet the only thing the razor-sharp magic blade can slice is air, the Maiden nimbly avoiding it with a jump. She bears down her weapon on him, stabbing it on the ground he was recovering on just a moment ago.

The floor cracks and breaks, exposing the metal beams beneath. He stumbles, opening up his guard. The next moment, the tip of the Maiden’s knife is locked against his arms, his body moving just fast enough to close up that perilous gap in his defenses. The eight blades counterattack, engaging in a fatal dance with the Maiden’s single blade. Yet they can find no opening, his opponent dodging every single one of the attacks with ease.

And her fury is still not quelled.

He shoots a storm of energy beams at her charge, each enough to shred a body to bits. She shouldn’t be able to dodge. Even if she blocks, the metal will simply be punctured through. He is superior to her. He must be superior to her. And they are about to hit—

A cloud of crystals envelop the Maiden, dispersing the beams completely, deflecting the energy into harmless puffs of smoke. They stab into her skin, tearing bits of the heat-resistant fabric, but she charges through, her blade cleanly driving into Avalel’s shoulder, ripping apart the flesh and blood vessels, the energy circuits severed. His arm slumps as it returns to an organic state, the skin rapidly growing pale where blood has not already caked the surface. In a panic, he falls back, allowing the blade to remove itself, opening his wound. A gust of air rushes into sensitive muscle tissue, rattling the nerves.

He screams. Much of the pain is already negated, or it should be, yet he feels his entire mind freeze up from the shock, his body unable to move. His eyes black out for a moment, the flow of energy stopping in an instant. He is a vessel of Fate, an instrument to deliver the predestined end. He is invincible. His soldiers are thrown and tossed in waves, but he knows victory will come. Fate has already revealed the end of this narrative, of a glorious Elydeia gaining stewardship of the world, a vessel to deliver the will of Fate. But that same vessel is now broken, tarnished, unable to swiftly put down a mere mortal’s defiance.

Avalel wobbles, the eight blades rapidly retreating to protect him from the Maiden’s intensifying attacks. His energy reserves, blessed and expanded by Elethien before with his submission, are gradually sapped away as he struggles to regenerate the damaged flesh. He is Fate’s most loyal follower, its greatest instrument and vessel. Yet he finds his body weakening with every blow, the formerly pitch-black blades fading in strength and color. The clarity before has become a fog, his mind wavering with every passing moment. The connection, the union he had with the Anapadeia is no more than a thread, the sword resurfacing into a physical form, no longer fused with his body. He parries one blow, only for the Maiden’s knife to graze his forearm, disrupting his energy flow. Before he can even react for the next strike, the Maiden brings her leg to his stomach, the magically-imbued kick rupturing the organs within.

He reels over, beaten to the ground, only for the Maiden to violently ram her knee against his helmet, knocking his head back, his vision blacking out for a moment from the concussion. He hears a clang, followed by noticing a weight leaving his right hand. He has released the Anapadeia from his grip. His vision returns only to watch the Maiden land a punch to his face, denting his helmet and rattling his jaw.

She isn’t even aiming for a quick kill, instead gradually beating him to a pulp, breaking every bit of his body in some twist of sadism, not allowing anything more than a breath from Avalel before she lands another blow. This fury, bursting from the deepest chambers of her Core, erupting into violent flames, cannot be quelled. Avalel is now nothing but a doll to be rocked about, falling from his mighty pedestal of power to a broken lump of weakness.

In the distance, he barely sees an injured Nasition raising his arm weakly yet victoriously, blood trickling down his mouth. Even in that weakened state, the leader of the New Rule commands the thousands of crystals to strike Avalel from every angle, piercing the chambers of his lungs. He coughs, spurting out more blood from his mouth. And then he laughs.

“Do you feel my suffering now?”

“Nuisance—” Avalel gasps before receiving a pummel to his chest, sending him backwards as his formerly spotless armor becomes clothed in dirt, remains, and blood.

Where is Elethien? Where is Fate, the promise for his victory? Where is the power promised and given to him at the cost of his sacrifice of self? His core is already sacrificed, presumably replaced with the essence of Fate itself, the controller and weaver of all destinies. He has sacrificed everything that pertains to Avalel the individual, submitting to the power of I. He was shown a path of conquest, of victory, of prosperity. Where is that now? Where is that path that should be his to claim?

Even after his surrender, he is still the same. Weak. An instrument of Fate yet failing to carry out his own destiny.

You’re lacking faith, vessel.

The pain and noises suddenly subside, the world frozen in place. In an instant, Avalel finds himself staring at Elethien, the latter occupying his entire field of vision. Her appearance is still the same, the authority of I still very much bearing down upon him.

“Do you not remember who we are?” she questions, her emerald green eye gazing deeply into his broken face. “Are the ghosts of your past now urging you to resist again?”

“Fate. The one to decide all. The one who has made me who I am,” Avalel answers. “And I have submitted to you already, didn’t I?”

“Why, then, do you have such little faith?”

“This wasn’t what you showed me,” he mutters, trying his best to suppress the urge to rebel inside. “You showed me power, control, and dominance over the world. You showed me what it means to be all-powerful. You promised me that when you blessed me, giving me a new life.”

“Indeed I did.”

“Then why am I losing? I, the supposed vessel of Fate, am losing to this girl. My arm is wasted. My internal organs are ruined beyond repair. I am about to be sadistically beaten to death at victory’s door. Is this the destination you have prepared for me? A disgraceful death, abandoned by Fate, at the hands of an undeserving mortal?”

“... Even after I have shown you the meaning of true power and dominance, you still walk shakily the path which I have set for you,” Elethien sighs in disappointment. “This is but a means to an end. Your suffering will be short-lived, your pain but a minor reminder of the mortal body you have sacrificed. You are a servant of Fate. I will not abandon you.”

“Then let me win already!” Avalel shouts. “I have already given everything I own, including my life, to Fate. Let me reach that destination as you want instead of setting up this impossible obstacle in my way!”

“Are you doubting the creator of this world now, vessel?” Elethien’s voice suddenly grows harsher, her gaze cold and ruthless, staring at Avalel as if he is just an object. “You are an instrument, not Fate itself. You are the servant, not the master. Are you so arrogant and drunk on the power that I have given you that you think you can simply weave it however you like? Are you Nasition in another body, thinking he can defy the master of this world?”

“N-No…”

“Fate will bring you victory at the end of this narrative. Do not fear, and have faith in I. Then things will fall in place,” Elethien says, returning a more gentle, motherly tone. “It’s not entirely your fault that you have these doubts. Fate has given the illusion of autonomy to everyone after all, including their harshness and rebelliousness. Just… place your trust and confidence in I, alright? Your illusion is gone. Your so-called freedom is sacrificed. You are blessed, Avalel, destined for greatness as the vessel of Fate. I will not allow your body to be broken. Glory and prosperity awaits you. Fate will always be in control.”

Avalel feels his body quickly coming together, reorganizing, regenerating, rebuilding. Just like the last time, the wounds are gone. The energy reserves are refilled… or perhaps, it is removed. There is no reserve. His energy is infinite. The magic, too, is unlimited. His armor is still damaged, but he feels no need to wear it anymore, nor does it have any weight on his body now.

He is the hero. He has always been invincible, but finally, he once again feels invincible.

Elethien brings her mouth to Avalel’s ear. “Everything is for the grand, entertaining narrative, after all. Including these obstacles that I have prepared for you.”

The frozen time slowly thaws, the environment moving again. The Anapadeia once again is absorbed inside him, the blades regaining their shape and strength. Soon, the battle will resume. And so will the path continue.

“I have removed all your ghosts now, hopefully,” Elethien says. “Now focus on your battle, vessel.”

“Is it now impossible for me to even argue against the will of Fate?”

Elethien chuckles lightly, amused by such a question. “You’ll see.”