Blooming Rose!

Ron's blank stare greeted him.

Henry gripped his rapier, though slightly relieved, his eyes still gazed in caution and anticipation of Ron.

"Slave, what are you… No, who are you?" he questioned, his professionalism replaced by wariness.

"..." Ron's gaze, black like an abyss, replied back.

Henry's eyes fixed at Ron. His train of thought knew what Ron witnessed today.

"It doesn't matter, all that matters is that you have seen what I've done today. For it, you must die," Henry said aloud, his tone slightly threatening. He clenched his rapier, removing all the doubt and nervousness.

His calf bulged, pumped with blood, springing him into the air. Passing through the countless corpses of ants and men, his rapier pointed at Ron.

Ron's eyes looked at him bored.

Henry furiously, with a stern face, advanced upon Ron.

Ron swung his shovel, its rusted blade like a fan. A gust of wind, a gale, its power like a hurricane, was summoned by Ron's swing.

Henry's eyes widened, himself thrown backward, he landed on both legs stable, though his muscles were slightly shaky.

Ron navigated forward, carefully making his way through the sea of corpses. Letting not even a fabric of his cloth be tainted by the blood.

Henry looked upon the quiet and stoic man, even more tightlipped than him. His muscles contracted as his finger curled up on the grip of his rapier.

He knew of one technique, one that rendered the ant queen's mighty prowess useless in front of him. One technique he always relied upon meeting a tough and burdensome opponent.

He placed the rapier in front of his face again, his stance once again turned to that of a master fencer. Then he readied himself, inhaling deep and exhaling long.

"Blue rose rapier technique, first technique, razor rose," he muttered.

His hand moved vigorously, wrist flexed elastically, rapier danced gracefully.

An image of the bouquet of light-blue rose painted from the edge of his rapier. Its calming, sweet and invigorating scent overwrote the putrid smell of blood, the salty scent of sweat and the dreadful scent of death.

The bouquet of rose floated toward Ron, akin to being carried by a gentle breeze of the day.

Ron looked at it leisurely, he swung his dulled and worn out shovel, once again treating the tool as a fan, creating yet another gust of wind. 

This time it was different, the air as if migrating to the place Ron directed them at, that even dust and corpses began to fly into the parade of roses.

The roses did its thing, their sharp and deadly edges of petals crushed the corpses and devoured the dust. But they could only take so much before one of the roses, beautiful and elegant, was cracking.

Then another followed, then another, and another.

Henry's eyes widened. In such a dark place where normal eyes barely could see. His eyes, trained to perceive threat and danger, mesmerized by the fragmenting of his own energy.

Like blue fireflies in the middle of the silent night, comforting and calming.

The spectacle lasted for a few seconds before the last of the fragmented energy diminished into thin air.

Ron continued making his way.

Henry's consciousness and focus returned to the uncertain opponent in front of him. At this point, his body, mind and soul knew instinctively, anything that he threw and shot at Ron, would result in futility.

But another of his side knew, if he didn't do something, then this place would be the end of him. Of which his life would be reaped by death and he would become yet another part of the mounting corpses of the catacomb.

His heart beat rose, as if it was about to explode. His mind went numb after thinking a lot. His eyes, once doubtful, replaced by the blazing determination and will to live.

This would be his last effort in defeating the unbreakable and sturdy wall in front of him.

His coil-like muscle sprung him upward into the air. Of which his sharp eyes fixed on Ron that looked back with his usual empty stare.

Henry began descending, pulled by the gravity downward. He readied his rapier.

"Blue rose rapier technique, final technique, blooming rose," he muttered, his rapier pointed down to Ron, his body twisting midair.

Ron slightly strengthened his grip over the shovel. He then put it over his head, using the shovel's wide head as a shield that protected him.

Blast!

Henry's rapier made contact with the shovel head.

His rapier, chipped and dented, tried its best to pierce the rusty shovel head. 

His attack twisted and rotated, emerging from it, a beautiful rose between him and Ron.

The rose, singular and humongous, a result of its twisting and momentum of falling. The rose was a work of art, its crevasse detailed, its petals seemingly soft, its scent stronger than the bouquet before.

Truly, a single rose to top them all. The countless of its kind, graceful in its own, became a sort of peasant in front of this one. Yet, it was used as a technique to harm and kill. 

Henry's showy and powerful technique and sturdy though exhausted rapier, against the rusty, dulled and worn out shovel of Ron.

Crack.

A small sound of metal cracking could be heard.

Henry's gaze sharpened even more, that sound convinced him, the old and weak shovel wouldn't be a match for his rapier.

Crack.

Another cracking sound was heard by both of them, clearer and louder than before.

Crack.

Then the weapon cracked. Thin and slick, elusive and graceful, chipped and dented. 

The rapier cracked into pieces, its fragments similar to part of a mirror after being thrown with a stone, dazzling and reflecting the spectacle of rose.

A cloud of dust formed where their weapons collided.

Ron walked away from the curtain of dust, he continued on his way.

As the dust reunited with the ground from which they came, the defeated showcased.

Henry laid on the ground. Ironically, the pose which he fell into, the exact same of the ant queen which he eliminated. His eyes looked up into the dusty dome, around him, corpses of ants and men.

His rapier by his side, its blade scattered all over the catacomb, only the grip remained faithful in his rugged gloved hand. He laid there, being provided a brief respite and a humbling result of the fight.

Ron walked toward the middle of the hall. The glamorous sarcophagus, a silent witness of the fight of ants and humans, remained unchanged from his position and untouched by the dirtying blood.

"Atis…" he muttered softly, his eyes staring straight into the throne of gold for a few moments.

Then Ron looked at the ant queen laying headless near the throne.

Moving on, his attention turned into that of a passageway on the opposite side of the passageway from which he came from.

He gripped his shovel, the only weapon in his hand, as his legs moved forward into the passageway, entering it, leaving Henry alone.

Henry's messy gray hair and mustache were motionless. His eyes, defeated and demoralized, looked up to the ceiling of a dome. He stayed still for a few seconds, wondering and thinking of his defeat.

His hand slowly released its grip on his rapier. His eyes slowly closed, a brief respite from the battle, techniques and betrayal.

Chuckle

A light chuckle came out of his mouth as he remembered the thing he had committed today, only to be defeated.

Slowly and gradually, he gathered his strength and supported himself up. 

"Ugh…" he groaned as he stood up, a slight pain in his muscles and soreness in his bones. His vision was blurry of his surroundings, his head felt migraine as his vision gradually returned.

He wondered what he could do next. Some part of him said to go back up to the surface and reported his success to the priestess. Another was interested in Ron.

Though defeated and beaten by him, Henry knew and felt that Ron meant no harm. His mind remembered Ron's defending stance and mercy after his defeat.

Once an ambiguous opponent which he was wary of, turned into a presence he admired. His behavior, though professional, a piqued interest began controlling him.

Henry made up and convinced himself to satisfy and fulfill his curiosity. He began his first step toward the passageway, following Ron.

Upon entering the passageway, he walked down the damp place, untainted by massacre. He walked and continued until the passageway had led him to another room.

It was a room of stone walls. Its size was half the hall, though not as huge as the main hall of the catacomb, the place was spacious. 

Spacious enough that the queen made it her children's birth place. Whitish and translucent eggs of ants, their size a sheep, crowded the room, filling every corner it could find. Its embryo, a slight dark speck in the middle of the eggs, unmoving.

In one of the corners were stacked bodies of humans, living and breathing. They were the captured miners slaves from the mana stone cave.

On top of the pile, laid Robert.