Gala isn’t hit by the blast in a conventional sense. No, the blast appears where she does, as if the world itself ruptures exactly where she is. In the moment, the air ripples in a form that makes it seem as if her body is squashed and stretched simultaneously, a distortion of pure wrath that lasts for only a second. For Viktor, it feels both like an eternity and yet no time at all. The very words he’d spoken were destroyed in the turbulence the beast had generated at a moment's notice, alongside the urgency that leapt from his tongue.
Just because the attack wasn’t a conventional blast doesn’t mean her body is treated any differently. Quite the contrary. She’s launched, almost ragdolled, bouncing across the ground leaving ripples of dirt, dust, and stone akin to a skipped rock as she slowly loses momentum much further down the path. The second or so she spends traveling eclipses any speed she or the berserk dragon could reach conventionally, leaving her as a pathetic, obscured pile of flesh far enough for her life to be a speculation at best.
But worst of all…
“Shit…”
He was alone.
He envied her in that moment more than anyone else in the whole world. It would be so simple to sleep or to die, just like she had.
Even if she was still alive, the state she’d return to the battle in wouldn’t do much to help their odds. That being said, the likelihood she’d return to battle was slim at that. The blast of pure air was enough to shatter stone at the beginning of their confrontation… Viktor shudders at the prospect of being struck directly by that type of attack, and the consequences of the impact leave a dark cloud over his vision. Maybe it’s the stress; after all, their battle had just been turned into a duel.
“Hooo…”
He has to remember to breathe once more as he feels the shadows creeping inwards from the outside of his vision and a thick smog begins to coat his consciousness. Air can only do so much to disperse it. He’s simply going to have to fight in spite of it.
If given a choice, he’d prefer not to.
SWOOOSH-
He wasn’t, so he had to, though it’s not as if it mattered what he wanted anyway.
A swipe of the beast’s wings is narrowly dodged; no longer does he have the privilege of simply taking damage head-on. Avoiding attacks is a necessity, or rather a priority, for the first time in a while. His legs force him backwards, far enough for any counterattack to be unlikely, far enough to show something akin to fear. He was working under the assumption that a berserk beast couldn’t recognise the poison spreading through his psyche.
Sadly, it’s a sixth sense of sorts.
The beast engages again. A lunging bite. He avoids with distance to spare. His back is against the wall at this point, so the next attack, a swinging bash of its tail, cracks the very stone where he stood a moment ago. It shatters in a cloud of dust as he circles around the beast's back. The tail swung again. He avoids it by the skin of his teeth, sliding further up the path. The beast turns towards him. He can see it… smiling? A crooked grin. Definitely not the kind you’d expect from a monster that’d lost its mind long ago. Perhaps it's an understanding inherent to a creature's body. Of all the things it could remember, it was cockiness that stuck with its soul after its eruption.
As funny as it could be, it’s anything but funny.
Viktor grits his teeth. The muscles on his forearm pulse once more. His nervous system wails at his mind. His heart beats with a feverous thrum that resounds through his skull. His breathing becomes a howling gale. His mind attempts to block out the noise. Focus has always been difficult. At the current moment, it doesn’t become any easier.
Ease is only a dream.
He rises to his feet, hands in front of him, feet squared, eyes locked onto the creature ahead. It’s still turning towards him, the one eye that remains open shining a deep crimson. It’s far from being able to utilise its ability again. He estimates he has about forty-five… No, fifty seconds before it becomes an immediate threat, which could possibly be fifty-five if his offense is high enough quality… Fifty-four… Fifty-three…
He has to start.
CRACK!-
Jaws open to be snapped at the boy. Before it can be closed, a powerful kick smashes into it. The exact same spot Gala had been focusing on before. As a result, the impact knocks one or two splintered teeth into the creature's mouth. Its gums bleed outwards, though by the time its essence drools from the gap in its jaw, Viktor’s foot has already been retracted.
Fifty-two.
Its head rises slightly, then, like a hammer, it swings down upon him. His arms scream no. His body acts without a vote of confidence. He doesn’t avoid it. He uses the momentum of the beast's attack to increase the power of his own. Another CRACK rings out as an uppercut meets the beast's descent with equal force. Their power coalesces. They both feel it in equal parts. He feels something in his right arm that roars at his nervous system like a dragon. It’s probably fractured. It's probably worth it. The beast's open eye shudders as its brain rattles in its skull. Its neck is far thicker than any normally sized creature. It’s the only reason why it's not currently unconscious. Even if it's still conscious, it's vulnerable.
Fifty.
He changes his stance. His injured right arm becomes an emergency tool. The rest of his body becomes his first course of action. The creature’s neck lowers slightly. Roundhouse kick. He follows its head. A short hop. A knee to the jaw. Another tooth fractures. He lands. It roars in pain. Another knee. The impact forces its mouth shut. It flaps its wings to move backwards. He doesn’t give it even a moment. A flying kick to the soft tissue of its chest. It stumbles. It falls onto its back. He launches himself upwards. An axe kick to the same spot. It roars out in pain, then attempts to bite at him. He launches himself backwards off its stomach. He grabs its tail. He swings with all his force.
SMASH!-
Forty-one.
The bone in his arm groans. His mind gently whispers to hold it together. It vows to do so for a bit longer. The beast writhes in the pain of its impact with the wall. Something snapped between its weight and the mountain’s immovable stone. Viktor sees too. It’s down a wing. On the opposite side to the eye it lost. Its brain settles from the concussion seconds ago. Its more alert than ever before. They’re both injured beasts. They’re both as dangerous as they could ever be. Viktor looks upon it with a suicidal stoicism. The beast looks upon him with a frenzied flame.
Thirty-five.
‘I’ll throw my life away to live.’
Thirty-four.
‘I’ll do anything to live.’
Thirty-three.
They’re saying the same thing, aren’t they?
Thirty-two.
But neither of them are telling the truth.
Thirty-one.
If they truly wanted to live, they’d run.
Thirty.
Even with the possibility, they’ll fight instead.
They both work to close the gap with each other. The beast advances on foot with its wings out of commission. Viktor does the same. He looks directly at it. Its red gaze is slightly brighter now. It's closer than before. He still has time. He wonders if losing a wing reduced the power of its blast attack. He hopes he doesn’t have to experience another one of those again.
CHOMP-
Predictable, though it can’t be blamed. Its avenues of attack are quite limited with a form like that. The jaw snaps. He goes low. It barely catches his clothes. They end up ripped rather than holding him back. It turns its head, assuming he’s going into its blind spot. He’s not there. It feels the stinging pain as a leg collides with its broken wing. The CRACK is almost as loud as the roar that leaves its mouth. Its head turns to face him. A second impact. A kick to the jaw just as he reenters its view. Both their worlds seem to shake for a moment.
Twenty-six.
The force is enough to send its form tumbling to the side. Maybe its resistances had lowered. Maybe his force had increased. The next moment is uncharacteristically silent. The offense doesn’t continue. Viktor allows the created space to rest. A gulp of fresh air renews his supply, the darkness creeping into the corners of his vision being flushed with light. He takes a moment to feel his arm, an inch or two below the wrist. It doesn’t take long for him to recognise the pain, an exhaling hiss escaping the gaps of his grimacing teeth. It was fractured. With Natural Regeneration it’d take around three or so days to heal, though it's a detail he scolds himself for even thinking about. This fight is far from over. Thinking about anything but the opponent in front of him would put the advantage he’d fought so hard for in jeopardy.
Twenty.
Orange. The beast has fully risen to its feet at this point. Its single good eye is locked onto Viktor. It glows the same shade as the setting sun. They’re past the halfway point. Closer to danger than safety. Even then-
SNAP!-
Nineteen.
He wouldn’t let up until the last second. He launches himself at the accursed beast. It raises its broken wing to defend itself. The bone shatters further under the weight of his kick. A seething snarl leaves its lip. It was obscene. The beast had accepted its loss and used the damaged wing to defend. A broken bone is already useless. Breaking it further to protect those that are still functional is… Just what Viktor would do. It was jarring, seeing what should be a mindless beast acting rationally. Viktor cringes, the sensation of the beast's bones breaking burrows into his own bare foot.
SWOOOSH!-
Eighteen.
The beast swings its broken wing with enough force to knock him backwards, but more importantly, off balance. He trips, tumbling backwards once before returning to his feet only a meter awa-
“SKRAAAAAAAAAAAAA!”
Seventeen.
His gaze rises. In his face is an open jaw. Predictable and yet it almost caught him. It's a meter away, big enough to consume the whole top half of his body in one bite, strong enough to tear through skin, flesh and bones with ease. It could kill him. It would kill him. It would be so simple to sleep or to die.
CRACK!-
Sixteen.
He looked undead right about now, covered in dirt, blood, sweat and yet looking into the maw of death with a humorous stoicism. Simple as it would be to sleep or die, you don’t get into a situation like this living a simple life. Imagine how miserable it would be if you did.
Viktor lowers his form, not to dodge, but to strike. His knee rises. It collides with the underside of the beast's jaw. Once again, its mouth is snapped closed just before it can reach him. He won’t sleep. He won’t die.
Fifteen.
It reels backwards, its head lowering slightly. The opening is welcome. He launches an overhead punch directed at the beast's nose. He uses his right arm. It's not reckless abandon. It’s not a mistake. It’s a calculated risk. The impact hurts both of them equally but a broken bone is already useless. Breaking it further to protect those that are still functional is-
Thirteen.
Yellow.
The beast opens its functional eye. It's yellow. He’s cutting it close. There he stands. Eight meters away. He returns to a more orthodox stance.
Eleven.
Stillness. There isn’t a moment that he believes this fight to be in a state of winning or losing, even now, as the beast is more cautious than ever and momentum is on his side.
Ten.
It's obeying him now. When he twitches, it twitches. When he shuffles, it shuffles. A distorted mirror of wrath stands across from him. In its eye, ferocity and fear are juxtaposed.
Nine.
It wants to flee. It wants to fight to the death. The instinct of an animal. The pride of a dragon. Tomorrow is another day. Tomorrow doesn’t matter if today you escape death with your tail between your legs.
Seven.
It doesn’t matter what he wants. The cruelest type of nihilist, for whom nothing matters with a few special exceptions that are given value based on inconsequential love and fickle relationships. A hypocrite bound for hell. Most are, but him especially. A real piece of shit.
Six.
Complain as they may, curse him as they will, he’s only following the true nature of his soul. He is a product of the pursuit of strength. He is a cog, melted down and moulded into whatever fire desires. He stands with his peers on the path to Arête.
Four.
It’s green. A single eye. It’s only moments away from its maximum capacity, after which the battle would be decided.
Three.
Viktor waits. The beast waits. Their focus is undivided. The rest of the world seems so clear, so… real, that in this moment, the sun shines brighter than ev-
“Haaaa…”
“!”
The beast is distracted for a moment. It’s the perfect opportunity. A moment for Viktor to launch a devastating hook into the creature's already injured jaw… and yet he doesn’t. He’s distracted too. It’s behind him, and despite his body being flooded with anxiety, he turns towards it with slow, agonising intention.
When Nature Energy coats your soul, imprints of your essence are left upon it as it ruminates in the air around you. Anyone with a basic level of attunement can use this imprint to sense your presence. Those with more mastery can use it to discern who you are. Not just identifying you, but recognising that which rests below the surface. Your Id, in a sense. It has a texture, a smell, a taste, a supernatural sensation that lingers on the recesses of the mind. Passion that smells like a furious fire. Pride that shines like a twinkling star. Disdain that scratches across your skin like a cruel wind. Ambition that rolls in the high heavens like thunder. Uninhibited by the ego, full and true. It’s why the moment they can feel the taint of the world only meters away they freeze in the face of a will so… raw. What they see is darkness; blood, dirt, a black veil, all surrounded by the dunnest smokes of hell with the only discerning features being a pair of eyes that glow with a marigold scorn. What they can feel surrounding her, rushing towards them like the bloody hands of the River Styx… is contempt. For allies. For enemies. For the world itself. The only one who is exempt is her, of course. She’s worth more than everything in creation combined. All those in opposition can drop dead.
“One…”
Gala Shadeheart rises once more.
“One more…”
His ears are shot. He could barely hear the dragon’s grunts and roars nearby after the constant assault on his eardrums. Even then, reading the girl's lips, blood trickling across her entire visage, the words felt so clear they could have been his own solemn thoughts in that world of silence.
“One more mistake before we die.”
You have three mistakes before you die.
The main reason Dragon Tag is typically played in a ‘first to three’ format is the aforementioned idea. Warriors are taught from the moment they begin to fight that three mistakes separate life from death, or victory from defeat, in some cases. It’s not backed by any research or scientific data; warriors simply thought up the number and somehow managed to hit the nail straight on the head. The scientists find it unexplainable. The lazy ones are relieved. The passionate ones are annoyed.
First of all, what is a mistake? In day-to-day life, it's simply incorrect judgement, knowingly or unknowingly, and any consequences that arise thereafter.
Make the mistake of not looking at the road ahead? You may end up falling face-first into the dirt.
Make the mistake of forgetting the time you’re meeting with someone? You end up wasting their time.
Make the mistake of choosing the wrong words in a conversation? Your original message is misinterpreted.
Everywhere that a choice can be made, one or many mistakes rear their ugly heads around the corner. Obviously, one shouldn’t succumb to choice paralysis; they should simply be more cautious when making decisions, especially ones with stakes behind their selection.
Mistakes are the reason why combat takes so many years to learn, let alone master. It sounds so simple, doesn’t it? Learn how to punch and kick. Learn how to grab. Learn how to dodge. Okay, you’ve learnt the basics. Now, time to use everything you have to beat an opponent.
You throw a punch. Your opponent dodges it. What do you do?
They counter with their own kick. Your arm is in no position to block. What do you do?
It's raining. You can barely see your opponent's hands. What do you do?
You go for a grab. Your opponent grabs you too. What do you do?
Your arms are growing weak from blocking. You can’t hold on. What do you do?
Your opponent is taller than you. You can’t get in range. What do you do?
Your opponent is heavier than you. A single hit winds you. What do you do?
Your opponent is faster than you. You can’t land a single hit. What do you do?
You’re on sand. The ground is unstable and volatile. What do you do?
The opponent has a unique gimmick. You don’t get how it works. What do you do?
A young dragon will lose in three seconds flat as three mistakes that simply exist passively are taken advantage of all at once. They’ll be confused. Not about the right thing. What’ll confuse them is what their opponent did. What should confuse them is what mistakes they made. It's not as the geriatrics say, that young people never take ownership of their mistakes; rather, young people don’t understand the weight of their mistakes. They won’t until they are told, and it is a truth they will never forget. They cannot forget. You get three mistakes in a life-or-death situation, and then you fucking die. That is all.
You choose the wrong action? That’s a mistake.
You let them act uninterrupted? That’s a mistake.
You don’t take the environment into account? That’s a mistake.
You don’t take the physical differences into account? That’s a mistake.
You rush in too quickly? That’s a mistake.
You hesitate? That’s a mistake.
You feel sympathy? That’s a mistake.
Everything, and that means everything, is a choice, meaning everything is a possible mistake waiting to happen. And hell, you might get away with them once, maybe twice, maybe you’ll get away with it for years, but eventually a vulnerable mistake will catch up to you, and you’ll suffer for it. Learning actions is only one percent of learning the basics of fighting. The other ninety-nine is learning to make the right choice, and it will take years to even come close to an acceptable standard. That’s just how… ‘Intentional’ combat is.
On top of this, ‘mistakes’ don’t exist in isolation. A fight is almost entirely deterministic, meaning events don’t just happen; they happen because of another event or variable or whatever else. Every mistake is a new event, a new variable, a new piece of information for your mental stack to keep track of. A single mistake can be negligible, fixed with minor alterations of your game plan. A second usually compounds alongside the first to create gaping holes in your abilities or judgement. A third is usually the end, especially against opponents of higher ability. The only thing that awaits you is death or defeat.
It's unreasonable…
Though choosing the path of the fist rarely ever is.
Number One.
You are greatness.
You are second to none.
You are the leader of the pack.
You are peerless throughout earth.
You are equal to the heavens.
You are the apex of your people.
You are the one.
Viktor knows that Gala is Number One; everyone does, but the biggest critique of her as a warrior is that she doesn’t carry herself in a manner befitting of someone at the top of the top. She’s a narcissist, an antisocial problem child who acts only for herself and in no way is interested in being a role model for her peers or her people.
It's always been like this.
If you were to go back in time and ask opinions on the previous Number One, they’d tell you the same things. If you go further and ask again, you’d get the same answer. If you go all the way back to the very first class of dragons, you’re sure to get the same reception. The reason why is that for those that haven’t reached the apex, Number One is an idol to be adored, to be worshiped, a goal to be attained. An imperfect idol, one with flaws of character or appearance, is seen as a disgrace.
Many often forget that the prestige of being Number One means you can be whoever you want.
When those without wings imagine flight, they imagine the beauty of a pure white dove, the ferocity of a falcon, the might of a hawk. Imagine expecting those and being met with the mocking of a raven, the hunger of a vulture, the persistence of a cockroach.
“C’mon, you flying piece a’ shit.”
Their disgust is understandable. You’ll never be able to change it.
“Let's put you down for good.”
All you can do is spread your wings and show them the reason you’re flying, and they’re on the ground.
SWOOOSH!-
The beast moves past Viktor without a second of hesitation. Without flight, all it can do is hobble towards her. It's pathetic compared to its previous soaring majesty, but even then it's enough to reach her. Its eyes glow more green than ever as it provides the answer Viktor had been looking for seconds ago.
BOOM!-
Another pillar erupts as the dragon's wings bruise the atmosphere once more. Was it faster than the first? Was it more powerful than the last? Good questions which don’t matter if the attack doesn’t hit her, of course. The earth where she’d stood only a fraction of a second ago is understandably destroyed; the force of the sonic blast shakes the mountain in its entirety, and yet with serene grace she passes through the air, beyond the beast, landing in its blind spot.
It turns with far more urgency than the girl it faces, the scarlet glow of its eyes filled with more fear than ferocity. Gala doesn’t face the beast. Instead, she’s reaching down for a particularly dangerous shard of stone. In her hand, it feels like a dagger, though it's no more than a cruel mockery of one. It’s enough to get the job done, at the very least.
The beast recognises the power of the blade more than she does. Terror fills its veins. It cannot allow her to strike first.
“SKRAAAAAAAAAAAAA!”
A roar rips out. The beast’s head lunges towards her. He’s not even close to fast enough.
SQUELCH-
One.
The stone pierces the dragon's eye with as much resistance as you’d expect. In a second, the world goes from half-visible to nothingness; the only certainty is the ground beneath it and the pain that grows like mould through its body.
Two.
It lashes out. Its tail and wings swing in every direction possible without even a dot of movement from that spot of certainty. It had to ensure its own safety. It had to clear the area of enemies. It was scared. It was so scared because in the darkness there was nothing but the advancement of death. It had to live. It had to live, so it thrashed and spun and swung at the nothingness that remained of the world.
Three.
Four.
Five.
Six.
Seven.
Eight.
Nine…
And then it stops.
What follows isn’t silence but utter nothingness. No light reached its eyes. No sound reached its ears. No sensation reached its skin… Other than the sting of a single slicing wound across its neck…
drip… drip… drip…
…And then the cold that filled its veins in the absence of its blood.
There isn’t enough energy in its body to fight the cold.
Ten.
There was no use fighting something that’s all powerful.
Eleven.
Consciousness begins to slip.
Twelve.
And in spite of its wrath and the fever of its life, in the end, the booming beast is faced with…
Thirteen…
