Culmination

[01:41] The battlefield raged as it always would, when faced with two factions that had disagreements. Though it was obvious that Dawn was fighting harder, far more so vicious, far more savagely as they had lost one of their own.

It was only right that they give their all to secure the safety of the other one. Contrary to what some may have painted about the city of the undead, they cherished those close to them and held them as close as possible.

No, they may not always agree but the fact remained. They were a city, collectively, together. United.

It is why Farin finds himself staring down someone of his own calibre, equal. A chance to battle on the front lines finally coming to him. This was someone who had already taken down two of their very own. Would the Ookami be next on the list?

With a snarl he leaps from his position to stick his sword in the direction of the Huangzhou dweller. ''You reek of that Jianghese stench.'' The city was more than capable, but Dawn was just as much.

''I'll be glad to finally get a battle instead of just knocking heads.'' They were known to be spiritual, right? He wonders just how true that was.

''Settle up, I'm not attacking an unarmed man.''
(Farin Wray)
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Ban's impassivity was something that could only be matched by the snark distilled from the parties that opposed. As of late, Dawn and Huangzhou had been keen to engage in a very open, verbal Cold War whenever their war efforts were halted- and yet, even to it, the Heifang remained inert.

Perfectly statuesque, hueless orbs of abyss' blackest stare up towards Farin's levitating form, tracking the ookami's hovering silhouette as if they were a bird of prey and its prized quarry.

The candelabra that hung from his back was likely what prompted Farin's remark, as Vespera never truly proved able to rattle whoever faced him out of the shocking disbelief that was brandishing a candlestick for an instrument of war.

His hands rise, and in conjunction to such an innocent, suave motion, the humidity in the air around them heightens into tangible fruition, germinating to bubble-like globes of water's firmament and blood's crimson in a show of overbearingly numbering duality given martial form.

"Are men such as us ever unarmed?"

Gazing peers that remained lazy for the time spans that led to their nascent showdown bulge, as dozens of projectiles dash towards Wray with alarming speed, even to such an agile warrior.

They flood the retinue, innumerable. It rained.
(Ban Heifang)
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His own body is covered in a swath of blue with the undertones of the cosmos. The slight tinge easily spotted. What was not? Was the fact that the world around them, unseen, had also been providing him with a source of mana. Gifted, blessed.

The air around him was almost otherworldly, though he needn't point it out to someone from that place.

The Heifang strikes without a word after his initial sentence, and beads of water flutter around in a manner far more deadly than they should have. They zoom upon him and, though he is swift, the canine bred man is not as prepared as he should have been.

He does not give way, however, as what his armor does not soak up with his quick reflexes, he simply powers through in a mad dash that nearly blinds those not swift enough to see. Farin's body moves from one spot to the next in solid, rapid flashes.

Upon Ban immediately, against the obvious disadvantage at having been struck first, he rends the very air with his blade in an arc motion, cleaving with a hubris befitting a warrior.

The glowish after-trail of his swing splits the air apart and gives a brief glance into the realm normal men could not see.
(Farin Wray)
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The fields just westwise of Huangzhou are eroded and sundered by the clash of their forces, ruling mights that were ever shrilled to churn the foundations of the earth. Magi and warriors of their standard were, after all, a constant menace on the land itself, menaces to the quiet, otherwise undisturbed quo of nature.

The ookami's celerity is only equaled by Ban's reflexes, which are quick to allow him to distinguish the ideal moment to strike or otherwise, patiently waiting for the gaps in time where his opponent lacked the vigor to continue his relentless strikes, to then, reciprocate any form of violence that had been dished against him.

At first, he holds vantage, bought by the benefit of never obliging to hesitation.

There is only so much pressure one can sustain before committing mistakes that, although warranted by the peccable temper of humanity, were lethal to ever allow tenure.

A blade clad in otherworldly vigor slashes a bit too close, and its edge cuts against the Heifang's armor, opening a diagonal gash across the squarish mold of his chest. His teeth grit and a labored murmur escapes through them, a product of mute agony.

As the nature of fighting folk ruled, a reciprocation ought to be at works.

Every single attempt from Farin to cleave him in twain were almost infallible, but matching their savagery with his own agility and wit, the Heifang allows clusters of water to carry him through the battlefield, dragging the mage's form while latched to his arms and legs.

Carried by the force of will over matter, multitudinous bullets continue to be fired towards his foe, although they now ricochet against the ground and walls, flooding the swordsman with their might.

Did it aim to overwhelm Wray, or simply to hinder his ability to chase him? Perhaps both.


(Ban Heifang)
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It wasn't anything like he'd expected. To find an equal, here and there. It was quite enjoyable. But where he lacked, the enemy made up for. The same could be said for the other way around.

It all came down to this, the moment. This moment. Where in space and time itself seems to shift away from the both of them, or was that simply Farin alone? While he fights he can hear that voice again in the back of his mind, calling. Restless.

Everything comes to a slow as every ounce of his power surges. Blood, waterlogged wounds, cuts and all sorts of impacted imperfections dent him in many places. Yet he stood resolute.

As he fills himself to the brim with mana, over the cosmos' own blessings, Farin gives way to all source of reckless abandon, completely allowing his instincts to overtake him in the moment. This was not a foe he could afford to hold back against.

And he damn sure was not ready to die and leave Kestrel and his pup all alone. No, he'd much rather fight, much rather live--much rather he would win, than suffer anything even close to the idea that they could be torn apart.

It is for this reason that his iridescent glowing body, similar to that of a falling star, suddenly rushes towards Ban like a sonic boom. A comet, falling towards the grounds of Agartha, intended to impact and slam him entirely into the very rocks they fought upon. Dirt, grass and all.

It forces him through a gigantic swamp of water, it forces him through any source of magic aimed his way but he will weather that weight!
(Farin Wray)
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Bulwarks of water are shouldered through by a rushing ball of ethereal force, that proved to be something much simpler than an inbound meteorite, although it might have packed the same force. A glimpse of the warrior's sword is just enough to make a glimpse into a budding kick off to a lightning-fast reaction.

And that was where the tides of time froze for either, indeed.

It did not matter how many wars were fought, blood was shed and triumph had been achieved. The laurels would never take away the thrill that was to stand away from the abyss by a hair's breadth. And more so than just thrill, the dreading excitation of what would come next:

Prospects of life. The eminence of death. The birth of yet another vendetta. War and strife held within themselves more profoundness and color than the arts and crafts of the mundane could ever hope to match.

Bai Long was not yet vindicated. Nor were the dozens close to his heart that had been felled before the man. Would a haphazard blade be the one thing to rend Ban away from all that he sought to accomplish, and all that he owed honoring?

Faculties perceive reality once more as they should- and retroaction comes in a form that is only worthy of the mortality that had permeated the duelists' confrontation.

A blast of raw mana is launched forth by a pitching hand, pivoting too swiftly to be heeded by an untrained eye, releasing the former's essence with a proportion too large, unwarranted to the amount of mana the man still held in his reserves. Did he seek to collapse and waste onto the battlefield's grounds?

Perhaps, in excess, he sought victory.

The blast clashes against Farin's arms, that likely do their best to block the blow, although the explanation for Ban's expense of mana comes soon after. The now hundreds of globes and spears of water that had been deflected by Wray during the span of their combat loom menacingly, pointed at the fencer who had been sent reeling.

And then they converge, upon the object of their expectant aggression. But a man.

The blunt force of some and scrapping edge of other peers crash and rive with such overwhelming might, they barrel Wray out of sight, compelling the man to a site outwards to their bout's.

In exasperated exhaustion, the Heifang falls to a knee, clutching his injuries tightly. Too close. Survival, however, was a guarantee.
(Ban Heifang)
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He is catapulted, though that much was certain. He could feel himself. He was flying, and not of his own command either. He was gliding to somewhere else. Was that lucky? As his hair covers the whites of his eyes, they hide golden irides that no doubt shrink in shock, pain and every other sort of emotion.

Curtains of silver simply shield the world away from the shame that was Farin Wray, as no matter how close a battle, a loss was a loss. And it stung every bit of his pride to admit such a thing. Yet he could do no other thing.

Was it enough? His strength?
No.

He needed more. Far more. Much more. To contend with people was not enough. He simply needed to reach inside of himself, to shut that voice up or actualize it. One way or the other, Farin's body burned with the desire to push forward.

Dawn would not be crushed. It would not, not at all. He would become the guardian he so honestly sought to become, to boththe city and those he loved. Cherished. Idealized.

His fingers tighten, though he'd long since landed. And the pain does not catch up to him for several hours, still focused on that singular moment. The moment where he'd realized that it simply. .

Was not enough.
(Farin Wray)