Conquest Of The Fallen: Dark Dominions

"Stats! I want to see everything you have on this... Alexandra. Show me." Rafel ordered Peitho. And his subservient infernal system, S.I.N.S, pinged up a bright gold screen before his leopard-amber eyes.

It showed his request in bright fonts under the waning, evening sun.

[Opponent name: Alexandra Italia Vaughn, Sixth of Her Name.]

[Species: Demiurges, the Wiccan Creatures.]

[ Opalpyre Clan ]

[Title: Princess of the Seventh Realm Plains.]

[Chosen weapon: Battleaxe, NAESAVRUM.]

[Rank: S, Supernatural.]

[Magus Class: Mistress Witch, Third Year.]

[Arc: THE RAVEN.] Stay connected with empire

"She really named her battleaxe 'no savior'?" Rafel quipped; he was looking up at the slot on his system's view screen naming this damsel. Nae Savrum meant No Savior in the ancient aijallon languages of the druids. "—that is unsavory."

Despite his slight cynicism, Rafel knew that if his system had considered Alexandra's name worth mentioning, then she was a real threat. He stared straight out from the jutting graystone steps of the Citadel's entrance as the system's panel fizzed out with her information. Rafel bit on his lip.

A bunch of girls passed him by the tower's cobbled steps. And one of them sneered at his maroon shirt doublet and the insignia of the mystical firebird.

"Phoenix is going down tonight."

Rafel said nothing to the girl's playful jibe, and she and her friends went onwards giggling at the look on handsome face and turning back every now and then to catch his citrus-colored iris, until they were out of sight. They took the bend amongst the sliver towers to the amphitheater. Rafel could already hear the pre-clash tumult of the gathering, eager for the finals to kickoff.

He said aloud to Peitho, "I am the seventh born incarnate of Hel in the whole damn world... and I am still only a Rank-A. Tell me something, how the fuck did she get to be a Rank S, huh?"

He was talking about Alexandra.

Peitho promptly replied after scouring though her literal universe of data.

[Pardon, Apollyon, but the answer you seek is currently locked and unavailable for present status. Host cannot access these files. But I can offer this as a comfort: Alexandra has not being in the supernatural tier for long; we can use this to our advantage.]

[This information screen is granted to Host by his ability as Ascended Warlock, 2nd Hel Circle!]

[1 000 soul coins used!]

[Helworth: 1.3 Billion.]

Then Rafel asked again. "I don't even know the names of the other gladiators at the Clash of Swords tonight?"

[Ding!]

[Your other adversaries pose no real friction on the battlefield. They are mere extras. And if I may, my Lord host, I think you shall prove yourself on the sands against the demiurgan female.]

"Ah, thank you for the faith, Peitho. And lest I forget, I choose Bloodthorn as my battling weapon. Let it be known by the preciding Pontus." With this, he ended his chat with his system. His commamds were marked and delivered promptly. Rafel loved that Peitho believed in him.

He also had to admit that he was looking forward to meeting Alexandra, even though he had never really met her—a bit quixotic from where he was standing. Her higher rank and the elevated risk accompanying the fight made color show on his pale, ethereal visage.

Rafel continued on his walk a moment later. And even if he didn't know where the finale of the Spring Games, the throbbing sounds of marching bands sure led him on.

Rafel took the back entrance reserved for only the contestants of the finals. For the purpose of the games, the gladiators. Those filling the rotunda square hella hoped the finalist warriors would give them equal blood and glory entertainment to rival the real legends of the bastards of the arena, from whence the Tournament had gotten its name.

The path Rafel used to enter the stadium was a sacred place for all swordsmen. The emblem of Vatü, a Corynthian deity marked the outpost as he dipped into a stone alcove.

In his walk over here, Peitho had announced to his ears only the names of the other fighters. And he found them waiting in a spacious cavern hidden behind the seats.

He beheld the stomping legs of antsy spectators as he stepped forward.

A lanky squire immediately fell to him, moving to dress him in the robust crimson attire that would mark him out as champion of his Arc to all the crowd. Rafel soon found out the three other gladiators were already in the place and getting appareled by their own squires.Nôv(el)B\\jnn

The [Clash of Swords] as the finale of the season's Games for the elite Corynthian college, judged by the [Three Without Eyes] and financed by affluent alumni from all the Nine Realms was flamboyant as well as discordant.

"I can't wait to bash some heads in! Oooh!" The gladiator for Griffin Arc, a serpentine boy by the name of Gaul—just Gaul—pointed the shaft of his long spear in the direction of Pegasus Arc's champion: a long-limbed giantess. He made a move as if to hurl and she went back to a defensive stance.

"Calm your horses, blue! We're not on the sands yet." Gaul snorted at her. Despite her good foot over the serpent lad, the Pegasus champion was visibly relieved.

Rafel sighed from his own corner as his squire came forward with a metal trunk, opening the heavy lid to fit him with the [Epic grade Armor].

He knew boys like Gaul.

Boys that got off on intimidation and decidedly settled everything with fists.

Boys that were quick to die.

He was thinking he had seen both gladiators of the Griffin and Pegasus Arcs, and was wondering where the third—Alexandra was?

"Your leg, Sire?"

A small voice came from under him.

Rafel lowered his gaze to spot his squire nestling at his feet with a pair of silver battle-sandals. "Right, sorry." He lifted his right leg first to the footrest and watched the squire fit him. It was only then he noticed the little points on her pree.

Nipples.

His squire was a she.

—but she was so thin. Not thin like an anemic. Thin like the best-looking doll of a magenta house.

He tried not to seem like an alpaca with its eye on a ripe fruit when she rose and fitted his girdle tight. She tapped the breastplate for good measure. "You are ready to win, Sire," she said.

"Pfft." Gaul scoffed, "he'll win my ass."

"Thank you." Ignoring the Griffin, Rafel said to his model-esque squire and moved to clasp the plume helmet she held out; the feathers were red and very birdlike. Very Phoenix. His suit of armor had the ruby shine of a Redfox. His chain mail, a damask outfit. And even his cape billowed out behind him, like the sun outside, slowly dipping into the azure sea.

Like his armor, the others too had theirs blazoned in their own signets and Arc colors. And it wasn't until they were all moving out at the blare of the trumpets that he spotted the infamous femme fatale.

Alexandra of House Vero—and she was made of the gods.

Her patrons had to be [Juventas] and [Smutba] for sure.

She was a princess. A maiden. And a whore.

His demonic [mana core] surged with the need to dominate just in looking at her. To have her [Conquest Ring]. She had that WoW! That allure. Therefore the resonating sexiness—and definitely the matching pow! He found himself saying aloud,

"Alexandra..."

The girl was in all black. Her armor total Raven. She turned.

"I'm sorry, do I know you?"

"Uh?"

Rafel was saved by the Pontus of the Game's voice; he heralded forward the contenders in a tone worthy of mortal combat: "BEHOLD CORYNTHIA, YOUR GLADIATORS!!!"

"Yeaahhh!" Multitudes cheered. And out from a sliding bronze gate the four swordsmen—and swordswomen piled out.

From then on, things were pretty straightforward.

The Ludus maker gave her pairings, in this case the Headmistress obviously.

[Israfel the Bloodthirsty Vs Saul the Gaul]

[Alexandra of House Vero Vs Blue the Bonebreaker]

Rafel thanked the Underworld gods he got the pompous Griffin first. The Gaul admittedly did put up a fight on the sands, but Rafel had been fighting the most part of his life, Maulers and fucking Grim Reapers. The Gaul attacked with [Spear of Anarchy], hurling forward his javelin with terrible speed. It split into a distaff and rocketed toward Rafel's head in a cloud of gold-green fire.

With [Umbra Shield], Rafel swallowed the flames, engulfing the spear in his shadows. He didn't have to lift his longsword as he hurled the weapon of consequence back at the Gaul. Saul managed to move his head back but the butt of the spear still caught him in the jaw.

Thwack! It echoed.

And it was enough for Rafel to move in with an upraised [Bloodthorn] and send the sanguine blade of death into his adversary's stomach. Guts oozed forth with a hissing, but Rafel intentionally missed all the major organs.

'Even braggart pricks should learn from their folly,' Peitho cajoled him to spare the Gaul's life.

He had barely pulled [Bloodthorn] from Saul's bleeding entrails when he heard a sharp shout from his rear. It hit him with a deafening shockwave. Rafel was thrown off the Gaul by the piercing vocal fury. He dragged back on the sands, digging his sandals into blood-soaked earth as waves of rolling sound rippled across the arena, threatening to remove him from his feet.

He managed to peer through one eye at the witch behind the auditory spell.

It was Alexandra; she was using two vices: [Scream of Banshee] and [Wailing Storm].

A vortex of sound energy shrouded in massive blackness tossed off the other two gladiators to the far reaches of the vast arena. Saul the Gaul hit his head, fainting instantly from loss of blood and blunt trauma to his cranium. And Blue was missing an eye. She too lay on her side, discarded like a sac of wet clothes—only she was wet with blood.

Alexandra had finished off the Bonebreaker too.

With the giantess and the Gaul out of the fight, the Clash was left to Israfel the Bloodthirsty and the Princess of the Plains.