The Present

Wiley decided the only way to give Edmund’s men a fair shot was to refrain from using his spiritual tool for the time being. It was for this very reason he’d spared Edmund his fingers. What would be the point in battling them if they weren’t even given a fighting chance? Wiley had abandoned nearly all the principles forced on him by the Golden Sanctuary but, to this day, he still clung to one. He always kept his integrity in a fight. 

Only a small number of people contained enough spiritual energy to form a spiritual tool of their own. These tools were unique to the individual and connected directly to their soul. For the masses born without one, the next best thing was a weapon infused manually with spiritual energy. While nowhere near as powerful, they were still quite efficient and a force to be reckoned with when used by a skilled fighter. 

And speaking of...several swords infused with dark energy came flying at him, cutting through the air. Wiley instantly propelled himself off the table, leaping over them in one swift motion. The blades shot back into their masters’ hands upon missing their target. A moment later and two more assailants lunged at him, weapons swinging in a melee attack. Wiley easily swerved out of the way of the first before dropping to the floor and rolling out of the way of the second.

With his hands pressed against the cold stone beneath him, he pushed himself upwards, kicking his leg out and driving his heel directly into his next attacker's chest. As the assailant fell backwards, Wiley sprung back to his feet, spinning out of the way just in time to avoid another wave of incoming blades. 

Out of the corner of his eye he could see Edmund’s hands working to form his spiritual tool, the movements slow and clumsy thanks to his injured hand. As his fingers continued to press together into a series of positions, his tool’s imprint began to activate. Once bound together, a spiritual tool would leave a physical imprint somewhere on its host’s body. Edmund hadn’t bothered to hide his, a trail of marks shaped like fire bursts lighting up one by one up the length of his neck.

A second later, a massive ball of light appeared between the Major General’s hands. It pulsed and fluctuated in his palms, illuminating the room like a flash of lightning as it was violently hurled towards the Rosen Slaughter.

Wiley instantly bent backwards, causing the light to fly over his stomach and slam into the wall behind him. It exploded with a thunderous boom, a wave of heat rippling through the air. Chances were, if it had actually hit its target, Wiley would no longer be in possession of a face. 

Another wave of swords came flying at him from either side, shooting from their masters’ hands in a blur of black smoke and metal. Wiley mindlessly twisted and swerved his way through them, noticing another ball of light beginning to take form in Edmund’s hands.

The Rosen Slaughter easily spun out of the way of an incoming sword, slipping his dagger from his sleeve as he sprang forward. He gave the blade a little twirl between his fingers, taking half a second to measure its trajectory before sending the dagger flying. The glint of silver curved gracefully through the air with perfect precision, piercing cleanly through Edmund’s hand just as he was about to unleash the second ball of light. The Major General let out a mangled cry, the sound echoing off the walls as the light died within his palms, snuffed out like a candle. 

Wiley fought the urge to roll his eyes.

Baby.

His gaze scanned across the swarm of assailants, occasionally swiveling and ducking to avoid the swords still shooting towards him. As he did, he counted Edmund’s men up in his head, confirming that he’d allowed each and every one of them to take their best swing at him. 

“Well then,” the Rosen Slaughter murmured, “I gave you your chance.” A bone-chilling grin slowly spread across his face. “So now it's my turn.”

Wiley flung himself forward, his hands a blur as his fingers moved at lightning speed. Warmth spread across his skin beneath his clothes, twisting across his chest and down his arms as his spiritual mark was activated. With his eyes glowing red in the darkness and that cruel smile still plastered to his face—he lunged at Edmund.

In a frenzy, Edmund frantically moved to form another ball of light. Despite the dagger still protruding from his palm, his fingers pressed desperately together...but it was already far too late. 

With a cruel laugh, Wiley flew forward, pressing his pointer fingers together as he drove them hard into the Major General’s stomach.

Edmund’s eyes bulged for a moment before his chest burst open. Ink black roses wrenched apart his ribs, ripping through his lungs and heart as they spilled out of the ruined remains of his chest. With Wiley’s fingers still pressed against him, the flowers continued to grow, vines twisting their way up the back of Edmund’s throat and exploding from his mouth.

With a smirk and a whisk of his hand, Wiley sent the vines flying forward. In a flash, they wound themselves around the necks of several men who’d tried to charge at him. Wiley winked at them, the vines instantly tightening with just a quick press of his fingers. A series of sickening cracks filled the air, the sound followed by the dull thuds of their bodies hitting the floor. The few remaining men cowered in the back, trembling so violently they could barely hold their weapons. 

Wiley looked at them, inclining his head to the side. “C’mon, you were all so brave when you were attacking me a few minutes ago. Don’t get cold feet now.” He relaxed his hands, letting his spiritual power momentarily fade as he held out his arms. “See, I’ll even give you a head start.” 

Still trembling, the men at last began to move forward, their blades flying through the air as they lunged at him. 

“That’s the spirit,” Wiley cheered. “Give it your best shot! I’m rooting for you guys.”

And then of course—he slaughtered them all one by one.  

Wiley mindlessly went through the motions of killing them, a cruel smile still plastered to his face as roses tore through flesh and bone. He never had to think when killing anymore, the action as natural to him as breathing. He wondered when exactly it had become that way. 

In a matter of seconds, he was the only one left standing. Broken corpses mixed with ink black flowers circled around him like a grotesque floral arrangement. 

With no one left alive, Wiley finally allowed his smile to slip. It was as if he were taking off the mask of the Rosen Slaughter, the glint in his eyes fading as he slumped against the wall. Wearily he looked out over the corpses, letting out a heavy sigh. 

With so much blood on his hands he sometimes questioned if there was still a human beneath it.