A bladed disc was what Hector conceived. It began small in the grip of his free hand, but after one quick spin on his heels, the disc had grown as broad as a coffee table. And it kept growing even after it left his grasp, thrown with all his strength and then some, as he tried to add velocity to each new growth. By the time his invisible opponents began reacting to its approach, the disc was already as wide as a basketball court.
Paths of destruction cut into it, and acid melted down the rest, leaving behind huge trails of smoke. Ultimately, the disc did no damage. It did, however, succeed in pulling their attention away from the iron plateau. And that was all Hector really needed.
He slapped the iron floor, and spikes shot up all around him, each one becoming a tower unto itself. More blood informed him of the results, along with a handful of tree branches shattering on impact with seemingly nothing.
After a moment, he turned his field of spikes to iron dust and charged ahead again, still weathering an almost constant assault of explosions as he ran.
‘You okay, Garovel?’ he asked in the meantime.
‘Yeah. And you’re doing well, but you’re never going to get them all. We have to get back to Dunehall and warn everyone.’
‘What about the civilians here?’
‘Abolish will focus on us. Because they HAVE to. If we make it to Dunehall, then whatever they have planned is fucked.’
He grit his teeth but didn’t argue. ‘Alright.’ In an instant, he annihilated his plateau almost completely, save only an iron slide for himself, which then too disintegrated after he’d hit the ground running.
‘By the way,’ said Garovel, ‘I’m getting extremely tired, and I’m probably going to pass out soon, but don’t you let go of that shield until you’re sure we’re out of danger.’
Another reason not to drag this fight out, he supposed.
A dark serial novel. Set in a modern fantasy world called Eleg. Mature language. Updates every night at midnight PST by ~400 words.