Armstrong's hand shot out like a serpent, fingers wrapping around John's ankle before he could even think about moving. The grip was iron and unyielding, and John felt his bones creak under the pressure. Armstrong's calm face twisted into something almost eager, and then he swung.
John's body whipped through the air, his arms flailing, his vision spinning. Armstrong used him like a flail, slamming him into the ground with a force that cracked the earth. The impact drove the air from John's lungs in a wet, hacking cough. Before he could recover, Armstrong swung again, hurling him sideways into a tree.
CRACK. The trunk splintered, and John bounced off, his body ragdolling through the underbrush. He crashed through another tree, then another, each impact sending fresh spikes of pain through his already battered body. Branches clawed at his skin, leaves filled his mouth, and the world was nothing but a blur of green and brown and agony.
"AAAAAAHHHHHHHHH—" John's scream was torn from his throat as he finally came to a stop, crumpled against the base of an ancient oak. His armor was shredded, his green skin covered in cuts and bruises, and blood dripped from a gash on his forehead into his eyes.
Armstrong walked toward him, slow and deliberate, his black robe swishing. He adjusted his glasses, and John could see the man's muscles were tensed, veins bulging across his neck and temples.
"Fifty tons," Armstrong muttered, and John felt the weight shift. Armstrong's body seemed to sink into the earth, his footprints deepening with each step. The man was increasing his own density, making himself heavier, stronger. He reached down, grabbed John by the scruff of the neck, and pulled back his arm like a pitcher winding up for a fastball.
"HEY—WAIT—!" John started, but Armstrong was already throwing.
The world became a tunnel of wind and pressure. John's body rocketed through the air, arms and legs flapping uselessly, his mouth open in a silent scream. Trees blurred past, then rocks, then more trees. He was flying. Actually flying. Three hundred meters, Armstrong had said. Three hundred meters deep into the forest.
He slammed into the ground and bounced. Rolled. Tumbled. Finally came to a stop in a heap of bruised flesh and broken pride.
"UNNNNGH—" John groaned, pushing himself up on shaking arms. His head was ringing, his vision swimming. He spat out a mouthful of dirt and blood and looked around. The forest was dark here, the canopy thick, the only light filtering through in pale green shafts. He could hear the sounds of battle in the distance, Malice's silent rampage, the shouts of the hands.
He needed to get back. He needed to help.
John's threads shot out, wrapping around a tree trunk a hundred feet away. He pulled, and his body launched forward, swinging through the air like a pendulum. He released the first thread and fired another, gaining speed, gaining height. The wind rushed past his face, cool against his feverish skin. He could see the clearing now, the figures moving below.
Armstrong was standing with his back to John, watching Malice fight Luis and Aaris. The creature was holding its own, eight arms swinging, tail lashing, but the two hands were fast, coordinated. They dodged and weaved, landing blows where they could.
John aimed himself like an arrow, threads trailing behind him, and dropped toward Armstrong in a perfect arc. His feet extended, ready to deliver a devastating dropkick to the back of the man's head.
At the last second, Armstrong ducked.
John sailed over him, his feet hitting nothing but air. He twisted in mid-air, trying to adjust, but it was too late. He was going to crash into the ground.
Except he wasn't aiming for Armstrong.
John grinned as he sailed past the man, his trajectory carrying him directly toward Luis and Aaris. "MALICE! SWITCH!" he yelled.
The creature's head snapped toward him, its painted smile gleaming. In an instant, Malice disengaged from the two hands, its massive form blurring as it charged toward Armstrong. John, meanwhile, used the momentum from his slingshot to spin in the air, his legs tucking, his body coiling.
Luis looked up, his metallic eyes widening. "What the—"
John's feet connected with Luis's chest.
The impact was like kicking a steel wall. A shockwave rippled through John's legs, and he felt something crack in his ankle. But Luis went flying, his body carving a trench in the dirt before slamming into a boulder. The rock shattered, and Luis disappeared into a cloud of dust.
"GAAAAH—!" Luis's grunt of pain was satisfying.
John landed in a crouch, hissing as he put weight on his injured ankle. "WORTH IT," he muttered.
Behind him, Armstrong had turned to face Malice. The creature was charging, all eight arms extended, its massive fists aimed at the man's chest. Armstrong stood his ground, his feet planted, his expression calm.
"Max density," Armstrong said, his voice steady despite the monster bearing down on him. "Five hundred tons."
His body seemed to swell, muscles bulging, veins popping. The ground beneath him cracked and sank, unable to support his weight. Malice's fists connected with Armstrong's torso.
The sound was like a bomb going off. A shockwave blasted outward, sending trees swaying, knocking John off his feet. Dust and debris filled the air, obscuring everything.
When the dust cleared, Armstrong was still standing. His robe was shredded, his chest bare, revealing a torso covered in scars and old wounds. Malice's arms, all eight of them, were broken. Bones protruded through skin, bent at impossible angles, hanging limp and useless.
Malice didn't make a sound. It just stood there, its arms dangling, its painted smile still gleaming.
Armstrong was sweating. His chest was heaving, his muscles trembling. "Among the five hands," he said, his voice strained, "I am the oldest. The most experienced. That means I have had the most time to master my power." He paused, drawing a ragged breath. "My god-given power."
He looked over his shoulder at the shadows behind him. "Fraudrian. Go alert Sir Draven. Tell him we have encountered something unexpected. He needs to come. Now."
A figure detached itself from the darkness, a tall, thin man with pale skin and eyes that seemed to absorb light. Fraudrian nodded once, then stepped into his own shadow and vanished. (Edgy mf)
Armstrong turned back to Malice, which was still standing there, its broken arms twitching. The creature seemed unfazed by its injuries, its empty eyeholes fixed on the man.
"My father," Armstrong said, "was a power-hungry man. He wanted more land, more gold, more influence. He crushed anyone who stood in his way. And then, one day, he was paralyzed. A riding accident. He fell from his horse and never walked again."
Malice took a step forward. Armstrong didn't move.
"After that, he became obsessed with me. I was his heir. His legacy. He made me train, every day, from dawn until dusk. If I failed, he would beat me. If I succeeded, he would beat me and push me harder." (BITCH THIS CHICKEN IS COLD)
Armstrong's voice was flat, emotionless, as if he were reciting a history lesson. "When I was sixteen, I became the vessel of the spirit Pondus. The incarnation of weight and density."
Malice swung one of its broken arms at Armstrong's head. The man caught it with one hand, stopping it cold. He squeezed, and the bones crunched, grinding together.
"Pondus was not kind," Armstrong continued. "For five years, it tested me. It would make me weigh twenty tons in my sleep, crushing my bones, collapsing my lungs. I would wake up gasping for air, unable to move, and then it would do it again. And again."
Malice swung another arm, and another, and another. Armstrong blocked them all, his hands moving in a blur, each catch accompanied by the sound of shattering bone. Malice's arms were being pulverized, reduced to slurry, but the creature kept attacking, kept swinging, kept trying.
"I didn't sleep for months," Armstrong said, his voice growing harder. "I trained. I trained until my bones could handle the weight. I trained until my muscles could move under the pressure. And after ten years, I had mastered it. My bones can now withstand over five hundred tons."
He grabbed Malice's last intact arm and ripped it off. The creature didn't scream. It just stood there, its stumps twitching, its painted smile still gleaming.
"But that is not the full power of Pondus," Armstrong said, his eyes locking onto Malice's empty gaze. "It is said that when I die in battle, I shall briefly become a black hole. A singularity. Everything within a mile will be crushed to nothing."
He wound up his fist, his muscles coiling, his entire body trembling with the effort of containing his own density.
"Rapid fire," Armstrong said. "Five hundred ton impact."
His fist became a blur. Each punch connected with Malice's torso, driving the creature backward, each impact sending shockwaves through the clearing. One, two, three, four, five. Malice's chest caved in. Its body cracked. Its arms, already destroyed, were ripped away completely.
"TEN! TWENTY! FIFTY!"
Armstrong's fists were moving faster than John could track, each one landing with the force of a freight train. Malice was being torn apart, chunks of its body flying in all directions. Its mask cracked, the painted smile splitting down the middle.
"ONE HUNDRED!"
Armstrong pulled back his fist one last time, his whole body coiling like a spring. "Thirty million newtons," he said, and punched.
The impact was cataclysmic. Malice's body rocketed backward, a blur of blue and black, crashing through trees, through rocks, through anything in its path. It flew for over a mile before finally disappearing over a distant ridge.
Silence fell over the clearing. Armstrong stood alone, his chest heaving, his fists dripping with Malice's blood. He was shaking, barely able to stand, but he was alive.
John stared, his mouth hanging open. "Holy sh—"
Something punched through his stomach.
John looked down. A steel rebar, thick and rusted, was protruding from his abdomen. Blood poured from the wound, soaking his shredded armor, dripping onto the ground. He looked up and saw Luis standing a hundred feet away, his arm still extended, his metallic skin gleaming.
"Heh," Luis grunted. "Got you."
John tried to pull the rebar out, but his hands were shaking, his strength fading. "OH COME ON—" he groaned, the pain finally hitting him in a wave of white-hot fire.
"FELINE ATTRIBUTE: CHEETAH!"
Aaris appeared beside him in a blur, her clawed gauntlets gleaming. She grabbed him by the collar of his ruined armor and launched him into the air, her legs propelling him upward with impossible force. John soared, the wind rushing past his face, the rebar still stuck in his stomach.
"AAGGGHHHH—WHAT THE—"
Below him, Dyros was crackling with electricity, arcs of lightning dancing across his body, his eyes glowing bright blue. He looked up at John's ascending form and grinned.
"I LOVE OVERKILL!" Dyros screamed, his voice echoing across the clearing. He raised his hands to the sky, lightning gathering around his palms. "CUMULOUS, GOD OF ALL THAT IS SHOCKING, GRANT ME THE POWER OF FIVE HUNDRED MILLION VOLTS!"
The sky darkened. Clouds swirled overhead, thick and black, crackling with energy. Dyros's body became a conduit, lightning arcing from the heavens into his hands.
"IMPACTTTTTT!"
He leaped into the air, his fist extended, and slammed into John's chest.
The world became light. Pure, blinding, white light. John felt the electricity course through his body, every nerve firing at once, every muscle convulsing. His heart stopped. His lungs stopped. His brain screamed.
And then he hit the ground.
The impact carved a crater ten feet deep, twenty feet wide. Dirt and rocks rained down, and John lay at the bottom, his body broken, his eyes half-lidded. The rebar was still in his stomach. His armor was gone. His skin was blackened and smoking.
He was so close to dying. So close. If he died now, he would lose this avatar. He would lose his goblin form, his village, his goblins. He couldn't. He wouldn't.
John tried to stand. His arms shook. His legs wouldn't move. He pushed himself up on his elbows, blood dripping from his mouth, and tried to crawl.
Armstrong appeared above him, standing at the edge of the crater. The man stepped down, his feet crunching on the shattered earth, and pressed his boot against John's chest.
"It's over, goblin," Armstrong said quietly. "You fought well. But it's time to die."
John coughed, blood spraying from his lips. He looked up at Armstrong, at Aaris, at Dyros, at Luis. The four hands stood around the crater, watching him, waiting for the end.
And John grinned.
"You must really hate me," John said, his voice a wet rasp.
Aaris tilted her head, her slitted eyes curious. "Why would you say that?"
John's grin widened, blood dripping between his teeth. "Because Malice... seems to have gotten stronger from your hate."
Armstrong's eyes widened. He spun around, his boot lifting from John's chest.
Malice was there.
The creature had regenerated. Its arms were back, all eight of them, thicker than before, covered in dark blue muscle. Its maw was open, wider than wide, rows of teeth dripping with drool.
And it was in the air, mid-charge, its body aimed directly at the Hands.
Armstrong opened his mouth to shout a warning. Aaris raised her claws. Dyros crackled with electricity. Luis summoned a spear.
But it was too late.
Malice's maw descended, ready to bite their heads off.