Cross Conviction

Held at length by the reach of his opponent's twin scimitars, Sturm was unable to retaliate with his much shorter bayonet. He was being pushed back- consistently losing ground as the armored intruder pressed on. With no means of counterattack, the boy continued to lose ground with every deflection and backward dodge.

I can't keep this up, Sturm thought to himself. If this goes on much longer, he'll push me back against the wall and I'll be finished.

Though his hearts raced, the young swordsman managed to maintain his composure in the face of this unrelenting onslaught. Still, as he backed ever closer to the wall, the terrible swish of the enemy's curved blades cutting through the air drew nearer to the knight candidate's ears. This warning was not lost on Sturm, who weighed the dire implications as he narrowly avoided a series of potentially fatal strikes. Were his movements slowing with fatigue or were his adversary's becoming more precise? 

The enemy's right blade caught Sturm's jacket collar, wrenching the boy's shoulder to the side as it tore through the wool. Before he could right his destabilized posture, Sturm received another grazing slash across his chest, tearing a gash across his light pajama shirt and drawing blood beneath it. The stinging pain caused the knight candidate to cringe and, with his vision reduced, he was swiftly struck in the chest by the intruder's metal greave. Sturm was launched backward down the remainder of the hall by the heavy impact and slammed against the far-side wall with such force that he bounced forward. The armored man, quickly closing the gap between them once more, detached the blade from his left hand, and grabbed Sturm around the neck as the latter fell forward. He then effortlessly hoisted the swordsman into the air by his throat.

Stunned by severe whiplash, Sturm's body hung limply as he glared down into the man's dark mask with one half-open eye. As he regained awareness, the sensation of his fingers wrapped around hard wood alerted him to the fact that he hadn't dropped his weapon throughout the ordeal. With both his hearts furiously thrusting oxygen to the reaches of his body, Sturm raised his right arm and violently drove the bayonet's blade down into the exposed section of chainmail protecting the enemy's clavicle area.

Against any normal adversary, such an injury would certainly have proven fatal. The intruder, however, showed no reaction as the blued steel of the weapon's blade disappeared into his neck. 

Sinking to disbelief, Sturm twisted the bayonet in an attempt to inflict further damage, but to no avail. What the hell is this thing? he though.

Suddenly, the bayonet's metal tang began to melt away and seep into the hole in the intruder's chainmail, leaving behind only the weapon's wooden grips. As these small rectangular pieces fell from Sturm's palm, the boy began to pound on the armored man's helmet and mask with closed fists. Though the strength behind the knight candidate's strikes was great enough to split his knuckles, his adversary stood unfazed. 

With total disregard for Sturm's frantic assault, the intruder detached the scimitar from his right hand, which he then wrapped around the boy's neck as well. Due to the height difference between the two opponents, Sturm's feet were held well over a meter above the floor as the armored intruder steadily increased the pressure around his throat. Hindered by lack of oxygen, the power behind Sturm's blows was gradually reduced until he could lash out no longer. Just as the knight candidate's view of his assailant gave way to black, the pressure on his jugular was abruptly diminished.

Too weak to reopen his eyes, Sturm felt his back pushed against the wall before a strange, rippling sensation tugged at his shoulders. Images swirled in his head as he drifted away from reality. Sturm saw visions of his friends, instructors, and father flash before him. Had he risen to answer an ally's plea only to fall, hopeless and isolated?

Then, a view of his enemy; the mysterious, black-armored knight, wrapped in a tattered black shroud. Beyond the dark figure stood Whirlwind, ragged and bloody. It seemed the rival candidates would never have the chance to settle their grievances. As a strange calm washed over Sturm, he fantasized about how such a battle might have played out. If armed with his saber, could he have overcome the whirling violence of the white-haired menace's high-tech weaponry? Perhaps if he had, Magnolia might even have forgiven his earlier inaction in the face of the aggressive youth.

Would she miss him?

Would Max feel robbed of their competition?

What of Gustavo or Dominic?

Would Emmy be able to forgive his broken promise in death?

Would his father's grief outweigh his disappointment?

Suddenly, the distinctive sound of an aircraft engine roared to life. Sturm's passing sight of a brutalized Whirlwind was far from an exasperated illusion. Forty meters behind the armored intruder, the red-eyed warrior had indeed risen once more with deadly intention. With dark blood still pooling around the many punctures in his uniform, Whirlwind dropped to one knee. Though his vision was blurred and his strength was greatly sapped by blood loss, the boy utilized the balanced force generated by his raging propeller to steady his right hand toward the enemy.

The intrusive drone of Whirlwind's spinning propeller served to guide Sturm back to reality once more. Though the sight of his peer initially filled him with new optimism, that feeling soon gave way to dread. Whirlwind's posture made his intentions clear; he would soon let loose his automatic cannon. 

With the intruder distracted by Whirlwind's threat, Sturm quickly assessed his situation. The boy was pinned to the wall from the shoulders of his jacket by two coagulated clumps of hardened metal. Unable to tear himself free, Sturm raised his arms above his head as best he could and dropped out of the tunic. As soon as his feet touched the floor, he dashed forward, grabbing both discarded scimitars from the tile floor. 

While making his desperate escape, Sturm observed that the armored enemy was lurching forward, evidently preparing to rush Whirlwind before the latter could open fire. Determined to thwart such an attempt, Sturm turned and, with all his might, drove one of the scimitars through the segmented plate of the intruder's right greave and into the tile beneath. The young swordsman then took a swipe at the enemy with his remaining scimitar, dragging it across the man's side.

Dust and debris swirled in the air as Whirlwind prepared to fire. With no time left to spare, Sturm booted in the door of a nearby utility closet and dove inside. The black-armored man, seemingly confused, looked down at his immobilized foot before slowly turning his empty gaze on Whirlwind. Just as the intruder tilted his head in inquisition, the white-haired knight candidate's gauntlet erupted in deafening gunfire. Tracers caused the hallway to glow bright green as hundreds of twenty-millimeter rounds burst forth, shredding cloth and steel alike. In the face of this hellish projectile rain, the enemy's armor was no more resilient than a tin can. Throughout the unrelenting barrage, the intruder was gradually dismembered as armor-plated were carried several meters by the wave of armor-piercing explosive shells. By the time the automatic cannon fire had subsided thirty seconds later, the enemy was reduced to a pile of burnt, twisted scrap.

When Sturm exited the utility closet, the first thing that drew his attention was the giant, smoldering hole in the wall at the end of the hallway. His jacket was no more. Looking in the other direction, he saw the still-kneeling Whirlwind panting heavily.

"Th-there's... noth... nothing in that t-thing..." huffed Whirlwind breathlessly as his propeller spun down.

Sturm furrowed his brow, perplexed at Whirlwind's assertion. "What are you talking about?"

Whirlwind grimaced and stumbled to his feet. "Look at that d-damned thing! There w-was no blood... no b-bone..."

A shiver went up Sturm's spine. The notion brought back a recent memory of a story he had heard- the story of Max's run-in with a man who had no heartbeat. Distraught, Sturm immediately rushed over and began to sift through the intruder's broken and charred remains. Indeed, there wasn't a trace of flesh in the mangled metal pile. 

"I don't understand..." said Sturm, "What the hell was this thing, then?"

Whirlwind remained silent. Recalling the extent of his peer's injuries, Sturm momentarily pushed the unsettling prospect of a living suit of armor from his mind. "Are you alright? How did you recover so quickly?"

"Save it," Whirlwind scoffed, "He didn't hit anything important."

The image of Whirlwind skewered in the air was clear in Sturm's mind. The idea that countless metal spines had pierced the boy's body from all angles without causing any significant harm was utterly absurd. Short of divine intervention, how could such a thing be possible? While Sturm contemplated the unlikelihood of such an explanation, Whirlwind had already begun to limp his way back up the hall from whence they had originally come. 

After giving one final, uncomfortable glance to the formerly animated pile of armor debris, Sturm turned away and, temporarily suppressing his concern, followed after Whirlwind. Though their foray had come at a high cost of injury, it had at least resulted in the destruction of a powerful enemy and Sturm's rearmament. Despite the awkward, broken end that he gripped as a makeshift handle, the boy was satisfied to be holding a sword of any kind once more.

Now... Sturm thought, let's get back to the others before they run into trouble.