Part 1: Forge/Assassin
His name was Theodas Mellory Prospero. A Dead Apostle Lord of power and standing. Not quite at Ancestor level, but getting close. Give him a few decades and perhaps he might ascend to the one of the empty ranks left.
But, of course, those decades would never come. Because Prospero was going to die.
His death had not been foretold by any prophet. There was no plan of his that could backfire and lead to his death. But the fact remained, that he would die soon.
He was in Prospero’s room. It was a grand, elaborate thing. He fashioned himself a Lord, of course. Someone who ruled over lands and a kingdom. The room was bigger than some people’s entire homes.
The cause of his death lay in that room. He was above, clinging to the ceiling. Because so few people bothered to do something as simple as look up. And he waited. Patience was a virtue few practiced, one he had been willing to absorb in order to accomplish his goal.
And, after all, for all of Prospero’s pretenses of nobility and lordship, his death was just another step in this man’s journey.
Prospero had entered the room a short while ago. But it was not yet time. He was not yet ready. The killers instincts were generally correct and told him not to kill yet. Then another Dead Apostle entered the room. Some servant created by Prospero, a sycophantic brown noser plotting and scheming like any Dead Apostle underling did. He was not important enough to name, yet by entering this room he would die as well.
“My Lord.” He said to Prospero, “The Ingredients for the Feast with the Ancestor have arrived.” As he spoke he bowed low.
“Good. They are ‘fresh’ then? Prospero said.
“Of course My Lord. I had to punish an underling who thought to snack on one.”
“Humph.” Prospero said, “Very well. Make sure they're kept fresh until it's-” Whatever he was going to say was interrupted by the sounds of an explosive and the entire castle suddenly shaking.
NOW His instincts screamed.
Before rumbling even had time to stop, he descended. Dropping from the ceiling he landed directly on top of Prospero, the knife in his right hand plunging into his neck.
Such a small, simple injury should be nothing to a Dead Apostle. Having lost their humanity rules like dying from mere injuries did not apply to them anymore. Yet Prospero did not move, he did not react to the knife plunged into his neck nor the man who had done it.
This is because Prospero was dead. His eyes were unblinking, his body unmoving, because a corpse had no need to do such things.
“Master!” The nameless Dead Apostle cried out in shock.
The man wasn't done yet. Drawing a throwing knife from his dark clothing he threw it with unerring accuracy at the Dead Apostles eyes, despite the fact that he had a cloth wrapped around his eyes. It was thrown faster then the human eye can perceive. However, the target was not human. Instead his hand snapped up and caught the blade between his fingers.
This was exactly what the man had been hoping for. Kicking off the corpse, he somehow ran so low to the ground it was like he was crawling with only his legs. Ducking out of the Apostles vision, made easier by his hand covering his eye, he reached him by the time the fingers that caught the knife had lowered.
One, two, three… eight slashes. The nameless Apostle was reduced to nine chunks of meat, before the man stabbed the knife into the head, making a second corpse.
It had been three seconds, and he was now the only living being left in the room.
His head tilted to the direction of the window. He did not look out it, that would be meaningless, but he listened. He could hear the sounds of battle. Chaos and and the basic brutality of beings trying to kill each other.
“What kind of idiot does a frontal assault on a Dead Apostle’s stronghold?”
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At first glance, she appeared human. But that was just that, a mistaken first impression.
Humans did not live off the suffering of other humans. Humans did not twist and distort themselves over many, many decades of unlife. Humans had meaningful connections to other human beings.
No. This woman was not human. Once, she may have been, but no longer. Now she was, in a sort of twisted paradox, a monster that excelled at the act of “killing humans.”
Her current goal being the killing of the single human in front of her. She was also closer than the human had expected her or any other monster to be. This was problematic to his plans, as he had been expecting time enough to prepare a ranged attack to keep them at bay.
In the current situation, he had three seconds before she reached him and killed him.
In those three seconds, he would likely only be able to perform a single attack before she was able to kill him. In other words, he needed an attack that would kill in a single strike.
Options flew through his mind, several were discarded on the basis of taking too much energy, others were discarded on the basis that they were not a guaranteed kill. Finally, a tactic formed in his mind.
Two seconds.
“Projection Start
Trace On.
It was a sword. A Japanese sword, to be exact. It was absurdly long, longer than most blades are practical to use. The man had never been trained in the use of this sword. But that didn’t matter, someone had and the sword remembered.
One second.
The monster was almost upon him, her red eyes glowing, her mouth open in a fanged snarl. She was ready to kill him.
“Turning Swallow Strike
Tsubame-Gaeshi.”
But just to make sure, he let go of the sword, and a small dagger manifested in his hand. He thrust it into the monster's head, and with a shout it exploded.
That was one down, but he could see three more punching their way out of the rubble that is the entrance to the castle.
Using C4 to get their attention really worked, it seemed.
Luckily, this time he was ready for them. The images formed in his mind, the ransacked blades taken from a fake priest’s church. Three manifested in each hand. They were familiar weapons to the monsters, the Dead Apostles he was facing.
The Black Keys, sacred blades blessed by men and women of God. They burned with hatred towards the unnatural and the inhuman. With a flick of the wrist, he leveraged the memories possessed by these blades. Bringing out their creators considerate skill he threw them at the speed of a bullet. Directly at where he could see them about to emerge from the broken remains of walls and doors.
Two of the blades struck true, and howls of pain emerged from them. Yet this was not enough to kill them. Three emerged, followed by two more.
Five total.
More Black Keys formed in his hand. He threw them, six more thrown. And another, and another.
Deep in his body he felt the burn, creating even these simple blades was beginning to strain him. However, he needed to keep their attention and keep them away simultaneously. So going for quantity was a good method. Very few of the Black Keys were actually getting in even a glancing blow, but it was enough to keep them from charging in and killing him.
“Shirou!” That’s when a voice sounded in his ear. “I got them in the truck! They’re out of here!”
At hearing those words a smile formed on his face. Mission complete. Now he just needed to escape. Which meant he needed something big enough to hold them down for a few minutes.
The storm of Black Keys halted, and the Dead Apostles began to approach. Perhaps they assumed he had ran out? He didn’t know and didn’t care. He had stopped because he needed to make something new.
The image formed in his mind.
“I am the Bone of my Sword
My body is made out of swords.
At those words another weapon appeared. One greater than the others he had formed. It was a lance, deep red and pulsing with malice. He hoisted it over his head, leaning back. He fought back the pain from calling this lance forth. It was dangerous, and he was very nearly out of power now.
The Lance pulsed with a memory that was not his own.
“The Spear of Striking
Death Flight
Gae Bolg!
He didn’t stay behind to see the result, he had already pumped his remaining strength into retreating.
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He ran through the forest. All he had to do was reach rendezvous they had set up beforehand. He’d hop into their car and leave the country, if not Europe itself.
Best to give the Dead Apostles time to cool down before they could track him. He covered his tracks by jumping through trees, cutting back and forth a few times, and running a mile through a stream.
He had figured it would take a few more hours before they recovered, which is why he was mildly surprised when his danger sense told him to dodge. He twisted to the left, just barely avoiding the weapon that impaled the ground.
It was a Black Key.
What surprised him the most was that this Black Key was of far superior craftsmanship the ones he had encountered previously. This alone was impressive, considering the incredible talent of their creator.
He looked over in the direction the blade had come from. There were two people standing there.
The first was a woman in what appeared to be a variation of a nun outfit. There were two more Black Keys in her hand. The second was a man, little older looking than him. Wearing black, with a white cloth wrapped around his face.
It was the man who spoke.
“So you found the idiot then?"
This threw him off.
“Excuse me?"
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Originally Posted by Hymn of Ragnarok
