A few tense seconds ago had bled away just before they initiated their split, the plan forming in the frantic heat of survival.
"Trizha, do me a favor; distract Zackier for me."
Nomoro urged, his voice carrying a jagged edge of nervousness that he couldn't quite sharpen into confidence.
He shifted his weight, his eyes darting between the hovering false antagonist and the girl beside him.
"I'll circle around and get behind him while you keep him occupied. If he sends you flying, don't panic—I'll sneak up and do my best to blast him right back toward you. Just make sure you're ready to hit him with everything you've got when he comes into range."
No matter how much you consider this plan for the better, it was a plan that sounded like it was destined to fail.
Zackier was not just a fighter; he was a strategic predator, an Alter Being whose very existence was defined by his ability to calculate countermeasures and overwhelm his foes before they could find their footing.
Even Trizha felt an internal surge of disagreement, her instincts screaming that such a basic pincer maneuver was beneath a man who had lived for three centuries.
Yet, she gave a stiff, solemn nod.
A part of her whispered that the plan possessed one crucial, hidden key: Zackier's own obsession.
He was a man drowning in the need to understand the incomprehensible.
He was so distracted by the "meta" implications of Trizha's new state that his strategic mind was cluttered, leaving him vulnerable to the kind of "average" effectiveness he usually despised.
And now, as she watched Zackier's body being hurled through the air toward her—Nomoro's desperate gamble actually succeeding—Trizha felt a jolt of dramatic surprise surge through her chest.
Though, she kept her face an unreadable mask, her barely void-white eyes tracking the target with predatory focus.
She tightened her grip on the iron pipe, the cold metal biting into her palms.
As Zackier closed the distance, she pivoted on her lead foot and swung the pipe in a horizontal arc of high precision.
She kept her gaze locked on him, refusing to blink, waiting for the impact.
Alas, even mid-air and disoriented, Zackier's reflexes were monstrous.
He twisted his torso with a violent wrenching motion, turning to face Trizha just as the pipe reached him.
Then his hands snapped out, catching the metal bar.
He used her own momentum as leverage, his face contorted with the struggle as he vaulted over the weapon, his boots narrowly clearing Trizha's head.
Trizha gritted her teeth, the sound of grinding molars audible over the wind.
She didn't let him escape.
She stomped her lead foot into the concrete, the impact spider-webbing the ground as she anchored herself.
Using the reversal technique she had observed in Nomoro's erratic fighting style, she didn't try to stop the pipe's momentum—she redirected it.
She yanked the weapon back, reversing its trajectory from forward to backward in a blurring snap.
The iron pipe caught Zackier squarely in the center of his chest just as he tried to find his footing in the air.
The sound of the impact was sickening—a dull, heavy thud followed by the distinct crack of bone.
Zackier coughed, a spray of crimson mist erupting from his lips as the precision of the strike sent him hurtling further away, his body skipping across the rooftop like a stone on water.
He managed to tumble and catch himself, sliding on his heels until he came to a halt.
As he stood, the very atmosphere of the rooftop curdled.
The breeze that had been whipping around them died instantly, leaving a vacuum of sound.
The silence was absolute, broken only by the heavy thud of Nomoro landing back at Trizha's side.
They stood shoulder-to-shoulder, two battered teenagers facing a legendary being from a fantasy story.
Zackier was panting heavily, his chest heaving under his tattered suit, but then he did something that chilled them more than any attack: he began to snort, then chuckle, until he was grinning with a wide, manic amusement.
It was a dangerous, uncomfortable sight that forced Nomoro to tighten his guard.
"What is he planning now?" Nomoro thought, a cold bead of sweat rolling down his temple.
He clenched his demonic arm, a limb he feared and loathed, yet found himself relying on more with every passing second.
"He looks... pleased. That's never a good sign."
Trizha's hands were trembling so violently she had to squeeze the pipe harder to hide it.
"I felt his ribs give way," she thought, her eyes fixed on the man who refused to stay down. "I heard the bones break when that pipe connected. It's terrifying... how is he still standing after that?"
The silence stretched, thin and brittle.
Then came a sound.
Clap.
A single, slow clap echoed off the stairwell door.
Clap. Clap. Clap.
Zackier began to applaud them, his cold, pale hands coming together in a rhythmic, condescending beat.
He looked down at them with a look of genuine pleasure, as if he were a teacher watching a particularly bright student finally solve a difficult equation.
"I'm impressed," Zackier said, his voice smooth and terrifyingly calm. "Truly. You almost had me monologuing there, lost in the sheer novelty of being touched. I certainly don't want to make myself look stupid right after declaring that I've adapted to the both of you."
He snorted, a sharp, ugly sound.
"Hmph. Of course, you don't consciously know that I've mastered your rhythms, but your instincts—your fear—you are perfectly aware of it."
He began to approach them.
Each step was deliberate, the sound of his shoes on the grit a rhythmic reminder of the hierarchy on this roof.
He held the position of the predator, and no matter what 'states' they entered, he remained the master of the stage.
"Now, why don't the both of you do me a small favor?"
Zackier stopped, his eyes glinting with an erratic light.
"... and just cry your eyes out!"
The command was followed by a sickening shift in their internal chemistry.
Trizha's breath hitched as a sudden, overwhelming wave of sorrow crashed over her.
Her eyes began to sting, and before she could process the thought, warm tears began to spill down her cheeks.
Beside her, Nomoro let out a choked sob as well.
His knees buckled, and he slowly crouched toward the floor, a single tear hitting the dust beneath them with a silent splash.
Their faces became vulnerable, flushed with a shock that replaced their combat focus.
"What—wh-why are we suddenly crying?!"
Trizha's mind raced as she felt the essence of her Harbinger State flickering like a candle in a gale.
The focus required to maintain her defiance of fate was being drowned by this artificial grief.
Beside her, the obsidian plates of Nomoro's demonic armor began to flake and crumble, losing the emotional resolve that held them together.
This was the true horror of Zackier's Alterlity: the absolute power to exchange a victim's current emotion for another.
He had traded their determination for despair.
With their guards shattered, Zackier closed the distance.
He didn't run; he simply appeared in front of them in the blink of an eye, a specter born of their own weakness.
"I've exchanged an emotion from each of you," Zackier muttered, his voice a cold caress. "That makes it two out of my ten."
He didn't waste a heartbeat.
Using the two emotions he had harvested, he generated two 10% Emoplotions, positioning them behind his elbows like miniature rocket boosters.
He released them simultaneously, his arms snapping forward in a double-thrusting motion.
He didn't use a blade; his fingers were rigid, aimed like spears at their vital points.
The sheer speed of the thrusts sent a jolt of survival through Trizha.
The impending lethality was enough to spark a reflexive flare of her Harbinger state.
She twisted her body, the air whistling as Zackier's fingers grazed her, evading the attack right before it could impale her eyes.
A thin red line opened across her left cheek, blood welling instantly.
However, Nomoro was not as fortunate.
Without his full armor, he couldn't move in time.
Zackier's hand struck his shoulder, gashing the edge of his arm deeply.
Both teens let out a sharp groan of pain, the physical sting momentarily clearing the fog of the artificial sorrow.
They didn't falter.
They couldn't.
They pushed back, spreading out by only a few meters to maintain their formation.
Meanwhile, Zackier stood there, a bit bored out by the results.
"Too bad," He muttered to himself, yet it was loud enough for the other two to hear. "Here I thought aiming to impale an eye would cause that state to malfunction, but then again, it's a power that goes against logic in exchange for survival. On the other hand, I was aiming to tear Narasao's arm off in one fell swoop. Guess not."
The time for clever tricks and pincer moves was over.
They were locked in the gravity of a real, 2v1 close-quarters slaughter.
It was now... or never.