Mob 5.12 (Unbeta-ed Draft Preview) (Patreon)

Mob 5.12

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There was something to be said for the cathartic effects of screaming your lungs raw. The act was, at its very core, an emotional outburst of unfocused rage with the simple purpose of venting a harmful emotion.

No words could express anger with as much purity as that of a raw scream. 

It was the epitome of uncontrolled stress, anger and projected emotion.

Greg Veder knew none of this.

Even if he did, he wouldn’t find it in him to care.

He screamed because it came naturally.

He screamed because he wanted to.

He screamed because.

Another explosion went off to his right, a wave of heat and force nearly catching him off guard yet again. Pain rang from his entire right side as his head snapped back from the sudden shock but Greg roared past it as he swung wildly at the cloud of smoke to his left. Arcs of wind shot forward from the thin blade with every manic slash, each one chipping away at the cloying smoke that hung in the air with all the thickness of sand and soot combined.

The ground under his bare feet should have been scalding to the touch, heat just shy of what it would need for the tar itself to come to a boil. The fires of his rage burned nearly that hot but they only made the smoke worse.

He could barely see, eyes darting from side to side behind a mask that only existed in name at this point. One arm hung limply at his side, his right a broken mess of blood and meat. His leg was much the same but it held strong under the golden blaze of will, Greg already numb to the pain in his own mind. He didn’t have time for pain.

A pulse went off, quick and sharp, an alarm warning of danger.

Blue eyes snapped up, less shock in his gaze than calculated expectation. The blond darted back, quickly kicking off the ground with his one good leg and letting the force of it carry him back several meters. He looked back, thin sword held out in front of him as he stared daggers at the wall of glinting weapons jutting forward from the ever-growing cloud of gray smoke.

Greg grit his teeth and quickly spun on his heels, a visible film of air building up on the edge of his blade. By the time he had performed a complete revolution, it all but obscured his weapon completely.

He came to a sharp halt, searing pain traveling up his right leg as he used it to stop himself, and released the build up as he flicked his katana upwards in a rising slash.

A vertical crescent of cutting wind shot forth from the blade of his weapon, slicing through the smoke as easily as the sword itself would through flesh in Greg’s hands.

Through the meter-wide path in the haze, Greg spotted his target.

The mask leered at him as several of its duplicate appeared beside it, the blood red image of a dozen murderers flickering in the light of the fire dotting the streets.

Without thought, Greg lunged.

Five meters became none in the blink of an eye.

The weapon in his hands came down with all his force, the boy himself screaming at the top of his lungs as he did so. 

“ONI LEEEEEE!”

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