Paragon of Destruction

Arran felt a surge of worry as he saw Brightblade sway on her feet. She had seemed invincible just a moment earlier, moving with an impossible speed, but now she looked vulnerable. Hurt, even.

Her opponent wasted no time in exploiting the opening. Seeing a chance, the Elder launched a barrage of attacks — numerous streaks of fire and lightning that shimmered with power, each of them soaring toward Brightblade with staggering speed.

For a moment, Arran feared that was the end of it. The attacks were too many, too fast, too powerful.

But just as the first streak of lightning was about to hit, there was a flicker in the air before it. The attack was suddenly deflected, sent flying into the distance. It crashed into the formation surrounding the dueling grounds a moment later, sending a ripple through the air before it dissipated.

Another attack came only a fraction of a second later, however. She deflected this one as well, but it came even closer than the first to hitting her. And even before it crashed into the formation, it was followed by yet another attack.

In the space of a few seconds, dozens of attacks rained down on Brightblade, violent bolts of Essence with terrifying power. And while Brightblade somehow managed to block them all, each new attack came closer to hitting her.

The first attacks had been stopped several paces in front of her, but now, they came within an arm’s length of her body. And still, the onslaught continued undimished. At this rate, it was a matter of seconds before she would be hit.

Arran clenched his jaw as he watched, desperately wishing there was something — anything — he could do. But even if he could get past the formation, the power used here was too much for him to make a difference.

Some of the deflected attacks hit the ground instead of the formation, and each of those tore a deep scar into the earth, dozens of paces long and several feet deep. Even with Arran’s resistance to magic, a single attack like that would rip through his body with ease.

He nearly screamed in frustration as he saw that Brightblade’s opponent stepped up his attacks, with the man clearly sensing that he was on the verge of victory. There was no chance for her to recover, much less launch a counter-attack — she was already struggling to defend herself.

Then, she was hit.

She moved her hand just a second too late, the attack already striking her as a shield formed behind it, too late to make a difference.

Yet as the ball of seething fire and lightning struck her body, there was a brief but blindingly bright flash of light, and she staggered backward — hurt, but still alive.

Arran felt a surge of relief, but it lasted only a second. She had miraculously survived the first attack, but more followed behind it. Her opponent had seen his chance, and he had no intention of wasting it.

Again she was struck, and again she staggered backward. There was no blocking the attacks now — a rain of fire and lightning bore down upon her, driving her back further and further, her movements weaker with every step she took.

Suddenly, Arran felt a hand on his shoulder. "There’s nothing you can do," Elder Theron’s voice came.

Arran blinked as he realized that his hand was on his sword, his body tense as he subconsciously moved to attack, with only the Elder’s hand holding him back. Another second, and he would have rushed onto the battlefield.

Though he took his hand off his sword, he was unable to relax his body — not with Brightblade on the verge of being defeated.

Meanwhile, the barrage of attacks on Brightblade continued unceasingly, the onslaught slowly driving her toward the edge of the formation. Arran wanted to scream for her to move, to evade, to do anything but stand there as she was battered with fire and lightning.

It was no use.

The way she moved was familiar to Arran. He has seen it in his own enemies, in the final moments before they died. They were the movements of someone whose defense was failing, shaken beyond recovery, on the verge of collapse.

Her opponent saw it as well, and the man’s attacks became slower and more powerful as he prepared to strike a final blow.

Arran screamed in frustration when Brightblade was hit directly by a sphere of bright yellow fire, her body flung backward as the force of the explosion tore a deep crater into the ground.

She somehow got to her feet again, but far too slow — another devastating attack crashed into her before she was even fully standing, and again she was flung to the ground.

This time, she struggled to get up. And as she lifted her injured body off the ground, her opponent seized the chance to launch his most powerful attack yet, a violent mass of fire and lightning, seething with power.

The attack soared toward Brightblade with a sickening roar, seeming too powerful to block even if she had not been on the verge of falling already. There was nothing she could do as the attack bore down on her with a thunderous crash, the earth rent apart for hundreds of paces around her.

There was a final bright flash of light, and then — nothing.

As the dust settled, there was no sign of Brightblade. Where she had stood now lay a giant crater, so deep it seemed like a wound in the earth itself.

Arran looked on in horror, his eyes frantically searching for Brightblade. But then, in the corner of his eye, he saw an unexpected flash of movement.

Something flying through the air — a shiny head-sized rock, he thought briefly, before realizing that this was no rock.

His eyes shot toward the Elder, then went wide with shock and joy as he saw the Elder’s headless body collapse to the ground, Brightblade impossibly standing behind him.

Arran could not fathom how she had done it, but he didn’t care. She had won, and that was all that mattered. He instantly rushed forward, Elder Theron no longer able to hold him back.

The intense relief he felt turned back to worry a moment later, however, as Brightblade collapsed to her knees next to her opponent’s body.

And as Arran rapidly approached her, he now saw that she was covered in wounds, her robe torn, with fresh blood covering her face and body.

Driven by fear, Arran was the first to reach her. At once, he saw that she was in a terrible state. Any one of her injuries would be enough to kill a strong mage, and she had dozens of them.

He knelt down by her side immediately, and as he did, she opened her eyes.

"I got them," she said in a weak voice, flashing him a bloody smile.

Then, her eyes closed again, and her body went limp.

Arran was forcefully shoved aside a second later by a gray-haired woman he did not recognize. "Healers! Now!" the woman barked loudly.

More mages came, crowding around Brightblade as Arran watched silently, hoping against hope that she could be saved. Some people tried to speak to him — Elder Theron, perhaps? — but he ignored them, his attention fully consumed by his worry for Brightblade.

For more than a half-hour, the mages around her cast all sorts of spells on her, none of them the least bit familiar to Arran. There was nothing for it but to accept it — even his trust in the Ninth Valley had been worn down to a sliver, he knew nothing about healing magic, and these strangers were the best chance she had.

The longer they continued the work, the more Arran’s spirits sank. Brightblade’s state had been dire to begin with, and now, it seemed like the last shred of life that remained within her was slipping away.

Suddenly, the gray-haired woman stood up. She briefly looked at the crowd of mages surrounding them, until finally, her eyes found Arran.

A small smile formed on her lips as she looked at him. Then, with a warm expression, she said, "She’s going to make it."

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