A scene out of some science-fiction movie would then unfold, as his limb, now seemingly disappearing into the depths of the suitcase, had removed his hand from sight entirely. The suitcase at this point had enveloped him, as if eating him alive. Only when he pulled his hands out however, were it possible to confirm this was not the case. As blue and gold metal gloves had wrapped themselves around each of them, before quickly extending to cover all the way up to his forearms.

The suit that now served as his upper body protection was dubbed the MI-2. While the dark, black sword in his left hand was called ‘Blackedge’ and the black and blue shield that found its place in the other, the ‘ST-3’. Now all that was left was the ensured protection of his legs, with a leap, he hopped onto the suitcase.

A satisfying clack resonated as a result, and his metallic boots extended up to his knees. Further fueling the fire that was the amusement of the students who had been watching this series of affairs. Many saw this as an opportunity to snap pictures of the ongoing event. Without a doubt, the tension and atmosphere had riled up some primal emotion that dwelled within the onlookers. Unlike people that resided outside the world of these affairs, such an occurrence was not one that threatened the core of their existence. Concepts like ‘normalcy’ and credence in a life subjected to the expected variables of ‘safety’ or ‘boredom’ was not something they understood.

If anything, what they saw was just another run of the mill occurrence, only this time, it involved two new students.

Fully finished with his preparations, Lucius as a precautionary measure, made sure to gently place the suitcase out of harm's way. Morgana was precious, but so was money.

Not without fear, the underlings of Tommy seemed to lack the once confident pretext they shared. Through instinct alone, they were aware that they stood no chance, and ran to join the crowd.

Even if Tommy was there to back them up, one accidental mishap such as the misplaced swing of a sword in a specific direction would result in a bloodbath—with their own blood that is.

When one stops to think why, most would just assume a significant difference in speed, and hence the increased probability of suffering a blow. While this was applicable in some places, it was not in all. Tommy for one, was not much faster by metric than just a mid-level athlete, and yet unlike them a few magic bolts wouldn’t have disintegrated him into dust.

Resolve, that was all it boiled down to.

With heightened endurance, inhuman resilience, extreme regeneration, and a plethora of other abilities, the difference in strength between ordinary and resolved individuals was absolute. Frankly, the would-be combatants were simply in a different league to Tommy's acolyte, with the gap between them not being entirely dissimilar to that of an ant and lion.

“Heh.” Never expecting them to be of any significant assistance in battle, Tommy knew that it was inevitable that the responsibility would fall upon him. Of course, he had no qualms about this. His power was more than enough to deal with these two halfwits after all.

Without hesitation, he plunged the knife in his arm. It’s ornate engravings soaked with the liquid that poured from his wound, Tommy foresaw victory with the application of its power. Part of Lucius recoiled at the mere sight of such, and his heart grew weary with dread. For whatever pagan ritual Tommy participated in, Lucius had a feeling that it was not merely a product of his theatrical performance.

A most grisly sight, the ebb and flow of blood only increased as Tommy continued. He felt it, the blood and pain was there, but he needed more, far more. More blood was necessary, far more, far far more, he couldn’t be satisfied with this puny display of blood, no, he had to continue.

Twist, flicker, jab, twist, flicker, jab, twist, flicker, jab, the force in his blade persisted.

In the end, this action was nothing short of necessary. As necessary as the murder of the two that had wronged him, and the manical desire to see them suffer. After a certain point, it was not just blood that came from his arm either, lumps of flesh had too begun to squeeze their way out as if leaping and clamoring to escape from their plump and skinbound prison.

Taken to the next level, a great number of people looked away in disgust and fear. .

How odd. To the boy Tommy, what he was doing was perfectly natural, so why did they look upon him with such eyes? It was as natural as breathing, walking, and fantasizing about skewering Lucius and Harux, every teenage boy does those, right?

This train of thought then stopped. The time to ponder such things had run out.

Hunched forwards with a contorted half-grimace of pain, he was assured of his impending victory.

Halfway in morbid curiosity, and halfway in earnest interest, the audience could only guess at what was to come. They had come here for a climactic build up to the display of three young men going at it, the clash of ideals and skill illuminated in a spectacular display of magic and athletics. And yet, so far, they had received the opening sequence to some snuff film.

Hoping for the best, they pinned their hopes on the fact that this was merely a case of thematic dissonance, nothing more. The road through the tunnel might have been altered, but the light at the end was all the same… Surely?

Yes, or no, their questions would soon find their answer.

“Azazel, I conjure thee!” With a yell Tommy summoned forth his trump card.

His very own life essence, the material component for the spell, had reached the ground. Seeping its way into the upper layer of the earth, it began the process of festering and manifestation, drawing upon the innate power of the environment and the miscegenation of the blood granted. While it seemed to be a venture into hopelessness at the start, the product would soon make itself evident. Surfaced on the snow, the shape of an arcane circle, one combined with magical symbols and shapes, had appeared.

Given one more second, it then shined a brilliant purple.

While Lucius had no idea what this entailed besides the obvious assumption that something terrible was going to happen, Harux prepared himself for the beast that would be unleashed.

The lessons of his master repeated in his mind, he began his own analysis. If he estimated correctly, the amount of blood drawn from both a visual and olfactory perspective amounted to around 2 litres.

Far more than what a Summoning spell would usually require, Harux tried and failed to understand the perspective and reasons of Tommy. The specific nuances of his stupidity and character lost on the Elvish boy, Harux wondered if dying in such a battle was really demanded.

Whether he knew it or not, Tommy even with his Resolve, could not have long left to live, at this rate his own loss of blood would destroy him before any opponent would. Having recalled the choices of honorable opponents who desired a great end in combat, Harux now understood.

Making one last venture into judgement, he offered his respects. Like a gateway to another dimension, a black portal soon began to open where the circle was.

Abyssal, dark, and completely devoid of light, the only indication that life existed in it, was the large pale arm that reached out. An unholy amalgamation of flesh and bones, it pulled itself up with a jolt, and brought its wretched body before all to witness.

Lo and behold the body that came was a demon.

Armorien

Welcome welcome yet again! Sorry for those few readers that still take in my content for not updating recently. That being said, I hope you're all doing well! And once again I humbly present 'Blood Blue'! A recent story I've been working on also updated on Scribblehub, that has better writing, and more consistency! I won't abandon Bonespore mind you but I do recognize it has quite a few faults. Thank you for reading!~