Part of me feels glad for the success of my visit and our little conversation. But another part of me is urging me not to overstay my welcome; to race away, as soon as it seems fitting. I approach his bed, “I hope you like it.”
“I’m sure I will,” he states. He accepts the cake. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. I hope you feel better soon.”
“Thank you, I appreciate that.” He raises his chin.
I turn to leave, about to step through the doorway, when I hear him say behind me, “Faith, have you heard any word of John?”
I look back at him, frowning and averting my eyes. I feel a shiver run through my chest, and my heart seems to beat a little harder with anxiety. “No,” I say. “Not yet.” I meet the scout’s eyes.
His eyes are so dull, filled with a grayness and sorrow that makes me grimace inwardly. But there also remains in them a look of sincerity. “You shouldn’t worry,” he tells me. “John is strong. He’ll make it out alive.”
I turn back towards the hallway, agreeing solemnly, “Yeah.”
I close the door behind me.
PROTAGONIST SWITCH: JOHN HEDEKIRA
For the first time, Kiilda has to block my attacks. But It’s obnoxiously quick. I can’t seem to pin It down; not before It performs a move of such dexterity, I never would’ve expected a being of that size could move so nimbly. I cut back and forth, our swords ringing against each other, and then I slash sideways for Its legs. The demon leaps over my sword, landing with a dull thud, and then It sprints towards me. The black blade of the monster whistles through the air as It swings first for my right shoulder, and then It loops Its sword back around, attacking my left shoulder. I deflect both blows, huffing tiredly. I don’t know how long I can keep this up. “Defeat Kiilda quickly.” Gus’s words...
But how?!
I fear what it will cost me; I know it has to be possible for me to kill Kiilda. There has to be a way. But, as for now, it seems like the only way possible would be for me to put myself in a position dangerously close to the demon. I would have a shot; in spite of how formidable and flawless Kiilda seems, there are openings. I just can’t get there fast enough. And maybe I could get there…it just might cost me my arm. But if I lose my arm, I might die…and then all of this would have been in vain. No, I need to find a way to hit Kiilda without becoming dismembered.
My shoulders burn, screaming for rest, my body aching for a pause in the action. I slowly become aware that my exhaustion is affecting my attacks; I don’t pull back my sword as quickly as I should be after striking. Rather, I tend to allow my sword to land against Kiilda’s, and I let it balance there before eventually deciding to attack again. I know that this weak style of fighting, incarnated by my fatigue, must stop. I blink quickly, my vision blurring as sweat drips into my eyes, and I jerk my head to the side, sending droplets of perspiration away through the air. For a moment, I halt. I stand there, my legs spread in a defensive position, my feet planted solidly in the ground, and I gasp heavily, trying to regain my breath. I allow my sword to sink towards the ground, lowering my arms out of weariness. And, to my surprise, Kiilda waits, even as I do.
What’s It doing? I think, squinting at the demon. Of course, I’m glad for the period of respite. But I don’t trust the stillness. I don’t trust anything in this subworld. Should I wait for it to attack? Should I try to regain as much of my strength as I can? Or will waiting mean something worse?
I find myself shifting my weight forward, as if my body has chosen to attack. Guess I’m not waiting.
Kiilda shoots forward, Its speed greater than I anticipated. At that moment, I understand how slow I really am. Kiilda enables me to cognize my own weakness by revealing Its strength. I regained no strength, no speed during the brief interval Kiilda permitted me to rest. I only fooled myself to think that I was ready to challenge It again.
I mentally shiver; maybe that was what Kiilda wanted me to think. The god of this world…
I can’t help but give in to what I see is coming. I flinch, momentarily blinking, as if that will somehow help me avoid the lightning-quick uppercut. It doesn’t. Kiilda’s black blade rips through the top of my left arm.
I bite down hard, pressing my teeth together for a moment, but then I scream, falling backwards. My sword plummets to the grass below, and my right hand goes to the incision made on my arm. I grunt, pain shooting through my arm and shoulder, and I begin to feel nauseous. I spare a look at the wound, even though I’m certain Kiilda is about to strike; I’m certain this will mean my death.
The cut isn’t terribly deep; but something about the gash—like all of Kiilda’s attacks—exudes a sense of eerie perfection. There’s something so precise and even intentional about the wound; Kiilda hit me exactly how It wanted, where It wanted, and Its sword-stroke followed through in total compliance.
I look up, blood beginning to run down my right arm and pool in the grass beneath me. Kiilda is there, Its sword clasped with both hands, and It stares down at me.
But It doesn’t attack.
Wind tears across the grass, and the sky begins to twist. I suddenly feel faint, and it’s not just from my wound. Kiilda seems to fade away into the spinning and swirling colors, and right before I fall unconscious, I wonder, “Did I just win?”
CHAPTER 42