The air in the Iron Anvil didn't just crackle with tension; it screamed. The moment Amir fled, the fragile pretense of civilization shattered. Aggresus, a specter of vengeance, and Pyotr, the unyielding wall of the Inquisition, became the eye of a storm of violence.
Aggresus moved first, a blur of honed hatred. His sword, "Sorrow's Edge," whispered from its scabbard, a grey streak aimed to cleave Pyotr from shoulder to hip.
Pyotr didn't dodge. He planted his feet, and the Iron Parasol snapped open with a sound like a guillotine's fall. The canopy, a web of interlocking, razor-wire filaments, wasn't fabric; it was a circular, shimmering shield. Sorrow's Edge met it in a shower of white-hot sparks, the shriek of metal on monofilament drowning out the panicked shouts of the bar's patrons. The force of the impact would have severed a normal man's arms, but Pyotr's form, empowered by the Gear of Rust and Regret, merely absorbed the shock, his boots grinding into the wooden floor.
"A fancy umbrella," Aggresus sneered, his voice a gravelly taunt as he flowed back, his form flickering. "The Inquisition's best relies on a noblewoman's accessory?"
"It's not for the rain," Pyotr replied, his voice a calm, deep rumble. He twisted the parasol's handle. With a sharp click, a hidden mechanism in the tip released a cloud of fine, grey dust—Rust-Motes.
Aggresus, expecting a blade, got a breath of absolute decay. He recoiled, but not fast enough. The particles settled on the vambrace guarding his left forearm. Instantly, the polished steel bloomed with orange-red rust, flaking away like dry skin to reveal the flesh beneath. A superficial wound, but a critical message: My touch is entropy.
Enraged, Aggresus became a phantom. He didn't run; he flowed, using the bar's chaos as his terrain. He kicked a table laden with bottles at Pyotr. The Inquisitor didn't block it; he simply pointed the closed tip of his parasol and uttered, "Brittle." The wooden table aged centuries in a second, its molecular structure turning to dust. It disintegrated mid-air, the bottles shattering harmlessly against a now-powdery cloud.
Aggresus was already elsewhere. He appeared from the shadow of a massive barrel, his sword thrusting for Pyotr's kidney. Pyotr, with an almost lazy grace, angled the open parasol. The blade skittered off the wired canopy, deflected. In the same motion, Pyotr lunged forward, using the parasol not as a shield, but as a bludgeon. The heavy, steel-reinforced tip slammed into Aggresus's chest.
There was a sickening crack of ribs. Aggresus grunted, flying backward and crashing through a rack of shelves, sending glass and liquor raining down.
He was up in an instant, fueled by fury and pain. "Illusions!" he barked, and the air around Pyotr shimmered. Suddenly, three copies of Aggresus lunged from different angles, their attacks perfectly synchronized. It was the same technique he'd used to kill Gail.
Pyotr didn't try to guess. He closed his eyes. The Gear of Rust and Regret didn't need sight; it felt the age of things, the truth of decay. The two illusions were new, fresh lies. The real Aggresus was the one with the history of violence etched into his very soul. Pyotr sensed the ancient rage and turned, the Iron Parasol meeting the real Sorrow's Edge in another fountain of sparks.
"Your tricks are stale, mercenary," Pyotr growled, shoving him back.
The fight evolved into a brutal dance of fundamental forces. Aggresus was Speed and Deception, a master of misdirection and lethal precision. Pyotr was Inevitability and Decay, a slow, unstoppable tide that eroded all it touched.
Aggresus would unleash a flurry of strikes, each one deflected by the spinning, whirring parasol, each deflection costing him a little more—a patch of rust on his sword's crossguard, the leather of his hilt cracking and drying out. He was being worn down, piece by piece.
Realizing direct assault was suicide, Aggresus changed tactics. He shattered a lantern against the floor, splashing Pyotr with burning oil. As Pyotr moved to extinguish the flames, Aggresus used the distraction to go not for him, but for his weapon. A powerful, precise kick connected with the parasol's handle, sending the invaluable weapon spinning out of Pyotr's grasp to clatter in a dark corner.
A triumphant grin spread across Aggresus's face. "Now you're just a man."
Pyotr looked at his empty hand, then back at Aggresus. A slow, cold smile touched his lips. "I am the Rust. The Regret. The weapon is a formality."
He charged. Empty-handed.
Aggresus met him, sword high. But Pyotr didn't try to block. He let the blade come. At the last possible second, he twisted, the tip of Sorrow's Edge slicing a deep gash across his side. He didn't even flinch. His blood, charged with his power, was not just blood. It was Liquid Regret.
Where his blood splashed on Aggresus's sword arm, the effect was catastrophic. The skin didn't just rot; it remembered every wound it had ever taken and manifested them at once. Old scars reopened. Bones that had healed years ago throbbed with phantom fractures. Aggresus screamed, a raw sound of agony and shock, his sword arm falling limp and useless.
He stared at Pyotr, his eyes wide with a new, primal fear. This wasn't a fight; it was a dismantling.
"This isn't over," Aggresus choked out, clutching his ruined arm.
"It is for today," Pyotr said, taking a step forward.
With a final, hate-filled glare, Aggresus slammed his good hand onto the floor. A smoke pellet, concealed in his palm, erupted, filling the bar with a thick, acrid cloud. By the time it cleared, the mercenary was gone, leaving behind only the scent of blood, rust, and his shattered pride.
Pyotr stood amidst the wreckage, retrieved his parasol, and calmly lit a cigar.
The world had narrowed to the glint of the descending stiletto. Amir saw his death in Madam Eliza's venomous smile, his mind screaming, his body too broken to obey.
Then, a boot clad in practical, hardened leather entered his field of vision.
It did not simply push her. It exploded into the side of her head with the force of a piston.
THWUMP.
The impact was sickeningly solid. Eliza's head snapped to the side, her body following in a graceless, spinning sprawl. She crashed into a stack of overflowing garbage bins, the sound of clattering metal and her choked gasp of pure shock filling the alley.
Standing over Amir, his coat whipping around him from the residual momentum of the kick, was Johnathan Blake. He didn't look at Amir. His glowing, potion-enhanced eyes were locked on the writhing cultist, his face a mask of cold, professional fury.
All though I hate to this brainless kid but unfortunately I can't let you kill him
Eliza staggered to her feet, one side of her beautiful face already swelling, a trickle of black-tinged blood leaking from her nose. The seductive purr was gone, replaced by a sizzling, multi-layered hiss of rage. "You… you brute!"
Johnathan didn't grace her with a reply. He was already moving, his hands a blur as they plucked vials from his bandolier. He wasn't a Tuner; he couldn't warp reality. But he was a master of altering it through chemistry and force.
He threw a vial that shattered at her feet, not exploding, but releasing a cloud of shimmering, silver particles. Aether-Null Dust. Eliza raised a hand to summon a shield of dark energy, but the particles clung to it, fizzling and popping, disrupting the harmonic frequency of her power. The shield flickered and died.
She snarled, lunging at him with preternatural speed, her nails elongating into black claws. Johnathan didn't retreat. He met her charge, a smaller, crystalline vial in his hand. As her claws swept toward his throat, he crushed the vial in his palm. A dome of solid, transparent Aether-Ice flashed into existence around him for a split second.
SCREEEECH!
Her claws scraped harmlessly against the super-hardened barrier, the sound ear-splitting. The moment the dome vanished, Johnathan was already countering. He didn't throw a potion; he threw a punch, his fist empowered by a lingering strength concoction. It connected with her sternum, and the crack was audible. She flew back again, gasping.
This was the core of their fight: Eliza's esoteric, ritualistic power against Johnathan's brutal, applied science. She tried to weave a spell to cloud his mind; he inhaled a sharp-smelling salt that cleared his senses instantly. She summoned tendrils of shadow from the ground; he dropped a pellet that erupted in a flash of blinding holy light, causing the shadows to recoil and wither.
He was systematically countering her every move, his experience as a hunter of the unnatural giving him an answer for every trick. But Eliza was clever. She realized she couldn't overpower him directly. Her eyes darted to the dazed Amir, then back to Johnathan.
A cruel smile twisted her bleeding lips. "You protect him so fiercely. Does he know what you are? The empty man who clings to his bottled power?"
It was a psychic jab, aimed at his insecurities. Johnathan flinched, just for a microsecond, but it was enough.
Eliza didn't press the physical attack. Instead, she slammed her hands together, and a wave of pure, concussive sonic force erupted from her, not aimed at Johnathan, but at the walls of the alley. The brickwork shuddered, and a fire escape above groaned, its rusted bolts shearing. With a shriek of tearing metal, a large section of it collapsed, crashing down between her and the two Inquisitors, sending up a cloud of dust and debris.
Johnathan shielded Amir with his body, coughing as the dust filled the alley.
When it settled, Madam Eliza was gone. But her mocking laughter echoed from the rooftops, fading into the city's hum. From the mouth of the alley, the sounds of hurried footsteps and shouting voices echoed as other Inquisition members, drawn by the commotion, finally arrived.
Johnathan didn't celebrate. He just knelt, his glow fading, and offered a hand to Amir.
I don't how or why is that woman is after you ? but I would like say one thing that you're the most greatest troublemaker i have seen in my entire life !