As he teetered on the edge of sleep within the darkness, Adonis suddenly jerked awake, feeling Dranvi take her usual position. It seemed that, at around this hour, Dranvi was able to slip away from the Dearth March’s collective consciousness and regain her own identity.
“I had a thought…,” he muttered.
“Let’s hear it,” Dranvi urged him softly.
“…There’s something I’ve always lacked. I…” Adonis’s voice faltered. “When I was born, I lost my mother, so I grew up never drinking my mother’s milk. I never got enough…warmth.”
Suddenly, he felt bashful. What was he saying? He was mortified to hear how she would react, but Dranvi keenly picked up on what Adonis meant. And without saying anything, she undid her tie.
“Go ahead…” Her voice was followed by the sound of sliding fabric.
Adonis looked on with astonishment. He got to his feet and turned to face her. The tie fluttered away, undoing the priest garb she wore—more coverage than typical for a Mermaid—which soon made the reason behind her words apparent.
It was gruesome.
She had the smooth, alabaster skin typical of Mermaids, with indigo-blue scale bones shining on her neck and elbows. And all over her body, there were bumps and swelling sticking out of her flesh. Places where her skin had been cut up and burned.
She stood bare, the spells of the many swords she’d created carved into her naked body. The ones that were tattoos were one thing, but others were carved into her skin with blades, or burned onto her, leaving unsightly scars all over her body.
A gasp escaped Adonis’s lips. Her body was toned, well-endowed, and symmetrical, which only made the contrast even more gruesome to behold. But in Adonis’s eyes, it was still a thing of beauty. Those scars were marks of Dranvi refusing to back down from her war with God, standing as proof of the grand battle she was fighting even now.
In her, Adonis saw the visage of the holy mother residing in the darkness. Having accepted each and every stigmata just made her more sublime. There stood beauty and unsightliness in perfect unison. Grisly marks adorned alluring curvature, the beauty of her body accentuated by how repulsive the scars were.
With one hand, Adonis gripped Rusty Nail while gingerly reaching out to touch her bare form with the other. He could feel the shape of the scars, the warmth and smoothness of her skin, the rhythm of her breathing. It all stood out, alabaster and pure in the darkness, and in the face of this sacred sight Adonis felt a tightness in his chest.
And before his eyes, one of the Spells carved into her flesh shone red—or so it seemed. In truth, beads of blood leaked from it, like it had just been carved into her flesh to greet him, with a single strand of blood streaking down her bosom.
NOWHERE
Spurred on by her nod and gentle smile, Adonis leaned in and kissed the blood-drenched spell. It tasted sweet, like iron, reminiscent of the Seed of Calamity he drank when he first met Dranvi. The flavor filled his mouth and spread into his body, beckoning Adonis far away to the edge of an abyss.
The blood dripping from the spell shone red in the dark. Dranvi’s bosom bounced, paleness disrupting the darkness, and Adonis’s lips and tongue suckled on it, like a child breastfeeding on the blood of their mother.
“Aaah…” Dranvi let out a passionate sigh, embracing Adonis gently and caressing his head like he was a newborn child.
Adonis brought her bloodstained nipple between his lips, his eyes filling with sorrow. They sparkled in the light, which turned to droplets that spilled forth, running down Dranvi’s chest before vanishing into the profound darkness around them.
Adonis wept, his voice muffled—and soon it turned into fierce sobbing.
Like the first cries of an infant.
Within the dark, having lost his sense of time, Adonis stood alone once again. Holding up his sword, he closely examined its silvery-gray glow. Slowly but surely, the sword was starting to respond to him.
He didn’t need to be coddled. No matter how pathetic or childish it may have seemed, he hadn’t been able to move forward unless he’d gone back to that moment and conquered it. But eventually, at the end of precise, painstaking emotional labor repeating for what seemed like countless times…
It appeared.
When Sian arrived, he was greeted by an exhausted Adonis, the younger man’s face emaciated like he hadn’t had a wink of sleep.
“I found it,” he said briefly.
“Oh?” Sian flashed an amused smile.
Of the over three hundred swords thrust into the floor, Sian pulled out a short one. Adonis eyed the Question mark on its blade with a strangely serene gaze.
“I’ve fawned on others too long. But thanks to that, I feel like I can finally stand on my own.”
“How about you hold up your sword before you start talking big?”
Adonis raised his sword silently, without any hint of boasting or showiness. On the left side of the base of its blade was etched a spell, one Sian could see, too:
NOWHERE
This was his spell, one form of a future Dranvi saw.
“I think I understand now. Why I’m the one to wield this sword.”
“Heh.” Sian pointed the tip of his sword at Adonis in amusement. “Come at me.”
Adonis approached calmly. His stance looked terribly defenseless, his limbs straight and his footwork quick. In contrast to how he fought before, this time he moved straight toward his opponent. Sian motioned his blade ever so slightly, inviting an attack, but even with his eyes fixed straight on the weapon, Adonis kept his charge as it was. Despite that, his movements were loose, not stiff, and he entered attacking range in the blink of an eye.
There was whistling in the wind, followed immediately by clanging metal. The swords clashed in a sonorous, proud tune, reminiscent of Schwertmusik. One blow, two, three.
“Mm…,” Sian growled, his expression still composed but his eyes full of something between delight and surprise.
A moment later, this pure, fair exchange of blows was disturbed. Sian’s blade began to rapidly take on the colors of rust and decay. With fewer than ten blows, the spots where the blade had been struck were dotted with black stains, the skin of the metal splintering. The sword began bending out of shape and cracks ran through it.
And then with a clear, crisp sound, the Question mark shattered to bits, the blade breaking down the middle.
Within less than a second, Sian drew another sword with blinding speed, with movements several times faster than when Adonis drew his swords from Bamboo.
Adonis was pleased. He didn’t want to change the trajectory of this battle now. He wanted to clearly see the things he was bound to see if he kept on this path.
He shattered another sword, and Sian drew a third. Right now, Adonis’s technique was orthodox and refined, suiting Rusty Nail and drawing out its properties. The blade twisted, extended and coiled like it was lashing out with its fangs, its tip like a talon. With the color of decay reaching as far as the grip in his hands, the blade extended. As the sword’s shape warped and changed, Adonis’s technique naturally shifted to match it, resulting in a style that, while refined, reflected the unusual developments the sword went through.
The third sword shattered along with its hilt. Sian drew another; avoiding direct clashes, he held up the blade to carefully deflect his opponent’s swipes. Just like Adonis had done within the red confines of Tiziano’s womb, he flexibly, easily deflected blows, thrusting at the enemy’s weakest spots.
But to Adonis, this was like shattering his former self. Launching blow after blow, he gradually cornered Sian. The Question mark sword began to visibly wilt, like its life was being drained, and the moment a blow connected with it directly, it shattered in a shower of rusted fragments. Had Sian been even a second late to jump away, the slash would have carved his body in two.
He drew a fifth sword. Adonis’s weapon was now shaped like a spiral scythe, the sound of its swings a faint wailing that peculiarly resembled a real voice. This beautiful whistle placed a listener under the strange impression that they ought to offer up their neck to the blade.
And as the sword swung through the air, a strange voice could be heard overlapping the whistling.