Monroe’s blade was rather impressive. Just like his foreign gun, this sword was very unique. It didn’t seem to be made of metal, but instead was formed out of some kind of energy. What time and skill must have been put into crafting such a magnificent weapon! The design was clearly manmade. How long humanity must have had to evolve before their intelligence reached a level where they could even consider creating such a device. An energy beam that actually had the ability to stop and maintain its form was unheard of. It could be possible for the energy beam to continue on a straight path until it tore through the roof of the sky, but this was different. A beam of light that stopped, refusing to continue its path. How poetic. The light would definitely stop. Wait until he got a load of what he had sheathed at his side.

Monroe moved forward, blade moving quick for the kill. The faceless’ ashy metal fist locked around his hilt. A wave of his arm, he yanked the weapon free from its scabbard.

The room was suddenly cold. Every candle that illuminated the sanctuary was no longer lit. The church was near pitch black, the only light was peering through the stain glass windows. There was no sound for what felt like an eternity, all attention pulled toward the object in the masked man’s hands. The blade was released.

An ear piercing screech filled the air as a fancy energy blade struck against an evil weapon of great power. The blades pulled back from each other, their wielders doing the same. The battle had officially begun.

He stared at the figure through the twin holes in his mask. His demonic covering bore the perfect expression for how he felt: Satisfied and disappointed, merely emotionless by default. He feasted on the paradox and it made him hungry. He didn’t just want to kill the man; he wanted to show him why failed before it happened. He thought he had things covered with his fancy glowing sword, but he was wrong. Such childish thoughts weren’t beneath him, and he knew it. She hated it when that happened, and that wasn’t a good thing. Still, one couldn’t blame him. He returned to his original composure, knowing that he was border lining overconfidence. She would always make sure he wouldn’t cross that line again.

He bent his knees, lurching forward at an angle. His sword swept horizontally, blade meeting blade. He turned to the side and lunged toward Monroe’s gut with a stab. The soldier spun to the side, narrowly avoiding the blow, but returning it with a slash toward the nameless enigma’s head. His blade merely passed through air and through a white fog, a fog barely visible in the dark.

Simultaneously, he reappeared behind his victim, sword coming down hard in a vertical strike toward Vossler’s head.

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My Friends / Quark's Art Heap