"—Today's enlightening topic is…"
The Bishop's words were stillborn. Like a striking panther, No. 8 erupted from beside the door. His short sword, a conduit for the entirety of No. 6's channeled Tidal Force, blazed a chilling azure arc aimed squarely at the Bishop's fleshy waist.
A sharp, metallic clang shattered the air. The impact jarred No. 8 to the bone, the shock traveling up his arm, nearly tearing the sword from his grasp. His full-force assault hadn't even breached the Bishop's gold-embroidered robes.
"His damned robes! They're reinforced!" No. 8 bellowed, a desperate warning, his eyes darting for any exposed flesh.
"Such… underwhelming… force, tsk tsk," the Bishop sneered, yet his gaze was already flicking to his other flank.
A silver blur struck from the side. No. 7, banking everything on speed, launched himself with such explosive power that his feet cracked the stone platform. He was an arrow loosed, his longsword a streak of vengeful light cleaving towards the Bishop's head.
The Bishop's opulent sleeve billowed. His left arm shot up to shield his face; his right snaked out, talons aiming for No. 8's throat. No. 8 threw himself back, narrowly evading the lethal grasp, only to be caught servicios by the sweeping sleeve—a bludgeoning impact against his chest.
His already fractured ribs shrieked in protest. The blow was monstrously heavy. No. 8 became a broken kite, hurled backward, his spine gouging a deep furrow along the cliff's precipice. Dislodged stones pinwheeled into the abyss, their faint, clattering echoes returning after an unnerving delay.
"No. 8!" No. 6's cry was swallowed by the Bishop's booming laughter. The obese fiend moved with a terrifying, incongruous agility, bearing down on the grievously wounded youth at the cliff's edge in a mere three strides.
Spitting blood, No. 8 struggled to rise, the hilt of his broken sword digging into his palm. His vision swam. He tried to lift an arm to defend himself, but the Bishop's grip, like iron bands, clamped onto his wrist.
CRACK!
A sickening, wet snap of bone. No. 8's right arm contorted at an impossible angle. Splintered, ivory-white bone, slick with crimson, tore through skin, a grotesque protrusion gushing blood. The Bishop hoisted him bodily into the air.
"Farewell, defective specimen…"
The piercing shriek of a silver needle tore through the Bishop's pronouncement. No. 7's hidden dart transfixed the Bishop's throat, drawing a gout of blood mingled with yellow fat. The Bishop's voice died in a strangled gurgle; one meaty hand flew to his neck, emitting bizarre, choked sounds.
Seizing the momentary distraction, No. 6 lunged. Her blue cloth sash whipped in the wind like a battle standard. She grabbed No. 8's collar, dragging him desperately sideways, leaving a stark, glistening trail of red across the stone. Her power flared, a desperate attempt to staunch the flow from his ravaged arteries as she tore a strip from her own tunic, fumbling to bind the horrific wound.
The Bishop's hand, pudgy and bloodied, clutched his throat. Azure light pulsed at the wound, a visible manifestation of his own potent Tidal Force. When he raised his head, the whites of his murky eyes were a spiderweb of engorged veins, the corners of his mouth twitching in an uncontrolled spasm.
No. 7's fingers flexed, a silent command, but the silver needle, embedded deep in the distant stone wall, remained stubbornly inert. The Bishop's power, a viscous, unseen net, had ensnared it. He knew; the Bishop knew that such a focused, penetrating attack was his vulnerability.
"Excellent. Truly… unforeseen. I had not anticipated such… potency… from your little parlor tricks."
No. 7 had no breath for banter. He stooped, retrieving his longsword, and began to compress the Tidal Force within it, again and again, until the blade thrummed with an almost unbearable energy. His gaze, a laser of intent, locked onto the Bishop's exposed neck, the pulsing carotid.
As his sword flared anew, the Bishop, anticipating the charge, contemptuously swept his voluminous sleeve to entangle the blade. But No. 7, in a stunning feint, released his grip, spinning into a devastating whip kick. Azure light blazed from his leg as it scythed through the air with a sound like tearing silk, connecting with brutal precision against the Bishop's temple.
THWUMP!
The dull, reverberating impact of quivering flesh brought to mind a dropped watermelon. The Bishop staggered, a dark trickle of blood oozing from his ear. He shook his massive head, clearly dazed.
Before the Bishop could recover his bearings, No. 7, sword once more in hand, brought it down in a two-handed overhead chop, a silver meteor aimed directly at the Bishop's neck. The blade bit deep, burying itself halfway before the Bishop's surging Tidal Force arrested its lethal descent. The Bishop's clouded eyes contracted to pinpricks. A hoarse, guttural roar tore from his throat.
"Good! Oh, very good!"
His obese frame convulsed. His right fist, wreathed in crackling Tidal Force, rocketed towards No. 7's chest. No. 7 threw up a desperate block. Blue light exploded from his palm, but the punch's raw power was overwhelming. He felt his arm bones shatter, his sternum buckle inwards.
"Cough—!"
A torrent of blood erupted from No. 7's lips. He was flung backward, slamming into the very edge of the stone platform. Jagged ends of broken ribs lanced into his lungs; each breath was an agony of tearing fire.
The Bishop's hand reached to wrench the embedded sword from his neck, but a new, savage roar cut him short.
"Defective specimen?" No. 8's voice, impossibly, from behind him, laced with a wild, almost ecstatic malice. "Who's the defective specimen now, you bastard?!"
The Bishop whirled, a movement of surprising speed, but he was too slow. The splintered, jagged bone of No. 8's ruined right arm, a macabre improvised shiv, plunged viciously into the existing wound in the Bishop's neck!
"AAARGH—!" An inhuman screech tore from the Bishop, the thick, corded muscles of his neck spasming violently. No. 8 seized the opening, scrambling, then heaving himself astride the Bishop's mountainous shoulders, his legs scissoring around the thick neck in a death grip.
"Come on then! Let's share a proper drink!" Using his one good left hand, No. 8 ripped Silas's metal flask from his belt, bit the stopper free with his teeth, and upended the entire contents—raw, potent spirit—over the Bishop's bald, sweating head!
The clear, volatile liquid cascaded down, sluicing into the gaping neck wound, seeping into the violated flesh around the protruding bone shard. The incandescent sting of alcohol on raw tissue ripped an even more shrill, agonized bellow from the Bishop. He thrashed his head wildly, desperately trying to dislodge his tormentor.
"Not enough? Can't His Lordship take his liquor?" No. 8 grinned, a rictus of pure, unadulterated savagery, twisting the bone deeper, then emptying the last dregs of the spirit into the Bishop's gaping collar. The alcohol streamed down the fat-creased neck, soaking the fine silk of his under-robe.
The Bishop, finally, truly, comprehended the imminent, ghastly danger. His massive body recoiled like a runaway war machine, slamming backward with thunderous force against the sheer stone cliff face. A sickening, wet squelch. A geyser of blood, mingled with unidentifiable viscera, erupted from No. 8's mouth.
"Fire…" No. 8 choked, coughing up gobbets of bloody flesh, his voice a desperate, fading roar aimed at No. 7. "Fire…!"
No. 7, through a red haze of pain, fought to push himself up. His shattered arm bones made each movement a symphony of torment. With a savage rip, he tore the hem from his tunic. Tidal Force, a desperate, frantic friction in his palm—the fabric sparked, then whoomped into flame!
"Get off him! Now!" No. 7's eyes were crimson pools, his voice raw, almost a plea.
No. 8 tried to smile, a ghastly, failed attempt. Even that simple function seemed lost to him. His left arm had begun to twitch and spasm uncontrollably, yet the shard of his own bone remained impaled, an anchor of vengeance, in the Bishop's ravaged neck. "Can't… hold on… Do it!"
The Bishop, sensing the shift, the new, terrifying aroma of alcohol, began to back away, a desperate attempt to repeat his earlier evasion. No. 7's hand trembled violently. He stared into No. 8's eyes, a silent, desperate search for another way, any other way.
"Do it! It's the only—"
With every last ounce of his will, No. 7 hurled the burning strip of cloth.
The flames traced a searing, beautiful arc against the night sky, landing with terrible precision upon the Bishop's alcohol-drenched scalp—
In an instant, a raging inferno engulfed the Bishop's obese form. The alcohol, superheated, detonated. A soundless, concussive blast. The Bishop's screams were heart-stopping, a symphony of pure, unadulterated agony as his fat sizzled and popped in the conflagration, molten grease dripping to scorch black, stinking sigils onto the ancient stone.
No. 8, still locked onto his shoulders, was consumed alongside him. His skin blackened and cracked in the furious heat, yet his laughter, a wild, triumphant, terrible sound, rose above the Bishop's death shrieks—
"HAHAHA… BURN! BURN, YOU OLD FILTH! BURN TO CINDERS!"
The Bishop thrashed, a colossal, flailing torch, desperately trying to beat out the flames, but No. 8's fractured bone, a grisly linchpin, held fast. The inferno raged, hotter, brighter. The Bishop's skin began to slough away in charred sheets, revealing the blackened, bubbling fat and muscle beneath.