The clash of their weapons echoed through the forest, a symphony of steel on steel and crackling energy. Dust motes danced in the air, illuminated by the flashes of purple and the faint, ethereal glow of Ange's ash staff. Mitchell's purple blade, honed by countless hours of practice and fueled by the crimson nightmare's raw power, danced around her movements with an almost predatory grace.
********
When Ange had walked out from the void, her hair had changed back to its normal color before flickering back to the pale blue state. His attacked had rocked her just now. And she was still uninjured despite him not holding back and slashing at his full might.
"You wanna kill me". There was a faint anger in her voice but Mitchell could detect it. He hadn't meant to slash with that much power but she looked to be alright.
Ange, despite her initial flurry of attacks, was beginning to tire. Her Immortal Ghost Monarch technique, while formidable, was taxing on her. She tried to maintain her illusionary movements, to create a maelstrom of attacks that Mitchell had to constantly react to, pushing him to his absolute limits. But Mitchell, with his overwhelming power and incredible resilience, was starting to gain the upper hand.
He pressed his attack, a surge of crimson energy pulsing through his veins, fueling each strike. He felt a growing sense of certainty, a growing confidence that he could break through her defenses. Each parry, each block, only served to strengthen his resolve.
The fight wasn't just about strength; it was a test of wills, a battle of strategies, a dance between two forces of nature. Mitchell's crimson essence, fueled by the nightmare, surged through his body, adding a level of ferociousness that was beginning to overpower Ange's controlled, yet somewhat predictable, technique.
After using the crimson nightmares 'explosive qui burst and how it resulted, he had already instinctively begun to use it in all his movements but he was still careful not to try the technique again. It would only cause him more injury along with the slight advantage he would have over Ange. He hadn't expected her to be this strong.
He could still end this fight if he wanted, he had not used the first purple god technique yet. It would also be on par with the power of the crimson nightmares.
Ange countered with a series of illusions, shimmering, ephemeral forms appearing and disappearing around Mitchell. Each phantom attack was carefully calculated to distract and disorient him. But Mitchell's focus was razor-sharp. His senses, heightened by the crimson nightmare, tracked the energy signatures of each illusionary attack, allowing him to anticipate her every move.
He sensed a shift in the energy around him, a subtle strain in the fabric of the spirit realm. The illusionary attacks were becoming less precise, less convincing. Ange's stamina was clearly wavering. The ash staff, still emanating a faint, ethereal aura, trailed behind her with each thrust, each parry; seemingly, this technique was also consuming her stamina as well.
Mitchell used this opening. He saw an opening and with a swift, powerful side-step he brought his sword down with all his strength, an unyielding force. This strike wasn't just a physical blow; it was a confluence of will and power. The crimson energy surrounding his blade intensified, amplifying the impact many times over. He felt a surge of power, a connection between his body and his sword that resonated with the very essence of his being.
Ange, stumbling slightly, momentarily lost her balance. The illusionary tactics were faltering. Her ash staff, which should have been able to create a mystical aura, weakened in its presence, lacking the energy to maintain the illusions. The force of Mitchell's blow sent ripples through the forest, leaving a trail of shattered energy in its wake.
She staggered back, the ethereal power of her technique cracking beneath the weight of Mitchell's onslaught. A flicker of pain crossed her face, a silent confession of her failing endeavor. His strength, his resolve, were insurmountable.
With a last, desperate surge, Ange unleashed a final flurry of blows with her ash staff, attempting to buy herself time. But it was too late. Mitchell's movements, swift and precise, met each attack, deflecting them with ease. His blows grew stronger, each strike drawing upon the crimson power coursing through his veins.
Time seemed to warp as the fight reached its climax. The air crackled with the residual energy of their clashing wills. Mitchell's attacks grew heavier, while Ange's increasingly weakened.
With a final, sharp thrust of his sword, Mitchell redirected her strike, sending her reeling backward. The ash staff flew from her grasp, clattering on the forest floor, lifeless and still as her body crumpled to the ground.
Silence fell on the forest. The only sounds were the gentle rustling of leaves and the faint beat of Mitchell's heart. He leaned on his sword, panting, the exertion draining him more than he had expected. He had won the spar, but at a cost. The crimson nightmare's power had taken a toll, its energy a drain even to him.
Victory tasted bitter, tinged with the metallic tang of blood. He approached her, kneeling down beside her fallen form. She lay still, her breathing shallow, her eyes closed. He felt a surge of overwhelming relief, a sense of satisfaction from a job well done but a wave of concern for her was also washing over him. He gently touched her hand. Her body was still warm, but her life force was clearly waning in relation to his. His victory did come with a substantial cost, a physical and mental one that he would need to recover from. He knew this wouldn't be the last fight they had or even the last spar, as there was always a quest to attain beyond.
He had achieved victory, but at what price? The crimson nightmare was demanding a steep retribution, and he knew the journey would only get tougher from this point forward.