Blossoms (The Girls meet MCD)

Chapter 31: Fight of Flames

Look at the first letter of every poem

What do you see, a foreshadowing omen?

Or maybe the names, of certain people

Go on, check. ;)

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Cupquake's POV

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CLAAAANNNNGGGG.

That was the sound that rang out throughout the church.

The sound of two bladed clashing in unison, when the strongest points of action equally thrust to the point where friction takes a toll, causing a vibration.

It resonated through my bones, and rattled the skin of my body shakily.

The figure in front of me I'd come to realize was Ivy...

There was no doubt mistaking the same armor, and aqua tint to the eyes.

But it wasn't Ivy either.

Some sort of...blending of two beings.

One being Ivy, the other being Not Ivy.

Ivy Not Ivy, or whatever they'd become, stood in front of me with their long scythe inches from my throat.

The mark would've been a killing blow.

In fact, it should've been a killing blow.

But something else had blocked it.

That something being a long, fiery katana made of ember and fire.

It wasn't the warm, orange fire that licked at its environment for life, leeching oxygen for its own survival.

It wasn't the cold, blue fire that burned so vibrantly, and gave you to compelling urge to reach your fingers out and stroke it.

It was the white, gleaming flames of purity. Fire that somehow didn't burn. Fire that tickled the skin, and warmed the bones. This fire gave strength and resilience to push on. 

It engulfed the katana like a mini force-field, and shielded me from the blank point of death.

I looked around me.

Several other candle-like fire swords merged from the dust of the rubble, and swirled around like a fireworks display.

It clicked.

It wasn't any normal modified fire...

It was the spiritual flames of guidance...

The fire of hope.

I counted seven blades total, including the one that was blocking the venomous scythe glued to my neck, ready to strike.

I imagined myself moving my blade in a certain direction.

It heeded the order of power.

Swooshing downward, carrying the scythe blade with it, the Hopefire Sword dodged downward before swiping upward like an uppercut, forcing the woman in front of me to release her death grip and let go of her stance.

Stepping backward, she beckoned her hand forward.

Ghastly figures arose from the grave.

Spirits with red spider eyes and gray cloaks wandered toward me in an eager attempt to slash at me.

One of the swords cut through 3 spirits who'd dared to make a conga line, while two others zigzagged obediently to slaughter the rest of the spirits.