Chapter 44: The Oesentious Lecture (And Other Unpleasantness)
The voice wasn't just *behind* them. It *was* the space behind them. One moment, serene hilltop; the next, the air *condensed* into a figure radiating smugness like a radiator leaks heat. Tall, draped in robes that shimmered with the arrogance of a thousand unread dissertations, stood Oesentious. His eyes, sharp as critique and twice as cold, swept over the trio. He didn't stride; he *materialized* with an air of profound disappointment.
"Really, Wukong?" Oesentious sighed, the sound like a librarian shushing a toddler in a china shop. "Fleeing the scene? Leaving *grey* bloodstains? How *common*. And *you*," he turned his withering gaze to Zokraks, whose neon outfit suddenly looked like a cry for help, "using a *lemon wedge* to dispatch my disciple? The sheer *gauche* of it all. It's like using a novelty spoon to perform brain surgery. Utterly lacking in *aesthetic*."
Wukong forced a grin, wiping grey gunk off his staff. "Master Oesentious! Fancy meeting you here! We were just, uh, *touring* the neighborhood. You know, appreciating the *architecture* of Universe 2. Very... *demolition*-friendly!"
"*Demolition*?" Oesentious scoffed, adjusting an imaginary cufflink. "You didn't *demolish*, Monkey King. You *vandalized*. You turned a court of profound cosmic order into a *dumpster fire* flavored with citrus. And Sambell? My most *competent* shadow? Reduced to *lemon-scented stardust* by this... *pulp fiction* enthusiast." He gestured dismissively at Zokraks. "Honestly, the *lack* of finesse. It's embarrassing for *all* of us."
Before Wukong could retort with something involving "free trials" and "disciple-shaped holes," Oesentious snapped his fingers. Not a loud snap. A *final* one. Two figures stepped from the shimmering air beside him.
First, Thorelf Bjalkidottir. She moved with the silent grace of a glacier planning revenge, clad in silver armor that seemed forged from moonlight and grudges. In her hands, a spear pulsed with cold, blue energy – less a weapon, more a *statement* of inevitable impalement. Her eyes, the color of deep ice, locked onto Xorath without a flicker of emotion.
Second, Veturlidi Hermundsson. He was Thorelf's shadow made flesh – broader, quieter, radiating a stillness that felt heavier than gravity. He didn't carry a weapon; he *was* the weapon, his very presence pressing down on the hilltop like a physical weight. His gaze settled on Zokraks, utterly unreadable.
"Thorelf," Oesentious announced, as if introducing them at a particularly dull symposium, "will handle the *brooding* one. Veturlidi will... *contain* the citrus enthusiast. Try not to make *more* of a mess, children. The paperwork is *dreadful*."
Xorath didn't wait for pleasantries. The moment Thorelf's spear-tip leveled at him, he *moved*. Not a shout, not a flourish – just pure, lethal intent. He blurred forward, a silent storm of dark energy coalescing around his fists. Thorelf met him with equal silence. Her spear became a whirlwind of icy light, parrying Xorath's blows with impossible speed, each clash ringing like a frozen bell. She thrust; he twisted, the spear-point grazing his shoulder with a hiss of frost. He countered with a kick aimed at her knee; she spun, the spear haft deflecting it with a crackle of blue energy. No words. Just the relentless *thud*, *clang*, *hiss* of two perfectly matched forces – introvert versus introvert, violence as their only language. They were a dance of lethal precision, neither gaining ground, the hilltop trembling with their silent fury.
Meanwhile, Zokraks bounced on the balls of his feet, flashing a grin at Veturlidi that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Whoa there, Big and Broody! Don't tell me you're *spear*-phobic? Or maybe you just *can't handle the zest*?" He snapped his fingers. **"Spectral Lemon!"** A shimmering orb of citrus light shot towards Veturlidi.
Veturlidi didn't flinch. He simply *raised a hand*. The lemon orb hit an invisible wall inches from his palm and *shattered* like cheap glass, spraying harmless, lemon-scented mist. He took one slow, deliberate step forward. The ground seemed to groan under his boot.
Zokraks' grin tightened. "Okay, okay! Tough crowd! How about... **Ultimate Lemonade**?" He poured his energy into the spell, summoning a wave of blinding yellow energy. Veturlidi didn't dodge. He *walked* into it. The lemonade wave washed over him, sizzling against his skin like acid on stone, but he kept coming, unbroken, his expression unchanged. He reached out, not with a weapon, but with his bare hand, aiming to grab Zokraks' wrist.
"Whoa, Nelly!" Zokraks yelped, scrambling back, the GodSlayer flickering into existence in his grip – a desperate, glowing lemon wedge. "Hands off the merchandise! This is *premium* divine citrus! You wouldn't understand the *lemon law*!" He swung the massive wedge in a wide arc, the air screaming with sour power. Veturlidi met the swing with a simple, brutal block, his forearm deflecting the GodSlayer with a sound like a gong struck by a meteor. Zokraks staggered, the grin finally gone, replaced by wide-eyed shock. Veturlidi didn't press the advantage. He just stood there, a monolith of silent, overwhelming force, waiting.
Wukong watched the dual clashes, staff gripped tight, grey blood forgotten. "Well," he muttered, mostly to himself, the usual sarcasm replaced by grim assessment, "looks like the *free trial* period is officially over. And the *refund policy* is looking real grim." He glanced between Xorath's silent, desperate duel and Zokraks' rapidly deflating citrus bravado. Oesentious watched it all with the detached interest of a man observing ants scurry before a boot comes down.
Thorelf's spear flashed, a pinpoint strike aimed at Xorath's heart. Xorath twisted, the tip grazing his ribs, drawing a thin line of dark energy instead of blood. He countered with a palm strike that slammed into Thorelf's armored chestplate, making her stagger back a single, precise step. Equal. Stalemated.
Veturlidi advanced another step, ignoring the lemon-scented steam rising from his scorched sleeve. Zokraks hefted the GodSlayer, its light seeming dimmer against the boy's implacable presence. "Alright, Big Z," Zokraks panted, forcing the grin back, though it was brittle now, "Let's see if you're *sour* enough to handle the *real* squeeze!" He raised the divine lemon wedge high.
The hilltop held its breath. Two fights, perfectly balanced on the knife-edge of annihilation. Oesentious smiled faintly, savoring the tension like a fine, bitter wine. The real battle had just begun.