A hefty sigh left Phirun's lips as he bent forward over the edge of the balcony, chin resting in the open palm of his right hand. After an entire month of what had seemed like non-stop combat, it was all over. And Phirun hadn't done too shabbily either. Third place wasn't bad; he definitely felt as though he had become stronger, which was all that really mattered. And, despite some of the injuries, he had to admit, it had been fun. 

It was a gruesome explosion that could be heard in one of the more far off streets of the theater district, one likely enough to draw the attention of many a person in the district.

After all, despire all the magic users around, this one had felt quite worringly strange... Stronger than others, yet at the same time still somewhat muffled...

And should a curious soul see fit to investigate it, they would be met with a terrible scene, one of a Malboro being scattered around, and a young burmecian lying on the stone pavement, face down.

Faintly breathing, but unconscious and covered in terrible burns, his clothes practically turned to ash and his once pale skin nigh black. And around him remains of what once was gastric acid in which his body swam.

It doesn't look like this man will wake up any time soon.

He still didn't quite know how exactly he had managed to fell the mighty Earth Eater. It just seemed so unbelieveable that he of all people would manage to take such a foe down. Yet still... he had done so. Even if it had cost him almost all his strength and as a result sent him to the Healing Station for several days.

But now he was fit enough again to wander the streets and look for "prey", as another hunter had put it. It was interesting how now, all of a sudden after his unexpected victory, other hunters had come up to him to talk to him and congratulate him.

He just wasn't sure whether he appreciated them calling him a "true beast".

Though they were right about one thing. He could not wait to get back out in the district. Only it wasn't because he craved to spill the blood of more monstrosities... - He wanted to simply get away from all these suck-ups.

So now he was out in the district again, for the fourth and final week, and determined to get some more points - After all, even if he never believed in any chance to come close to the price money, it sounded wonderful and very enticing. A million gil? For a young man essentially living on the streets with barely a thousand gil to his name that almost sounded too good to be true. But only almost.

The burmecian turned around a corner, then another one, looking for a mark to take down but constantly falling short. Either the other hunters weere too thorough in cleaning this part of the district out, or the monsters had gotten quite adapt at avoiding him, hmpf. Seems like he'd have to return empty handed at this po-

WOW.

Turning around the corner, the black mage was instantly faced by a gapping maw with sharp teeth and a putrid stench. And tentacles. Lots of tentacles.

A Malboro.

Oh by the gods. Why a Malboro, why?

The dust still coated the palm of his gloves. Blood still dribbled into the cuff it from the deep wounds buried in his arm, trapping slick liquid between leather and talon. His coat sleeve was soaked. There were wing beats behind him, the obvious shift in air current he should’ve been able to detect. 

                                 No.                                       Not while he still held her in his hand. 

Claws twice as large as his own shoot forward, grabbing his shoulder and digging, driving deep through cloth and skin. The Waltzes snarl is cut short as he’s dragged bodily backward, thrown to the ground on top of already aching, bound wings. 

He couldn’t remember the last time he screamed.                                                                      This is a disaster. 

The wyvern towers over him, rearing back with wings spread and jaws snapping. Vicious teeth bite and strike like a python, arching head back after each failed attack. Three wriggled, twisting away from the blows as sharp fangs scrape the stonework over his shoulder, just missing his head, scraping wrapped up wings. Feet shoved, kicked, attempted to lever himself out from under the monster; but the dragon wouldn’t have it. It rears great head back, saliva dripping from wicked jowl as it lines up the final strike and jets reptilian head forward for a bite— the former assassin remembers the bladed staff in his hand almost too late. As the Wyvern struck for the throat, so did the sharpened edge of Three’s oak staff. 

Thankfully, the Waltz was faster. 

The beast roared, stumbling away from the Mist-made-automaton with blood spilling from the slice cutting through what passed as draconian collarbone. Instinct kicked in, and Three rolled to his feet, the head of his staff dragging on the ground, breath coming to his lungs in heaves. He raised opposite hand with talons clutched around forming spell, pure electricity crackling between the recesses of his gloves, sparking and flicking off bits of stone and dust— 

"… thundaga—” The spell connected— the Wyvern screeched, wings flapping in an attempt to rid it’s flesh of searing magic, of sparking thunder— 

                 ”— ThunDaGA— THUnDAGA—!!” 

                                       It writhed— it fell to it’s side, still screaming, still                                                                  bleeding, hide bubbling as blood boiled beneath all                                                          bathed in beautiful red.

          Disaster, no, no— this was art. 

     Sore from both being dangled around by the Adamantoise, and being close to trampled on, Squall was in need of a break, and perhaps medical attention, before he could even consider trying to slay fiends again.

Phirun was lucky to have had someone looking out for him at that moment, even if he didn’t know who it was. Otherwise, that Wyvern would have taken a nice chunk out of his back. Or his skull. In fact, he may not even have survived that lethal swoop without that anonymous cautioning. He would have to remember to try and find and thank his savior later.

He rose back to his full height as the Wyvern landed a short distance in front of him, screeching and flapping its fleshy wings in a display of dominance, presumably hoping to intimidate its prey. Unfortunately for the winged lizard, this tactic would not so easily frighten Phirun.

The sapphire haired man brandished his scythe, waiting for the drake to make its next move. The monster hopped forward to close the gap, lunging with its long neck at snapping at Phirun’s face with its razor sharp teeth. The man evaded side to side, retaliating with slamming the butt of his scythe’s shaft into the bottom of the beast’s mouth. 

The monster flinched, slightly dazed by the counter strike. Phirun seized the opportunity and swung his scythe in a sweeping arc, splitting the skin of the Wyvern’s torso open in a spray of crimson liquid. The drake howled, throwing itself away from Phirun with a mighty gust blown by its wings. Phirun covered his eyes to protect them from the dust that was sent skyward by the sudden gale. 

Suddenly, he heard another howl, and through the shroud of dust, a wide cone of light energy spray him, stinging his flesh and sending him staggering back. He grunted in pain from the physical damage the light-affiliated attack had dealt, but he had been lucky enough not to receive any of its comorbid effects. The dust settled, and he locked eyes with the Wyvern, which stared smugly after its successful Radiant Breath attack.

Phirun charged, firing a jet of concussive water into its face. The beast recoiled and Phirun charged. He swung his scythe, looking to end its life right then and there, but the monster, even in its dazed state, managed to swing its wing straight into his chest, slamming him back. He quickly recovered, though the strike had bruised him, and worsened the pain of his cracked ribcage from his encounter with the Iron Giant the previous week which he had left unattended.