Chapitre 4: Army of Arms

Nothing is better than brute force to blast through every problem.

4 minutes left.

But the reality isn't that kind.

"Blasting in one!"

"I'm not sure about this!"

"Two!"

"God please save me from this bitch!"

"Three!"

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!"

She conjures a massive arm pushing you as you ride standing on the palm horizontally facing the Calamity. It was an extremely bad consensus at the end of possibilities, a literal 'don't try this at home'. Many smaller arms also follow suit raging from the sands, some of them launch and soar faster than the one you ride. An elaborate dumb raid of long arms trying to reach the embodiment of destruction.

Jarringly, that Calamity stares at your puny yet unorthodox attempt. It doesn't even care about its massive sword anymore, as it reaches out and hurls its gargantuan arm.

"Shit! Shit! Change the direction, dammit!"

Horizontally, you balance your upper body and climb out through the crevice of the giant finger, pulling your body upward just right before the fist of the gargantuan smashes the massive black arm into crippling depression. The angle of the soaring arm you have just rode is a little sinking from the sky as the stopped force propels you forward faster than a naked burglar.

The wind pushes your gas mask, grinding your face with an unfathomable discomfort. You still clench your sword tight, more than ever. There is both good news and bad news: The good news is that you've avoided the horrible death of getting crushed by a giant dragon, the bad news is that you're accelerating into a lower angle into the sand before reaching the calamity. The possibility of getting 'crushed to death' has become 'crashing to death'.

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!" You could only cry, in war cry, the pessimist one—monotonically.

One of the small arms conjured by your partner manages to reach you and even passes at exponential speed. You grab it with your full trust in your support.

Who might have wanted you dead.

You can't stress much about being passive-aggressive on your partner's credibility, and just as you thought that she changed her attitude—she might have not.

The arm that you grabbed might be actually your real doom as it goes straight into sharp elevation, accelerating into the Calamity's face. You curse in as many different languages you could ever think of.

Like a flying fish, you could see a considerable amount of arms soaring from below into a higher and farther height above you.

It's like witnessing a reverse rain.

As suddenly, every arm scatters sharply into a zig-zag pattern, except the one you grab.

3 minutes left.

The numerous hands attached to the Calamity are vaguely disgusting as they flail and scratch the air. Many of them try to reach you as the friendly arms neutralize them one by one with destructive speed, self-destructing itself as the arms only shake them off from trailing you.

"My god! Arms! There are arms everywhere!"

The closer you are, the more you can see the hundreds of green eyes this creature has on the side of its sharp triangle-jaw head. It then opens its mouth wide enough to welcome you.

You let go of your grip as you have enough acceleration and positions your sword into the front. As the wormy dragon crunches at the coming arm, you are crashing down into the neck of the beast like a spear piercing into the white bark-like exterior of a tree, planting yourself sideways—and also smashing your head. "Goddammit!"

Still grasping the handle, your sword then reforms and branches inside the Calamity, messing everything up as numerous black spikes emerge from every side of the beast's neck. Although you're almost dead getting skewered if not from your insane luck.

Lightheaded, you feel your body is getting lighter, as you can see your jacket and the tuck on your boots are getting looser every second.

Profanities are being thrown around.

One of the beast's hands is trying to smash you, you let go of the planted sword as another friendly arm catches you mid-air from a small crevice. You feel like a plastic bag while being held on by your jacket.

2 minutes left.

A part of the arm branches as the small one gives you a black sword's hilt with a short blade. You take it, its length then grows ten times your size which might be currently shrinking by a second.

"SHIT!" The sword also grows in weight, you can't let it go yet but your arms might fall off from your torso with every tissue and muscle being stretched to its limit holding the long-ass sword.

You thought it couldn't get any worse as the arm that holds you builds up in speed and hurls you into the Calamity once again.

"Why are you so fixated on sending me to that monster, dammit!"

Sometimes people dream of flying like a bird, it's all because they are not born that way. Even the avian might be bored to oblivion holding their breath just to migrate and avoid danger, scavenging and hunting for food. But now, you could think of one poem for this situation.

Joy is bird.

A fragile thing.

Poised on starry.

Bought in spring.

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!"

A magnificent piece you thought of in the heaps of danger and very-probably-end-in-death scenario you were in.

The gales blow the horn for the triumphant, the sands spectate the unbecoming of harsh challenge.

You've gone too far in this.

Crumble the foundation, the huge arm that is holding the gigantic skewering sword has been decapitated. The mighty Timoreia is wielding its bane once again and for all hope that might have lost, throwing a strike from below—you're bracing for impact.

You hurl up your weapon painstakingly.

It clashes.

1 minute left.

The sword has been blasted while parrying.

One of the scattering wind-scars rips your gas mask apart, together with all of your clothes. The burning friction from the daunting wind scorches the skin cells, sending extreme anguish into your pain receptors.

You've promised yourself, it will be temporary, always.

More black-rock arms are conjured up to grab the raging Calamity, only to be broken apart by the pure strength of the countless arms on every diameter of the bark-like tree massive dragon.

You've impressed Timoreia.

The wind whispers at you, "You've done your part. Long Leggy, G rank personnel of the Scout department. The Ragnarok squad has come to your aid."

The painkiller has expired, your vision is blurry, you've lost too much blood. Naked in the cold but your heart has been warmed by the valiant figure in front of you. A courageous silhouette blocking the shine of the energy being gathered inside the jaw of the Calamity.

She wields a giant lance, her lower body parts seem inhumanly larger on the thighs protected with steel machinery with sharp ends and cutter legs like a giant needle. You could see two pointy owl-like ears sticking out. Her body is facing the calamity but dimly you could see that her neck has just rotated 180° as her sharp yellow glare pierces your soul.

She smiles, "Be at ease, the Assailant is here."