Date: April 12, 542
The clearing, once part of the swamp forest, had transformed into a smoking crater. Kazai's triple assault — his own steel, Pride's cold calculation, and Wrath's searing fury — had descended upon the Orled like divine retribution. The Harbinger of the forests was drowning in this torrent: it barely managed to parry Wrath's crimson broadsword before Pride's phantom blade found a gap in its defense beneath its wing.
The Orled crashed heavily onto one knee, its claws tearing into the baked earth. Its golden eyes, full of pain but not fear, met Kazai's. In that gaze was no plea. There was... understanding. The Orled, a creature that had wrested its power from nature itself, knew no mercy and asked for none. It saw that this "human hatchling" was burning, that his Vessel was cracking at the seams, but it also saw that very spark that made worlds shudder.
"You... truly... are different," the monster rumbled, thick blood spattering from its beak and hissing on Wrath's red-hot armor. "Your spirit is not borrowed. It is torn from the very essence of your sin. But you forgot, Pillar... a Harbinger does not become a Harbinger through flesh alone. We become them when we tame the very elements."
The Orled suddenly straightened to its full height. Its wings spread so wide they obscured the swamp's dim sun. It emitted a cry that was not a sound, but a blow to the energy channels of all present.
"Sticky Feathers Spirit!" the monster roared.
In that instant, everything changed. Every feather on the Orled's body — rigid as obsidian — began to secrete a viscous, translucent substance, shimmering with phosphorescent green light. This was not ordinary slime. This was the Harbinger's concentrated energy, cloaked in a form that suppressed all movement.
The air in the clearing instantly became heavy and thick. Every movement Kazai made now required three times the effort. Dust and debris from the trees, lifted into the air, froze as if in invisible syrup.
Wrath was the first to feel the effect of this power. It swung its blazing broadsword, but the blow that should have cleaved stone became mired in space. Sticky strands of energy, tearing from the Orled's wings, plastered over the Spirit's crimson armor. Wrath's fire hissed and died as it contacted the viscous mass. The Spirit of rage roared, trying to break free, but the more it struggled, the more strands enveloped it, binding its movements and extinguishing its inner heat.
Pride tried to slip into the shadows, but the shadows themselves had become sticky. The Harbinger of the forests had not just created glue — he had changed the density of reality itself around him. Pride froze, its black cloak covered in glowing green spots that drained its ethereal mass.
"Now you are in my trap," the Orled stepped forward. Its movements were free; its own Spirit did not touch its creator. "Your speed is now meaningless. Your rage is mere food for my feathers."
The monster struck. Its powerful bear paw, reinforced with "sticky energy," crashed down upon Wrath. A sound like tearing dense fabric echoed. Wrath's lava armor cracked, and the Spirit flew back, leaving a trail of dying sparks in the air. Kazai felt this blow as if he had been struck with a hammer to his ribs.
The prince gritted his teeth. His Vessel vibrated at its limit. Holding two Spirits within the enemy Harbinger's area of effect was becoming torture. But there was no despair on his face.
"Sticky feathers..." Kazai rasped, feeling his own legs sinking into the invisible web. "You decided to turn the battle into a swamp? Very well... Orled. I am used to walking through swamps. The Cursed Tribe survived in the mud when the whole world turned its back on us. You will not frighten me with viscosity."
Kazai drove his blade into the ground, using it as a lever. His energy, black and caustic, began to pulse, trying to burn through the enemy's "sticky aura."
The Orled attacked again. Now it aimed for the prince himself. It understood that the Spirits were merely reflections. If it killed the source, the shadows would disappear on their own. The Harbinger beat its wing, and hundreds of sticky feathers tore free from it, rushing towards Kazai like jagged harpoons.
Pride, overcoming the resistance of the environment, dashed to intercept. It shielded its master with its body, taking the brunt of the projectiles. The Spirit's ephemeral flesh was riddled; it began to flicker, losing its form. Wrath, on the other hand, brought its broadsword down on the ground, creating a ring of fire that momentarily vaporized the sticky strands around Kazai.
This was a war of attrition. Both sides were suffering damage that would have been fatal for an ordinary warrior. The Orled was covered in deep wounds, its wings were singed, and golden ichor oozed from its eyes. Kazai's Spirits were thinning, becoming ghostly shadows of themselves.
The prince himself looked like a walking corpse: his clothes had finally turned to rags, and his skin was covered in a network of fine cracks from which Energy mixed with blood oozed. But he did not retreat. In every movement was wild, almost primal respect for the being standing opposite him.
The Orled was magnificent in its fury. It used no dirty tricks, made no attempt to flee. It fought for its right to be master of this forest, putting its entire life into each beat of its wings.
"You... are worthy of being the last thing I see," the Orled rasped, preparing for its final rush.
Kazai nodded, his gaze becoming transparent and cold. "And you, Orled. You are the only one who has made me feel the weight of my crown."
The battle was approaching its finale. The air in the clearing was so saturated with power that space itself began to groan. Either the prince would break the Harbinger, or the Harbinger would consume Pride and Wrath along with their creator.