Part 37: The Hundred Cuts of Vengeance
The air in the corridor hung heavy, thick with the metallic scent of blood and the damp chill of unleashed terror. Solon stood opposite Zeldor, his face a mask of cold, raging grief for his friend. The giant sword, now held with unsettling stillness, seemed to vibrate with controlled chaos.
Zeldor, mistaking the silence for fear, sneered, his own sword splitting into two shorter, equally lethal blades. "That fool was an amateur. I'll break you and your pretty sword in three."
Solon didn't flinch. His eyes, devoid of Kai's usual manic light, were pools of dark purpose. "You misunderstand. This isn't mourning," he announced, his voice dangerously low. "This is a punishment. A punishment for hurting... that bald guy."
Zeldor charged, his twin swords swirling in a massive, overhead cleave designed to end the fight instantly. But Solon was already gone—not a retreat, but a blur of prevailing evasion. He didn't step back; he flowed around the attack, his own giant sword flashing not in a desperate block, but in a surgical strike.
Shiiiing.
A thin, crimson line appeared on Zeldor's bicep. Barely a scratch, but enough to draw a sharp gasp of surprise from the assassin.
"What was that?" Zeldor's mind screamed, dropping his stance, confusion replacing aggression.
"That was Cut One," Solon announced, as if he could hear the assassin's frantic thoughts, his own voice unnervingly calm.
Zeldor attacked again, faster, his wide, powerful swings aimed to crush the smaller man. Solon met them all with meticulous, cold focus. He didn't try to stop the attacks; he allowed the blades to pass an inch from his body, and each time, his own blade flashed, inducing another tiny, precise wound on his opponent.
Cut Four: A shallow, stinging slice across the back of the neck.
Cut Seven: A precise nick to the meat of the tricep, weakening the arm's spring.
Cut Ten: A deliberate grazing of the ankle tendon, throwing off Zeldor's balance.
The cuts kept coming, simultaneously agonizing and trivial. Zeldor was bleeding from a dozen fine wounds. His initial rage was replaced by a terrifying confusion. He felt the pain, but there was no wound disabling him—just enough to agitate, distract, and slowly drain his energy. The worst of his horror was that he couldn't regenerate or heal himself. The ancient power of the Soul Medallion, awakened in Solon, was blocking Zeldor's regenerative ability, locking him into his pain.
"Stop it, you bastard!" Zeldor bellowed, his voice cracking with frustration. "Fight me!"
Solon sidestepped a desperate, clumsy slice, his blade sinking a small, stinging cut through Zeldor's right ribcage.
"Fight you?" Solon's voice was almost a whisper, yet it boomed in Zeldor's mind. "Not yet. My friend... he suffered at your hands. I owe him this. The perfect, painful vengeance."
As the cuts count mounted—forty, fifty, sixty—Zeldor's movements became sloppy, controlled by exhaustion and the mounting, cumulative pain. Each tiny wound demanded an unconscious flinch, an exploited weakness. The cuts were deliberate, targeting his mobility and control.
Zeldor was now terrified. For the first time, his immortality had failed him. He was trapped in a fierce, ultimately one-sided battle. He tried to disengage, to escape, but every attempt resulted in another precise cut from the relentless warrior.
Around Cut Seventy-Five, Zeldor's will finally broke. His arms, lacerated and weary, could no longer support the heavy blades with power. He dropped his guard, leaning heavily on the weapon, his body covered in a fine network of pulsing red lines.
"W-why?" Zeldor gasped, his chest heaving. "Why can't I heal?" He screamed, terror raw in his voice. Desperate for any advantage, he lashed out: "Fight me! I know you can't, weakling!"
Solon, unbothered by the taunt, moved closer, his dark eyes like twin voids. He raised his giant sword and whispered the final taunt of the man Zeldor had just thoughtlessly impaled.
"I hate your jaw."
Upon this statement, Zeldor roared, his remaining aggression boiling over as he walked directly into the exact trap Solon had laid. The final twenty-four cuts were delivered in a terrifying, final death-stroke flurry.
Now completely burnt out, his life essence spent, Zeldor's body began to shimmer, turning into ash and smoke. Solon delivered the One Hundredth Cut—a massive, clean slash that separated Zeldor's head from his body.
The fight was over....
The chilling, predatory look of Solon receded. His face transformed back into the familiar, expressive features of Kai, who let out a huge sigh of relief, the weight of the fight lifting.
"Whew," Kai gasped, rubbing the side of his face. "Okay, we're done with this regenerating assassin bastard. Now... Jog-Jog!"
He rushed to the wall where he'd last seen his friend, expecting to find him with a hole in the chest and bleeding out. Instead, he found Jog-Jog, all good and well.
"What?" Jog-Jog complained, examining the wall, Hey, check this out, the wall still doesn't have a crack! What in hell is this building made of?"
Kai stared, his jaw slack. The terrifying warrior within him was gone, replaced by the bewildered, frantic twin.
"What?!" Kai screamed. "You're alive?!"