Chapter 1463 (2/2)
Ancho considered this, chewing thoughtfully on the corner of the referee’s uniform even while snow began to fall chaotically over the arena. Although Hank was moving with more vigor than he had been at the beginning of the match due to the growing momentum of his image, he was still clipped by a large icicle that Wivanya launched out at him. Hank swayed from the glancing impact but was ultimately able to stay on his feet. Blood dribbled out of a half dozen wounds inflicted on him by Alana’s brutal assault.
“I’m barely standin’, bud,” Hank drawled with false humor. At which point, Ancho finally huffed in defeat and gave his permission.
“Eternal Companion,” Hank whispered, even as Wivanya spread her wings wide and screeched. The gains Hank had made in the sky were gradually forced back and snow fell more heavily in the surrounding area. But Hank felt some warmth returning to his extremities. From the distance, the sound of hoofs reached his ear with the reassuring staccato of rain on a tin roof.
Wivanya surged forward with an increasingly dense aura of chilling air around her, forcing Hank to roll sideways and rip open the wounds his body was dutifully knitting together. When the first strike missed, Wivanya narrowed her eyes and conjured a half dozen ice spears that pierced the ground around Hank and hemmed him into a small area. But at the same time, a shadowy figure reached the edge of the arena.
Hank honestly hadn’t realized how much he had needed a horse until he saw one fleeing in panic from a giant grasshopper. Something clicked instantly in his mind. Because the monster was only Level 28, Hank had finished it in a single bullet and cautiously approached the horse. That was how he met Ancho.
But ultimately, Ancho was just a normal horse, even if Hank had his suspicions about that based on how expressive Ancho was. So he couldn’t actually play any role in a serious battle of Hank’s. But really, Ancho didn’t need to; he just needed to spend time with Hank, exposing him to the details and meaning that could only be gathered slowly, through observation.
With enough time and dedication, Hank could create for himself a companion with all the life and character of the real horse.
...minus a few superfluous personality traits, of course.
Once it leapt up onto the raised platform, Ancho’s shadow clone reared up and released a clarion neigh that attracted everyone’s attention. Everyone but Ancho, who buried his head against the referee’s back as his image equivalent bared himself before so many humans.
“Too late to save you now,” Wivanya hissed, but no sooner had shadow-Ancho landed back on all four hooves than it stepped forward and was right next to Hank. As an image, especially as an image within an area with the heavy presence of Hank’s image, space was not a serious problem. Hank swung up into the saddle and they stepped again, escaping from the frigid encirclement. And when they crossed the distance to the far side of the arena, Hank had his revolver ready with the second powerful bullet in the chamber.
It had been far too long since he had seen Alana. Perhaps it had only been fifteen seconds, but after her initial blitz, it made him extremely wary.
Yet as Hank scanned the arena, seething with mist and falling snow as Wivanya’s Skills affected a wider and wider area, he couldn’t find Alana or her tell-tale orange flames. Somehow, this absence did not make him feel better. His narrative instincts made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end; something was about to happen.
But in the meantime, Wivanya beat her wings tentatively, testing the earlier wound that Hank had inflicted. Air churned around the dragon like she stood at the center of a wheel and the frigid currents around were spokes. The swirling pillars of mist seemed capable of grinding Hank to dust if he allowed the dragon to draw too near to him. The shadow horse beneath Hank shook out its mane, loosening some frost that had began to form. Hank frowned around but didn’t yet move as Wivanya shuddered forward. He just casually raised his revolver.
He couldn’t keep this up for long. Relying on the image version of Ancho vastly increased his ability to respond to threats, but it also increased the strain on Hank’s mind. And although he considered himself one of the most determined individuals on Earth, the combination of Alana and Wivanya had constantly dogged him and made the first few minutes of the match feel like hours. He needed an opportunity, but Hank couldn’t win if his precious bullets were used on Wivanya.
The Frost Dragon Broodmother was the perfect distraction that would eventually freeze his remaining strength from his bones. Due to high Physical Defense Stats, Hank couldn’t easily put her out of commission. If Alana truly committed to that path to victory, she could simply sit back and wait until Hank made a fatal error to strike.
Of course, if Alana was the type to sit back and wait, Hank wouldn’t be under such pressure right now.
His eyes flicked downward at the marble underneath his feet. In the brief moment when his eyes landed on the marble that was swiftly turning red and bubbling, the image horse underneath him was blurring away from the spot. But even with the impossible quickness of the image, Alana drilled out of the ground wreathed in that dangerous, orange-golden fire faster than he could escape. The tongues of flame produced a harsh light that struck directly onto Hank’s psyche. The flames snaked outward, seeking to incinerate both his image and his flesh.
Bang!
The second most powerful bullet that Hank had prepared for this match cut through the flames but was soon hollowed of its image by the heat and then melted to a superheated raindrop. It splattered harmlessly on the ground, barely buying Hank a split second of reprieve from the flames. But it was enough for him to open up some distance.
The ghost Ancho wheeled around and whinnied in complaint. Hank lowered his revolver and fed the final bullet he had prepared into the cylinder. His palms were sweaty and tingling as he raised the gun. His image continued to frantically strengthen its influence in the surrounding area, but it continued to shrink away beneath the light that Alana produced. His image flared and strained with all the tragic huffing of a children’s floatie being inflated while an adult sat on it.
Not that he could blame his image much for being restrained; even Hank could only keep one eye open as he aimed. The light that Alana was overwhelming. “Ya never keep me waitin’. That’s what I like about ya, Alana.”
“Surrender, Hank. This is your last chance.” Alana replied softly. Her enormous, snowy wings beat softly, sending a few stray feathers fluttering downward. Those feathers settled on the molten tunnel that Alana had burned through the ground, largely extinguishing any admiration Hank could feel for the feather’s beauty. They were practically weapons, with enough tensile strength to smack away his empowered Mana Bullets.
Hank allowed all thoughts of his image to fade away. Or rather, in a way he had stumbled across by watching the Ghosthound, Hank became the best example of his image. He didn’t need to will them into existence; he simply was the image, made real. He breathed in slowly, then breathed out. He wiped his left hand against his jeans while keeping his gun trained on Alana. “Nah. We both know that ain’t how this ends.”
The marble hissed as Alana drifted downward and settled onto the ground. Her flaming boots gradually caused the extremely valuable stone to bubble beneath her feet. “I’m honestly survived you survived the Second Revelation. I didn’t expect it.”
“How many Revelations are there?” Hank asked casually. But it was a distraction. His right pointer finger twitched imperceptibly. Alana blurred into motion as though she had known the shot was coming. She probably had.
BANG!
This bullet was different from all the others. Hank had prepared it precisely, thinking of this moment. To combat that inviolable, self-righteous holiness of Alana’s image, it was filled with an image of the profane. Even if an image like that wasn’t Hank’s strong suit, it was enough to slow the insidious radiation of her flames and strike a serious blow with the refined bullet within the brass casing.
In a way, I knew it would come ta this, too. Hank thought. In a smooth motion, Alana’s spearhead flashed forward, riding a wave of golden flames. Compared to that power, his bullet was so small. And as fer what happens now…
“The Third Revelation: Anguish.”
*****
Later, when it had been determined that Paolo and Kayle would be facing Alana and Wivanya in the final match of the tournament, Randidly and Tatiana had a dinner of stir fry together underneath the stars. After the food was consumed by Randidly’s endless appetite, Tatiana folded her hands in her lap. She lightly cleared her throat. “Not to pry, but… I can sense your feelings have been… complex since the match. If you don’t feel that Alana’s image is appropriately distant from your own enough to be the victorious one-”
“Ha. No, it’s not that.” Randidly waved his hand, but that just made Tatiana more troubled. For the first time in a long time, she was having a difficult time intuiting what he was thinking as he sat and looked up at the moon. “Honestly, it’s fine. It might be accurate to say… I’m struggling a bit with vanity.”
At least with that, Tatiana knew her role. She remained silent and waited for Randidly to continue. The heavy grey clouds continued to drift across the sky, seeming to tease that they would soon shroud the moon, but never daring to actually impede Randidly’s gaze.
Eventually, Randidly did continue. “Her image is… based on my shape. It is premised on a gaze that has followed me for a long time, filled with worship. Due to that history, due to the detail with which she has viewed me… it is powerful. It captures the right notes. The shape is totally present.”
Then, Tatiana saw what had Randidly in such a strange mood. “...but even if it looks like you, it’s almost surprising how much it isn’t you.”
Randidly nodded. “It misses all the important things. The image is me… but it’s not mine. Does that make sense?”
Slowly, Tatiana nodded in return. “She was a fan first, I think. Of Randidly Ghosthound. And it is very difficult for fans to look at their idols with empathy for their troubles. They only see the bright spots… and the glory.”