Those Who Cannot Die by Levi Bible (urban books to read .TXT) 📕

the blows, but the ones he was hit by sent him slightly off guard. Isaac continued his onslaught. This was the last run. If he let Death finish the scythe, it was over. He clenched his fists even harder, channeling Astral Energy into his blood, hardening and sharpening it. Crimson red claws protruded from the several wounds from which he had drawn blood. A wicked smile overtook his face. "You will pay, Cyrus." Isaac muttered. "I hope you are watching. A worse fate awaits you."

He flew at Death, pelting with sharpened fists. Silver blood flew out of Death, who failed to avoid the lengthened attacks. His back against a wall, still unfazed by Isaac's onslaught. He leaped out of the way of Isaac's attack, the claws of blood now lodged into the wall. He placed the scythe by Isaac's head. "A valiant effort, however…" he tapped the blade against Isaac's temple, "…I am almost as undefeatable as the Fifth Form herself." Isaac's eyes shot open.

"Fifth…form…" he muttered. "…God…" Isaac grabbed the scythe, attempting to pull it away from Death. No matter what, he won now. If Death resisted, he would be able to dislodge his claw from the wall. If Death didn't, he would have the scythe. Death resisted, anticipating Isaac's move. He ducked under the attack, slamming Isaac in the stomach with the butt of his scythe.

"No matter how hard you try, not even a Darkangel is capable of defeating me. I am not like Chaos." He said, looking at Isaac's nearly collapsed form. "I cannot be defeated so easily as he."

"No…but fall you will!" Isaac shouted, standing back up, blood now pouring from his mouth.

"Such stamina." Death said, sighing. "Are the other four just as troublesome?"

Isaac began laughing. "You'll never find out."

"I guess not now, no." Death said. "Goodbye, Phocas."

"That's Isaac." The Immortal declared, consciousness slowly slipping away. Death walked toward him.

"Such. A. Shame." He said, grabbing Isaac by his forehead, and launching him across the room. "You would have made such a fine Silverblood."

He held a small piece of burning wood. There was nowhere he could have possibly got it, but it mattered not to Isaac. Dropping it, Death set the building aflame, and began walking away. "You are too troublesome. I'll seal you after you reincarnate." A dark cloud enveloped Death, and he disappeared. The building had a new, red tint, caused by the flames. Isaac looked for a way out. He remembered the statue. He flew at it, using all of his reserve energy, pivoting off of the butt of the statue's scythe, landing on the wall and launching upwards his blood oozing out of him. He was going to die; but he didn't want to. Reincarnation would put him in exactly the position Death wanted him in. He continued climbing the statue, beams from the top already falling and spreading the flame. Isaac leaped into the stained glass window. The heat inside the building exploded, sending Isaac flying even farther. The sun had set, that was all Isaac could tell before crashing through a building, and somersaulting into hay.

Isaac laid there for what must have been hours. He slept. He rested. He feared, even more than what he had before. Had Orpheus tricked him into revealing himself to both Death and Chaos? But why? Isaac needed to talk with Cornelius. He walked out to the hole he had made, his entire body sore from the constant adrenaline as well as continuous bleeding he had felt while fighting Death. A man in a black cloak was shouting something.

"The man known as Isaac, or Phocas, is now a hated enemy of Rimini!" he shouted. "Burn this demon! One who would burn down our churches! May he burn in hell!" Isaac's eyes widened. Everything had gone wrong. Now he was a hated enemy. "Burn him! Burn the Demon of Rimini!"

Chapter 7:

June 10, 1250- Pride Among Romans

I stood there, in the building, watching the man continue to rant. The Demon of Rimini. That was Death's plan. Realization filled my mind, thoughts of vengeance accompanying them. Death had not expected me to die in the church, rather, he expected the opposite. He expected what happened. Now I had two options remaining, both of which would be playing right into Death's hands.

I could stay in this body, the body of the so-called Demon of Rimini, or I could Reincarnate, alerting Death to my presence, and allowing him to seal me while I am incapable of fighting back. Fear, anger, and hatred filled my veins, rushing faster than my blood, pumping faster than my heart. I wanted to kill Death, no matter what.

I leaped off of the building, thinking deeply about Orpheus. If we were both Roman by origin, then unless he was a fairly new Immortal, it was almost insane not to think that we had met before. Even if it was merely passing glances, we had to have met before. We just had to.

Now, merely being in Rimini was dangerous, and Isaac could no longer search for Rose or Orpheus. I stood atop a gargoyle, half expecting Death to attack again. He wouldn't. Not so soon. And not unless I Reincarnated. The safest place for the moment, I decided, had to be under Cornelius' stern watch. I hated having to be babysat. I returned to Cornelius' home, and entered my room. Unnoticed or otherwise made no difference. I held my Soulbind, muttering…

February 3, 339 BC

Phocas stood among his squad, looking at the others. He had no clue what was going on—not since he was the sole survivor of the disaster of his village. They called it the "Red Flash" Outbreak…Phocas didn't think so.

The war tent gave the shade a certain color, the dirt-brown coloring the atmosphere. The breathing before the battle was often more intense than the actual battle; anticipation was everything. After almost five hundred years of war, Phocas was used to the stress. He uneasily shifted his segmented armor—he had received it from an anonymous source. The others in the tent had no clue, not even the faintest idea, of what was about to transpire. Sometimes, even Phocas knew not.

"Hey Phocas…" asked a soldier beside him, who went by the name of Isaac. "Have you ever wondered…why do we fight?"

"Speaking like that will get you killed." Phocas stated gruffly.

"No, no, not meaning I have no motivation. I am asking…" he muttered, looking down, "…why can't we just talk it out with them?"

"We tried, Isaac." Phocas said, sitting down. "They didn't listen."

"So…what? We…we just kill them all?" Isaac asked. Phocas scoffed. The boy was still young—why he was in the front lines Phocas would never know.

"If that is what is necessary, then yes." Phocas stated, staring blankly at Isaac. They both stood as the commander entered the tent to give his briefing to their squad.

"Now!" called the commander, walking in front of them all with magnificent armor, his face completely concealed. "We strike at the heart of the Latin people! We will crush their resistance!" He faced the soldiers, who stood at attention as his paludamentum (a cape worn on one shoulder) swayed behind him.

All the soldiers stood at arms, their shoulders stiff, their posture perfect, and their armor reflecting the golden light of the sun. Phocas and the others all saluted, shouting "Yessir!"

"The battle today will be a major deciding factor in the war! We assault Sicily!" he shouted. All the men repeated "Yessir!" The squad leader walked across the line of soldiers, stopping at Phocas. "Likewise, you have a good military record. Keep it up, and we may one day see the Latin League disbanded." He patted his shoulder, his hand coming down hard but sportingly on the shoulder piece of Phocas' manica (arm piece of armor).

"Yes, Commander." Phocas said, nodding. "As you wish."

"Now, carry on!" the commander said, walking away from Phocas, who followed the other soldiers out of the war tent. The city of Sicily stood before them, Phocas ready to strike. They were members of the Hastati, people on the front lines of any battle.

The air was stiff with the sounds of fear; slight whimpering could be heard in the distance, probably the people within the city. The Roman soldiers made no noise; they had no need as of yet. The group of Hastati silently made their way towards the walls, Phocas' breathing being the only sound he now heard. The Latin soldiers patrolled the front gate, extremely close to revealing Phocas' group. However, they were incapable of stopping them. The unit was composed of seven people, a pathetic first line of defence, Phocas noted. However, they had to have nearby hidden reinforcements.

"What shall we do, Phocas?" asked one of his men, nicknamed Aeolus.

"This is quite clearly a trap…" Phocas muttered, placing his hand on his hilt. "I will attack alone, you keep watch for any and all reinforcements."

The troops nodded, all flattening against the wall. "Good luck, Phocas."

"Leave these imbeciles to me." Phocas said, smiling with reassurance. Charging at the small unit, his sword outstretched, the first soldier's meager armor meant nothing. Blood covered Phocas' arm, as he grabbed one of the other's arms, twisting the elbow beyond breaking point, then used the soldier as a shield against the others. One attacked, but was knocked over by Phocas' hostage; both were smitten in a matter of moments. The blood covered the ground; the city's alarm began sounding. Phocas looked up, seeing Archers. Looks like it was a trap. Aeolus should be capable of warding the archers off of me, at least until I need to give the signal. Another attacked, Phocas tapping his blade to the side and socking the soldier in the throat, killing him almost instantly. The remaining two looked at him, fear in their eyes.

"Come then, let's see how you Latin people really fight!" Phocas called, sheathing his sword. One man charged, Phocas grabbing his wrist and punching the elbow upwards, snapping it. He grabbed the sword out of the man's hand, stabbing him through the shoulder, grabbing his head and breaking his neck. Blood spattered the ground. The last man looked toward the gate, dozens of others charging out. Phocas unsheathed his blade, signaling for his force to come out to battle as well. The Archers hadn't been firing until now for a reason, Phocas knew. His men had secretly infiltrated the wall's turret towers, killing most of them. His archers were up there as well as the Latin ones.

Here, Phocas thought, grinning, is where the real bloodshed begins. The groups clashed, Phocas easily darting through the enemies, not killing any. Yet. Once behind the enemy group, Phocas almost literally leaped up the castle walls, climbing each and every indent or erosion possible, the grey wall more like a ladder to his advanced climbing skill.

He made his way to the top, sneaking up on the remaining enemy archers. He stole an arrow from one's quiver without him noticing, and stabbed it through the back of his cranium, killing him instantly. Dislodging the arrow, the other archers noticed him, forgetting the dead archer that even now, fell to the ground below. Phocas threw the arrow, launching it through one of their skulls, killing them, and avoided a few more bolts. His archers were preoccupied with the battle, which was all the better. It meant more offense on the Roman side, and they weren't even trying yet.

Making his way towards the turret tower the rest of the archers hid in, he climbed to the top, looking down. "Good