Cross Conviction

Max quickly lunged forward, sweeping his claw horizontally as he went. Sturm dodged the attack by tilting his head back as he had during their last fight. Without a second's hesitation, Max continued his attempts to rush down his adversary, stabbing and slashing repeatedly. Sturm narrowly avoided each subsequent strike, much to Max's frustration. Still, the boy was unrelenting as he kept the pressure on with his jagged claws.

"You gonna dodge all day?!" Max growled in between his attempts, "You've gotta fight back if you wanna-"

Max was cut off by the impact of Sturm's fist slamming into his left cheekbone. Launched back by the force of the blow, he skidded across the ground, kicking up grass along the way. To Sturm's surprise, Max turned back to face him, unfazed as pain radiated through the fist he had used in the attack. It was then that Sturm saw it- the many shattered pieces of a beige, bony plate covering the left side of the boy's fade. Max had protected himself by shielding the point of impact with the same calcium he used to forge his claws.

After cracking his neck, Max dashed forth once more, ready to attack. Sturm was quickly put back on the defensive by his opponent's aggression. Though he spotted several openings in Max's posture, the swordsman was unable to properly take advantage of them while unarmed. Without his blade, Sturm would be cursed to struggle through a one-sided fight. Perhaps that was the point in Scharf's lesson.

Suddenly, an idea popped into Sturm's head. Certainly, Max's supply of calcium was limited. Even if it was being actively produced by his body as the boy utilized his aberrance, the energy required to do so couldn't be infinite. If Max was forced to defend himself in such a manner repeatedly, his calcium would eventually be depleted. At least, that was Sturm's theory.

Capitalizing on a hasty swipe of Max's right claw, Sturm ducked down and struck him in the jaw with a closed fist. Again, Max stumbled, but the majority of the damage was absorbed by the calcium plate that had quickly formed across his chin. As the shield's broken pieces dropped to the ground, Sturm punched Max once more in the stomach. As expected, his attempt was once again blocked by a rough sheet of calcium beneath the boy's jacket. Max then undid his outer belt, allowing several broken chunks of the ossified barrier to fall out from under his shirt and pile on the ground beneath him.

"No matter how many times you hit me," explained Max confidently, "It's not gonna work, so you'd better just give up."

We'll see about that. Sturm thought to himself.

Max seemed eager to convince him that his attempts would be futile. Reading in between his words, Sturm took this as likely confirmation of his assumption. Indeed, if Max couldn't produce enough calcium to shield himself indefinitely, it would be in his best interest if Sturm surrendered. Still, Sturm couldn't deny that with every strike, the pain in his knuckles grew. At this rate, even if his plan was working, he'd break his hands before he got through Max's defenses.

Damn it... Sturm thought to himself as he dodged another swipe, If only there was a way to make him up use more calcium, faster.

Then the idea hit him. Perhaps there was a way to do just that. Defensive use of Max's aberrance used a small amount of calcium when compared to the blades anchored to his wrists. At over thirty centimeters long and at least five centimeters thick, the jagged spades likely required a fair amount of material to construct. The fact that Max seemed reluctant to use them as projectiles, despite having resorted to the technique numerous times previously, could be related to his usage of the armor plates. If Sturm could break off Max's claws, then it might be possible to deplete the boy's calcium stores at a much quicker rate.

Dropping down with his back toward the ground, Sturm avoided a thrusting jab from Max's right claw. Before he hit the grass, Sturm caught himself with his hands and, with every ounce of strength he could muster, kicked upward and into the still-extended weapon. The force of the blow cracked the base of the claw, dislodging the majority of the calcified structure and launching it high into the air. When it came down, it lodged firmly in the ground, point-down.

"You know I can just grow those back, buddy," said Max, quickly dropping the remainder of the severed claw from his wrist and allowing another to spring forth as if nothing had happened.

Feeling a slight pain in his chest, conflicting thoughts poured into Sturm's mind. Fighting an exceptional at their full strength while totally unarmed was pushing the boy to his limits. If he continued to strain himself, the potential risks could be catastrophic. Despite this, the swordsman refused to give up, as he'd almost certainly be inviting more negative comparisons between him and his father.

Refusing to be dissuaded, Sturm rushed at Max, grabbed the boy's arm, and delivered a powerful elbow strike to his wrist, breaking away the left claw just as he had the right. Visibly angered, Max jumped back to gain distance before replacing his lost weapon. This time, however, there was a clear delay. The blade sprouted noticeably slower, and Max began to breathe more heavily.

That's it, Sturm thought to himself, It's working.

"Yeah," Max spoke up suddenly, "I see that look in your eye... think you got me figured out, huh?"

Before Max could utter another word, a dull pain began to creep into Sturm's chest. The feeling grew more intense until he instinctively clutched his chest.

Max cocked his head in confusion. "Hey, what's up?" he asked with caution in his voice.

Sturm opened his mouth to respond but was unable to speak. The pain was worsening and it threatened to overtake his body. Eye narrowing suspiciously, Scharf knew something was wrong.

"I-if you're trying to make me drop my guard, it's not gonna work!" exclaimed Max.

Still, Sturm could say nothing. The familiarity of this sensation filled him with deep dread. Without a doubt, Sturm knew that he was experiencing a heart attack. He collapsed onto the grass, racked with pain and gasping for air. The figure of Max, standing over him, was burned into his sight as everything soon went dark.

The last words Sturm heard were the warped words of his captain shouting, "Don't just stand there, get him to the infirmary!" before all became quiet.

From Sturm's perspective, the darkness lasted for a matter of minutes at most. When he awoke, he found himself lying in the middle of the training field, right where he had fallen. He scrambled to his knees taking in the surroundings. It was night and not a star peered through the overhanging cloud cover, dimly illuminated by the moonlight. Max and the others were nowhere to be found.

"Captain?" Sturm asked aloud but received no response.

Had his comrades left him alone in the field after such a serious medical emergency? Had he already been tended to? Sturm knew that Scharf was cold, but this was ridiculous. The boy rose to his feet and took note of the near-perfect silence of the night. Being September, the total lack of the usual nocturnal chorus of crickets and frogs was somewhat off-putting. The air, cool and still, added to the ominous feeling washing over him.

Deciding that his captain's callousness was likely at play, Sturm collected himself and started his way back toward the dormitory. As he walked, he patted his pockets to make sure all of his belongings were present. Hand moving to his belt, Sturm found his sword tucked into its sheath, resting upon his left hip as per usual. Satisfied, he continued on for ten or so meters before suddenly stopping dead in his tracks.

His sword was broken over a week ago in the fight with Max.

The situation was becoming increasingly bizarre. Was he hallucinating? Between Sturm's isolation and rearmament, the totality of the circumstances outweighed any suspension of disbelief.

This couldn't be real.

Sitting down in the grass with a hand on his knee, Sturm considered the possibilities.

Could he be dreaming? The atmosphere was surreal enough, but if this was a dream, then Sturm believed he would have been able to force himself awake by now.

Was he dead? The afterlife was an unknown factor, of course. Still, Sturm was doubtful that he had done enough wrong in his life to warrant such a cold and dark eternity.

Pausing, the boy contemplated a more disconcerting prospect. He had heard stories of exceptionals with incredibly powerful aberrances- psychics capable of entering the minds of others and inducing life-like hallucinations. Is that what this was? An attack?

If so, then he couldn't afford to stay immobile while his allies might be fending off an ambush. Sturm resolved that there must be a way out of this warped reality, and to have any chance of finding it, he had to move. Cautiously, he returned to his feet and scanned the surrounding area. Though eerily similar to the academy grounds, some small, uncanny differences were apparent.

For one, the flowers filling the academy's rear garden seemed different. While Sturm wasn't well-versed enough in botany to deduce the exact type of plants present in the garden, he was almost certain that their flowers were blue and yellow, as opposed to the dullish red petals before him. Seeking to test if his senses were in order, Sturm kneeled down, pressed his nose into the dark eye of a flower, and inhaled deeply.

It was scentless.

While initially concerned, Sturm wasn't able to use this as definitive evidence of his situation, as he couldn't recall if the flowers had any noticeable smell in his memory. It was possible, though again unlikely, that the flowers never had a scent to begin with. Continuing past the garden, Sturm found himself unable to locate the door from whence his team had exited the academy building. He was unable to locate any rear door, for that matter.

Becoming increasingly unsettled, Sturm turned back to the garden, and what he saw shocked him. The flowers were now just as he had recalled them in the past; blue and yellow. He picked up his pace and circled around to the front of the academy, half expecting to find the door missing there, as well. To his pleasant surprise, the large, decorative double door was intact. Sturm breathed a sigh of relief and pulled open the right side of the door before quickly entering.

Inside, he found the interior to be faintly lit by some unseen light source. There were no shadows or variance in lucidity as if the halls were illuminated from every direction. Passing by General Vogel's office, Sturm took note of the bizarre, warped paintings lining the walls. Blended backgrounds, blurred bodies, and twisted faces took the place of the Iron Knight portraits that once adorned the halls. The only image that retained its original form was that of Wyvern Team, which had caught Sturm's attention on induction day.

Stepping close to the painting, Sturm began to scrutinize its every detail. Something about the picture made him uneasy, but he struggled to place his finger on the exact cause. Then, finally, Sturm's eyes were drawn to the helmet of the infamous Fiesel. Scrawled across the front of it was a district star within a circle- a pentagram. Leaning in closely, the boy checked for any signs of tampering. The Iron Knight academies were typically regarded as heavily affiliated with Catholicism. Surely the presence of such a figure, even in a historical photo, would cause a stir if it was proudly displayed in such a manner.

Come to think of it, Sturm didn't recall the general menace exuded by the villain's piercing eyes, either. Leaning closer still, he felt drawn in by the wicked gaze, peering out from behind the lenses of the gas mask. Sturm's trance-like state was only broken when a familiar feminine voice spoke up from behind, startling him.

"Do you fancy this woman or something?"

Spurred on by Magnolia's comment, Sturm's eyes shifted from Fiesel to Erma. What they found was a grotesque, morbid husk of the woman's visage, burned, battered, and horrifically mangled. Her eyes were black, empty sockets and her jaw hung loose, barely attached by twisted sinews.

Sturm fell back in terror, tripping over himself in a panic and tumbling onto his backside. He quickly turned, expecting to see Magnolia but found only an empty, lifeless hallway. Fearing the worst, he slowly and cautiously turned his head back to the painting. This time, Erma was no longer present. In her place was a tall black smudge, as if her likeness had been burned from the very paper it was printed on. Captain Scharf, on the other hand, was now represented by a version of himself more akin to his current appearance, missing his hand and eye. Once more, a voice penetrated the still air, capturing Sturm's attention.

"Now then... are you ready to burn?"

In an instant, the boy clambered to his feet and drew his saber. Slowly rotating his body with his weapon at the ready, he scanned the area. Again, Sturm found nothing. This time, the voice had been entirely unfamiliar. Yet, somehow, he felt an overbearing sense that he should know it. When it became clear that there was no enemy in his immediate vicinity, Sturm quickly started off toward his team's dorm rooms. If he was under the effects of some sort of aberrance, then his friends might be in danger as well.

Coming to room 101, Sturm hastily gripped and twisted the doorknob. Finding it unlocked, he pushed through the door, ready to lash out at whatever waited for him on the other side. To Sturm's surprise, however, he found only a young woman sitting at Magnolia's desk with her back turned to him. In response to his violent entry, the girl didn't even turn her head. From behind, her only feature of note was her shoulder-length reddish brown hair. 

Faced with an unknown individual in his teammate's dorm room, Sturm readied his sword. "Who are you?!" he inquired forcefully, "Where is Magnolia?!"

The girl did not answer. Instead, she raised her left hand and the door behind Sturm swiftly closed. Alarmed by the sound, Sturm looked back to see his exit blocked. Expecting a fight, he shifted his off hand to support his blade but met only air. 

His saber was gone, vanished from within his very grip.

With Sturm disarmed, the girl pushed her chair away from the desk and stood to her feet. She was wearing a candidate's uniform identical to Magnolia's, though without the outfit's traditional patent leather boots. When she turned, the girl met Sturm with a fair, lightly freckled face framed by rose gold half-moon earrings.

"Hello, Arthur," she finally spoke up.

Anxious and agitated, Sturm barked back, "I asked who the hell you were!"

The girl took a step closer to him. Without his weapon and fearful of any unknown aberrance the young woman might possess, Sturm backed up against the door.

"You really don't remember me?" she asked.

Sturm shook his head in denial.

"But you do," she continued. "You made a promise to me."

Sturm's eyes widened in sudden realization as the orange light of sunset poured in from the window behind the girl. "Ida Weber..." he said softly.

A small smile came over her face. "That's right."

"But you're dead..." started Sturm, "Does that mean that I'm-"

"No, not quite," Ida answered before Sturm finished his question, "Though, I suppose it wouldn't be totally accurate to say you're living, either."

"What do you mean?" Sturm inquired, the color draining from his face.

"I mean you're in between."

Sturm shook his head, unwilling to accept this explanation. "No, this has to be in my head. This is a nightmare."

"A nightmare, is it?" asked Ida, stepping closer to him once more.

Without warning, she lunged grabbing at Sturm as he attempted to push her away. However, the boy cut his resistance short when he identified Ida's intentions.

She was hugging him.

In response to her contact, a warmth spread from his chest throughout his body- the warmth of his own blood flow returning.  In awe, Sturm remained still as Ida held the embrace for a few seconds longer. 

Finally pulling away, she looked up at him with a smile. "Thank you."

"I-I don't understand..." Sturm stuttered in confusion, "What did you just do?"

"Your heart is beating again. We don't have much time left," she answered quickly.

Frantically, Sturm began to rattle off every relevant question he could compose as the light gradually obscured his vision.

"Who killed you?!"

"How did he do it?!"

"How can we help you?!"

Ida sighed deeply, a look of regret threatening to overcome her warm smile. "Whatever his aberrance was, it was able to bypass my future sight. I lived in blissful ignorance, able to see my future- or perhaps more accurately, a future, until my last moments. He seized me from my hotel balcony in the night and took me someplace dark. At that point, my future also went dark."

"Who?!" cried Sturm as the light grew brighter.

Hanging her head, Ida said in a defeated tone, "I'm sorry, but I don't know."

"What did he look like?!" Sturm pressed on, nearly blinded.

"What I know, you know already. He's a pyromancer, Sturm. That's all I can say for certain. Again, take caution, for pyromancy is not his only aberrance. I'm certain of this." she hastily explained.

"Damn it!" said Sturm, knowing in his core that he was hanging on to this place by a thread, "What can we do to get you out of here?! We need to help you!"

With her smile returning, Ida looked up at her would-be teammate. "You and Max already have."

As the light completely overcame Sturm's sight, he said "I don't understand..."

Though he could no longer see Ida, her voice rang in his ears one final time.

"Thank you boys for showing me the sunset."