Guerilla Warfare

Tubal swung wide at Ismael, but he kept his distance, knowing that Tubal's reach was better than his own. Ismael quickly assessed the situation and realized that he needed to upgrade his plan.

But Tubal was no ordinary opponent, he quickly changed his attack before Ismael could react, getting close enough to strike.

The scythe sliced through the air towards Ismael's chest. CLINK. Metal met metal as Ismael raised his leg up to his chest, and managed to block the attack with his prosthetic leg. "You are better with a weapon than with your fist," said Ismael, trying to buy himself some time. "A real blacksmith should know how to use the weapons that he creates."

They separated from this position, and Ismael turned his face towards the beach. "There is nowhere to run now," said Tubal, taunting him.

Ismael hesitated for a moment, but then made a run for it down the stairs. Tubal chuckled and dashed after him. Ismael turned back and saw that Tubal soared through the sky, aiming at him.

Ismael turns and raises his leg again to block again, but Tubal was one step ahead of him. He changed his grip on his weapon and attacked with ferocity.

There wasn't a clink sound this time, it was a sickening mush sound. Ismael's face registered shock and then pain. He looked to his left and saw that his burnt hand had been separated from his body.

From the shock, Ismael lost focus and landed badly, rolling down the steps until he reached the bottom. He looked at his missing hand in disbelief, trying to process what had just happened. The pain was excruciating, but he couldn't bring himself to scream.

The wound burned, blocking the blood to escape, and Ismael felt like his whole body was on fire.

A slow thumping sound broke Ismael's shock, and he looked up to see his cut-off arm rolling down the stairs. Tubal walked down the steps towards him, a wicked grin on his face.

"You should thank me for getting that useless thing off you," said Tubal, enjoying the moment.

Ismael gritted his teeth, trying to fight off the pain. He knew that he was in trouble, but he refused to give up. He was a survivor, and he had faced worse odds than this. He looked up at Tubal, his eyes blazing with determination.

****

A younger Ismael, who doesn't have any scars, in full army gear, sits on top of a military truck behind the machine gun.

The sun beating down on his helmet as they rolled down the desert. The loud rock music drowned out any other sounds in the vehicle. His comrades sat around inside, some laughing and joking, others lost in their own thoughts.

One of the members of the squad drummed with his fingers on the glove compartment, his eyes closed as he got lost in the rhythm. The others smiled as they enjoyed the moment of freedom before the danger ahead.

The radio crackled to life, interrupting the music."All units be alert. We have arrived in enemy territory," the voice on the radio said.

"They don't have the balls to f*ck with us. We are the fucking army!" the drummer shouted, causing everyone to laugh.

Suddenly, a deafening explosion shook the car, and the world seemed to slow down. The laughter stopped, and the soldiers' faces turned cold as they realized they were under attack. Flames engulfed the front of the convoy, and a rumble echoed through the air.

The car that lead the convoy spun out of control overhead, crashing into the car behind them.

"Enemy!!!" the radio shouts. Full chaos breaks out as everyone searches for their enemy and fires just blindly, that maybe they get lucky. Once your life is in danger, the logical thinking goes out the window for most.

Ismael quickly grabbed the gun, his eyes scanning for the source of the attack.

Their enemy appeared from the side. Most of them running along barefoot, as they shot randomly. It was clearly not an army. The couple that stayed in the back reloaded their bazooka.

Ismael spins the gun toward them and fires. The heavy machine gun roars to life as it spits out the shell casings to the side. The bunch that ran toward the convoy fell to the ground. The sand turns red under them.

Behind Ismael another bazooka man appeared on a nearby hill. He fired, and the rocket launched towards Ismael's truck. It hit underneath, causing the vehicle to flip in the air. Ismael was thrown out from the truck, soaring through the air.

The truck landed on its side, and Ismael's comrades scrambled to climb out, but the drummer was nowhere to be found. "Go for cover! Where is John?" Ismael asked his mates.

Nobody responded, everyone was going for cover in fear of their life.

Ismael went to look for him, and he found the car engulfed in flames. Somebody was screaming. Ismael tried the door, but the handle burned his hand. He went for the gunner opening, but the flames burst up even higher. The screaming continued.

"John!" shouted Ismael.

Through the flames, Ismael saw John's hand inside the car through the gunner opening. It was red and black as the flesh burned on it. Ismael looked around but saw no one there to help. Everyone was fighting for their lives. He looked at his left hand, then reached in.

The pain was unbearable, and tears rolled down Ismael's face, but he bit his lip and reached even further. The uniform disappeared from his arm. He yanked then pulled, and John, burnt everywhere, slid out of the car. Ismael's arm was burnt up as well.

"John!"

John just muttered in response.

"Medic!" Ismael roared out.

John grabbed his hand and muttered, and Ismael leaned in to hear him better.

"Kill me," John pleaded.

****

Ismael stood on the beach, his body still aching from the recent battle with Tulab. The salty sea breeze blew his hair back, and he winced as he took a step back, the pain still shooting through his body. He looked up just in time to see Tulab take the final step towards him, his eyes fixed longingly on the scythe.

"Thank you for giving me a chance to really test my art," Tulab said, his voice almost wistful. "But now I must return to my place."

He raised the scythe, poised to strike down on Ismael, but before he could do so, he needed to take another step forward. Tulab vanished into thin air when he was swallowed by the ground.

Ismael dusted himself off, then took a step and looked down.

Tulab was stuck in a hole in the ground, his body planted in the soil like a flower. He struggled to wiggle out of the hole, but it was too narrow for him to move his arms or legs.

"What is this?" Tulab asked, his voice tinged with frustration.

Ismael smiled in response.

****

Back in time, Ismael watched as Serath rowed away. He looked down at the ore in his hand, and a determined expression crossed his face. He began to dig a hole in the sand, his hands working tirelessly until the hole was neck-deep.

He placed his shirt on top of the hole and fixed it with a couple of rocks on the edge, then sprinkled sand lightly over it until it was barely noticeable.

****

Back in the present, Ismael stood over Tulab tired and in pain from his wound, but with a smile on his face.

"It's called guerilla warfare," Ismael said, his voice cold.

Tulab struggled to free himself from the hole, his face contorted with anger. "Where is your honor to fight like this?" he spat.

"Looks like you've never fought in a war if you think there is honor in it," Ismael retorted. "Romantics."

He grabbed the scythe and, with a quick yank, freed it from Tulab's grip. He looked at the weapon with a profound expression, wondering if it would truly be the key to his revenge.

"That is not for you, it's for Lucifer to wield only," Tulab said, desperation creeping into his voice.

"Don't worry, I intend to bring it to him," Ismael replied.

With a quick move, he sliced the air with the scythe. Tulab's head left his neck, and the flames of his eyes slowly faded. Ismael stood there for a moment, the scythe still in his hand, his breaths coming in short, ragged gasps.