Chapter 60: Cursesworn

Time was of the essence.

Niccolo stepped closer to the barrier, his golden eyes studied the surface once.

The cracks in the runway beneath his feet had begun filling the rainwater, but the dome like veil that enclosed Marcellus, Rafferty and the two SUVs remained unscathed.

He raised his right hand. Silver force began to gather around his arm.

It spread from his shoulder, to his elbow, then followed over his forearm, and curled around his fist.

The colour was pale at first, but it thickened into dense, Metallica.

The air around him changed. The hostess, that still stood near the aircraft’s exit took a step back along with her colleagues.

Niccolo’s silver force rose behind him. For an instant, it took a shape of a towering figure draped in darkness. A hood concealed its face. One skeletal hand held an enormous scythe, its curved blade extended above the airfield.

Tahe apparition moved with him.

Niccolo drew his arm back. The figure raised its weapon.

Then, they both struck.

*KRRRRRAAAAAAAAAMMM-----*

The impact swallowed the sound of the rain. Silver light spread across the dome from the point of contact, and the veil in itself showed visible veins. Faint, but visible veins of cracks that began healing in that very moment.

The runway shook, water erupted from the cracks beneath Niccolo’s feet. Loose fragments of the concrete jumped from the ground while the air around the barrier compressed under the tremendous force.

Inside the SUV, the golden inscriptions on the tungsten nail blazed.

The white-hooded man closed his fingers around it, but the light passed through the gaps between them.

Then, the right gate of the back passenger seat of the SUV on which Rafferty leaned on, opened up with a soft click.

A man wearing a dark suit exited the vehicle. He had a machete resting across his thighs, with a blade turned still faintly dark from the blood he had wiped off.

Following him, the other back-gate of the SUV opened up. He wore a leather jacket over slim-fit T-shirt and cargo pants. The Cutter.

Just like the Closer, the one wearing a suit. The Cutter was a master of Machetes. Instead, he used two. Both of his Machetes rested on the sides of his waistbelt, with their blades hanging bare.

"With the grace of god," The closer scoffed, as he walked forward and placed his hand on Rafferty’s shoulder.

"I thought only you were designated a combat grade of two, among these rest of the clowns, Rafferty," he patted his shoulders and kept pacing forward while the Cutter just stopped, and leaned on the other side of Rafferty.

"But now an unknown guest..." the Closer looked at Niccolo. "Could make things difficult for my brother."

He stopped and turned around to face Rafferty.

"You know what this accounts for, don’t you?"

"..." ’Just a variable? That is quite a modest thought,’ Niccolo thought as the man accounted Niccolo as just a variable in their plans.

Behind him, the hostess stared at the veil, then at the man she knew as Karl Henson. She had thought him an unusually impressive Union Official. She had certainly never imagined that a single strike from him could make the entire runway shake.

"Mr. Henson," she whispered.

Inside the enclosure, Marcellus looked at the fading light with mild interest.

"You can stop," the old butler, Rafferty finally spoke, looking at Niccolo.

Niccolo turned his head towards him, and Rafferty’s expression had not changed.

"This barrier was prepared to withstand attacks from awakeners of your standing. You’ll destroy the runway and harm the people outside before you can even come close to destroying the veil." He spoke.

Then Niccolo smiled, but there was no warmth in it.

"Is that so?" he whispered.

The closer turned towards Marcellus, the machete was held loosely in his hand. It’s dark blade caught the occasional flash of lightning.

Marcellus looked at him, then at the machete.

"That’s...rather large," he commented.

"This is a machete," the closer kept pacing towards Marcellus.

[Axiom]

[Executing: The Vaticinator.]

[Executing: Intent Recognition.]

"I can see that," Marcellus replied, and then he looked at Rafferty.

"You know I was hoping for a red carpet," he said.

"You won’t be staying long enough to appreciate my hospitality, Young Master," Rafferty replied.

The closer’s mouth twitched.

He had heard stranger things from dying men, though they usually waited until they were actually dying to make the jokes.

He continued walking, and Marcellus did not move.

Marcellus’s eyes followed the man’s approach, taking in the weapon, the position of shoulders, and the prediction of his next movement.

Something about the way he moved felt wrong. There were no wasted or casual movements, his steps were quiet despite the rain striking the ground around him.

"Well, at least you’re eighteen. I’m not really fond of taking children’s life. So let’s just get this over with," he played with the machete, and then held it tight in his hand.

"Is this really necessary?" Marcellus raised both of his hands. "How about letting me have my favorite and last dinner before we do this?"

The closer didn’t answer. His right foot moved forward.

It was then...the oddness Marcellus felt turned out to be true. His earlier movement, and that distance, it was all fake.

The man always stood right in front of Marcellus from the beginning. As if...the one Marcellus was talking to was just an illusion.

The Machete came down, and Marcellus moved.

The blade cut through empty air, missing his neck by a narrow margin.

He shifted his upper body aside and stepped beyond the weapon’s reach.

Marcellus’s long coat followed the movement. Its wet hem swung around round his legs.

For an instant, the closer’s figure flickered.

Marcellus narrowed his eyes. The man had been standing farther away, yet when the Machete descended, the distance between them had been considerably smaller than it should have been.

"Good eyes," the closer straightened his arm.

"I don’t miss my eye-drops routine," Marcellus replied.

"Well, they better help you long enough," The closer stepped forward again.

Marcellus watched him carefully.

He shifted his weight.

Pink petals appeared around the closer. They began from one, but multiplied to dozens of thousands in an instant.

[Executing: The Weeping Garden.]

They unfolded across the rain-soaked runway, spreading the air until the close stood at the centre of a vast arrangement of delicate pink flower petals.

The petals began to tremble. The imperceptible vibration quivered with rainwater along their edges. The air between them distorted, and the loose water on the ground began to ripple outward.

Then the frequence increased.

The petals shivered so violently that their individual shapes blurred into thin pink streaks.

The same technique that had Rafe on the ground, kneeling and begging for it to halt, wasn’t even able to disturb the Closer.

The man stood at the focal point of the frequence, as the petals began to glow, but his eyes stayed on Marcellus.

Then...the petals detonated.

*BOOOOOOOOM------!*

The explosion tore across the runway inside the veil. The air was driven outward in vast circular wave, and the pressure shattered everything within the explosion’s reach.

The SUV rocked on its suspension.

For a brief moment, the entire space was swallowed by pink light.

"WATCH OUT!" Maeve screamed at the top of her lungs.

Marcellus glanced at her in confusion.

Then...he felt a sharp pain in his abdomen.

He looked down.

A machete had pierced his gut.

Its blade had entered deep, angled upward.

His breath stopped.

A hand held the handle. The Closer stood directly in front of him again.

The rain continued to fall around him, but his attention had narrowed to the weapon buried in his body.

"Ah..." Marcellus finally smiled. "I see."

The false distance. The flickering figure. The attacks that seemed to begin from one position but arrived from another.

The man he had been watching was never where he appeared to be.

It was all an illusion.

The closer had concealed his true position behind a false one. But the illusion used to break every time Closer actually struck.

Marcellus understood it.

Unfortunately, the understanding came with a machete inside his abdomen.

The closer adjusted his grip, and grinned.

"Found me~" he said.

Marcellus glanced down at the machete buried in his abdomen. A thin line of blood ran beneath the blade.

[Executing: Cellular repair acceleration.]

His body ha already begun repairing the damage. But the weapon remained lodged inside him, obstructing the process.

"Figured it out, did you?" The closer’s smile widened.

"...Eventually." Marcellus looked up at him.

"Don’t worry, you’ll get used to the pain," the closer said, twisting the machete in his hand.

"Ugh..." Marcellus gripped the hand of Closer that held machete.

"I---doubt that."

Outside the veil, Maeve had gone completely still.

For an instant, she couldn’t understand what she was seeing.

The explosion had swallowed the man in pink light. The next moment he had a machete buried through his guts.

"Marcellus!" Her voice broke through the roar of the storm and rain. Her hands rested on the invisible veil. Every moment, every thing was a clear sight to her.

He turned his head slightly towards her.

She could see his face through the rain. He wasn’t screaming, he wasn’t even looking at the wound with the sort of alarming reaction she’d expect.

"Do SOMETHING!" She shouted.

"Someone cares about you." The closer glanced at her once, and then back at Marcellus.

"So unfortunate for her. I don’t deserve that care," Marcellus replied in a whisper.

The blade kept twisting every single moment, damaging what he healed, and making the pain even worse.

[Current Capacity: ~51%]

His froce was being consumed rigorously.

His healing was no longer keeping pace. Evey attempt to repair the wound was interrupted as the blade advanced. Vaticinator still continued to trace the path of the blade.

None of that game him a way out.

Rafferty stepped closer.

"You see, Young Master. This is why you cannot be allowed to inherit House Severan."

Marcellus looked towards him.

"Severans are a family of combatants. Young Master. I cannot allow a non-combatant to succeed as a heir just because you seem to possess some healing powers. Which are rather turning out to be quite useless at the moment." Rafferty spoke.

"You are dangerous to this family. If you inherit its authority, your cruelty will become everyone else’s burden. House Severan cannot afford a head who believes his own desires are sufficient justification for anything he does."

"You should never have been entrusted with its future. You are...undeserving of such position."

"..." Marcellus listened to the old man.

His expressions had finally changed.

"No...no...no..no. Not now!" Maeve noticed the change first. She had seen the switch in his domineer several times, that she was familiar of it now.

Marcellus stopped smiling. But it wasn’t because of the pain. He had been wounded for several moments now, and though he had occasionally winced, h had continued speaking as if the machete in his abdomen was just mere inconvenience.

That irritation, dry amusement, the faint traces of mockery that usually accompanied his words had disappeared.

He was listening to Rafferty.

Really listening.

And Maeve knew that look.

"Perhaps," Marcellus said.

The old butler regarded him cautiously. "Perhaps, what?"

"Perhaps you are right," Marcellus said.

The closer furrowed his brows at that statement, and stopped twisting the machete.

"Snap OUT OF IT!" Maeve screamed. "You don’t have to care about what ANYONE Says! You DON’T HAVE TO LISTEN TO HIM!"

Rafferty’s expression remained composed.

"You acknowledge it?" he asked.

"I’ve never claimed to be a good person. I do deserve to die." Marcellus replied.

"Not just...die. I deserve to suffer in pain. Have by flesh ripped apart off my bones, have that pain continuously haunt the very being of me. God forbid that if there’s hell, then I deserve to fall into the deepest pits of it. And I’d gladly take the fall, the pain, the suffering, all of it."

"If you’re trying to repent. Then I’m afraid it’s too late for that," Rafferty spoke.

"But I respect the change in you, Young Master. I’ll at least grant you a painless death." He said.

"No." Marcellus whispered.

He reached down and placed two fingers against the blunt spine of the machete.

The closer looked at his hand, and asked, "What are you doing?"

Marcellus tapped the blade upwards.

The weapon moved a little deeper.

"If death is inevitable...Then at least make it painful." He said quietly.

It wasn’t a challenge or a threat. He meant it. Down to the very last word of it.

*Tap*

The blade shifted. It moved upward through his body, extending the wound towards his chest.

Marcellus’s fingers trembled against the steel, but he didn’t withdraw them.

"Why?" The closer asked.

Marcellus looked at him, as the blade was a push away from his heart.

"Because I want to," he smiled.

The closer adjusted the angle of the weapon.

Marcellus placed rested his palm against the spine for the one last time.

*Tap*

The blade moved upward.

It crossed the path of his heart, and his fingers finally stopped.

His healing faltered. He couldn’t feel the pain or hir force. The numbness spread like a sickness from his chest, taking over his body.

For a fraction of a second, he remained standing, held upright by the blade embedded in his body.

The Closer withdrew the machete, and stepped back.

Marcellus’s knees gave way. He fell. His shoulder struck the tarmac, followed by the rest of his body.

His long black coat spread across the wet ground, and rainwater began washing the blood away from beneath him.

Outside the veil, Maeve had stopped screaming.

She just couldn’t do anything except staring at the body.

"...Marcellus?"

There was no answer.

The rain continued to fall.

Marcellus Severan, heir to the House Severan, one of the only three healers, and the man whose power had made him valuable to so many, lay dead on the runway.

He had died believing he deserved it.