Chapter 306: Blue VS Yellow.

Chapter 306: Chapter 306: Blue VS Yellow.

They’ve grown up since then; walked different paths, whether by their own choosing or by the influence and expectations of those around them.

But the thrill that Loac inspires in Rogard as he draws his sword hasn’t aged a day.

Even as a kid, the things he could do with a blade had always been both thrilling and terrifying, in the same that riding a horse at full gallop across the plains is both thrilling and terrifying.

​Sure, you might fall, but until then you’re flying.

​Impatient, Rogard dives in to strike first, and he knows the instant their blades meet for the first time in a what feels like a lifetime that this is not the same Loac he once knew.

The Loac back then was still so young; still learning and growing and brimming with raw, unrefined, limitless talent.

​This Loac has had years to polish away the mistakes of his youth.

And what remains is both petrifying and incredible.

​That’s fine with him.

​Rogard’s not the same as he was back then either.

​Back then, no matter how fast he thought he was, Loac could dance circles around him, twisting and weaving like he was riding the wind while Rogard was glued to the ground.

It had been so frustrating having him slip so neatly through his guard, and at the same time, difficult not to admire.

​But that’s why Rogard’s ready for it. Ready for him.

​What he’s not ready for, however, is just how powerful he’s become.

The blade that comes for him whips through the air so sick, so beautiful in its savagery, and the force that comes bearing down upon him is like nothing he remembers.

But he expected that.

Even with all the talent and fire in the world, the Loac he faced back then was still a child with a child’s body and a child’s limits.

​This Loac has no such limits, and every time Rogard flings his sword up to parry he has to throw his entire weight behind it lest he be bodily thrown back.

It hurts like nothing else, and his arms ache and his knees quiver from straining against the mud, but he refuses to be pushed around all over again.

And while when it comes to raw strength Loac might have him beat, Rogard knows that it is hardly what decides the victor.

​So he grits his teeth, steels his joints, and commands his body to move .

To push. To catch each strike before it falls and beat back whatever Loac throws at him.

The mud is treacherous at this speed and with such slick angles but he pays it no mind; dirt and mud and blood no longer bother him the way it bothered him before he started coming back to this place, and if he plants himself right it he need not fear any of it.

​(He thinks he’s bleeding. His mouth tastes red.)

​It doesn’t matter.

​His sword is still in his hand, and Loac’s is still in his.

​That means it isn’t over.

Not by a long shot.

​And this time, Rogard doesn’t fall behind.

​He refuses to.

​In fact, as he twists he sees it as if in slow motion; a chink in Loac’s guard.

It’s small and rapidly closing, like on some level he’s aware of it, but Rogard gets there right before it snaps tight, and the edge of his blade cracks hard and vicious into the armour guarding his ribs.

It rends a gash into the leather, and even though the blades aren’t sharp Rogard had thrown enough force into the slash that it might have been enough to bring any normal man to his knees right then and there.

​But Loac Trent is no mere man, and Rogard doesn’t have time to wonder if it cuts through to flesh because there’s already a glint of steel coming right back at him, fierce and bright and singing.

​Like this, he’s more hurricane than human.

Inexplicably, whilst the heaving clouds haven’t yet unleashed their wrath, Rogard can already feel it; the wind and the rain whipping his hair, blowing him every which way.

Loac had always been like that, dragging and pulling him this way and that. It had been impossible not to follow, not to try and fall into step with him.

He was incredible like that –mesmerising to the point of hypnotic, where if you stepped into his current thoughtlessly then it would sweep you away.

It would drag you in and under, choking the air from your lungs until you have no idea which way is up and which is down and you’re so exhausted it feels like there are ten blades coming for you instead of one.

​Rogard doesn’t fight the current. But he doesn’t let it swallow him, either.

It takes everything he has to keep his head above water; to just keep breathing, keep moving, keep his eyes not just on Loac but on his blade, and on the space he might flit to next.

It’s agony; more exhausting than he could have ever dreamed and his vision blurs and swirls with startling patterns of steel and blue, and then deep, stinging red when he doesn’t quite get his blade up in time.

​So fast .

​Distantly, Rogard’s aware of voices somewhere just beyond the hurricane.

One of them is his own, but the others, they’re shouting his name; urging him on and through, and that lends him strength.

Because he spent years fighting against Loac, and he knows that the wild of his storm isn’t all there is to fear.

​Getting caught up in the current is only the first trap.

Because once you’re far from shore and the crushing weight of Loac’s flurrying strikes is steadily drowning you, like a lifeline, the storm would clear, and in that moment you would catch a glimpse of absolute, perfect stillness; a moment outside of time, where all traces of the storm fade to a perfect, peaceful white.

And while you know it’s out there, raging, for that split second the thought that such chaos might exist feels unfathomable .

​Rogard sees it coming; sees the mirror still waters accelerating towards him, ready to offer him salvation, and knows he can’t get fall for it.

That he can’t let himself get caught. The stillness is an illusion; a trick –the calm before the storm, not the centre of it.

​Ah.

​It’s still as mesmerising as he remembers.

​The silence ticks by, split-second by agonizing split-second. And then a single drop disturbs those gentle waters.

​Rogard lets out a ragged, shaking breath, and the illusion shatters.

​He’s fallen for it time and time again, so this time when Loac comes for him, Rogard is ready.

​It still nearly bowls him off his feet.

​Because how can he be so fast? How does he still move like that –like gravity has no hold over him? His vision blurs, and suddenly all he sees is blinding, glistening blue, and suddenly it’s all he can do to get his sword up in time before the hurricane takes him.

​He just barely makes it, and this time the force of the blow drives him back in the mud and he can’t quite entirely turn his strike aside.

The tip catches him across the knuckles as Loac turns, splashing red into the dirt, but he grits his teeth and refuses to let the follow up strike land.

​It’s hard to tell, but he thinks that Loac’s eyes widen.

​The grin though, he sees.

​And suddenly, he realises he’s wearing one, too.

​That he has been since that first time their blades met.

​Show me what you’ve got, Rogard , Loac’s expression seems to say.

​Rogard spins in the mud –red dripping off his body and gold eyes gleaming –and shows him.