ALL NOVEL 13: Nighttime Fanfare
With Leaves of Dawn having another day of slow, but peaceful business, the sun dipped in the sky and disappeared behind the horizon once more.
The night though, was never a time for peace in Marcen’s Cliffs.
With his footsteps echoing into the clear night skies, Cyril leapt from building to building, stopping every once and a while to take pictures of anything he deemed important.
Though street lamps dotted the area and electrical billboards and signs illuminated the sprawling cityscape of Marcen’s Cliffs, the all-encompassing, heavy darkness was still only deterred by the spattering of stars across the night sky.
With the gentle silver moon casting its glow across the world, the cityscape remained clear from any horrors lurking in the night.
Cyril, though, as a god, didn’t care much for the horrors in the night. He was on a spy mission.
Nothing major, just a routine information update, but a spy mission nonetheless. With his unbuttoned suit fluttering in the wind behind him, Cyril’s gaze swept around, prying into each nook and cranny of the Dynasty’s headquarters.
Tapping his foot against the edge of the roof, Cyril took a few extra pictures before spinning on his heel and leaping away. He was glad the night was clear, after weeks of suffocating rainstorms, the Federation had fallen behind on their usual intelligence routines.
Lasering his way through the neighborhoods under the Dynasty’s jurisdiction, Cyril sighed as he felt a swelling momentum begin to trample its way over to him. “Why did Lysander have to be the one on duty today...”
“Well, well, well. Would you look at that? Casimir’s right-hand man, caught snooping around in Dynasty territory.” Lysander growled, his enormous frame leaping up to the rooftop where Cyril stood. “I know I can’t stop you from leaving, but the least I should do is leave you with a parting gift!”
Cyril was unamused. He had really been looking forward to lazing on a couch—while not being tired too. Yet, Lysander now towered over him with a half-feral smile while pulling out his trident.
Rolling his eyes, Cyril unstrapped the gleaming, chrome water bottle-sized cylinder on his waist. With a slight injection of energy, the cylinder clicked, whirred, and spun to life, folding outwards into a long staff.
“God of Hurricanes?” Cyril laughed as a derisive grin and apologetic sigh graced his lips. Pulling his tie down a touch, Cyril’s own divinity came forth in a violent storm. “Even if you are Morgana’s right-hand man, you can’t do anything to me without the ocean. Oh yeah, also, I’m not even Casimir’s right-hand man, I’m the third-in-command.”
Leaping back as Lysander's mighty trident pulverized the air he was just standing in, Cyril twirled his staff around his body to warm up while circling Lysander.
A squint, a pivot, and a lean back later, Cyril began to backpedal. With a confident smirk still splattered across his face, Cyril bobbed and weaved, dodging Lysander’s bull rush of blows.
Walking off a building on purpose, Cyril pushed off the ledge to launch himself to the next building. “You’re a century too young to challenge me! Well, scratch that. As long as we’re on land, you’ll never stand a chance! Watch and learn from the God of Weaponry!”
Cracking his neck, Cyril rushed forward, parrying any blows Lysander managed to cobble together while layering on the pressure. His weapon shifted from a staff, to a sword, to an ax, to a spear in the blink of an eye.
“You’ll never match up to me on land Lysander!” Cyril taunted, his weapon transforming into a trident. “I can use your weapon better than you can, and I touch tridents about as often as you touch victory!”
Layering the blows onto Lysander one after another, Cyril leaned forward through the shockwaves of their battle’s impacts as Lysander spat back a retort. “For someone who talks so big about their land prowess, you seem less like a third-in-command and more like a fish proud about their pond.”
With his retort, Lysander channeled more divinity through his body, summoning the winds and moisture to bolster himself. Launching his best counter-offensive, Lysander grimaced in pain as Cyril’s blade punched through his military uniform and dug into the side of his bicep.
Crack.
Landing a full-knuckled blow onto Cyril’s jaw, Lysander disengaged as red smoke billowed up from a nearby neighborhood.
“Scram Cyril,” Lysander spat as Cyril disappeared into the cracks between buildings before leaping up to the rooftops. Shouting, “I have other things to attend to, not just your stupid federation!” towards Cyril’s disappearing figure, Lysander sighed, leaping up to the rooftops to investigate the red smoke as part of his patrol.
“Why do I get all of the problematic nights...”
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Meanwhile, in a dark alleyway, halfway across town, a faint orange glow seared its way into existence before being snuffed out. A couple seconds later, the process repeated as the alley was dyed red like a furnace for moments at a time.
Not even rats were left in the alley. With only trash for company, a man in a long robe stared off into space. Under the black robe patterned with gold, a man with fiery-red hair and black-brown eyes like charred wood shook in anger as his face twisted in rage.
Pounding his clenched fist against the reinforced stone wall, Ignatius blasted the wall with magma-like rolling flames. Tongues of flames marched their way outward in every direction from his fist, licking the night sky with their crimson edges before flickering their way out of existence.
Ignatius was fuming. How dare they disrespect the Church of Eternity? The supreme leaders, the beautiful, icy, moon goddess Luna and the charismatic, radiant, sun god Aelius had been embarrassed, threatened, by some purple-haired nobody?
Those primordial gods were irrelevant. Two and a half decades of absence? The world was different, GEEZERS! Get into the retirement home and stop disgracing the name of the Church.
Checking his surroundings, Ignatius let out a long exhale. He kicked a bag of trash over the secret passage he had taken from headquarters.
Another discreet glance in all directions later, Ignatius pulled out a black mask he had taken from the church enforcer equipment storage room. It was a perfect cover, and nobody would know any better—he was the deity who led the enforcers after all.
Glad the sky was clear, Ignatius let out a few more jets of flame before blasting himself upwards.
“It’s time for payback.” Ignatius chuckled as a mechanical voice changer began its work.
Nobody would even notice if they disappeared. Ignatius didn’t even need to check the stupid Library of Truth database to know the tea shop was irrelevant. The Library of Truth probably had the shop bumped up way too many levels because of nepotism.
IRRELEVANT!
Ignatius was a true warrior of justice. He knew the truth. It was probably D-Rank, maybe C at best, and for someone like him? Walk in the park.
Using jets of flame for propulsion, Ignatius wove his way through the city, dodging the skyscrapers dotting the cityscape as his momentum grew and confidence solidified. With his divinity spreading its wings and unfurling itself in an invisible, majestic fashion, Ignatius’s rolling pressure swept forward toward the small shop as he advanced.
