金瓶梅第2部

"BOY!!!" Dwarf Harkus gnashed his teeth in rage, "You can't just tug on a man's beard like that!! It's. Rude!!"

It seemed that no one noticed Tycondrius' subtle attack. He was not amongst peers with very high levels of combat perception.

"Hmph," Tycon rolled his eyes. "I would like to inform the lot of you that Holy Magus Antonidus' beard is in fact, real."

"Of course, it's real!" Harkus insisted. "If you can't trust a man's beard, how can you live your life trusting anything at all?!"

The enforcer who spoke earlier stepped forward... "Gentlemen... if I may, it would be rude to make the Archbishop wait..."

...

Centurion Zenon put all of his strength into his fist, throwing it directly at Maboc's face.

"Gaze into the fist of the RIGHTEOUS!!!"

Maboc swept his white-streaked black hair back, simultaneously blocking the punch with the meat of his forearm. Sweeping his opposite hand to the side, Maboc then splashed a glob of dark magic at the Librarian's chest.

It was... a force spell. Zenon flew back so hard that he tumbled against the dirt and filled his mouth with arena sand. His helmet had flown off in the exchange, rolling away-- like it wanted nothing more to do with him.

Zenon choked and spat... it tasted like blood.

A shadow emerged from the murky dirt clouds. It was Maboc, walking slowly towards him, "Librarian Zenon... Just how long are you going to rely on your... righteousness?"

The Riftwalker shot an arm skyward, coalescing a sphere of dark energy twice his size above him.

Zenon's mind sped, realizing that the witch, still covered by his shadowy barrier, would be immune to his own spell. Acting too many milliseconds slow, Zenon scrambled away, leaping for extra distance as the black orb exploded with a wet pop.

Propelled by the spell's effect, he slid on the sands on his side. He'd lost a lot of skin on the outside to his right arm... but he was able to breathe a sigh of relief.

He'd narrowly escaped death.

Then, Maboc smashed a heavy kick into the defenseless Zenon's gut.

"ARRRGHH!!!" He curled his body up in pain, feeling like an absolute idiot for his carelessness.

"Tsk tsk," Maboc placed his boot down onto Zenon's chest. Leaning over, he wagged his finger. "Whether you are righteous or misguided... that, Tyrion, is decided by the victors."

"Tens of thousands of Tyrions can't be wrong," Zenon glared up with clenched teeth.

"If you were a student of history, Librarian Zenon, you'd understand that your very nation only exists because the Church of the Eternal Flame overthrew the royal regime. It's not your religion that is right... or wrong. It's all politics-- it's control. It's a *leash* that prevents you from thinking for your gods-damned self."

Maboc stomped down hard onto Zenon's gut, "Perhaps you should consider surrendering, so you can save some of your nationalist pride."

Zenon crawled away before vomiting to the side... There was blood. That wasn't a good sign... "I'll... never surrender... not to you, Witch."

Reaching his arms out to support himself... he slowly got back to his feet.

"What can you do?" Maboc shook his head, "Your mana reserves are nearly depleted... and it's not like you have a weapon to challenge me."

Zenon clenched his fists so tight that he felt them bleed, "My faith is my shield... My fury is... my sword."

"Oh, really?" Maboc raised his arms to his side, grinning in mockery, "What does that make you, then?"

Zenon shut his eyes... What was he? Oftentimes, he thought he was nothing... He wasn't the strongest Centurion. Sometimes it felt like no one respected him. His closest ally was only around for a single mission, and then he'd leave him too...

All he had was his identity.

Zenon swallowed the saliva caught in his throat. He put his fists up, ready to fight with his bare, Flamescarred hands for what he believed in, "I am... a loyal son of Tyrion."

"I'm sorry to say, Librarian Zenon..." Maboc grimaced, "I see nothing but a coward."

Zenon blinked the sand out of his eyes... and Maboc was gone.

Flame take him.

A blast of magical energy slammed into Zenon's back, dropping him to his knees. His fatigue mounted, the pain in his head tightening like it was in a vice... He could barely keep his eyes open.

But he could not fall... His Optio was counting on him. He was getting beaten up in front of all of his friends. He couldn't even escape the eyes of Archbishop Crucis.

He tried to will his legs to move... to get back to the standing. If he was going to die here, he'd die on his feet.

Thick arms wrapped around his head and neck. Maboc was choking him.

...and through the clearing clouds of sand, Zenon saw that Tanamar was absolutely not doing any better.

"Because of your cowardice... because of your inability..." Maboc whispered, "Gruffydd is going to snap your friend in twain."

"N... no..." Zenon struggled... but as much as he pulled, he couldn't loosen Maboc's hold. He couldn't break free...

"No hard feelings, Librarian Zenon." Maboc's voice was... almost apologetic, "You lost because your nation has failed you."

"No..." Zenon felt a single tear fall, "The fault is mine and mine alone."

It all came back to that.

Zenon always tried his best. He always tried to be the better man... to treat people as he wanted to be treated.

He never-- almost never got the respect he wanted. He was always told to push forward in training. He was always told to have faith. He was always told... to be patient.

But this liar... this deceiver... this... this heretic...

Maboc had bested him in combat, both magical and physical.

What was he missing? What was the difference?

Was the Witch's faith greater than his? No... none could question the faith of a loyal son of Tyrion...

He felt his consciousness slipping away. He felt more tired than he'd ever felt in his life.

But more than that... he felt angry.

How could he be so worthless?

He was so faithful.

Always faithful.

Yet faith... did not save Acolyte Diantha. How could he expect faith to save him?