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The last swing of a sword brought the only remaining soldier to their knees, metallic cling of netherite dragging across the armor's hard surface.
The last slam of a mace brought the world before their eyes to darkness, followed by a sound of high-heeled shoes gracefully hitting stone.
Flame slowly turned to look at the figure beside him, purple blurring with the dark fabric of his blindfold. The man landed with no fatigue shining through his movements, long hair following the flow of the wind behind his back. It was no strange thing, considering the reputation he'd forged for himself throughout the past months, only to rival Flame's own; there had to be at least some capability involved for it to mean anything.
But even if so, slaughtering a thousand men was no easy feat. Flame could feel his own exertion creeping in under his skin, weighing half-mended armor heavy on his back. It was infuriating, how the other still stood tall, strutting on shoes rivalling his audacity as if hadn't been feeling a thing. As if the title he'd taken by force was rightfully his.
"Tough battle, eh?" He offered, stretching his arms and wings. It was mostly a light-hearted conversation starter, although he couldn't help but keep some of his voice's usual tease.
They should've been equals. So Wemmbu would make sure he looked like one.
Wemmbu's fingers sluggishly dusted off his clothes, dust and debris still clinging to them after the smoke had cleared. The adrenaline he's been running on for the past couple hours had already started fading, the pain of sustained injuries gradually making itself known in his muscles and bones. He felt tired, exhausted, as if his legs could hardly keep him upright; but there stood Flame, right next to him. His rival, a temporary companion, whose title Wemmbu had fought to win over. He couldn't allow himself weakness and disgrace in front of a man who looked like the battle brought him no strain at all.
Flame couldn't help but roll his eyes, although hidden behind the blindfold. He had no intention of entertaining Wemmbu with his annoyance at whatever bait he was going to throw.
"Oh man, I sure wish we'd gotten Lettuce, though," he carried on, either oblivious or purposefully ignoring of Flame's disinterest. He was quite alike a bug; persistent and irritating, but exceptionally durable. "I mean, I'm happy with wiping his army too, but who knows, maybe he'll come back with an orbital cannon?" He chuckled in irony, placing an Ender chest by his feet and rummaging through his own nearly broken fishing rods.
There was no rush to restock anymore, without hundreds of swords threatening to slice at any vulnerable opening left by slowing down just for a second. Wemmbu allowed himself to crouch down by his chest and shulkers without sparing another glance at Flame, whom he'd assumed to be regearing just as well. Wandering the server with no tools nor protection would be a fool's death wish, and neither of them seemed particularly eager to hang around the ruined monument any longer than it was necessary; and that necessity had already passed.
Watching his rival turn his back to him so easily, Flame turned his gaze away, arms crossed over his chest as he leaned against the nearby wall. Wemmbu seemed to mock him with careless attitude to show just how little regard he held for him; his name, his title, his skill. Whatever respect they might have had for each other at the beginning seemed to have faded, with one getting far too comfortable rubbing his presumed superiority into the other's face on a daily basis, after previously have attempted to take it to the grave with himself.
Flame couldn't have that. The humiliation which followed after an obnoxiously taken loss on unequal grounds still hasn't scarred, burning and flaring until the victory was in his hands again.
The little moment of peace left little time to spare before Wemmbu would've tried running again. Yet this time, Flame would be there to catch him by the throat and pin him to the ground, to force a match like he himself had done a couple months prior.
He'd let the golden apples do their work until then, since it wasn't much of a priority anymore. The battle was over. They'd won. It was only Flame beside him left.
Wemmbu's hands shuffled through chaotically placed shulkers with no real urgency. Spare pieces of netherite here, totems here, tools and potions occassionally scattered throughout. He should have looked for regeneration, or health, or something else of the like, considering the amount of injuries sustained in battle, but ultimately decided not to bother. Egg would've likely scolded him for it once he got back to the End in a quite pathetic display of concern, but it would be fine because that's just how his friend was; never particularly suited for combat, nor the rough life that came with it.
Restock was quick work. Mending armor until perfection again, wiping the sword from all the excess blood left from long-dead bodies riddling the ground below, and making fast work of patching up a rather unfortunate wound on his arm. That's all it entailed.
Then, the mace and elytra that still weighed heavy in his inventory. None of that was his style; it was Wemmbu's. The same Wemmbu who used dirty tricks to get whatever he wanted, relying on those same tools like crutches. He couldn't swing a sword to save his life.
Both of the items were quick to come up in flames, melting as if never having been anything special. To him, they weren't. Others would've deemed him insane for discarding them like that.
Wemmbu had already stood up, leaning on the Ender chest as he looked out into the horizon, where endless fields met the sun.
It took only the sound of glass bottles shattering just a couple feet away for him to flinch. Before he got to turn his head in its direction, a blade cut through the air and mercilessly pushed him forward.
What was not a good thing, was the state of his gear. And Flame, materializing by his side again, traitorous sword in hand.
Had it not been for his wings spreading at the last second, he would've joined the corpses splattered on the ground as far as the eye could see. It was no graceful landing, still sore, and nonetheless having to sustain some of the force the impact brought, but it hadn't been damaging, either — which, in itself, was a good thing.
"Come on bro, what's the matter?" He teased, teeth shining through his grin. "You thought I'd let you go without that rematch?"
Wemmbu stared at him through narrowed eyes, taking one deep breath after another as his tail agressively swooshed from side to side. He looked as if Flame had just ruined his devious plan to sneak out without bearing the consequences of having challenged him in the first place. The Immortal Demon wasn't like that.
"Why now?" He finally mustered, although staying low, as if preparing to flee at any moment. It made him look smaller next to his rival — that's what they have always been; rivals — and more like a cornered animal, startled by sudden movement, just waiting to bolt or attack. Fight or flight. The only reliable instinct in this world. "I don't have gear, bro. We've just slaughtered a thousand, and you want to do this now?"
It was only pointless stalling, as there was no running from the inevitable at that point.
"Yeah. Because you're gonna run and die in some ditch again, for nobody to ever see you again," he lifted his sword to point at the other's chest. "That's what you do. Coward."
"I have no gear, buddy," Wemmbu spat out, voice full of venom. "What happened to that honor of yours?"
"Didn't stop you the last time we did this."
But maybe he was fine with losing, just this once.
He knew he had little left, even as he jumped high into the air, just barely evading a precise strike of a netherite blade. It would've been a losing battle regardless of what he would've tried, leaving him with no option but to persist, as always, and do his best, leaving the rest up to fate — even though it hadn't ever been particularly kind to him.
The mace fell into his hands again, perfectly slotting itself in between the cuts on his palm. It's managed to carve its form into his skin, just like he'd forged the handle to fit no hand other than his own.
And that was undeniable, because he truly hadn't. Yet still, it felt like betrayal.
Wemmbu might have had the wings, the mace, and other dirty tricks up his sleeve, but that was all he had. He rose up into the air to strike back down in seconds, but that was all there was to it. The hits fell from hands putting their entire strength into missed attempts, as if trying to take down both his opponent and himself at once; clearly not skilled with a sword. It was as if watching a child be given a fancy toy.
Flame was not giving his all in the fight. His sword crashed with the mace without the force Wemmbu would've put into it, and wasn't seeking to cut through the half-mended armor at any possible opportunity, or even without one. It felt as if he held no real respect for his rival, holding back as if victory had already been in his hands since the moment it started.
He'd chosen to play it smart. Where the other was trading excessive strain for harsher hits, Flame decided to play his cards slowly; drag the fight out, hit lighter, keep himself safe from injuries. It leaves no room for mistakes, but he'd never stumbled, careful with his steps, each deliberate and precise.
The lack of respect he was given was nothing new. He could deal with that; swing further, hit harder. End it as quickly as possible, with his muscles aching, head throbbing, and blood dripping to melt with that already spilled on the ground. It stuck out like a sore thumb, deep purple shade refusing to blur with crimson red. Though, he couldn't really focus on that; nor anything else, for that matter. The fight remained somewhere in the background, buzzing with all the other noise ringing in his ears.
The title was his to grab, again. His name was going to be his, again, at last. Each cut of the sword was his own, written deep into his bones and mind. It was what he'd always done, from the beginning to the end, as if his sole purpose was to fight, and fight, and nothing else. Even if his hands had always been gentle and soft while ruffling Ashen's fur, or patting Lomedy on the back after a day of hard work. That hardly meant anything to anyone; and he was alright with that.
It was no life meant for him.
Wemmbu was no warrior. He was no weapon, although everyone around him had seemed to think otherwise. In tales he'd been just an obstacle to defeat and grab the title for themselves. On the battlefield, he was but a shadow behind the mace and orbital strikes. Destruction with no name.
It was his purpose. The meaning of his life, the spark ignited by burning passion. The sword made an extension of his hand, and the movement remained embedded deep within his nervous system.
But those times had passed. Power was nothing but chains in a different cover.
Once, when the Emperor stared at him from above, he'd silently sworn to liberate himself and his dearest companion from the helplessness they were forced into by the circumstances of this world. Whoever held power held also freedom, and not the necessity to submit to whoever was next to dominate with their rule.
Power brought reputation, and reputation made a name, one Flame had worked so hard for. It was like a reward for years of consistency, mild terrorism of Capital City's citizens, and skill. Wemmbu was nobody to take it, after appearing out of nowhere with a newfound goal to satisfy a random urge for a power shift.
He hadn't been suited for this chase. All he'd ever wanted was peace, and received nothing but war. Flame had seemed to find himself in it much better than he could ever have.
The quick exchange of hits kept going, even as Wemmbu had ran out of rockets, and Flame's armor durability was starting to rival that of his rival's at the start of their little fight.
The last swing of the mace missed.
The last swing of the sword dug into its opponent's shoulder and slid right out.
Wemmbu was now at his feet, looking much smaller than he did standing over the battlefield with satisfied bloodlust in his eyes.
It seemed as though he was about to join the thousand corpses, already gone cold as the time had passed. A thousand and one. Nobody would care to note that.
"Come on," Flame tilted his head, sword pointing at Wemmbu's disheveled figure sprawled out on the ground. The vibrant purple hair didn't even seem that saturated anymore, leftover dust tinting it a dull, grey hue. "Admit it."
"Admit what?" He chuckled, head barely lifting from the ground to spare a glance at his rival from below. There was no mockery left in his eyes anymore; just as it should've been.
"You've lost."
"…That I have," he muttered, albeit the smile hadn't faded from his expression; Flame had almost taken a step back in surprise, but ultimately limited it to adjusting the blindfold with his free hand.
"…Seriously?" He questioned, sword retreating an inch from where it pointed at Wemmbu's throat.
"You can be the strongest," and he would've shrugged, had he not been laying on the cold, stone ground, any adrenaline fuelled by thrill long gone. Still, he kept smiling; softly, and painfully unlike himself.
Yeah. Yeah, that was it.
"What, that's it?" It felt slightly awkward, after all the hell Wemmbu had given him. Guess the hunt was over for good. "I mean, uhm, sure. Good to know you've still got some sense left."
He looked past his shoulder, into the sun that had already begun setting over the horizon. It had taken a good while.
In that moment, Flame had extended a hand out to him in offering. And Wemmbu chuckled again, and reached up to grab it as an anchor to help him stand up on unsteady legs, hardly willing to cooperate not unlike the rest of his body. He'd said something dumb, like a teasing comment, or sarcastic remark, and they both laughed, even if one wouldn't admit to it. The weapons dropped aside, both Gambit and Fragger no longer in sight, and they started bickering over something again, in that friendly tone rarely heard between the two of them.
In Wemmbu's mind, that's how it went. It didn't matter that he was still on the ground, and Flame's silhouette had already started fading in the distance.
He'd get up on his own. As always.