The Legend of Randidly Ghosthound

To be frank, Alana didn’t work up much of a sweat during her match Azriel. Yet still, she felt somewhat awkward as she moved out of the fighters’ portion of the stadium and went to the stands. People surged around her waving papers for her to sign and she wished that there was a competitors only viewing area.

Just when she had resigned herself to signing a few autographs, a wave of Nether settled heavily around her seat. The air crackled and buckled underneath the overwhelming pressure that descend from the Nether storm Randidly maintained. The people around her rapidly went white and then fled. A few couldn’t move, but luckily the effect had been designed with an outwardly swirling current, eventually carrying them away.

Alana offered Randidly a thumbs up, who rolled his eyes at her. Next to him, Tatiana shook her head ruefully, perhaps worrying about the public relationships aspect of his casual use of power to brush people away. Still, better for the Ghosthound to do it than Alana herself. And normally, Alana wouldn’t insist on sitting right here. But the next match was Wivanya.

The next match would determine who Alana would fight. The heat in her chest continued to build, the fight against Azriel had only fanned the flames. Waiting was agony. At least by watching, she would be briefly distracted.

What Alana hadn’t expected was for a still bloodied and disheveled Azriel stalked through the Ghosthound’s Nether pressure and plopped herself down next to Alana. A furred lion man came after her, clearly more uncomfortable in the pressure than either of the two women. Azriel gestured to him, almost as a way to break the silence. “You have not met my fiance. However, you shouldn’t have too much interaction in the future, so there is no need for further introduction. This is him.”

Alana rolled her eyes. If nothing else, she had to respect how direct this woman was. “I won’t be invited to the wedding?”

That seemed to genuinely throw Azriel. The lion-headed, and thus far unnamed, fiance took this opportunity to lean forward and elbow Azriel gently in the side. “See? I told you that you were mistaken that you had no one to invite to the wedding. Time is short, but let’s reexamine the guest list-”

Azriel wielded her elbow like an emphatic period, putting an end to the sentence. Then she turned back to Alana as though nothing had happened. “We do not have time to play around like this. There is something I wish to tell you. Specifically about challenging the Ghosthound.”

“Is there any rush? We need to get through all of today’s matches before we determine the group to challenge him. And I’m quite curious about your wedding.” Alana scratched her chin. “So tell me, is it going to be a large ceremony? Do you have your dress picked out yet? Does your hair just blend into a veil? You know, are you even inviting Randidly? I believe he’d definitely want to be there.”

He blocked this elbow from Azriel, but still pouted and fell silent. Azriel pushed her hair back behind her ears, causing her large eyes to appear even more intense than usual. “There is indeed time, but I want your answer now. I am hoping I can tutor you in the art of the Ghosthound’s image. As a member of the Pantheon, I have a bit more access to his abilities and habits. And I’ve noticed a distinct deficit in his… arrangement. Not that I think there is much chance of overcoming him, but I believe if you address this weakness directly, you will stand a slightly larger chance of inflicting damage.”

“Knowing you, you’ve done calculations. How much larger of a chance?” Alana asked curiously. The crowd’s excitement began to build around them: the two fighters were about to come out and take the stage.

“From about a single percent to 3.4%,” Azriel announced. “That is, that you force him to go all out. As far as I can tell, there is no way for eight people from the Alpha Cosmos to defeat Randidly Ghosthound. Even the entire Vulpis Squad would be defeated by him in a direct confrontation.

Alana didn’t bother to prevent her face from warping into a shark’s grin. That was honestly better than she had expected. The heat rose up her throat, dancing across her tongue.

Before the conversation could proceed further, Kimpap walked calmly out onto the stage. She offered small waves to the crowd, even as they surged and screamed for her attention. If Illdan from Tellus had captured the adoration of younger women with his model-esque looks, Kimpap’s cool demeanor and confidence had swayed the older generation to her side. All sexes seemed intoxicated by the sense of controlled capability that she exuded.

She was capability personified to a lot of the people of Expira. To Alana, she just looked like a smug version of Mrs. Hamilton.

Currently, Kimpap had risen to become the second favorite to win the tournament, behind only Alana. And Alana’s odds were much, much, much smaller, but the only reason that those amounts didn’t converge was that the two would fight in the next round against each other. One would inevitably knock out the other.

For all her quiet capability, Kimpap couldn’t shake the monolith that was Alana Donal. The defeat of the First Calamity was too fresh in people’s minds.

Wivanya came onto the stage next, her massive body glittering in the sun. Those attendees who weren’t precisely human came out in force to support the Frost Dragon Broodmother, hooting and growling and roaring. More than a competitive arena, the cacophony transported them all to a zoo, filled with monstrous beasts.

“As a demonstration of my ability to understand images,” Azriel said. “I would be happy to predict the outcome of this match.”

“Don’t you dare,” Alana said. Her emotions briefly flared, causing orange flames to lick along her arms. She had to release a breath to suppress the display. “There are some things that shouldn’t be categorized. Sometimes, wanting a victory is enough to earn it. No matter the difference in capabilities.”

Azriel, intelligently, said nothing. Alana bit her tongue, the heat inside of her body twisting into anxiety. After both fighters settled into the arena, the Ghosthound pronounced the start of the match.

It took about thirty seconds for Alana to begin to clench her fists. Another thirty seconds later, she was breathing heavily. When, after two minutes since the beginning of the match, she felt Randidly release more Nether pressure around her, Alana realized that she must be flaring her image even more than she realized. However, she didn’t attempt to control her reaction. She even used Randidly’s screening, blazing with righteous indignation as she watched the match continue.

Because it was infuriating.

Wivanya was winter incarnate, relying on her size, power, and overwhelming cold to try and pin Kimpap down. She opened her maw and released gushing surges of cold that iced the arena surface and filled the air with snow flurries. Waves of frost crashed and spread, dominating the arena.

Yet Kimpap cleanly responded to each threat. Her spear movements were direct and simple, containing just enough power to deflect most of the power in Wivanya’s breath. Her leaps took her just far enough to avoid being overly affected by the strike. A strange image of restraint pervaded the match.

Chill settled across her armor, but it never managed to latch on with any consistency.

It was immediately clear to Alana that Kimpap could overwhelm Wivanya in a direct confrontation. Yet she chose not to, again and again. She lashed and cut and advanced slowly, gradually pinning the Frost Dragon back by repeatedly barely overcoming the methods of the other. And from inside the confrontation, Wivanya didn’t seem to realize; from her perspective, she almost defeated Kimpap again and again, with the other barely managing to escape.

Ice crept down over the edges of the arena and strangled the life out of the grassy area around the platform. Yet ice still failed to find purchase on Kimpap’s body.

So Wivanya flared her image and squeezed the entire arena with the force of her presence. Clouds built and began to release more snow, even through the Nether barrier than the Ghosthound maintained. Alana gritted her teeth. Wivanya’s image was pure and powerful. But because of how much sky it could cover, she wasted a lot of emotional force while Kimpap conserved her energy.

Yet what Alana couldn’t forgive was that Kimpap was utilizing a strategy that a weaker competitor might use against a strong one. And Alana was quite sure that Kimpap was the stronger of the two and instead chose to engage in mind games.

She toyed with Alana’s best friend, right in front of her.

The second half of the match was even worse. While Wivanya’s image dominated the wider arena, her opponent from Tellus had very cleanly taken control of the few meters around her own body. Into that zone, the cold never managed to penetrate. So when Kimpap advanced and began wounding Wivanya, the Frost Dragon was confused and expended even more energy, thinking that her grip on the larger area wasn’t strong enough.

“The winner is Kimpap,” The Ghosthound eventually announced. The massive body of the Frost Dragon Broodmother lay collapsed on the ground. Alana suppressed a murderous rage, hearing the crowd cheer so animatedly for her partner’s defeat. But it was the calm smile on Kimpap’s face that really stuck in her mind.

The vicious heat grinned in Alana’s body; finally, it would have the occasion to escape and ravage the surface of this godless world.

*****

The matches began to accelerate through the day, a rising tide of excitement that carried them all forward.

Randidly leaned back in his chair. “Let the next match… begin!”

Paolo and Mrs. Hamilton faced off against one another, leaving Randidly wondering which of the two would emerge victorious. For these matches, he tried not to look with his Grim Intuition, wanting to be surprised by the outcome. He shifted in his chair to a comfortable position and put his chin in his hand.

Mrs. Hamilton mobilized shadows and complex wires to hem in Paolo’s movements. Rapid attacks ripped open his skin and left him constantly wounded. Her image was one of sinister control and manipulation. However, opposite her was Paolo. Here, on a stage, with his image of a champion in front of the approving crowd, few could match him in terms of raw resonance.

Each drop of blood spilled only added to the oppressive significance of their confrontation.

Being here strengthened him. Each cheer brought him additional capability, which let him rip through an impediment and earn himself an even louder cheer. He methodically advanced, stoically enduring blows that Mrs. Hamilton reflected back at him and closing the distance between the two fighters.

It was actually in this final portion of the fight that Randidly wondered if he had been a mistake. The last-minute of the fight seemed almost choreographed, with the two exchanging flurries of blows at a close distance.

Mrs. Hamilton’s hands bit like snakes and scattered like flower petals in the wind when Paolo tried to counter-attack. She retreated with small steps, injecting venomous shadows into Paolo’s arms with each successful strike. Paolo’s speed finally began to slow. However, even if his speed went down, his physical Strength only increased. His steps became heavy and ponderous, but he never ceased advancing.

Mrs. Hamilton performed a complex combination of Skill and image to aim for a decisive strike, but he endured that too. After swaying briefly, he began to advance once more. Her abilities couldn’t overcome his intolerance of loss. Eventually, he pushed her to the edge of the arena; touching the ground wasn’t a disqualification in the actual tournament like it had been in the preliminaries, but the jump from arena to the ground would be a few seconds too long suspended in the air.

Mrs. Hamilton bowed her head and surrendered. The crowd cheered, but Randidly could sense they were disappointed they didn’t see some climactic finish. Meanwhile, Paolo laughed raucously and threw his swollen and clumsy arms around Mrs. Hamilton’s shoulders. With his sharp senses, Randidly could hear Paolo telling Mrs. Hamilton how worried he was about losing the match.

A kind liar, Randidly shook his head ruefully. A strong warrior, too.

Next came DiOrtho Vant and Charlotte Wick. Honestly, Randidly felt bad; not for these two, but for all the people who suffered silently in their corner of the bracket. Because of Raymund Ballast’s pride, it was always arranged that the two members of the Vulpis Squad would fight in this round. Only one would make it into the quarter-finals. And everyone else who had the bad luck to be there would be inevitably squeezed out.

To Randidly’s surprise, one did have a decisive advantage over the other, but it wasn’t who he expected: Charlotte Wick’s image still vaguely resembled Frankenstein in the way her original and the influence of Helen were stitched together, but her emotional affect was nearly perfect.

It might even be better than Randidly’s. When her images flared, they sung with the fabric of the world. The colors they manifested made the world seem cold and blade. The hopelessness of death and the endless, nearly ignorant optimism of life swirled together in a peculiar harmony.

DiOrtho Vant had higher Skills. His physical capabilities were higher. Even as a raw fighter, he was much more proficient.

However, that day, Charlotte Wick wanted it more.

She tore him down and raised her head at the sky in a victorious howl. When Randidly announced her victory, she held that pose for several seconds. Tears coursed down her face; Randidly wished he could tell her how proud Helen would have been.

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