The arena seemed to be morphing the closer he got to The End. The competition had stepped up in difficulty, but not enough to make him break a sweat. The tournament did seem to be easier for someone like him. Maybe he should have never joined. It was fun to him but for others it was serious. He did feel to be in the way at times. As he walked that hot pool of oil that coated the debris-covered plane, he recalled what he had said to Enya. His past fights where some of his adversaries had died, it should be safe to say that they actually lived.

The columns of oil had thickened and Holy couldn’t help but think why did a custom dimension have oil any way? His hair and clothes were speckled black as it rained scalding liquid. It wasn’t too hot really, but that was just him as his eyes swept the white walls that incased the oil and its pungent vapors. He was walking in an oil lamp, and he would continue to do so, growing knowledgeable of his surroundings, until his opponent arrived.

Here he was again, arriving in that teepee of earth vomit. He and Leeo didn’t have too big of a bout to rupture the place, so it was preserved like an already blown-up museum. As the light fled from the nightmare he returned to, he felt like humming. He wanted to hum because he felt like a routine-worker. Was he actually bored? ‘Maybe I should just off myself, so I can return to my world and do something more entertaining’ he thought. His eyelids were hanging lazily as he passed by shrapnel and marble slabs. ‘I don’t think Enya or Honoria would like that. Especially, Honoria.’ If he died or won, she would never see him again. 'In that case...I'll try and stay alive.'

Moist dirt cools Spencer’s bare feet as he strides away with his plunder. Yet he catches himself at the exit arch, just within the perimeter of upheaval, and turns deliberately, focusing intently on the soil.

Stepping on any of this shit would suck.

A frank observation transmuting to action, Spencer carefully returns to Kiyoshi’s corpse. Placing his palm against a paling cheek, he can feel warmth, but recognizes it as life’s failing sunset. It is a morbid scene, but far less grizzly than the prior battle’s crescendo. Dropping his gear nearby, Spencer unceremoniously strips Kiyoshi buck-naked, from sunglasses to boots. Both fit comfortably, albeit snugly, and the soft material of socks swaddling his feet comes as a stark contrast to the gritty dirt. As a bonus, the black and gold Technocrat military jacket accents Spencer’s own attire rather nicely.

Satisfied, he brusquely kicks Kiyoshi over, leaving his boot’s imprint on the pale ass, and heads off to prepare for the next embroilment.

An hour later, our hero arrives, armed with duct tape and a prayer. A fine mist of water hovers in the air over the battlefield, mingling with the oil to create a smoky mantle overlaying the jaggy scenery. Even so, he decides to breathe deeply, enjoying the moment’s respite. On his belt is his combat-utility blade and a container of grenades and various armaments; in his hands are two crude gun-blades, the seax duct taped solidly to the PI-PSA45-K and the Chapel with the high-frequency bayonet secure in its mount; slung across his back is his own plasma rifle and the enormous rune-blade; and over his eyes are designer shades that will doubtlessly cause every girl within eyeshot become as moist as the ambience ascending from this pit.

However, his mind isn’t on their panties. Well, not entirely. His attention is on the approaching swordsman. Slamming the gun-blades into duct tape holsters, he slides his rifle off his shoulder, pulls the firing key out to secure it in his pocket, and leans the weapon against a pillar.

I’ll come back to it if I need it, notes Spencer, languidly sauntering forward. Eventually, Keefe makes its way into his grasp, and he offers a lazy salute.

Following the salute’s apex, Spencer’s fist descends effortlessly from its station at his brow. He likewise allows for one more insouciant stride into the midst of the amphitheatre, a mischievous glint in his flashing jade eyes, and stops. To his right froths a pillar of boiling water, erupting from a vent in the ruptured soil to rip skyward; at his left looms a colossal marble beam.

Spencer winks.

However long it take to twitch, the pillar ceases as a pillar, and is, instead, a lateral, scalding font, inclining unnaturally toward the ‘Soldier’ of the Holy Cross in a expansive spray: a fluidic vanguard coasting across the unctuous plain, dissolving whatever dust-like stuffs it finds along the way and, through subtle movements of the rune-blade’s flat, the nib of which bites eagerly the geyser’s rim, the direction of the burning bath maintains on Spencer’s prey.

From a Reader’s Perspective:

The implications of the stilling aura, the falling cross, and the expanding circle beneath Holy Unknown’s feet are that he is both stationary and his defense, the aforementioned ethereal squall, has been abated in conclusion to what is believed to be a successful evasion of Spencer’s attack; putting aside time for verbiage without complementary action may also be indicative of a pause. A pause and a drop in guard that would result in Spencer’s attack inevitably succeeding, as noted by the final prose “the direction of the burning bath maintains on Spencer’s prey.” Holy Unknown’s comment, “cold shower,” is also supportive of the attack’s eventual success, suggesting that by the time the water reaches Holy Unknown it feels relatively cool and, thus, results in a cold shower on his personage.

As to water producing a spark, save when acting as a lens while contained within a condom or some other translucent vessel, such is absurd, and even if it were so, the moist environment would prevent it from growing into anything greater.


From Spencer’s Perspective:

He can feel nothing of his adversary’s aura for, as the questionably-holy soldier tightens the grip on proximity, Spencer preserves betwixt them the geyser’s onslaught and, indeed, its focus on his target. It never let up, nor lets up, and, from it, wafts of steam melting into precipitation shower the ground, diluting the snow-like dust and reclaiming the soil for nature’s reign. Now, whether his circumnavigation goes unseen through the thickening and nearing vapor, he does not know, but, less than a pace away, Spencer hears a murmur of aggravation filter through the din. Very rightly in response, for, by all sensibilities, Holy Unknown should be wet and red from a spray now angling for his eyes, Spencer shouts, “I like my bitches wet.”

Note: the attack in the above post is not described in Sonata’s profile and was not ratified for use in the tournament. The closest two analogs I could find are, firstly, Miracle, which is not concussive in nature, does not emit from Holy Unknown’s person, and requires a trigger word that was neither thought nor spoken; and, secondly, Spiritual Energy Manipulation/Absorption, which is only useful for small-scale activities. A ten-foot diameter cock-punch blasting across the arena describes neither of those abilities, nor any others listed in his profile. However, in the interest of not disrupting the flow of things, I will continue as if it is a legitimate attack.

Obscuration has its benefits, such as the cloud of steam ensorcelling Spencer’s foe and its source, the font, actively gouging eyes with blinding ferocity of pressure and temperature.* Not necessarily ineffectually, despite the lackluster reaction, as some individuals do ignore agony in the interest of machismo, an archetype unfortunately apropos. It is a penalty of duality, for Spencer, too, struggles at deciphering whether the apparitions writhing in his vaporous view are his enemy or an insentient object. Yet his cunning mind pierces the fog, noting the relentlessly-nearing circle of pale dust and the sound of striking water, both telling the same story: Holy Unknown is standing still.

For all his faults, Spencer will not be guilty of that one: a nimble ex-busker is always eager to move.

So he continues, throwing his lithe body into a somersault that descends into a tumble terminating behind the safety of a large marble beam. While not necessary to avoid the quasi-divine tantrum of a person boasting the emblematic cross in such a disgraceful manner, for his aforementioned gyre had already carried him out of the supernal beam’s grasp, such a lunge is useful in other respects: Spencer extracts the Chapel from its makeshift holster and buries its barrel against the fabric of his wet jacket. After a careful glance to ensure no flammables are near himself, he takes careful aim on a metal barb seeking light in the midst of an oily pool rippling dangerously close to Holy Unknown and without another thought depresses the trigger. The flame from the nozzle inexorably extinguishes before coming to light, as does the sound, the cloth acting like a silencer, but the bullet’s silent impact sets off a spark that pins Holy Unknown between two hot decisions, and it is directly between them that Spencer unloads the Chapel four more times.

‘I wonder what he’ll try to do now that he has no eyes to see,’ Spencer wonders wordlessly.

Note: *While Holy Unknown may be immune to water, I doubt he is immune to pressurized water slamming into his eyeballs and gouging them out with the surety of any well-placed set of fingers, an attack described in my last post and completed in this one.

The bullets would continue on their path and reach their lethal aim, burying themselves deep in Sonata's slumping body. This is the only thing that matters.