Meta Slave

A man and a woman stood opposite each other at the end of the world, sharing a knowing silence. All around them, their hellish stage seemed just moments from collapse, yet their fiery gazes remained unperturbed as if their opponent were the only thing in the universe.

The woman appeared more akin to a demon than a human, blackened soot muddying her bright crimson hair. It covered every inch of her once-lustrous silver plate armor; only her monolithic silver claymore remained untarnished, its tip embedded into the crumbling stone beneath them. She exuded unfathomable fury, the features of her scarred face contorted into a shape of smoldering rage.

Her emotions were not returned in kind. The man's gaze contained not a hint of emotion as if she were a simple beast for him to put down. If she were to be compared to a devil, then one would have to liken him to a machine.

Perfection and grace, nobility oozed from every inch of his untarnished chiffon scale mail. His ebony skin remained unmarred as if the world's end hadn't affected him.

A crack splintered through the earth, as if the gods themselves had signaled their clash's start.

The pair exploded towards one another, kicking off the ground with terrifying speed. It was a mere moment before their blades clashed, the screech of steel upon steel beginning its violent song.

The demon-like woman swung her claymore down upon the man with the power and precision of a seasoned killer, aiming to crush his contemptuous gaze with a single swing.

Yet, this formidable swing barely elicited a response from the man. He raised his rapier and tilted the blade almost imperceptibly, guiding the force of the weapon just millimeters past his head.

His confidence in his precision was not unjustified. The machine-like man attacked with unparalleled efficiency, almost too fast for the eye to follow. He riposted every swing without failure, all while continuing to push the woman back with dangerously swift jabs.

The demon before him was not to be belittled, however. With each meticulous dodge, rocks crumbled behind him, misdirected shockwaves wracking terror upon the environment.

Their battle flowed with a vicious rhythm, the two blades dancing back and forth without reprieve, neither willing to surrender even an inch.

The battle continued to wage upon a cheap, almost antique box TV, set in the far corner of a worn-down metal processing facility. Loud machinery obfuscated the voices of the duel's excited commentators, a small luxury for workers off on their lunch.

Just a few meters away, a gaunt young man by the name of Aster Wright worked quietly, watching the screen with an unfocused gaze. His hands wove through dangerous machinery with practiced ease, betraying a level of skill far beyond his years.

It was not as uncommon a story as it should have been these days; young men often found themselves taking risky jobs to keep their families afloat, and he was no exception.

Aster coped with the dreary factory by daydreaming, the battle that waged away just a backdrop to all the adventures he imagined himself having. The adventures that he felt that he would have.

Those dreams weren't just limited to conquering virtual worlds, like the two affluent assholes on the screen; Aster dreamed of finishing school, bettering himself, and destroying the vicious cycle of poverty his family was so entrenched in.

Yet, just as with all jobs such as this, even a momentary lapse in focus can be dangerous. For a young man like Aster, it was just not where he was meant to be.

"Shit!"

The sharp metal saw he had been maneuvering twisted, metal screeched and splintered, meeting flesh and bone. Debilitating pain shot through his right hand with iron fury, forcing an involuntary scream. He instantly jerked his arm away from the machine, cradling his mangled hand to his chest.

Blood seeped through his fingers, staining his uniform crimson as he stood frozen in shock.

Just meters away, the fight at the end of the world continued to rage on, cold and indifferent to the end of his.