《Mhaieiyu - Arc 3: Four Skyward Fingers》


 Chapter 1: At the Foot of the New Man鈥檚 Throne

    Mhaieiyu


    Arc 3, Chapter 1


    At the Foot of the New Man''s Throne


    Gallant were the drums of the warriors who lived. A roar of thumps bounced off the walls of the great halls that stretched for perhaps a mile in either direction. In this room, a confetti of cheer, an uproar that gave way for the new. Celebrations weren¡¯t quite as elegant as they were beyond the eastern borders but, held just a week since the elections began, were impressive nevertheless. The leathery rub of a clenched fist aroused excitement, and then a splash. Afterwards, a rainfall of wet cement droplets thrust outward in a wide arrangement. The still-moist frame¡¯s surface moulded around the knuckles that caved a shape into it, and the hand, having struck firmly and definitively, withdrew, damp with rubble-to-be. Thump, thump, thump. Halberd and spear butts, sword tips, rifles and boots slammed the mason deck united. Today marked the beginning of a new age ¡ª a new Head of Men, and the sixth since the Syndicate adopted this custom in the days of Merry Monday. He, a Yanksie turned Syndie, Elior, was far from what any would have expected to lead these people on after Alpha¡¯s premature abdication, and yet it made all the more sense. Setting aside the pride of battle, Elior could and promised he would bring the two most prosperous nations closer together than anyone in the world, as he was the only one with esteem enough to encroach on Yanksie aristocracy while still giving his dues to the creed he had given his life for.


    This opportunity had to be seized. It took a bit of contemplation and controversy, but in the time a ship sailed to and from port and harbour, the decision was already made. No other candidates came close.


    Elior would rule. And to that, the army heartily thumped their chest with their right hand, then shaped their arm like an L by their shoulder, and raised four fingers skyward.


    Celebrations were fine, but still, matters had not been settled yet. Alongside the Head of Men¡¯s old charges lost was that of the lionhearted and beloved General and Head of Military: Kev. His death was positively assured by Elior himself during the interior elections ¡ª a brave declaration that poured more doubt into his future reign, yet also flattered him for his honesty. By his own admission, Elior was little a fighter. He was a thinker, instead. A bringer of peace.


    Peace had no need to wield a gun.


    But then, who would lead the army into battle during times of tribulation? Well, it turns out, Elior had planned ahead there, too. He would appoint one of two siblings captured and kept during the war. Now, normally, this would have been much too vapid a choice to make, but there was a difference to be made. This concerned one of a duo of tactical geniuses and strategic masterminds of conflict who hadn¡¯t the ability to lose their nerve in battle, nor hesitate to fight when the time came. Such were the rumours, anyway.


    The Wraithsmans would compete for this honour, and what better way to show the worth of their mettle than pitting them against each other in a ¡®friendly¡¯ spar?


    First, Leo Wraithsman; the so-called ''Sword Juggler'' ¡ª a prodigy beyond comparison with bladed arms who let not his humble flesh restrict him from the ways of the magic arts, having learnt to exploit ethereal equipment to make use of that which he could not normally. With human genes still, he is better than most martial magicians, and can vanish into thin air by leveraging his talent with handle teleportation. His coordination was unmatched.


    Then there was the sister, Amber Wraithsman ¡ª it¡¯s said that her aim never lied. If her opponents move out of harm¡¯s way, a secondary target will be struck instead. It¡¯s as if the very fate of the world were at her fingertips, and with each press of a trigger, she continues to flatline a planet of foes. Her perceptive qualities surpassed those of Cryptids tenfold.


    Syndie soldiers were hypnotised by their worth; their skepticism drowned out by the sporty hollers of they, the audience. To stand against each other unarmed, the outcome felt inconclusive. Even without a sword or a gun, they were deadly combatants, having expertly mastered their reflexes and finely tuned their countermoves; in this respect, they were equals. The Mynotaurs themselves felt vulnerable watching from the shielded seats of the arena, imagining a firm tug of boots on their heads that would splinter their skulls with horns in grasp. Wylvens touched their necks, imagining their being collapsed with a leg grapple and spin. The few Gygantes did ponder how quickly their skulls might be crushed from their vicious axe kicks. And the common men almost soiled themselves, baffled at their effortless combination attacks with which they would drop a man a second after rising.


    This display ¡ª a vulgar show of themselves, perfected. Indeed, the Wraithsmans lived up to their infamy and pushed a little further to venture into the nightmares of all attending. A perfect figurehead for any leader¡¯s reign. Elior would be pleased, regardless of victor.


    The battle ended after the four-minute mark. Standing on crater-like rings of sand where their heels struck, bleeding from the lip and bruised to hell, Leo looked more tired, but the limps were all Amber¡¯s, her ponytail having undone itself to shy her vision under unruly strings of black silk hair. Now, they stared each other down, one not wanting to advance without the other¡¯s initiative.


    It was then the new Head of Men stood from his special place among the crowd beyond. Their peripherals sharp, they turned to look at him, and with a risen palm, they untensed themselves. Amber couldn¡¯t stop her knee from failing and buckling under her. Lowering his hand, Elior did nothing for a good while. And then, he made his pick. Lifting his right hand once more, the better half of the audience stood to clap and cheer at their new General. Leo Wraithsman would take the chair by Elior, at his choosing.


    Amber¡¯s eyes twitched. She snapped her sights back on her brother, reaching for his hand, but he turned away, walking off to give his gratitude. Watched by all her new coworkers, defeated after such a balanced battle, she felt a burning wave of humiliation set in and scorch her very soul.


    Leo Wraithsman, the Sword Juggler, and now, the Head of Military and General of the Syndicate. Her father might be disappointed.


    Celebrations would have to be trimmed short, however. With the crucial vacancies occupied, and command re-established, chaos withdrew from the Facility¡¯s communications team and the city¡¯s decontamination unit could finally perform. Further instruction would be held once the mission to bring safety back to the many inhabitants of the Hub could be assured. In the meantime, Merean implored a team be sent to gather the Celestials¡¯ aid, and Elior acquiesced. Ignoring his newly won throne, he spent his first day as Head of Men in the boardroom among all the strategists who survived.


    The tall, lankish Head took to the seat in the furthest end of the table. All whispers were quiet as Elior made his way, with just a few murmurs of how controversial the change had been; an act almost miraculous given the circumstances.


    Merean sat by him, acting as a close council. Clearing her throat, she brought full silence into the room, decked with people as it was. ¡°Our situation is improving,¡± she said first, earning a few smiles. ¡°It¡¯s hard to imagine how ideal our situation is. An entire front, wiped off our concern list. On behalf of the team, I thank and welcome thee, Elior.¡±


    A brief round of applause ensued, with the lowest lackeys performing the customary salute as per practice.


    ¡°With diplomacy in our favour, our primary focus now is the protection of our land.¡±


    The First Colonel, a firm yet unassured officer, stood from his seat. ¡°With your pardon.¡±


    ¡°Lance,¡± she called.


    ¡°In regards to the ranged effort.¡±


    ¡°Of course,¡± Merean nodded, ¡°be seated.¡± Turning to check on Elior, she was delighted to see not a dot of stress on his face. Elior¡¯s eyes and ears were glued to the scene, fingers webbed together and a subtle smile reaffirming his serenity. Such a different sight from Alpha¡¯s ways.


    Lance nodded. ¡°Naturally, artillery has been issued, but¡­¡±


    ¡°Yes, our munitions are lacking,¡± a young man hummed.


    A fist banged against the desk as a female officer spoke up. ¡°Our Head of Arms is useless, I tell you! Eleven years, to what end?!¡±


    ¡°Simmer down. Hephaestus¡¯ resignation is being issued as we speak; voluntarily, too. Our future is bright,¡± Elior said, the pride he felt for his new team dripping off his tongue. ¡°We must find faith in the Goddess¡¯ will. May her light guide us in finding new days.¡±


    Merean chuckled, unable to hide her contentment. ¡°Quite religious. I thought of Yanksies as less proper.¡±


    ¡°In all fairness, you were trained to find flaws in my kin. Alas, we all bathe under Her sun,¡± Elior argued, finding humour in her provocation. ¡°Of course, those devils are exempt.¡±


    ¡°Naturally, sir,¡± the same dame from earlier spoke again. ¡°But we will need to find someone to take his position.¡±


    The new Head of Men smiled eagerly at her. ¡°I insist, lay your unrest. I have the perfect genius in mind. But first, the task at hand. Brief us on our current predicament.¡±


    Merean turned her sights toward the rest of the board. ¡°If you would,¡± she said, eyeing a man of middle age and low stature.


    ¡°Madam,¡± the subordinate agreed, standing up to bring all¡¯s attention to a map posted on a whiteboard. With a red marker, he began to jot the details of recent transmissions. ¡°As predicted, the northwestern front was first to be flooded by the mass. Reports of those that survived, civilians mostly, stated that the mass consisted entirely of Crawlers of lesser and intermediate caste. They tore through our primary defences without delay. Interior officers were hopeless to repel the Galloping on their own, and many didn¡¯t get the chance to regroup in an outpost before being slaughtered." The strategist felt his brow glisten with sweat. ¡°I¡¯m concerned the Syndicate will be undermanned after all this¡­¡±


    Elior lowered his head in comprehension. ¡°Indeed. We will need to reinforce our ranks. Lent Yanksie units won¡¯t suffice.¡±


    ¡°But armoured vehicles would certainly help,¡± Merean added. Both she and the new Head could see the discomfort on the others¡¯ faces on the mention of Yanksee¡¯s intervention.


    The officer sat down. ¡°Certainly¡­ Though machine gun fire won¡¯t be effective against their particular nature. And shells are expensive.¡±


    ¡°We¡¯ll take whatever we can nab at this point,¡± an exasperated strategist sighed.


    Elior snapped his fingers. ¡°In the meantime, let¡¯s encourage our remaining soldiers to give their all. I¡¯ll be looking over the instructor list with General Leo briefly. I suspect our current training regiment is subpar.¡±


    ¡°It was built by Alpha himself.¡±


    Whether or not that sounded like a protest was hard to read. The Head hummed. ¡°Saintess bless him. May he find light in the darkness.¡±


    ¡°I would also like to bring attention to the¡­ incident that took place during the breach,¡± Merean added on top, joining the others in their discomfort. Elior seemed confused. She would relieve that. ¡°Our sole surviving Celestial¡ªSixth Lieutenant Corvus¡ªattacked my co-chief, Hoern, during a hysteric episode.¡± For once, even Elior seemed to be caught by surprise. He looked genuinely confused, his arms prying apart ever so slightly.


    ¡°Our last angel¡­ has strayed, you say?¡± Elior said, a firm hand on the chief strategist.


    ¡°Unfortunately so, sir. We have placed him on temporary leave until such a time we can decide his future with us.¡±


    ¡°Whatever is the reason?¡±


    Merean didn¡¯t bat an eye. ¡°We sent Second Brigadier Erica as a figurehead to lead the coastal line. She was obliterated among them.¡±


    ¡°Ah¡­ And she was held dear?¡±


    Another voice, a female officer, squeezed the bridge of her nose. ¡°Yes. So close you could almost call it love.¡±


    A similarly downtrodden voice sighed. ¡°She was sweet on him, I know that much.¡±


    Elior¡¯s smile vanished in the mournful silence. Slowly, he eyed each member of the board. He noticed how only half the seats were occupied. ¡°Well, I¡¯ll say. How very evil of you all.¡±


    Stolen novel; please report.


    The sudden comment came as a stray bullet. ¡°S-Sir?¡±


    ¡°But worry yourselves not. I¡¯ll bear the burden of straightening out our comrade. No need for suspensions or terminations, understood?¡± Elior¡¯s heart-warming nature faded briefly upon issuing his first real command. Those present in the room felt their nerves flare with fret and trepidation.


    ? ? ? ?


    In the many years that the quartz-haired noble had spent zombified in his studious ignorance, Tokken hadn¡¯t enjoyed a day of exercise. He wasn¡¯t one to run for the joy of doing so: his biggest sport involved menial house chores, none of which included carpentry, or painting, or preparing dishes¡­ All was provided for him by the maid that acted as his guardian during the long hours of the day he spent father-and-motherless. He might peer out the silk-woven curtains and watch other children play and compete, but he¡¯d never mustered the courage to join them. By the time he was seven he was so weak a ball tossed might not reach further than his shadow. His time spent in the village, too, lacked much labour. The farmlands were owned by just one little family-run business that thrived off their vegetables. Furniture was never built for there were plenty and the odd broken wall was fixed by the resident stonemason¡­ Tokken¡¯s only job was to teach the youngest boys and girls manners; his snobbish upbringing made that a meritless challenge.


    Conversely, Mumble''s stay in the Facility was enjoyed thoroughly, to be and stay there. So much so, that when he was finally given the boot, he volunteered¡ªat the tender age of fifteen¡ªto join the Syndie cadets. Despite any contempt or derision, even age, he blew through the course in a few insignificant days, more so lectured than trained. His exact rank designation was put on hold.


    Tokken, on the other hand, was allowed to stay despite doing nothing but stall. He had convinced himself that, as soon as could be, he should run back to the village. The problem lay in the unwillingness of his few trusted friends. Chloe insisted she enjoyed working as an assistant in the Ward as she had found herself useful therein, and helping the Zwaarst kids recover was a delight. He had met Holly briefly during the Galloping, to whom he gave many thanks, but Emris¡¯ protectiveness of her kept her distant and guarded, and she hasn¡¯t made any noticeable attempts to talk thus far.


    Tokken would be alone in such a journey, and with how well venturing off has gone for him in the past, he felt at the mercy of the decisions outside of him. After days of doing squat, he decided that, if he should stay here, he could fetch himself a job too, and earn his loaf.


    The chefs kicked him out on the first day, after a ruined batch.


    The Ward had no need for those who could only mortar themselves a rough antibacterial.


    The weapons facility required he know how guns even worked.


    His back almost blew out from carrying boxes around for an afternoon.


    He wilted the flowers when he gardened.


    He couldn¡¯t keep track of people¡¯s names nor add and subtract numbers quick enough under pressure.


    He couldn¡¯t even brew coffee right.


    And that¡¯s how Tokken, the last living heir of the famous Tsuki line, took to a mop and a bucket as a way of life. The one thing that he could do was clean the carpets and marble floor.


    Ten hours of sweeping, dipping the mop, lathering soap, polishing the walls, grooming the wools¡­ By the time his shift was over, he was flatter than roadkill on his comfy bed. There was an advantage to this job, long and arduous as it is: complete independence. He could be undisturbed and even sneak in some details from conversations that were had while he swept. He hadn¡¯t had the chance to hear from the new Head of Men, and he was eager to do so.


    Janitors, cooks and other lesser-class workers were nicknamed ¡®shrimps¡¯ here; lesser than the ¡®midlet¡¯ doctors. It was demeaning, but there was an odd sense of security from the fact bullying his class was frowned upon. Anybody who poked Tokken with a tease would be met with a clap over the nape. It still meant working from the dirt, but he could find himself no use elsewhere, so it was either this or become food for the Howlers on his run home. He built some confidence to stay, suspecting the Syndies¡¯ every move and paranoia were no longer a concern with his busied mind, but working tirelessly to keep this place¡¯s image was harder than any of his past ventures. His arms felt necrotic and his legs were numb from standing for hours long. There was so much residue dust and powder from the invasion, and the occasional glass shard would cut his hand, leaving his palm scarred.


    It would be hard, but everyone had a job. He just had to get used to it.


    ¡°Are you goddamned serious, buck-o?!¡±


    One break and a Mynotaur¡¯s blurt was what lead him here. Not even three days into his new work, he was reassigned. For once, it wasn¡¯t due to incompetence. This time it was due to a miscommunication¡­


    ¡°I¡¯d love to, sure, but¡­¡±


    ¡­And a poor, poor suggestion to one¡¯s captain.


    Standing in formation, legs wobbling and breath shallow, a small company of seventy-five men and women began to sweat in their grey uniforms. The lot stood in two perfect rectangles, awaiting their new captains. Among them stood the last Tsuki. He had no idea what he was doing here, how he could possibly fit here, and how he might survive this. Could he leave? Should he leave? Was fleeing only to be eaten by dogs preferable to this? The way Norman argued, he could either work in the dirt or fly with the Celestials. But flying was laborious and dangerous. Besides, he couldn¡¯t kill a fly.


    The Jewel betrayed his ideals as it gleamed excitedly. Tokken could kill a fly. He¡¯d killed bigger by now.


    The thumping, marching steps of three officers walked into view, crunching the sand floor of the arena. Two of them clunked about in grey Nynx armour¡ªone clearly a lot bigger than the other¡ªwhereas the middle one wore black ¡ª standing at a height more natural for a human. The ¡®important¡¯ soldier stood still before the other two, allowing them to advance ahead. The pair slammed their heels together into the substrate, stopping in robust military fashion.


    Tokken could feel the course of his blood with every beat of his heart. He didn¡¯t belong here. ''Norman, what have you wrought?!'' Tokken scrunched his forehead in thought.


    ¡°Cadets!¡± a female voice with the rough rowdiness of a canine, the soldier on the left, boomed. ¡°Show me where your loyalties lie!¡±


    Before Tokken could register those words, everyone around him thumped their chest with their right fist and then raised the same arm in an L-shape, showing four fingers. He stumbled, but the lad managed to imitate their gesture. The officers too returned it.


    The beastwoman¡¯s voice shouted, ¡°Four skyward fingers. This is your promise, and your fucking death warrants, Cadets! One finger for each Head, as was dictated by Merry Monday a century ago!¡±


    The right boot of every Cadet, minus Tokken, slammed the earth. Together, they cried, ¡°Four skyward fingers!¡±


    ¡°Those of you willing to stand here today have decided upon this very fact, each and every one of you: you will serve this glorious Syndicate ad nauseam! You will fight, you will break, you will crumble, and burn, and pillage, and do exactly what we fucking tell you to! For the sake of our land, our prosperity, our unity!¡±


    ¡°Yes Ma¡¯am!¡± shouted the lot. Tokken caught up this time. He had no idea why he was complying. Adrenaline shot him up like a drug.


    ¡°From this day onward, the half of you on the left will be on my personal shit list, and henceforth you will address me as Captain Lambda! Those of you outside of it shall refer to me as Third Sergeant Heila!¡±


    The second grey Nynx officer raised a palm. This voice was male ¡ª quiet, ground to dust with a scary rasp. ¡°And to those on mine, on the uh¡­ right, I¡¯ll be spoken to by title of Captain Beta. To the rest, I am Fifty-Second Colonel Vibarius.¡±


    Heila continued, squaring her shoulders with her arms behind her back. ¡°The person that stands behind us will be supervising your work here today, and I want not a single one of you worthless dregs to disappoint! This here is none other than our newly appointed General and Head of Military, Leo Wraithsman!¡± Heila pointed at the soldier in black suit. ¡°That is the Leo Wraithsman. If you underperform, he has complete authority to turn you shitstains into fertiliser. You will refer to him, me and my partner with maximal respect, am I understood?!¡±


    ¡°Yes, Captain Lambda!¡± said the group to her left, their voices beginning to crack.


    ¡°Yes, Third Sergeant Heila!¡± the group to her right struggled out.


    Heila didn¡¯t sound pleased. ¡°What the fuck was that sound? Are you rotters even alive for this?! I will personally sic each of you with an artillery barrage!¡±


    The human man to her right wheezed and coughed into his fist, before raising his voice as much as he could. ¡°I¡¯m sure some of you rats have been raised in the most self-convenient environments you could ever spit at. I¡¯m sure there are those among you who¡¯ve suffered. I don¡¯t care. You shoe-douche lickers are entirely scum until such a time I see you pull through. Only then will I see you worthy of your boots and clad. For now,¡± he coughed, ¡°you are less than the sand you stand on. I will make warriors out of you bastards if I have to scrape you off the tiles each and every time. Until you¡¯re dead or a vegetable, you¡¯re good enough to shoot a gun.¡±


    ''<em style="font-family: "Sitka Text"">I¡¯m dead,'' Tokken guessed. It¡¯s definitive. Running from wolves was more appealing than this.


    ¡°Now, don¡¯t get us wrong. We won¡¯t make weapons of you. We won¡¯t make soldiers kicking and screaming. We thrive on loyalty and cooperation. We raise shining silver, not the copper those of the East crank out. That said, I won¡¯t tolerate haze-brainers. I don¡¯t want slackers, I don¡¯t want untimeliness. I don¡¯t want bullies, wreckers, kamikazes, racists.¡± Vibarius eyed a particular Felyn. ¡° I don¡¯t want disrespect. If you can¡¯t have the decency to see those around you as your brothers and sisters in arms, then you have no place under my wing. Am I heard?¡±


    ¡°Yes, Captain Beta!¡± shouted the group on the right, Tokken included. Morals weren¡¯t off the table. A pleasant thought for the youngster.


    ¡°Yes, Fifty-Second Colonel Vibarius!¡± chanted Heila¡¯s group.


    Heila stood firm, raised her left arm and gave her first order. ¡°Platoon, face my west!¡±


    The group on the left stomped their boots and turned with haphazard synchrony toward the wall opposite the second group.


    Vibarius¡¯ voice was still quieter when he too ordered, ¡°Platoon, face my east!¡±


    The group on the right did much of the same, facing the wall opposite Heila¡¯s. Tokken was among them, and he did stumble. This time, his unease and incompetence were seen by his captain, who took note. Tokken felt his gaze and became terrified of it. So this was the military¡¯s psychological experience¡­ Those old books couldn¡¯t prepare him for it.


    Together, the captains ordered them to march for the two walls, trying to follow their captains¡¯ pace. When they reached the furthest edge, they stood still and firm, being sure not to anger their captains any more than they already seemed. For another minute, the marches were still, and all standing tried their damnedest not to allow their nerves to claim them. Then, a line of new soldiers came into the arena and walked along the edges of the sand. A few Cadets turned their heads to see them and were immediately made to drop to their knees by their superiors. Tokken was short enough not to be seen doing the same.


    The soldiers that arrived carried what seemed a heavy bag upon their backs. When they entered the Cadets¡¯ field of view, some at the front noticed they were Privates, judging by the badges on their shoulders. They stood directly in front of the rows of trainees, facing them, and in a machinated fashion they dropped their bags by their right heel and reached within, taking out a rifle. Pleased shushed murmurs followed.


    ¡°Cadets!¡± Vibarius shouted, the dehydrated drag in his throat unpleasant to the ear, ¡°these will be your assigned arms. Treat them with respect and they¡¯ll keep you alive in turn. You will learn to carry, dismantle, maintain, reload and fire this weapon. If you lose it, you¡¯ll be flogged. If you don''t unjam it in five seconds, you¡¯ll be flogged. If you so much as scratch the fucking paint off it, you¡¯ll be flogged.¡±


    ¡°Yes, Captain Beta!¡± they shouted once more. Tokken¡¯s throat hurt from all the yelling, but he¡¯d piss himself otherwise, he knew for certain.


    ¡°Take your arms in an orderly fashion,¡± the Colonel ordered.


    One after the other, each Cadet reached for their gun. Many were gun nuts, so of course, they carried it like a baby of their own. When Tokken took his, he was surprised at the weight of it. It felt like carrying a dumbbell around. Dropping the barrel over his shoulder, he exhaled a deep breath, returning to his place in the formation. This was the first rifle he had ever grazed. There was a haunting yet comforting feeling in its cold, iron grip.


    The Jewel glowed distastefully. Tokken didn¡¯t see it. He was too preoccupied figuring out how he would explain this to Chloe later tonight.


    ¡°Now, Cadets¡­¡± Vibarius shouted, ¡°Thirty laps around the mid-camp!¡±


    ? ? ? ?


    The Head of Men marched down the hall, his long black trousers stuck to his legs like an extra layer of skin. His coat was a pleasant brown, slipped on over a white tuxedo shirt by a bodyguard in light attire. To Elior¡¯s right, a strategist followed, pushing her glasses up every step of the way. With how long his legs were, she and the guard had some trouble keeping up.


    ¡°A dispatch has officially been ordered to purify the core of the city. The industrial sectors seem relatively clean according to civilian witnesses. Our team will arrive in nine hours,¡± she said, stumbling some in her rushed pace.


    Elior cleared his throat. ¡°Very well, thank you Cindy.¡±


    ¡°A-And I would like to offer my whole congratulations to you. You are doing this nation a tremendous service,¡± she said. ¡°Praise be, sir Elior.¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± he said, giving her a simple smile. ¡°May the Saintess¡¯ light reach and guide us all.¡±


    ¡°Make way for our suprem¨ªsimo!¡± the bodyguard roared with a distinctly uncommon accent, making the doctors that walked near create a wide gap between them, saluting their new leader. The strategist, too, took her leave, always with the proper thump and gesture.


    Elior turned to the guard quizzically, not missing a beat. ¡°Rennegard?¡±


    ¡°My ancestors. Apologies, your greatness,¡± the bodyguard said, lowering his head in shame even as they walked.


    ¡°Don¡¯t. I appreciated your likes,¡± Elior said, keeping that smile. There was something pervasive about the way his eyes watched all that surrounded. That stare did much to discomfort the guard. He waved the thought off, deeming it fitting of a man of his status. A true lord indeed.


    The two guards that stood posted by the entrance to the throne room gave their salute as Elior approached, opening the large door before he would have to slow down. The blinding light of the windows¡¯ gleams within strained the Head of Men¡¯s eyes briefly, but he acclamated soon, and enjoyed the sight that unfolded. The rays of the sun¡¯s shine glowed diagonally across his throne, giving it a truly glorious and holy appearance. He took a second to breathe it in.


    ¡°Sir Elior?¡± the bodyguard asked, leaning closer to show his interest.


    ¡°I¡¯m not used to this,¡± Elior cackled quietly to himself. ¡°I can¡¯t remember the last time I wasn¡¯t donned in pearly iron.¡±


    The guard nodded, and took his place among the line of other guards that stood on either side of the red carpet that lead to his new throne. A symbolic trait introduced by Alpha himself. Elior didn¡¯t deem himself a king; in fact, he loathed the thought. But that could wait. He made his way to it, humming the lines of the Manifesto he used some days prior. And as he took his seat, he felt the magnitude of the power at his fingertips. Peering over the throne room, looking upon his entourage, he exhaled deeply, feeling the stress of this insurmountable deed he had devoted his life to melt. The time for work was spent. Now, came the time for change.


    ¡°Blessed be,¡± he said lowly to himself, catching only the attention of one of his guards. ¡°Blessed be, this luck of mine.¡±

 Chapter 2: Watch Over Me

    Mhaieiyu


    Arc 3, Chapter 2


    Watch Over Me


    The door to Chloe¡¯s shared room swung open with a vengeance as Tokken stumbled in, legs made useless. The Cryptid rose her head from the nook of her bed, eyes narrowed.


    ¡°Tokken¡­?¡± she yawned, ¡°where¡¯ve you been? I sent to look for you, but I just got smirks.¡±


    ¡°Have you looked into bovine castration yet?¡± Tokken huffed out, his lungs wheezing. Though his every muscle was soup, he threw himself into the shower and threw out his clothes, each trapped to his skin from the sweat.


    ¡°No? I¡¯m not allowed to carry those procedures.¡± Her nose scrunched up. ¡°You stink.¡±


    ¡°Blame Norman!¡±


    ¡°Did he wrestle you in the mud or something?¡±


    ¡°He had me join the Mortos-damned army!¡±


    No words. The shower head began its gentle spray of ice cold water, much to Tokken¡¯s approval, and Chloe was left to blink her doubts away.


    ¡°What, really?¡± she said, trying to find the line between satire and reality.


    There was no line.


    ¡°Yep!¡± he shouted from within. Chloe was baffled. So baffled she began laughing her little heart out.


    ¡°Oh!¡± she sniggered out between giggles, ¡°You poor thing!¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m this close to sending that bull to the butchers!¡± Tokken spat, though he smiled. Indeed, his body was wrecked. And this was day one. Somehow, though, he felt good. It certainly wasn¡¯t what he was meant to do, but he felt productive doing it, at least. It also meant he¡¯d be treated better than just a ¡®shrimp¡¯.


    ¡°Why did you accept?¡± Chloe shouted. She wasn¡¯t heard. Shaking her head, she tucked her head back onto her pillow.


    The bed had been shaped in such a way that the canine had enough space on the opposite side of the bed for her size to be comfortable; no longer sleeping as a cat would. She never used the covers, though. Her thick fur kept her warm during colder nights, and any more would just stifle her. She literally felt the temperature drop the longer the shower went on, which had her head peak up again.


    ¡°Tokken, don¡¯t freeze yourself!¡± Chloe shouted again. No response. She sighed.


    Shortly after, the boy stepped out of the shower, almost tripping on account of his dying calf. After drying himself off, he slipped on some boxers, insisting Chloe face the other way, dropped his Jewel on the bedside table and then slipped into the covers. The cold was perfect, and he never felt more satisfied.


    ¡°Goodnight!¡± Tokken said, laying on his palms.


    ¡°You seem awfully cheery tonight. I¡¯m happy for you,¡± Chloe said.


    ¡°It got rid of my headache, this.¡±


    ¡°Maybe you just needed something to occupy your mind?¡±


    ¡°Perhaps.¡±


    She heard the rustle of his head moving.


    ¡°How was the Ward today?¡±


    ¡°A bit sad. One of the boys was adopted today, and he didn¡¯t look like he wanted to go,¡± the Howler went on, ¡°but I know he will be safe. He¡¯s moving to a household in the southwest.¡±


    ¡°What? Aren¡¯t there still Crawlers?¡±


    ¡°That area was kept clear during the Galloping. It¡¯s the one place the Syndicate can¡¯t falter in. Nobles of all sorts live there,¡± she explained, eyes closed.


    ¡°Huh¡­¡± Tokken hummed, looking at the ceiling. ¡°Look at you, getting so knowledgeable. I¡¯m sure you¡¯re enjoying it.¡±


    Chloe yawned again, and her tone trailed off. ¡°Well, yes. I¡¯m accomplishing what my kind never seemed to bother to try. I feel¡­ like I¡¯m really making a difference.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sure you are, Chloe.¡± Once he began to hear the soft snores of the canine, he too closed his eyes and welcomed sleep. And as he slept, the Jewel began to glow again, following him in his dreams.


    Chloe, standing to watch that bastard knife during the earliest of hours, furrowed her brows and concentrated. The Jewel sparked and protested, but with a good deal of effort, it was made to stop. Sweat began to bead off her forehead, and she felt her throat tighten without air, but a few huffs cleared her up. The Howler noticed Tokken¡¯s restless body cease its movements, no longer disturbed. She smiled and returned to her bed, eyeing the lad until she too left for the clouds.


    ? ? ? ?


    To let go of someone was among the most challenging things for any soldier to face. Be it a civilian caught in the crossfire, an innocent enemy who wished none harm or the comrades that fell instead of he, Corvus was not one to take death lightly. He much preferred doubt. That too-often fruitless grasp to a hope that wasn¡¯t worth harbouring, he much preferred it. Ripping the communicator from his wrist, he clutched it tightly before lobbing it into the ocean blue.


    From here, everything looked blue. The night was lighter than usual today, the sea glowed a brilliant soft blue, and the pebbles that ground beneath the waves reflected its dear light. Beneath his feet, Corvus held tightly the necklace Charm he wished Erica to have: Heaven¡¯s Martyr. A life-saving jewel, Its beautiful gold had lost its sheen to a dull copper, its magic spent, and yet it felt fruitless, as did his hope. He held it so tight he felt it bend and snap. Erica¡¯s life hadn¡¯t been spared as he intended. He hadn¡¯t swept in to save her as he intended. He hadn¡¯t given her comfort during her final hours as he intended. Instead, he wept like a baby watching her leave, reduced to a catatonic state as he collapsed by the orders of his superiors. A Swan¡¯s doing.


    His superiors¡­ Human fucking beings.


    He had allowed these, these apes to control his will. By following their demand, he was left to stay put and do nothing at all, and in the meantime, in a horizon further than his eyes could see, Erica was ripped from the world by monsters.


    Human fucking beings. He recalled barging into the boardroom and chopping off a hand before slicing the belly of one of the older fuckers that lead the team. Hoern.


    Recapturing his vengeful actions, he felt shame, but it felt so good too. He had allowed the Crimson to escape. Corvus blamed it on his bitterness. He would never have lost otherwise. The Reaper, Sagittar, was as good as dead otherwise. But apparently it wasn¡¯t him. It was another. Corvus vowed to find and kill whoever did this to her.


    ¡°Erica, you died in vain. I¡¯m sorry. I¡¯m sorry,¡± he mourned, tears falling on the pebbles beneath him.


    A hand on his shoulder ripped him from his trance. He looked up at her. Erica?! No. No, it was the outcast. Eclipse knelt down beside him, and he made sure to wipe his eyes before she saw. Fruitlessly, naturally.


    ¡°Corvus,¡± she named him, her ethereal voice as bewitching as he had remembered it.


    Eclipse had been keeping an eye on Corvus since his meltdown, always far enough away that he didn¡¯t lose himself to stress. She understood well the eyes he bore, the stares he gave. He was submitting to wrath: to devastating pangs of revenge.


    ¡°I yearn,¡± Corvus corrected. ¡°I yearn right.¡±


    ¡°I think you seek death, Corvus,¡± she corrected in turn, making him turn away. ¡°You know, slaying they who did this won¡¯t bring her back.¡±


    ¡°It will keep others safer.¡±


    ¡°You have become a danger to others yourself.¡±


    Corvus tightened his grasp on the spent Charm. It had lost its form. ¡°I know.¡±


    His wings lay ungraciously down his back and over the pebbles, loose and without the proper form his kin practised ¡ª not unlike a nasty slouch.


    ¡°It¡¯s a shame you don¡¯t have a halo,¡± Eclipse commented kindly, feeling his hair and the lack of a ring aloft it.


    ¡°Are you calling me a Swan¡­?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know what that means, but whatever it is, I don¡¯t mean it badly. I think they look beautiful.¡±


    Corvus looked away from her and toward the calm sea. Every few seconds, a small wave would grind the pebbles together. He sighed. ¡°Swans¡­ have smaller wings. Useless things. They lack the grace that we Hawks carry as we fly.¡±


    ¡°Ah, how curious,¡± Eclipse cooed, a smirk lining her foxish face. ¡°Well, surely you wouldn¡¯t want to fall from that grace if that¡¯s what distinguishes you.¡±


    ¡°What are you trying to say?¡± the Celestial demanded, only to be shushed. The sword shook in its sheath as he tapped its handle contemplatively.


    ¡°What was she like?¡± Eclipse said before he could lose himself to anger. The angel tensed, she felt it, but she could see his eyes lose some of their frigidness to warm memories.


    Corvus breathed in a shudder. ¡°She was a ditz. She couldn¡¯t meander a mile without squabbling over something with someone.¡± He shook his head. ¡°She was¡­ She¡¯s sweet, when she wants to be. Never productive, but she tries, I know that. Erica is¡­¡±


    Eclipse stood up, seeing him cup his head with his palms.


    ¡°She was loyal. And she loved me.¡±


    ¡°And did you love her?¡±


    Though she waited, the answer didn¡¯t come for a good while. She stood very still, being sure not to step over where Corvus designated Erica¡¯s grave. She dropped her gauntlets on the floor, each with a thud and chink, to relieve her hands of the pressure. Eclipse stretched her fingers, glancing at her nails.


    ¡°You¡¯re safe to speak, Corvus. It¡¯s only us three here,¡± she insisted, hearing him scrape his fingertips against the necklace¡¯s piece. The thin silver chain popped, snaking down to meet the rocks.


    ¡°I love Lyth,¡± he finally said. His palm continued to crush the Charm. Soon it would be dust. ¡°I loved Erica.¡±


    Eclipse raised a brow. The frustration on his face was so clear, veins squeezing to the surface of his forehead. ¡°You loved them both?¡±


    ¡°Lyth is still alive.¡± The thing cracked further.


    ¡°Where is she?¡± Eclipse pressed. Somehow, her voice disarmed Corvus, though the object of her questioning was much too personal for him not to stress. Eclipse watched as he pointed a shaking finger toward the ocean ¡ª or rather, that that laid beyond.


    This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.


    ¡°She¡¯s there.¡±


    ¡°Zwaarstrich?¡±


    ¡°Beyond.¡±


    ¡°Ah¡­ I see¡­¡± Eclipse grasped her cheeks, contemplating how a Celestial might survive in the freezing Badlands. The answer was clear to her. She must be dead. But, seeing Corvus lay in his burning hope, Eclipse smiled softly to herself. She poked his shoulder, offering him her hand. ¡°Shall we go seek her, then?¡±


    The chill of early dawn mixed with that voice. It was that voice, the kind you heard in nostalgic dreams. Motherly and sweet. Terrifying.


    "Seek¡­ her¡­?" he stammered, the words rolling off his tongue on their own.


    "Well." Eclipse looked about, retreating her hand. "I wager it''s no good lying sick in doubt."


    Corvus looked up at her, a glint in his eyes. It shone for a second, bright like his early wing feathers, but they soon dwindled. "Nonsense. You''ll freeze."


    "Oh¡­" she said, giving the crunching waves a listen. A moment of hesitation followed, like she were contemplating something dire. ''No point dying in the cold, surely,'' Corvus thought. Still, she pierced the quiet. "Charming, that you might be so concerned for a woman you barely know. I''ll live."


    "Do you hear yourself?" Corvus shouted then, a tad more irritated than perhaps he should be. Eclipse didn''t retreat. "Forgive my crass, but you''re not fit to live in ice. Lean frame, ebony skin. Starved. You will be deceased a mile in. Do you have the slightest inkling of how great the Badlands'' expanses are?!"


    Eclipse kept her grin. "No, I can''t say I do. I would love to find out, however."


    "You mad harpy¡ª¡ª!"


    The devastated Hawk came frigid when a very different hand touched his nape. His pupils shrunk. A great deal of hair caressed his neck. How could this be?


    "I''ll live," she insisted.


    Corvus turned his gaze slowly towards her body, watching as it changed right in front of him. He sprung off his knees, stood by her¡ªhis head only just matching hers in height¡ªand, without contemplation, reached his palm to Eclipse¡¯s face, allowing his scabbard to bang against the substrate. The sullen Lieutenant was spellbound, feeling his skin tickle and the hairs of his arms stand at her morphing cheek. In seconds, Eclipse¡¯s flesh twisted and turned, erupting with a thick layer of black-night fur. Her jaw was lengthened, now slender, with a set of prickly canines protruding past her lips. From her lower back, a dense bush of similar coat took form and hung right off the floor. Her eyes grew and, like ruptured yolk, the pupil in either melted and took form once more, now an unnatural bright orange. She didn¡¯t lose a dot of stature, but the human body had been replaced entirely by a fox-like anthropoid.


    ¡°What kind of hex¡­? You¡¯re¡­ a Vyxen?¡± Corvus could only guess, taken aback by this sudden transformation. Though unpleasant to see, it was quick and quiet. Emris¡¯ own reshaping couldn¡¯t compare.


    ¡°Silly boy,¡± Eclipse sniggered, giving him a knock over the head, ¡°I¡¯m a Chameleon.¡±


    Of course. It made more sense now. The exile had come from the Dwellers¡¯ domain; a land where Chameleons abounded. But, for her to be so sapient¡­ Eclipse had to have been a special breed indeed. Time ticking, she jumped on her feet, getting a feel for her new anatomy. Corvus could hardly bring himself to stand with her.


    The winds from the Northern Hemisphere¡­ He could feel them now.


    Chilling.


    ¡°Why are you so enthused?¡± Corvus asked, not daring to pry on her existence as a Chameleon.


    ¡°Exploration invigorates me. Why, it¡¯s the very reason I abandoned my similars,¡± she gave this answer.


    The Celestial¡¯s shoulders definitively slumped. ¡°I¡¯ll never understand women.¡±


    ¡°The enigma is far more tempting, no?¡± Eclipse teased, giving him a wry wink. Seeing him unamused, she shushed her perkiness but chortled anyway. ¡°I apologise. Now isn¡¯t the best time to joke of that, but bear hope.¡±


    He walked up to her, settling his arms under her shoulders and gripping her tightly. ¡°I¡¯ll certainly try.¡±


    ¡°Come now. You were the one who insisted, weren¡¯t you? My ears heard,¡± Eclipse did tease, pushing herself back into him like a cat on its owner¡¯s lap.


    ¡°I know,¡± he answered brief. His sad wings rose with such splendour still. He braced himself, steeling too, and squatted a fraction. And then, with a mighty drop of his feathered limbs¡ªwith such humble and effortless grace¡ªhe roared into the sky with the slinkish lass like a bolt from a crossbow, startling her for a moment.


    In the skies, blasted by the numbingly cold air, Eclipse couldn¡¯t restrain her cries of amazement. ¡°Maturna!¡± Eclipse shouted so, ¡°Apologies! Victus! This is¡­! Flight is¡­!¡±


    Whatever she screamed into heaven, her excitement wouldn¡¯t be heard. The whizzing winds were so strong. The cold, numbing. She didn¡¯t care. Years of acrobatics couldn¡¯t hope to match this intense feeling of relief ¡ª this luxury of true freedom. Now, even the skies weren¡¯t a limit. A bit of an exaggeration, but the Chameleon couldn¡¯t be bothered to think coherently. Her sight struggled through the raw turbulence, but beneath her, Eclipse saw the sea. She saw the lightless Zwaarstrich minutes after; its torches spent with none to maintain them. A saddening sight; news had reached the exile of its fate. Now wasn¡¯t the time, however. Up ahead, though a blur, she could faintly see the shores of new land. A world she could only have imagined thus far. A wintry world, where cold was all and abundant: the Badlands. Its coast wasn''t dark like Zwaarstrich was. Tiny settlements dotted the shoreline. Eclipse yearned to witness their cultures.


    ¡°Look!¡± she pointed, a bit childishly. ¡°Those villages. The last of Rennegard¡¯s people, are they not?¡±


    Corvus could only faintly make out what she said. He didn¡¯t answer. Instead, his mind rotted with a violent storm of aching thoughts. Erica was dead. He was coming to rescue his likely skeletal spouse. A Chameleon snuck into Syndie affairs. Emris¡­


    The Guardian. Where could he be now, he wondered. Thinking of him whilst staring at the zooming continent ahead made him dwell further in his memories. It kept his mind off his wife, so he welcomed them. On the first day he saw him face-to-face¡ªhe remembered¡ªhe had only come to kill him. An ignorant decision to make. It could have cost him dearly. His wife would not have had to live through this wintry hellscape.


    Corvus shuddered ¡ª he relived the day he lost his wife to this land.


    Corvus grimaced ¡ª he remembered the day he almost ended the world,


    ? ? ? ?


    A ceaseless snap of branches and twigs broke by the running pair¡¯s ears, overshadowing the subtle whimpers of the infant boy that hopped in the lead¡¯s arms. An uncomfortable yet secure grip would keep the toddler from slipping, and a hand locked around the wrist of the woman behind him would ensure she too wouldn¡¯t fall behind. The two adults panted as they made their run through the thick bush; a grimace from both as the man took the brunt of nature to his face.


    In the near distance, past the canopies¡¯ embrace, a loud swish disturbed them and renewed their vigour. The slow wing beats were audible, each one. Running felt feeble, but it beat idleness. And then, the vicious spin of metal captured their attention.


    The man with sharp teeth forced the lady to stop running; she bumped roughly into his back. A rasp inhale left the sir in tatters. A sword with a steel that glowed white with heat skewered the earth ahead, and when he glanced up high, the sight of the angel descending from the frozen skies sent a mixture of fear and anger gushing through him.


    A man with no halo and two vibrant, large wings of white. The Hawk Celestial loomed overhead.


    ¡°Guardian,¡± the angel¡¯s voice boomed, ¡°I refuse to insist forever. By order of the Skyborn Major, relinquish yourself and yours to the Saintess immediately.¡±


    The father¡¯s teeth dragged together in his mouth, sharpening them further. ¡°Leave me, my son and my wife alone, Sword. I thought you were supposed to defend me.¡±


    The angel, Corvus, exhaled with a closed mouth. ¡°I was willing to fulfil that purpose, but you have failed to meet any of our expectations. We are ashamed to harbour you as our Guardian.¡±


    Emris felt his eyes water as apprehension settled in. His voice cracked. ¡°I¡¯m protecting my family.¡±


    ¡°Indeed. It¡¯s been too long. A hundred and seventy years of inaction. Our society has been without a shield for a hundred and seventy years. Have you any concept for how many have been butchered during this¡­ this abdication of yours?!¡±


    The strength in Corvus¡¯ voice carried so that the wind blew at the hairs on their heads. Startled, the infant began to bawl. Emris turned to the lad, breathing heavy with stress, his vision weighing and squeezing. He reached a hand out to the woman, watching her try to comfort the product of their union. Moon looked back at Emris. She said something his ringing ears didn¡¯t pick up on, but it instilled him with decisive resolve.


    He wasn¡¯t going to abandon his young.


    Emris turned back to the Celestial sent to hunt him down. He steadied his panic, pushing down the bile in his throat; breaths that shook, hair standing. His arms spread wide to plead one last time.


    ¡°I have a son. If you have any moral, show us mercy and abandon this place. I won¡¯t come with you peacefully.¡±


    Corvus looked down and frowned upon him for his choice, for the angel¡¯s decision had already been made. ¡°It¡¯s a shame. That boy will grow up to see me as the villain. So be it.¡±


    Emris¡¯ palms glowed bright between his knuckles, an icy dome forming weakly around the two most important people in his life. Before it came to a close, his frustrated mind welcomed the faint giggle of his child.


    ¡°Aye, and I have every intention of seeing that happen,¡± Emris proclaimed, squaring his shoulders and balling his fists for combat.


    The battle that raged on rang like bells every second. The clang of hallowed steel failing to penetrate the famed barriers of the Guardian could be heard within the mile and with abundance. Though he was used to besting the beasts of these tormented lands, Emris was surprised and overwhelmed by the unspoken velocity of this swordsman. The irony that the Guardian¡¯s Sword might try to slay him in this manner didn¡¯t escape Corvus.


    Emris dragged back on his heels at the last slash impeded. It had carried enough force to crumble the earth by his feet, his boot trapped. The brief moment of vulnerability was exactly what Corvus had been aiming for, exploiting the muddiness of frozen dirt to root Emris to the spot. He noticed. A loud roar came when Corvus flew close. Emris took the iron to the shoulder, but in exchange, he blew back the angel with a power that rivalled a cannon, sending him to roll. Once his body hit and collapsed a tree, the Celestial spat out a mixture of acids and blood, not prepared for such a counter.


    The two combatants panted¡ªthe Guardian too heaved¡ªas they looked back at each other. Whereas Corvus¡¯ eyes were determined, Emris¡¯ glare was uncertain and distressed. This fight had to end, for his and his family¡¯s good. The wingless Guardian took slow, hardy steps toward Corvus, tired and without options. If Corvus were allowed to survive, he would inform the current Skyborn of Emris¡¯ whereabouts and they would be overpowered in a blink.


    Corvus laid back against the tree trunk, his arms draped over his knees, his hand grasping the handle of his sword uneasily. He watched Emris draw near. The hesitation was clear.


    ¡°Guardian,¡± Corvus said, struggling through crushed breaths.


    ¡°Emris,¡± the man corrected, building the flame of revenge.


    ¡°I don¡¯t blame you for leaving us behind.¡±


    Emris stopped moving forward.


    ¡°I realise the stress is much to bear. I¡¯m sorry you were raised in such a way.¡±


    Emris said nothing.


    Corvus inhaled. His breaths had steadied, and he stood up. ¡°That being said, you have failed far more than just us.¡±


    A disturbed grunt followed upon witnessing those glorious wings unfurl noiselessly. The weight of his sins caved Emris¡¯ mind. Having proven his strength alone to be insufficient, his jaw popped, cracked and splintered, widening the stretch of his horrid canines.


    ¡°You have reduced yourself to an animal,¡± Corvus acknowledged, harsh. He bent a knee forward, fingers dancing upon the grip of that shimmering weapon.


    ¡°You won''t hurt my son,¡± Emris growled all too sickly, a foam of sorts falling from his lips.


    ¡°It is my oath that we will do better by him.¡±


    Corvus¡¯ wings fell by his sides with a great boom. Emris didn¡¯t get a chance to react, as thirty steps became none in an instant. A reflex spared his neck but cost a forearm, which spun wildly in the air to fall with a splat against the iced grass nearly a hundred feet away. Emris looked back in shock; the blur that was Corvus had disappeared from his sight as he whizzed across the heavens and down upon him. The whirring of that sword was the only indicator. Emris rose his remaining arm skyward, conjuring a smaller barrier that would be obliterated by the weapon¡¯s strike, moving past its reaches to slice down the length of his torso.


    The angel landed by the maimed man, thrown back by a combustion explosion expelled by the Guardian. It did little more than distract him. Corvus watched as the Fifty-Seventh limped toward the bubble his family was enclosed by, which faded further with Emris¡¯ weakening body. His remaining hand banged upon it, unable to steady himself. Whatever Moon said was cancelled out by the dome.


    Emris breathed deeply, staring back into the panicked eyes of his love. She pushed a bronze pistol against her side of the barrier, pleading that she may use it. Emris shook his head, air leaving his cut lung. He clutched the gash on his belly, stopping his guts from falling in front of his family. Turning around, he gruffed at the sight of Corvus standing there, so able and unscathed.


    ¡°You are unable to fight, Emris,¡± Corvus asserted, taking a step forward. ¡°Relinquish yourself and the heir. I promise, this isn¡¯t an act of cruelty.¡±


    ¡°Well it seems¡­ pretty fucking cruel¡­ to me¡­¡± Emris struggled yet spoke, blood falling from his lip. Seeing that the flesh of his stomach had mended, he reached out exhaustedly toward the Celestial, building a fiery spell.


    ¡°Don¡¯t do this¡ª¡ª¡±


    ¡°I won¡¯t let you take him.¡±


    The energy in his hands grew with intensity, and soon, steam began to creep from the Guardian¡¯s mouth. Before the heat could develop proper, Corvus bowed his head and shot forth.


    Emris must have lost his sight, because he couldn¡¯t see what happened next.


    The bubble faded, gunshots rang and then ceased. A few cries. An embrace upon his back. He heard first his love, but her voice was drowned out. He didn¡¯t want to hear it, but the King spoke louder than she ever could.


    Emris shot open his eyes and jumped in his seat. A coat of sweat had soaked through his top. He looked around, feeling poisoned and fatigued. The light outside the windows was too bright, and the music on the radio too loud, worsening his nagging headache. The man rubbed his eyes some, leaning against the steering wheel that had gathered heat in the sun. The feeling of illness was intense this time around. Dozens of beer cans surrounded him, falling off of him and below the various seats like a slob. What he saw above him was a complete mess. A disgusting red stain encrusted with bone fragments and brain splatter had engulfed the roof right by his hair. Emris groaned, rubbing his eyes some more and feeling around for his jacket. He caught it in the passenger seat, took it and reached into its pockets, thumbing past his prized locket to nab the metal flask. Unscrewing its top was difficult and he spilt some of its contents, pouring what remained into his maw, sputtering until he swallowed it all.


    After a few breaths, panting for air, he dropped the thing in the footrest among at least six other tins. Unwilling to remember sobriety, he clumsily reached for the dashboard and retrieved his pistol again.

 Chapter 3: Eleven, Until Further Notice

    Mhaieiyu


    Arc 3, Chapter 3


    Eleven, Until Further Notice


    The reeking musk of soldiers¡¯ toil festered in a drumming, great room; wide as a sports field and topped with an exhaustingly loose substrate. This was the arena, and at earliest dawn it was bustling with struggling recruits. A plethora of hurdles had been set up: poles, gaps, mudded tracks, watery tunnels, bars, barbs, rebars¡­ The jungle of obstacles was designed to emulate an admittedly sadistic battlefield. A perfect training place for the Cadets who were convinced they were being made fun of by their superiors. Nevertheless, the better half of the lot had gathered the strength and resolve adequate to best these trials. As for the less faithful, they couldn¡¯t exactly give up either. Their superiors had no desire to let them off the hook, nor would they be handing them down any time soon. The Syndicate¡¯s policy was firm on trusting their newbies to harden up eventually. One soldier was worth a treasure, after all.


    ¡°Eleven! On your feet, shit-for-brains!¡± a powerful, worn-out voice strained out, smiting the lad¡¯s ears.


    Tokken had learned quick that such things as identity were to be earned as trainees ¡ª a first badge of honour until they became official soldiers. The teen ripped himself from the sticky mud and clambered his way up, putting his weight back on his burning legs. A few ragged breaths, but he¡¯d be fine. Though slow, he shook his face and pressed on, thumping along with the person who passed him by: the same cotton-candy Wylven that had two laps on him by now. His stupid pink fur put enough of a smile on that Tokken sped up again, ignoring the soreness in his whole self.


    ¡°That¡¯s it, pack it in. Five minutes, rots!¡± Vibarius announced with a bleating whistle, putting some strain on the advantaged Wylvens.


    Anatomically speaking, the brutish yet speedy prowess of the canines worked excellently in these fields. They had the best combination of stamina, endurance, strength and velocity to keep them active in the field. Some of the bigger slugs could powerhouse straight through certain obstacles ¡ª to their later detriment at the reprimand of their assigned trainer.


    Tokken, on the other hand, was disadvantaged in every regard. No combat experience, no stamina to speak of, and not even the strength to squish a beetle. A thoroughly inadequate boy. Vibarius felt rightfully challenged, having to guide the lad through this, but a certain spark in his eyes kept him interested. A spark that kept him motivated. Vibarius wondered whether this had something to do with Tokken¡¯s ancestry. With Connaen¡¯s Pledge.


    Be that as it may, the five-minute mark struck the clock and the young man was still trudging through a narrow shaft chin-deep in a foul-smelling sludge. The gun in his hand had to be held up, and so it dragged against the stone atop him. The first time he had done so, Tokken had nightmares about it. They always used the same little tunnel, as it was a bitch-and-a-half to drag about, weighing as much as it did. About twenty feet of hell, dragging himself across with just three of his limbs. That¡¯s because, if Vibarius saw that he had drowned his barrel, he¡¯d be stiff meat.


    ¡°Squirm your ass out of there, Eleven!¡± Vibarius shouted into the hole opposite where Tokken came from.


    Seeing the glaring light at the end of the tunnel felt like seeing heaven during slow death. Worth the bit of pain, seeing that.


    ¡°Yes sir, Captain Beta, sir!¡± Tokken squeezed out what little air came from his lungs.


    ¡°You¡¯re made of mush, Eleven! Give in the towel and piss off!¡± Vibarius boomed again, halted by a coughing fit.


    Even with nothing left, Tokken still shouted back. ¡°I refuse, Captain Beta sir!¡±


    ¡°You have twenty! Haul ass!¡± that dry voice rung back, one last time.


    Tokken couldn¡¯t spare a second. He willed every last fibre in his muscles to carry on through that accursed space. Vibarius walked off the arena with a gag, drawing oxygen from his burning log of a cigar. He watched the lot of the cadets, men and beast alike, wander off as they were excused to the caf¨¦ and left the single lad behind. Vibarius saw a familiar Mynotaur loitering by the great steel door, and had no choice but to approach.


    ¡°Colonel,¡± Norman saluted, albeit lazily. ¡°Still hasn¡¯t earned their pickin¡¯s, I see,¡± he went on, a sportiness to him.


    ¡°I don¡¯t know what you see in the halfling, Corporal,¡± Vibarius responded, turning to watch the teen peel himself off the muddy residue. ¡°He¡¯s mincemeat. Could do him some good to stick to flowers.¡±


    ¡°Have some faith!¡± Norman chuckled. ¡°He¡¯s a Tsuki.¡±


    ¡°They¡¯re richards, the lot. The Harvies can hold a sword, at least.¡±


    ¡°Any luck teaching him to swing that dagger?¡± Norman said, shifting the topic.


    Vibarius shook his head. ¡°Nay, not squat. He flails, is all.¡±


    ¡°A rifle?¡±


    ¡°He can shoot. Bad grip, mind.¡± The cigar burnt down to his ring finger, adding more burn to that black spot on his knuckle. He dropped the thing against the sand and crunched it under with his boot. ¡°Nay, I¡¯m more bothered by his morals. Kid ¡®won¡¯t take a life¡¯, it seems.¡±


    The Mynotaur folded his arms together. Next to the man, he was a giant.


    ¡°Shining twat. He¡¯ll have a bit to think about when we set him off in a bit,¡± Vibarius grumbled, feeling around his pockets for a small parcel. He tapped it against the beast¡¯s chest. ¡°Give this here to Hoern.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll tryn¡¯t to break it.¡± The bull raised his arm as Tokken finally trudged near. ¡°Hey-o, kiddo!¡±


    The lad teetered forward with each step, breaths ragged, clutching the straps of his bag and the ends of his rifle until they shook. When he finally reached the Colonel, he dropped his bag with a thump and fell to his knees, managing to save his firearm from getting scratched more.


    ¡°Training¡­ complete¡­ Captain¡­ Beta¡­¡± Each word felt like an exercise of its own.


    ¡°Drop the sand,¡± Vibarius said, simultaneously dismissing him.


    Tokken couldn¡¯t muster the strength to nod. Unzipping his bag, he pushed it so that the several pounds of sand inside could pool back into the collective. With his bag bearing but a few dots of earth, the teen did his best to stand up and salute, but was quickly taken on by the Mynotaur¡¯s grip.


    ¡°Let¡¯s get ya some eats, aye?¡± Norman suggested, though there didn¡¯t seem to be any room for answer as he made off with the lad¡¯s wrist.


    Vibarius only sighed, eyeing the greatness of the now-empty arena. Glancing at the roof instilled in him a dreadful sense of vertigo, imagining being pancaked if he were to fall from such a height. Not a minute later, a white-coat Wylven joined him with a can of booze thrice the size he was used to. She took a swig.


    The Colonel cleared his throat. ¡°Heila.¡±


    ¡°Colonel,¡± she growled out.


    ¡°How¡¯re the newbies managing?¡± he figured he¡¯d ask.


    ¡°Better than yours, shit,¡± she shot him back.


    Vibarius teetered his head in annoyance. ¡°Right. I meant the newcomers.¡±


    ¡°Oh, them.¡± Heila crushed the can as she emptied it. ¡°I dunno. They took away my supervision rights when he became a trusted General all of a sudden.¡±


    Judging by her tone, he could tell she wasn¡¯t happy. ¡°And¡­ the sibling?¡±


    ¡°We aren¡¯t allowed to talk about ¡®er.¡±


    ¡°But you¡¯ll spill regardless,¡± Vibarius figured, noticing that wry smile of hers.


    She shot him a smirk. ¡°Not for free. Slot me three thous.¡±


    ¡°For intel? Better be worth something.¡±


    ¡°Pricetag don¡¯t lie. To be honest, it¡¯s more about being on her bad side.¡±


    Vibarius looked at her with wider eyes than he remembered having. ¡°She gave the order?¡±


    ¡°No, but she¡¯s a stickler for intimacy.¡±


    The Colonel raised a brow, exchanged a few cautious looks, and reached into his pocket. ¡°Alright, but this better not be dog scraps.¡±


    ¡°When haven¡¯t I been reliable, mister Belphegor-lookin¡¯ ass?¡±


    By the time she stretched her hand out, three bundles of notes had already fell onto it. ¡°Speak,¡± he said.


    Shuffling the cash into her stashes, the wolf cracked her neck and walked upon the arena. Being a beast, she could afford to walk bare. The coarseness felt pleasant on her battered paws.


    ¡°They¡¯re giving her nicknames every single day. The most popular of the lot is ¡®Devil¡¯s Daughter¡¯. Real edgy like that.¡±


    ¡°Why? Is she so macabre?¡±


    ¡°No, it¡¯s the way she reloads her guns. She¡¯s an akimbo sort of gal. Does it like ¡®this¡¯.¡± Taking two pistols from the holsters on her belt, Heila pressed the barrels against either sides of her temples. Using the bones of her jaws, the anchored pistols then slid upwards, loading both chambers with absent bullets. The full motion gave off the allure of devil horns, which only amused the Colonel.


    ¡°Heheh, something like that,¡± the hound chuckled, embarrassed.


    ¡°She insists on doing this each time?¡±


    ¡°It helps her reload faster when she empties all her slugs. I just count my bullets and reload on the last.¡±


    Vibarius dropped his head and cackled. ¡°Ah, ripe for promotion.¡±


    Heila clicked her tongue. ¡°As if. Nobody gets that luxury here until the mood cools down enough for management to notice, which is never.¡±


    ¡°How do you think I made it thus far?¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re a fossil.¡±


    ¡°Point taken.¡±


    The goliath grin of that Wylven fell as Vibarius took another cigar with shaking hands. A pang of guilt rushed through her. She refused to address it.


    With a new log stuck between his teeth, the Colonel just barely managed to ask, ¡°Anything else?¡±


    Heila shook her head. ¡°No, ¡®course not. The thick of it is, we don¡¯t know what to do with the girl.¡±


    ¡°How so?¡±


    Squatting down, the two of them heard the sickening snap of her joints. ¡°We can¡¯t train her. Not a single DI can get through earning her respect. Ask her to perform, though, and she¡¯s a golden goose.¡±


    Vibarius looked at Heila suspiciously.


    She groaned. ¡°Not in bed, twat.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not into Yanksies. I was trying to convey that that¡¯s not surprising. She¡¯s a Wraithsman. There aren¡¯t better fighters than them. Pick up a weapon they¡¯ve never seen, and they know how to use it with years of expertise. It¡¯s in their blood.¡±


    Heila withdrew a wide cutlass from her hip and gave a few practised hacks at the air. ¡°Spellbind?¡± she asked.


    Vibarius took his time slotting a bullet into the chamber of his pistol. ¡°No.¡±


    ¡°Well, the girl might be an exception,¡± the mutt pressed, the whir of her sword ominous with each swing.


    Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.


    The Colonel pointed the barrel at her back. ¡°Oh, yeah?¡±


    When the trigger was pulled, the bullet exploded from the barrel only to disintegrate in a reverbing clang of her sword. ¡°Extensive testing says it¡¯s true. She can¡¯t miss a shot. Ever.¡±


    Vibarius¡¯ eyes widened. ¡°So, if you pinned her against a Harvie with a sword¡­¡±


    The Sergeant smirked when he realised. ¡°An unstoppable force.¡±


    ¡°Versus an immovable object. By the Saintess¡­¡± The Colonel grabbed his face, unsettled by the cinema in his mind. A cough burst from his mouth uncontrollably, sending a sharp pain in his right lung that dropped his chest forward.


    The cutlass¡¯ tip pierced the beachy earth. Vibarius glanced at Heila¡¯s disappointed face¡ªcheek smushed into the handle¡ªand brushed her off with a wave, dismissing himself from the arena¡¯s court with another choking fit.


    ? ? ? ?


    ¡°...ris,¡± a crackle of a voice tore through the barrier or solace. In his state, his senses functioned at their very least capacity. Omitting it, the drunk chose not to respond. His brain had been fucked by lead.


    It came again.


    ¡°Ans¡­ Ans¡­!¡±


    Emris detected urgency. His hand threw itself about, grabbing a firm hold of the device on his left wrist. His fingers clamped around it firmly, trying to suppress it.


    ¡°Pi¡­ up!¡± it shouted, the sound passing through the gaps in the seal of his digits. Emris groaned a disgusting moan, corrupted by the still-healing form of his mouth. ¡°...are you?!¡±


    His eyes finally welcomed light. It was so painful. The sun was still up, though it was beginning to recede back into the distant earth. The rustle of his cans must¡¯ve been picked up by the communicator because, upon moving an inch, relief became clear in whomever¡¯s voice came through.


    ¡°Where¡­ you, old man?!¡±


    ¡°Hell,¡± Emris gurgled.


    ¡°What?! Hey ¡ª raise your damn hand, I can¡¯t hear squat! Where are you?!¡±


    ¡°Ugh,¡± Emris could only muscle noises from his throat. He slowly recognised the voice, but he wasn¡¯t sure where from. It was a male.


    ¡°Captain!¡±


    It finally clicked. His hand moved away from the device, freeing its microphone and speaker. ¡°Avel¡­¡±


    ¡°Lancaster. We¡¯re on a first-name basis now?¡± There was a slight interruption, as Avel regretted humouring the scene now. ¡°Forget that. Look, Emris, I don''t know where you are, what the piss you¡¯re up to, what you think you need done. But you need to come back.¡±


    Emris groaned, feeling the bones in his jaw click together. ¡°Why?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s Ignus. He¡¯s¡­ He¡¯s losing it. Because of Elena.¡±


    ¡°Elena¡­?¡±


    ¡°She¡¯s dead. Ignus has been in baby mode over it for days. He¡¯s really pissed off at you,¡± Avel said, his voice marred by the semi-functional communicator.


    Emris stayed silent for a minute, closing his eyes to take the information in. Instead of answering, he reached into the rags of his leather jacket.


    ¡°You need to get your arse here, Em. The platoon¡¯s morale is collapsing.¡±


    ¡°I had to¡­ keep an eye¡­ on the girl.¡± Emris¡¯ affected voice practically dragged his words on the floor.


    Two taps made themselves heard. ¡°What? Speak up! Stop dicking around, Captain, you know our mics are toys! Look, just get over here. We¡¯re worried he¡¯s going to lose his head. You know Ignus¡¯ fire¡¯s brighter than him.¡±


    Emris shook his head. ¡°Meschae¡¯s out there.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t care? Your team needs you. Frankly, it¡¯s the least you could do after no-showing on her funeral. Markus could use seeing you too. Poor bloke¡¯s more muted than usual.¡± A few seconds of silence followed. ¡°Em, do you care about us?¡±


    The Brig was surprised at the lack of cockiness in Avel¡¯s voice. He reached forward, putting a hand on the steering wheel. It was so hot in the sun, but the soft burn helped wake him up. ¡° ¡®Course I do. I¡¯m jus¡¯ busy, aight?¡±


    Avel sighed. ¡°You¡¯re always busy.¡±


    ¡°I had a lil¡¯ lass to take care of. I need to uh¡­ focus, okay?¡± Emris tried explaining, tilting his head to await a response. Nothing. ¡°Okay?¡±


    ¡°Sure, Captain.¡±


    ¡°Not¡­ fuckin¡¯ Captain. Call me Emris,¡± Emris tried to insist, opening the door to his left to allow some air in. Cans fell out, naturally.


    He wouldn¡¯t get a further response, hearing the distinct crackle of a disconnection. The veteran looked at the silver-copper device for a moment, trying to piece together what he¡¯d heard. It was only then he realised Elena had been dead for a while, and he still hadn¡¯t paid respects. His eyes gleamed back up at that vain rabbit figure plastered on the side of the expensive-looking building a few streets away. The sight made him grimace. He remembered why he had drunk and killed himself several times prior.


    ¡°That fuckin¡¯ Yanksie.¡±


    By Elior¡¯s command, VIPs were sent back to their livelihoods with haste, as they themselves voiced complaints of interrupted commerce. Holly had no desire to stick around the Facility either, and so, by both their demands, the lass was returned to her business as soon as the surrounding few blocks were retaken from the Galloping horde. Emris wasn¡¯t pleased. His distance from the Lypin had placed a great deal of stress on his already haywire mind, bent on a job years past its completion.


    To protect her. To raise her. He¡¯d been busy on and off, so much as Holly scathingly reminded him not a month ago, but to return to that one task was repetitive yet fulfilling and kept his mind at ease knowing he was doing something he wanted to do. Something he could will of his own volition.


    The voices that lingered like a voice in the back of his skull were becoming frightening. To remain sober was not an option. Emris glanced at his shoulder and cringed, brushing off the dry grime that had pooled near his collar. Reaching into the passenger seat, he nicked his sprawled-out coat and dropped another two cans about to clatter and fall wherever they might. Chucking the leather on, he covered the better part of the blood on his sweated shirt as he went on his idle stroll for trouble. What better a Guardian than he?


    Emris¡¯ thoughts returned to the matter of Elena¡¯s passing. How long had it been? A week, perhaps? He barely remembered hearing about it a few days ago, but the days merged together when he got little sleep.


    ¡°Shite¡­ Good soldier, too,¡± he lowly said, giving a loose brick a kick.


    Right he was. Though his intoxicated self couldn¡¯t quite grieve yet, the value she held as a markswoman and Colonel wasn¡¯t of small measure. Furthermore, Elena was a member of his platoon. The fact he didn¡¯t even remember she was dead made him detest his mind all the more. He couldn¡¯t even piece together what Avel looked like anymore.


    The Guardian¡¯s eyes wandered a bit. He felt around his things, feeling as though he was forgetting something else. His hand felt the outline of his oversized barrel.


    ¡°Shite, how many times did I¡­?¡±


    Somebody bumped into him before his thoughts could glue together well enough. He coughed, grabbing whomever¡¯s collar and yanking it back. A thorough bollocking was avoided only because Emris did recognise who the perpetrator a head-and-a-half shorter was, albeit not easily. His eyes practically buzzed as he squinted at the creature: a slender, wolfish biped of ginger and grey pelt with little fangs that stuck out an inch from his lips. His anatomy was closer to that of a ferret¡¯s.


    ¡°Shit, Em. You knocked Q¡¯s ass outta commission,¡± he chuckled, a smooth, boyish voice to him.


    ¡°You baked fuckin¡¯ tit, Koto!¡± Much to the contrary, the second voice that came from much further below was so gruff and heavy that it might have come from the mouth of Un-Turbulus, Earl of the winds, had it not been for this laughably impish panda bear. A Werebjorn¡ªa bear Anthropoid¡ªthe size of a Dwarfelyn¡ªa two-foot cat biped¡ªpeeled itself ungraciously off a puddle on the sidewalk. The black rings natural on his face had spread with the filth, leaving his entire face an off-white carpet.


    ¡°Blame the daisies,¡± the ferret rebutted all too naturally, the red in his eyes indicative of his addiction.


    ¡°And the golden tops, y¡¯bogan,¡± the little one barked off, shoving a damp cigar as big as his arm between his teeth. ¡°E¡¯ris, you galoo¡¯, ¡®eel ¡®em or I¡¯ll ea¡¯ your knees nex¡¯ ¡®ime,¡± ¡®Q¡¯ threatened, not too convincingly. The cigar kept his jaw pried open.


    ¡°Don¡¯t speak with a mouthful,¡± Koto sleazily ragged, the acrid smell of his breath foretelling just how many shrooms he¡¯d bitten into recently.


    Emris grinned despite himself, feeling the urge to punt the blighter into the new moon. ¡°Koto. Qunt.¡±


    The little bear snarled. ¡°Qun, tit.¡±


    ¡°Fancy eyeing the likes of youse,¡± Koto said, elbowing the wingless¡¯ gut.


    Emris grabbed his stomach and palmed the ferret¡¯s chest. ¡°Ooph¡­ Ain¡¯t had the time to kick me feet up with a twosome of tax dodgers.¡±


    Qun reached behind him and pulled out a lighter, drying the leaves of his log with its flame. ¡°Can see that,¡± he said, nudging his head toward a mess of ink-like gore strewn on the road by them.


    Emris didn¡¯t even try to look. His pupils were still shaking in their place; his senses were a jungle as his freshly recomposed brain struggled to calibrate.


    Koto breathed through clenched teeth. ¡°You look dogged, Em. Pint?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve had sixty. Busy,¡± the Guardian declined, grabbing Koto¡¯s face and softly pushing him aside.


    Qun raised a brow and took the cigar out of his mouth. ¡°We¡¯ve got a floater.¡±


    Mid-stride, Emris stopped. He turned around slowly, giving the bear a suspicious look. ¡°Ye¡¯re shittin¡¯ me.¡±


    Koto¡¯s stoner smirk broadened. ¡°Nine hunny thous for a second-hand. Worth every Zed.¡±


    The Guardian¡¯s teeth showed in a sneer. ¡°A second-hand wobbling dust-kicker can?¡±


    Koto growled at Qun¡¯s wheezing snigger. ¡°Have some faith, dick!¡±


    ¡°I¡¯d rather let Betty fuck me up than blow up in there.¡±


    Qun spattered a horrid cough and laughed in twine. ¡°Ain¡¯t like you wun¡¯t survive, but sure. Have a merry lil¡¯ meander, then.¡±


    The Guardian groaned most dramatically, looking up at those towering pillars that climbed to the heavens¡¯ limits. It wouldn¡¯t be long before man bested The Pillar of Sylvves, he thought. His birthplace brought on a foul memory with it, and with a shake of his head, he agreed.


    Turning to face the two idiots, he sucked in some air and said, ¡°Fuck it.¡±


    Koto¡¯s grin became that of a drunk¡¯s as Qun motioned the lot to follow the tiny sod. It¡¯d be a while at his pace, so Koto nabbed him off the ground and placed him on his shoulders. It wasn¡¯t as embarrassing for Qun as it was for Emris to witness. In less than five minutes of walking through ominously empty streets, they found parked precariously by the sidewalk what seemed a small black limousine from the offset, but four stubs on either side of its base, a little fin where the radio antennae poked through and a fixed turbine engine where its back glass should be gave it a distinctly dangerous appearance.


    Qun showed his arms toward the vehicle, welcoming Emris to the driver¡¯s seat as the doped twosome hit the back. Once inside, Emris found a dashboard a few sizes larger than that of a standard automobile, with controls reaching near the right-hand side in front of where a presumed co-pilot would sit; upon which lay a heap of discarded wrappers and junk.


    ¡°Well, human? Managin¡¯?¡± Qun teased.


    ¡°Shut it, midget. Ain¡¯t human,¡± Emris bit back, having acquainted himself enough to turn the ignition on. Like they said, if he blows this tin up, it was more their problem than his.


    The panda¡¯s laugh matched a tiger roar¡¯s bass. ¡°Sure look¡®un.¡±


    The limousine juggled a bit as the wheels separated from the sidewalk. The course began as usual, and Emris kept racking up speed. Once they doubled the speed limit, he felt a tap on his shoulder.


    ¡°Find us a long road first, Em,¡± Koto suggested. When the whole thing skid dangerously on a sharp turn, the ferret nearly broke his teeth after being thrown to the door.


    ¡°Wear yer seatbelts,¡± Emris lowly said, amusement in his voice.


    ¡°You fuckin¡¯...!¡± Koto growled, too under the influence to stumble back to his seat before another turn sent him to the floor again.


    Qun laughed his ass off the entire time it took the swerving maniac to raise the oomph to an appropriately flyable speed. Even if it cost Koto bruised skin, he could tell they¡¯d raised the sombre man¡¯s morale a fair bit. Miserable silent types were the hardest to read, and in the few years of knowing the strangely unheard-of Guardian, neither he nor Qun had reached a consensus on what exactly turned him dour.


    The three of them felt their stomachs drop once the wings shot out from their slots. Emris hadn¡¯t calculated well enough that the instant he did, the entire car began to hop up a few feet before crashing down again as the wind struggled to pick up the whole lot.


    After the third crash, Qun reached forward and grabbed Em¡¯s neck. ¡°Make ¡®er fly already!¡±


    Emris panicked some, reaching around the many controls for what little time he had to do so between rises. His eyes gleamed over a button that read ¡®ENGAGE¡¯. The instant he pushed it, the jet in the rear blared to life, blasting a blue flame that blasted the car forth an extra hundred miles per hour. The limousine was on a straight road that wasn¡¯t takeoff appropriate.


    ¡°Fuck, fuck, fuck! Turn it off!¡± Koto screamed.


    The steering wheel popped out some, catching Emris by surprise and nearly crashing the vehicle into a tree as it turned a few degrees too many toward the left. Amidst the shouts of his two passengers, Emris grabbed the steer firmly and struggled against the drag, preventing a lethal drift within an inch of their lives. The building up ahead came closer by the second. Emris grabbed the top half and pushed it down to his crotch, and the wind finally caught proper under this death machine¡¯s little wings. The limo began its flight, but the building was too close to avoid.


    The car leaned upwards until it became vertical, still succumbing to forward momentum. The wheels made contact with the concrete, smashing into and rolling off of the walls as the flying car literally drove itself up and over the skyscraper.


    Meanwhile, Qun couldn¡¯t breathe and his seatbelt was on its last threads as Koto was pressed into the back wall. Had there been glass instead, he¡¯d have been sucked out entirely. Whatever either of them screamed wouldn¡¯t be heard over the last of the jet¡¯s blasts; it dying seconds after they surpassed the danger and penetrated the smog clouds.


    One last scream followed as the limousine fell into regular horizontal angle, the wings keeping it from dropping any further. The three morons breathed heavily¡ªQuin wheezed¡ªas the adrenaline rush could finally be made quiet. The flying speed felt negligible in comparison to the spine-crushing experience they¡¯d just had, but the air they breathed soon became infested with airborne filth.


    Hacking and coughing, Qun said, ¡°Drop down! The fuckin¡¯ fumes¡¯ll kill us!¡±


    Despite it all, Emris was in heaven. A wicked smile was plastered on his face and the sweat of the rush felt cool on his leathery skin. His skull dropped on the headrest as he steadily pushed the nose of the car down a tad to allow the black-lunged bear the luxury of breathing again.


    After a few more wheezes, Qun leaned forward and dropped his little arms on Emris¡¯ shoulders. ¡°Who th¡¯ fuck taught you to drive!?¡±


    The Guardian laughed to himself most heartily. His laugh only loudened when he noticed the amount of damage the bumper of the car had taken.


    The visceral, throaty noises that soon followed compelled Qun to take one of the empty wrappers that had been thrown around during the debacle and hand it to Koto, who promptly spilt his guts into it as the panda held on, disgusted yet faithful to his best friend.


    ¡°No smokin¡¯ during the flight, boys,¡± Emris announced, flashing a mirthful smirk at the two from the inside mirror.


    Taking a peek outside and down below, Emris was amazed to see the never-ending maze of streets and buildings blend together into an unclean cluster. A concrete jungle built with the blood, sweat and tears of overworked labourers and intellectuals; its veins stretching far toward the corners of Centriegol¡¯s landmass. As a wingless Celestial, the sight was a wonder to behold. It lit up an old flame in his eyes that brought on feelings of intense nostalgia ¡ª memories of his voyages upon the high seas before the first vehicle hit the streets. Before steel and concrete teased the heavens. When man¡¯s desire to fly was equal to his.


    As Emris¡¯ sight skimmed beneath and across the skies, he spied a tiny figure hovering as high as they were in the distance. His confusion persisted for a while, rubbing his eyes to ensure he wasn¡¯t mistaking it for a bird. It couldn¡¯t be. Whatever it was, it stayed idle. His pupils shrank when his fractured mind remembered just why flying vehicles never took off worldwide.

 Chapter 4: Tell Me Who I Once Was

    Mhaieiyu


    Arc 3, Chapter 4


    Tell Me Who I Once Was


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    ¡°him part. It¡¯s the act. He¡¯s getting¡­ He¡¯s getting worse, Ava,¡± Holly said.


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    dip!¡± he shouted, bleating right into Emris¡¯ ear.


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    ¡°that, Thau?!¡± Emris roared and took a step forward, his hands coming up but stopping midway. ¡°Are ye just toyin¡¯ with the ¡®mere mortals¡¯ by fancy, now?!¡±


    If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    look like it, twat?!¡±


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    Quick,¡± he said, reaching the floor to pluck what little was left of his coat. His heart stopped racing when he felt the bump of his locket, pistol and switchblade within. He took the rag and draped it over his shoulder.


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    He killed a fucking Guide Earl! That imprudent brat stole from us, from everybody a Goddess-given right!¡±


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    this kind of man. The Guardian approached.


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    ¡°or you,¡± Emris so gracefully clarified, snorting and spitting on the ground. ¡°Sorry mate, but yer money¡¯s gone.¡±


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 Chapter 5: Throes of Law

    Mhaieiyu


    Arc 3, Chapter 5


    Throes of Law


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    ¡°If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


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 Chapter 6: Penance of the Dolt

    Mhaieiyu


    Arc 3, Chapter 6


    Penance of the Dolt


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 Chapter 7: Their Last Quarters

    Mhaieiyu


    Arc 3, Chapter 7


    Their Last Quarters


    ¡° ¡®f I told you your gun was of little use, would you be upset?¡± Eleven was told. He yanked his head from the pony wall he perched on so diligently. Sweat had long begun to bead from the hairs near his face.


    The teen clutched his rifle, eyeing Sven. ¡°Ridiculous. I¡¯ve seen what this thing can do. I should give it a name, even.¡±


    ¡°¡®t¡¯ll do wonders on men, but Northbeasts?¡± The sturdier-looking youth shook his head. He gave his shorter gun a slap. ¡°¡®eal targets are the Shepherds behind them. ¡®rawlers eat lead for breakfast; ¡®ractically melts in them. ¡®ll we can do is tear at them till they slow and drop.¡±


    ¡°The Shepherds behind them¡­¡± Eleven fell into thought, watching the fifteen other men he loitered with. The long march had left most of the Cadets so tired they¡¯d fallen indisposed; an obvious failure on the drill sergeants¡¯ behalf. Too used to brief yet intense sessions with breaks soon after, the battalion was forced to take refuge in alleyways while the real soldiers stood guard. If the Yanksies found out, they¡¯d be shamed. Turning back to Sven, who stretched and flexed his fibres, he asked, ¡°They¡¯re people, aren¡¯t they?¡±


    ¡°¡®pends on what you consider a person, but yeah. ¡®es they are.¡±


    ¡°I see¡­ So there¡¯s a chance I will kill a man or a woman by nightfall¡­¡±


    ¡°¡®on¡¯t dread it too much, just focus on getting your job done. Jus¡¯ a job. Rem¡¯ber that,¡± the soldier reasoned, standing up straight as their CO stepped into the alley they nestled in.


    ¡°Sir!¡± the group shouted at once.


    The Sergeant before them put his hands behind his back. ¡°We¡¯re cutting this short. Rusthelm¡¯s been spotted nearby. Leg it, we¡¯re moving.¡±


    Of course, the name ¡®Rusthelm¡¯ caught Eleven¡¯s attention. Though his wisdom was entirely lacking, his knowledge of mythos was, albeit sparse, at least enthusiastic. This was a nickname he recognised. Apparently, much akin to the Witch Who Walks, a roaming suit of armour meanders the streets of the industrial sectors of the Hub. Rumour dictates he comes and goes in search of scraps to replace shaved bits of his armour, the metal of which has been almost entirely replaced by oxidised sheets bent into shape by, presumably, the knight itself. This fleshless being was known as a Willedwisp; a soul given shape only by human garments. Notorious as they were in terms of durability, Rusthelm would fervently oppose any who dared attempt to snuff out his existence. Otherwise, he was harmless. The unnerving concept was still troubling nonetheless, though the humility behind such a simple existence was almost endearing, in a way.


    It would take less than half an hour to arrive at their designated post. The march had dragged on for so long that the skyward sun had teetered to kiss the roofs of the vertigo-inducing buildings in the centre. Even now, Eleven failed to spot Norman in the sea of soldiers. His lesser stature made it hard to see in the core masses.


    A terrible silence befell the soldiers after their last footfall. Ceremonious as it were, it was dumbfounding how little resistance was met. Had the Crawlers already disbanded? And yet, the daring, desperate workers claimed death was certain even yesterday.


    Quiet, all it was.


    Eleven subtly tilted his head a Felyn¡¯s way and whispered, ¡°Was this expected?¡±


    The Felyn shook her head and took aim. ¡°No. This isn¡¯t right at all. On your guard.¡±


    Eleven nodded brusquely and took aim as well. If common sense were to be trusted, the Crawlers couldn¡¯t flank them from behind. Foolish a notion that was. Eleven felt his spine turn to ice as the quietest taps combined with a light gush of cold air met his back. He quickly swerved, only to thank Victus he didn¡¯t gauge his eye out on his hind guard¡¯s bayonet.


    ¡°Watch it!¡± the same soldier hissed.


    ¡°Just now, did you feel that?¡± Eleven asked, hurriedly. He worried his mind was wearing.


    "Inbound, scout''s gone," the Felyn''s communicator churned out. She grabbed his shoulder and spun him back forward, a judging eye prying his soul apart. With less ease than ever before, his shaking rifle kept its aim northbound. Then, in the distance¡­


    ¡°One-seventy ticks!¡± one of three Lieutenants standing at the vanguard shouted before two of the Syndies opened fire on a mere Crawler that had sprinted in from further streets. No bullets, but a dose of fierce wind chops and a marble of flame rendered the beast a worthless, struggling mound.


    And then, nothing. Was this all that was left? Had the Shepherds gone already? Again, useless doubt settled in these troops¡¯ minds. The instant they looked at each other, Eleven felt a similar gush of wind, accompanied by the distinct sounds of animalistic laughter. The titters of a hyena loomed, rang and stayed in Eleven¡¯s mind.


    Instantly, he turned around and fired; twenty degrees lower than he was allowed to. And in good time, too. The spray of oil robbed everyone¡¯s attention, and just as quickly, three men were picked up by the jaws of an impossibly quiet behemoth and subsequently destroyed. A shower of blood accompanied that of gunfire, which rained upon everyone¡¯s skin and ears respectively as panic flooded in a blink. The Grinner, its foul-toothed smirk reminiscent of Mumble¡¯s, teetered its head in the Tsuki¡¯s direction before darting off again outside of view, having absorbed what little of their munitions struck.


    Horror stopped Eleven from acting. It was exactly as Sven said. But then, how was the battle for the Facility so fruitful in comparison? The Felyn gave her answer when a roaring wave of flame built at her side was flung at an incoming mass. Twelve Crawlers were reduced to oil, like butter on a burning stove. To properly dispel these hellish creatures, magic had to be involved. Eleven felt powerless. A harsh clobber on the arm forced him to act, however, and so he accompanied the gunfire. Fruitless as it felt, it at least bought the spellcasters time. Though the Crawlers would not die, their bodies would still fall apart.


    The smell of Blackpowder poisoned the air. It was the kind of smell you either loved or hated; be it for the aroma or the meaning behind it. Some people just loved killing, Eleven soon realised. The power behind their arms gave most of these soldiers a smile, even with their circumstances in mind. Some people, like Eleven, used their guns with less vigour. The thought of ending a life, even if yours is being threatened, felt cruel and unnecessary. Eleven wasn¡¯t entirely convinced yet that reasoning with the enemy was out of the question. In fact, most of the conflicts that had been brought on felt instigated by Syndies first, and strangely, he was convinced that this tirade with the Crimsoneers might¡¯ve been spurred in such a fashion as well. Eleven knew not to call the Syndies pure of heart. The memory of the hidden cemetery haunted his thoughts, and so he was forced to banish them each time lest he crumble under the weight of these sins he knew nothing of.


    He stopped firing for a second, his hand grasping the cocking iron. The Last Resort Project came back to him at the worst moment. It made his blood chill. And then, the noise of drumming. Heavy thuds gave way to the bull-charge of a bigger threat just out of eyesight.


    The Crawlers that staggered forth upon the roads were suddenly thrust aside and crushed by a stampede of something much more fierce. Their smooth heads reflected a brightness off their otherwise ink-black features. Their size was double, if not triple that of the average Crawler. These were the same beasts that rammed through the Facility¡¯s windows. Bullets ricocheted or clung to the surfaces of their hardened headplates, their weighty footfalls unchanging to such forces.


    ¡°Bulkheads! Split up!¡± the second Lieutenant commanded.


    ¡°Take refuge!¡± the first said immediately after.


    Eleven¡¯s slackjaw kept him from moving. Even if they rearranged now, the mass of soldiers were too tightly together to move out of harm¡¯s way smoothly. The Ocylot from earlier must¡¯ve realised this as well, and joined three others in producing a blast of wind from their arms, hands and fingertips, stealing air from their surrounds to harness their strength, driving it towards the enemy. The others quickly made their move. Eleven¡¯s hair blew into his face as he ran off into the smaller third of the battalion, which took refuge in the office room of a building to their side; having already barged in through the glass. Eleven threw himself through the jagged window frame and collapsed onto his shoulder, feeling his equipment dig into his bruises.


    With hoarse breaths, he dragged himself to his feet. The cries of oblivion cut from outside, indicative of the spellcasters¡¯ collective sacrifice. To hold back a dozen Bulkheads with Gale alone was a task only befitting Un-Turbulus, Guide Earl of the winds. The time bought was precious still. Their honour would be assured.


    ¡°Where the fuck are the Yanksies?!¡± one among them cursed, her anger restrained to little effect by two men.


    ¡°If they¡¯re in the same boat as us, they¡¯re probably screwed,¡± a Private said.


    ¡°No, they¡¯ve got a Harvie.¡±


    ¡°Harvies can only protect themselves.¡±


    Eleven picked himself up off the ground. The gunfire from a street bend had attracted the Bulkheads away from the building, which was good, considering Eleven would have been flattened in an instant had they headed hither instead. The rumble¡ªreminiscent of an earthquake¡ªreduced to silence in little time. The feelings in his chest were conflicting. He dared not look at what flattened remains were on the streets now.


    ¡°What¡¯s the protocol¡­?¡± Eleven timidly asked whom he saw to be one of the Lieutenants among them: the one that reprimanded Mumble. Eleven guessed the trio had split between the three groups.


    ¡°Circle around the enemy and eliminate the Shepherds.¡±


    ¡°What of the others?¡±


    ¡°We¡¯ll regroup with Yanksee¡¯s company and encircle our opponents. We can minimise casualties if we spread apart.¡±


    The previously frustrated Corporal propped herself on her gun. ¡°We could use a hound to sniff out our targets. Of course, we¡¯re shit outta luck,¡± she said, scanning the troops that chose this path. There was a slim Gygant responsible for breaking into this place, two Felyns, four Mynotaurs and two dozen humans ¡ª none of which were ¨¹ber. Except her.


    ¡°Anybody here have any useful spells?¡± she asked, producing a small bit of flame off her palm. Of course, she eyed the Cryptids.


    A rough, feminine voice replied, ¡°Earth stuff only.¡±


    Another quieter speaker added, ¡°Not a thing.¡±


    The sound of falling dust was all that followed the Corporal¡¯s silent anticipation for more volunteers. Whether they were too incompetent to profess their talents or genuinely unable, she was left with just two hopeless spellcasters. ¡°This is terrible distribution. I¡¯m left with all commons. Captain Garbel?¡± she said with a sigh, turning to her superior.


    The Lieutenant shook his head. ¡°Not my forte.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m asking for orders.¡±


    ¡°A moment, Iye. How many among you are Cadets?¡± His eyes scanned the room, and he soon picked up on a satisfying lack of trainees¡­ minus one. Eleven¡¯s raised hand made itself shown, peeking behind a Mynotaur. ¡°Code?¡±


    ¡°Eleven, sir,¡± Eleven replied, still shaken.


    ¡°A short number. How fortunate for us.¡± He took his rifle under his arm and exchanged his used magazine, letting it clank noisily on the slippery floors. ¡°Pick yourselves up. We¡¯re moving.¡±


    Eleven felt d¨¦j¨¤ vu, hearing that again. It was only then, when he took a look at his scarcely worn rifle, that he realised a thin, long line scarring its frame. A terrifying sight, even if survival felt less assured by the minute. Discipline was scarier somehow.Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit.


    The order was to traverse through the buildings. With so little magic to depend on, bayonets would be most effective. ¡°Whomever is controlling these beasts is unlikely to coordinate them well indoors, through a labyrinth of walls and rooms,¡± Lieutenant Garbel said. To peril in the streets would mean running into Bulkheads, too, which would spell death.


    ¡°Permission to speak,¡± the Gygant said.


    ¡°Granted.¡±


    ¡°It troubles me how many neutrals joined this fight. Shouldn¡¯t we have had more magical assistance?¡±


    A rude gruff retorted. ¡°We¡¯re spread thin in that regard. I¡¯ll remind you that this is but a disruptive appetiser. They want us to waste our casters. Besides,¡± Garbel emphasised with a jostle of his hip sword, ¡°We of more mundane talents are not bare of arms. Their lackeys are useless without a head, be it their Shepherd¡¯s or their own.¡±


    Eleven, disturbed by the distant gunfire, decided to chime in. ¡°What about our guns?¡±


    ¡°You can blow their heads off, can¡¯t you?¡±


    A bout of laughter took place at the teen¡¯s expense. It hurt a little, but a smile soon grew on his face too. ¡°But Lieutenant, why carry a sword?¡±


    The Captain hummed an ominous snigger, caressing the grooves in the armsword¡¯s grip. ¡°Good question. For the satisfaction, young man.¡±


    The quartz-hair Cadet felt his nerves spike at that answer. It took him a bit to respond. ¡°It brings you satisfaction?¡±


    The Lieutenant stopped, as did everyone else. Turning to the boy, he nodded. ¡°Yes. It does.¡±


    That piercing stare wasn¡¯t easy to contest. ¡°Isn¡¯t¡­ Doesn¡¯t it make you feel wrong, hurting people in such a fashion?¡±


    It was the Captain¡¯s turn to take a while. The other soldiers felt the tension between them, and vouched to intervene. The Gygant stopped them. ¡°I¡¯ve slain people who didn¡¯t necessarily deserve it, and yes, it¡¯s no pleasant feeling. But these people aren¡¯t normal. They aren¡¯t people. They¡¯re committed to death and destruction by creed. To what end is their forgiveness warranted? If they sought forgiveness, they could¡¯ve stopped almost twelve thousand years ago.¡±


    ¡°Twelve thousand¡­¡±


    ¡°When we find the Shepherds, it¡¯s crucial that you do not hesitate, young man.¡± The Lieutenant drew closer to the teen, who steeled his hold. ¡°Do you understand? This isn¡¯t an act of cruelty. We fight for our survival.¡±


    Eleven felt inclined to bring up diplomacy, but the hardy glares cast upon him made him reconsider. Surely, he must be just ignorant. Surely, a truce has been attempted. Surely. An apologetic bow of his head was all he could muster, before their journey through the concrete jungle continued. The heat of the evening sun was beginning to seep through the windows, and sweat continued to build. The stress became aggravating.


    ¡°How will we find these Shepherds?¡± Eleven asked, wiping his lips of salty sweat.


    ¡°It just so happens I have an affinity of Illuminative magic; unfortunately I¡¯ve not exploited such to great effect. To our benefit and my detriment, I can feel their presence like poison.¡±


    Iye perked up at that, inquiring of his nature. His answer proved surprising to most.


    ¡°I¡¯m a Quarterblood. Indeed, the blessed plasma of a distant Celestial courses through me. Though it¡¯s odd to me, she likely still lives somewhere.¡±


    Eleven¡¯s intrigue persisted through his exhaustion. ¡°You haven¡¯t any wings?¡±


    ¡°Tiny things, I did have. Like a chick¡¯s, they were. I cut them off. They embarrassed me.¡± His humorous zeal didn¡¯t falter when a loud bang erupted closeby, shaking more dust off the ceiling and onto the team.


    Iye glanced back at the rearguard, eyeing a Mynotaur. ¡°Can you apply Terrestrial to keep us safe from a concrete cave-in?¡±


    The bull snorted. ¡°I¡¯d be immobile.¡±


    ¡°Amazing.¡±


    The Lieutenant¡¯s iron left its sheath with a smooth glide to quickly behead a Crawler that dared ambush him from the entrance to a separate hall. The rest of the soldiers readied themselves for combat, the gunmen dropping on a knee. ¡°I forgot how filthy your blood is,¡± Garbel said casually, an obvious air of contempt about him.


    ¡°Sir, retreat! We¡¯ll cover you!¡± Eleven foolishly implored, to which his CO only showed amusement.


    ¡°Please.¡±


    Two more drew closer, only to stop a few inches short from being destroyed by bullets. A cloaked figure showed themself further ahead. All the doors in the hall were closed, and so Garbel predicted the cultist to have fallen to a dead end. That, or this was a ploy.


    Before his subordinates opened fire, Garbel raised an open palm and faced this sinister, albeit seemingly pitiful individual. ¡°If you can¡¯t even muster to break a lock, I¡¯ll have to assume you to be a Lesser Ordained,¡± he said, wiping the edge of his blade with a cloth. ¡°It¡¯s surprising. Lackeys don¡¯t usually last long enough to see the end of things.¡±


    The cloaked figure retreated closer to the wall behind. The two other Crawlers growled, but in the face of their opposition, neither looked a threat. Instead, Garbel stepped forward, testing the Crimson¡¯s patience.


    ¡°Lay your neck down, now,¡± the Lieutenant ordered, brandishing clean, bright steel, ¡°it¡¯ll all be over quickly.¡± Upon further inspection, he deduced the cloak to be a basic red hoodie, far from the ceremonial robes one would expect of a radical religious sect. The presence of the Crawlers was all that framed them of being a Crimsoneer. Whatever expression they wore, it was too hard to see under the hood.


    The two Northbeasts leapt toward the Lieutenant, and both were gunned to shreds by the team behind him. The sound of gunfire within these confines was staggering, but the conviction on the CO¡¯s face would not budge. His bootsteps made a tune like a swansong.


    And then, the cold.


    What Eleven once thought was a chill in his guts became more dramatic and obvious, to the point his fingers felt numb. The nerves made his teeth chatter, too. The cold bonded with his anxiety, his mind beginning to freeze over. A bang echoed behind him.


    Garbel stopped and turned. ¡°What are you¡­?! Stop, now!¡±


    Eleven quickly spun around to find one of their own holding a rifle to a man who¡¯s barrel spewed smoke; a clear act of treason. The Felyn he¡¯d felled lay motionless in front of him.


    ¡°Don¡¯t!¡± Iye tried to impede, but the soldier whose gun fixed upon the treasoner opened fire. Two Syndie cadavers now stained the ground. Garbel barely had enough time to turn before a snake-like vine skewered his chest. The soldiers watched in horror as their CO struggled to breathe with a ruptured stomach. His body raised an inch off the floor before the snake receded, its harpoon-like tip tearing a fist-sized gap in his abdomen.


    All soldiers opened fire. Eleven¡¯s grip on the rifle was loose enough to slip from his grasp upon holding the trigger. The rattle against the office floors shook him, fresh scars marking the barrel of his ward. A hand yanked him off his feet. The gun strapped to his shoulder smacked his chest hard enough to snap him out of it. He began to sprint by the shouts of Iye, who carried him through the corridors away from the amassing threats. Once again, the group had divided, except now it was just him and her.


    ¡°Corporal! The Lieutenant is¡ª¡ª!¡±


    ¡°Fucking dead!¡± she drummed back, her authoritative tone reminiscent of Sergeant Heila¡¯s, except with a distinct fear about her, too. Her previous frustration was one of worry, he quickly found out. The look on her face said it all. The situation had gone tits up so fast. Eleven wondered why they hadn¡¯t been briefed on this. He wondered where Norman was. Sven, Mumble¡­


    The two soldiers, one still a trainee, ran on bated breath and loud bootsteps. The screams of men and women torn apart by Northbeasts was distressing enough to cover one¡¯s ears, but with guns in arms, they had no choice but to listen. They ran toward the light. A distant door marked an exit from this labyrinth of monsters.


    ¡°Up ahead!¡± Iye screamed, steeling herself to break through it by charging a sphere of white and yellow flame. It was for nought.


    The floor melted beneath them. Their boots phased through what should¡¯ve been more porcelain floors. A terrified shriek filled Eleven¡¯s senses. He didn¡¯t have the voice to shout his own pleas. The space beneath his feet became so in similar timing to the vanishment of the entire segment of the building they thought they were in. Instead, they had jumped out an empty window. The illusion of their previous adversary had not escaped them as they hoped. It chased them silently, bore into their minds and made them leap to their deaths. A collection of rubble¡ªthe aftermath of a past Bulkhead¡ªmarked the ending of his journey. Eleven watched on, mouth agape, toward certain demise. Five stories was too high. The horrid scream of Iye proved as much.


    Eleven closed his eyes.


    ? ? ? ?


    The riverbed was never silent at the drop of the waterfall, it seemed. Every year it widened an inch, and the drinking man pondered on the infinitude of the mountain stream, such that it allowed it to cascade so beautifully for all the years he¡¯d been alive.


    Emris clung to the metal rails and took another swig. The sun cast an orange visage over the distant horizon. He winced at the sight. Last he came to this place was with Alpha. The memories of his health-struck leader, now replaced, left a bittersweet tenderness in his chest.


    The gentlest steps accompanied the rustle of branches. Branches of feather. That great bird, a man despite, sidled up to Emris, dripping with sympathy. A gentleman cursed by age¡¯s hand dropped upon the shoulder of a man destined to die. His sentence, by majority vote, had been decided. His life would end once this onslaught did. If the Crimsoneers could be dispelled, it would be his last mission served for Her world.


    ¡°Yours must be a burden colossal, dear one,¡± Apollo silently judged, lowering his gaze in respect for the Guardian.


    ¡°All¡¯s a waste,¡± Emris spat still, clinging desperately to that rail, as though releasing it might make his time come quicker. ¡°All¡¯s a waste. I didn¡¯t do shite.¡±


    ¡°You did these people a service beyond compare. Please, don¡¯t succumb to your wrath.¡±


    Emris said nothing, for all he had to say was poison. He tried to take another sip, but his arm was stopped. He looked down to see that grandfather of grandfathers try and stop him.


    ¡°Forgive my narrow-sighted words, but wasn¡¯t it Moon who said you should drink less?¡± Apollo implored, putting both hands on the sturdier man¡¯s forelimb. ¡°Please, featherling.¡±


    Emris showed his teeth and tugged him off. He didn¡¯t drink. ¡°Moon said she wouldn¡¯t smoke. Last thing she¡¯d wanted was a cig.¡±


    Apollo frowned. ¡°I¡¯m positive she was better than that. Your memories are wearing away, Guardian.¡±


    ¡°... Perhaps, aye,¡± Emris conceded, placing the can on the rail. After a long breath, he asked, ¡°How¡¯s Aquila?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m surprised you wonder,¡± Apollo confessed, facing those serene waters with him. ¡°She¡¯s torn between her duties and her desires. She wants dearly to leave the nest and venture once more, but she knows better than to risk that.¡± The Skyborn breathed in that wondrous nature around them. ¡°Aquila, she¡­ misses you. Very much.¡±


    Emris bit his lip. ¡°She does.¡±


    ¡°Yes. Please, Fif¡ª¡ª Guardian Emris. Do visit her before then.¡±


    The Brigadier turned when he heard the faint crack in the senile¡¯s voice. His eyes shone like pearls in upset. He was a man of aptitude in wisdom. His time as a Skyborn had left him weary and weak. He was not meant to be a Major. Who did that remind him of?


    Emris hummed. ¡°Aye, sir. I¡¯ll do my best.¡±


    ¡°Thank you.¡±


    ¡°Captain,¡± a second voice intruded on the scene minutes afterwards. Apollo excused himself, retiring to his retainers to leave the two officers in peace. Emris noted the fragile darkness that loomed now.


    ¡°Can I help ye, Avel?¡±


    ¡°Why yes. Did you ignore me, you old bastard? Ignus has¡ª¡ª¡±


    ¡°Ran off, aye. That miserable little brat. Colonels don¡¯t go on cryin¡¯ sprees over one fuckin¡¯ soldier, och¡­¡±


    Avel grumbled, toying with his lance. ¡°Dab your spittle another time. He¡¯s in Caesea now, doing Goddess-knows-what. Markus wagers it¡¯s a strength debacle. Eugh, kids¡­¡±


    ¡°Too young to be a Colonel,¡± Emris agreed, spinning the can on that precarious surface. The temptation to drink irked him. ¡°We¡¯ll have to fetch ¡®im.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve been trying to get you to, but it¡¯s like you¡¯re forcing me to go. You do know I have twenty-six Lieutenants to pilot, right? Get off your ass and work,¡± Avel complained, thumbing the edge of the spearhead.


    Emris turned to him with a sneer. ¡°Oi, ain¡¯t ye gettin¡¯ too comfortable around me, maggot?!¡±


    ¡°Honestly Em, it¡¯s just hard to take you seriously. Speak ill of that idiot all you like, do you deserve to be a Brig? Because I don¡¯t think so.¡±


    ¡°Fuck¡¯s that supposed to¡ª¡ª?!¡±


    Avel stood straight, unfazed. ¡°Xavier earned his keep day and night. Erica was a slouch under a good sun, but she was first to volunteer if it kept her peers in good health. Katsze was a humble legend who kept us wise, you know well that to be the case. Bruttus pulls his weight and then some in any skirmish you put him through, and works himself to the bone on his off-time. Willow¡¯s age keeps his battle readiness sore, but his brains still keep our soldiers alive to this day. What pleasantries do you bring, Guardian?¡± This defiance was met by silent fury. Avel had the gall to step forward, but Emris¡¯ beastly glare kept him distant. ¡°Hesitating to even battle, yet charging headlong into the messhole to nobody¡¯s benefit. Making enemies of the trees because you don¡¯t have the patience to work with the intelligence team. Showing up late to your meetings, and barely paying eye to your subordinates, even as they perish and leave us. Is Alpha the only person you care about among us?¡±


    This exhaustive list only infuriated Emris. Despite the hostility, he didn¡¯t act recklessly for once and only listened.


    ¡°It seems to me that your position was an act of favouritism,¡± Avel guessed, sharp and steady as per usual. ¡°But who knows? I¡¯m just a Colonel.¡±


    Emris snarled. ¡°... If ye¡¯re so damn bothered by my likes, why don¡¯t ye ask to get moved? Why the shite¡¯re ye runnin¡¯ yer damn lips off to me?¡±


    ¡°Because I want you to be better.¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s that?!¡±


    ¡°Well, I think you¡¯re a twat, but you¡¯re still my Captain, Em. We want to see you act like one.¡± Avel turned around and began his leave. He stopped halfway. ¡°The platoon¡¯s running thin, you know. We¡¯ve all got busy lives, but our jobs can¡¯t just get ignored over booze and misery. How¡¯d that make the rest of us think? Aren¡¯t we worth your time?¡±


    ¡°... I¡¯m tryin¡¯, Avel,¡± the Guardian said, almost pleading.


    Avel¡¯s armour clinked as he shuffled his vest into a better position. ¡°Try harder.¡±


    On that note, Emris was left on his lonesome once more. He sighed between his gnashers, leaning on the rails. The Celestials¡¯ visit had gone smoothly for them, at least, but his place in this Facility was now threatened, both career-wise and by the span of his diminishing mortality. He reached into his pocket and produced his treasured locket. He thumbed the silver shell that for so many years guarded his most precious possession. The brittleness of the steel chain, worn with time, didn¡¯t go unnoticed. With renewed vigour, and as a Brigadier should, he began to ponder how best to resolve the matters at hand. That old engine in his brain had rusted with liquor and clogged with dust. To get those gears spinning again, oh to get them spinning, what might he have to do?


    His eyes widened. He reached for his new communicator and activated it. Leaning into his wrist, he called, ¡°Corvus, do ye copy?¡±

 Chapter 8: The Land of God

    Mhaieiyu


    Arc 3, Chapter 8


    The Land of God


    The earth of Him lay upon the eyes of the Northerners in every direction; a monotonous blanket without colours that devoured the landscape and all who dared dwell upon it. The humble towns of the coastline were the only settlements that could reasonably endure this malignant tundra whose snowfall never seemed to cease. Those same towns, the likes of Humston and El Virtuoso, housed wood homes permanently moist with ice. Their fickle fires that hid within¡ªthe only bastion from the cold, however long it may last¡ªilluminated what was an otherwise permanently dim space. Even the brightest days weren¡¯t strong enough to part the angry mist that loomed above. A mist so frighteningly chilled, that no wing-bearer, not even those warm wings of the Celestials, could possibly endure without stiffening their limbs and ending their flight in a freefall.


    Corvus dropped his altitude as the pair approached that miserable coast ¡ª its banished Rennie occupants watching his descent as an event to offset their mundane, albeit harsh lifestyles. Those brilliant wings of his, great as he was, seized with each new flap, forcing their heavenly travel to close. With a resounding thump, Corvus stood beside his Chameleon backup, Eclipse. The people that looked turned away, no longer interested in whatever these two wished to seek. Corvus figured as much. Celestials had, at one time, aided Yanksies in ripping their true home away from them. Nothing out of the ordinary. Misery bred more misery, as did their new home. At least the contempt was gone.


    ¡°You were right, Corvus,¡± Eclipse admitted with a sneer, holding her arms. ¡°This place is bitter. I can feel the bite through the fur.¡±


    ¡°If you wish to stop now, I¡¯ll ask the locals to give you refuge,¡± Corvus suggested, not willing to return home with his newfound resolve. A passing glance gave him her response. Though she did feel cold, hers wasn¡¯t a fleeting one either. He gave an understanding nod and advanced with her to the town¡¯s northmost edge; the border between bare-bones society and a great expanse of killer white. Corvus gazed upon the small cottages that vanished from view not even twenty feet away. This place, Honores, was the unofficial portal to the true Badlands. Its settlers were staunch melancholists; ever silent, always there. He spat at the floor and ground his boot into the snow, damning this place. Damning misery.


    ¡°Let¡¯s go,¡± he said, taking the first step through the deceased pine portal whose scribbles had long faded away. Eclipse tailed behind, enduring the buffeting winds to surprising effect.


    ¡°Is there a reason this place is so hellish? Surely, a kind Goddess as Victus would not bother to make such an unpleasant landscape,¡± Eclipse asked, having grown bored of hearing only the desperate howls of clouds that failed to smite her.


    They had been trudging through the snow for a good hour by then. Corvus¡¯ wings had been paralysed to such a degree that they failed to even twitch. Still, he endured, his blood blessed with blissful warmth. His would make a fine carcass to lay within if the time called. Eclipse, devoid of such luxuries, had instead focused on the intense mental battle of endurance, focusing her mind away from the winter. In the time they walked, the cold didn¡¯t stop. It didn¡¯t slow, either. Static was its fury. Endless were those howls. Nothing else to be heard.


    ¡°Your reasoning challenges the very Goddess of the Cosmos. I¡¯ll remind you I¡¯m a sworn advocate,¡± Corvus shouted back, calm if not for the wind. ¡°But no, this was no accident. Nor was it Her doing.¡±


    ¡°Mortos? Isn¡¯t he not one to spend time weaving land for us? Or did his supporters demand a special lair?¡± Eclipse raised her voice to say.


    ¡°A lair. I feel as though you don¡¯t take the Crimsoneers too seriously,¡± Corvus was exasperated, though her sentiments made him smile despite himself. ¡°Wrong again, I¡¯m afraid. It wasn¡¯t a Deity.¡±


    ¡°Ah¡­ a Witch? That does make it ominous.¡±


    ¡°Close. A Magician. And no small fry, though he wasn¡¯t Anomalous. Tale tells, especially in Humston, of one man whose anger rivalled even Mortos¡¯. A man of many titles. Let¡¯s see¡­¡± Corvus¡¯ pensive state lured Eclipse closer, not wanting the white to claim his words. She almost leaned on him, if only to hear him a smidgen better. It took a second, but with a snap of his fingers, he lifted his head and turned to her, and said, ¡°Curse of Weasteve, Charred Orios.¡±


    Eclipse seemed disappointed at first, her curiosity far from sated, but she grinned a while after. ¡°Ah, mythos from lands outside of mine. I love it. Just how much can people ponder, I wonder?¡±


    The fox-woman¡¯s enthusiasm had begun to dwindle. Her perseverance was not one to be trifled with, but these lands cared not. They always won. Why had they come here, knowing their odds? She smiled again at their foolhardiness. Moreover, why did Corvus agree? Was he this desperate, or this arrogant to assume them capable of this place on their lonesome? Goddess, it was freezing. Freezing. The tips of her feet had begun to freeze dead. The urge to make a fire was too great, but it would be pointless. The wind killed everyone and everything. Even flame. Tales that spun worldwide told that even the mighty fire of Al-Incenhor stoodn¡¯t a chance.


    There was something new now, in the white.


    Precious jewels of crimson, tiny ones, as well as ambers and sapphires. They were gorgeous little pebbles that shone just out of eyesight, deep in the fog. No matter how far they walked, they were always there. Sometimes just a handful, sometimes a crowd. Sometimes behind, sometimes to their sides. No matter where they walked, like a rainbow, they never faded nor neared.


    ¡°What are those things, those bright things, that watch us so vigilantly?¡± Eclipse asked, her voice shaking uncontrollably.


    Corvus remained steadfast, untroubled by anything. ¡°Lambda. They serve as silent observers. Harmless, unless provoked. They¡¯re curious beings that wander the icelands. They watch, and nothing else. Unless provoked.¡±


    Eclipse nodded, incorporating this knowledge as well, wanting to ask whether they were aligned with the Crimsoneers or a new force entirely. She didn¡¯t for some reason. The exile stared back at her footfalls. The sound of crunching snow entertained her dying mind.


    Something new. Something loud. Loud enough to overpower even the wind. Eclipse¡¯s head shot up. Her neck had become stiff, and felt a crunch when she shifted. It¡¯d been five hours since they began their trek. She¡¯d only lived this long by virtue of Corvus¡¯ increasing glow, like a warm beacon. But these noises tickled her ears. Loud noises, very loud. Smashes and crashes and breaking and splintering. Anger and growls and splatters and thunder. Vicious snaps. The beat of great wings. So distant, so loud. So powerful.


    Calm as ever, Eclipse broke their silence once more. ¡°What are those noises? Those loud noises?¡±


    Corvus remained steadfast, untroubled by anything. ¡°Those must be the warring sounds of two of four Devilbeasts. The Maulderhund and Gorgehouser have been at each other¡¯s throats for more than a thousand years by now. It¡¯s as common as singing birds to hear their battle here.¡±


    ¡°I see,¡± Eclipse acquiesced, accepting this information so readily and easily. It was so cold. So unbelievably cold. It amazed her there was any moving blood left in her limbs. She realised that humans perished within fifteen minutes of this. No, ten. Five. ¡°Will we die by them?¡±


    ¡°No. Just avoid them. It¡¯s easy.¡±


    ¡°Okay.¡± Eclipse accepted that they were far from the biggest danger.


    It had been six hours.


    ¡°Why are you so quiet?¡± Eclipse asked at some point. How long had it been? It frustrated her to have nothing to do but freeze. Her patience had worn thin. ¡°Why don¡¯t you speak? I¡¯ve come with you, can¡¯t you speak for me?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m thinking,¡± Corvus said. He was steadfast. His movements never slowed, his legs never limped like hers had. He walked in the exact same fashion he always did. He was untroubled by anything.


    ¡°Let me pick your brain, please. I¡¯m dying.¡±


    ¡°I told you you would,¡± Corvus said, releasing a quiet sigh. ¡°I¡¯m thinking of the time I met Emris. And of the day I lost my wife to this land.¡±


    ¡°Indulge me.¡±


    But he didn¡¯t.


    At some point, her sight turned black. All was white, except those jewels. The battle had quietened as they distanced from it, but now even the white was beginning to fade away. It bled into a darkening grey. The form of her feet bent and stretched. Her eyes opened less and less after each blink; eyelids freezing together. Even her brain felt cold. Those greys lost light until they became black. The white was gone, as were her feet. As were the howls and crunches. She receded, coiled, and dropped.


    Suddenly, she was warm again. Very warm. The crisp feeling of a split sunbeam caressed her chest. The ray felt strong, even through the canopies. The ever-powerful light of the Saintess could not be stopped by her green children. They, who waved gracefully at Un-Turbulus¡¯ gentle wafts. The damp feeling of dew roused her from her sleep. That rich earthy smell, the distant calls of beetles and birds. The dirt on her fingers and under the nails that didn¡¯t belong to her. The roughness of this oak. Eclipse rubbed her cheek on it, feeling its strong textures. How blessed was she to live in such a bountiful place.


    A brief rustle alerted her of someone else. She pried her eyes away from that affectionate tree and cast them upon a young boy. His body, surprisingly fit for his age, had stood the test of many challenges. Eclipse smiled warmly and welcomed him into her arms.


    ¡°Are you doing okay up here marco harna?¡± the boy asked, peering carefully at her unusual expression.


    ¡°Yes, moldele. I am contemplating.¡±Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.


    ¡°Compentapling?¡± he repeated unsuccessfully, getting a mocking giggle from her. He frowned. ¡°Comtenplating.¡±


    ¡°It means to think of many things important to you. Your past, your future. Your now. What will you do today? Have you thought about it, Young Qui?¡± Eclipse asked softly, yearning for his input.


    ¡°Our Rhabpha will train me and the girls today. Then, I will make dinner with Matur and Patur.¡±


    Eclipse nodded, not satisfied yet. ¡°And then?¡±


    ¡°I will sleep.¡±


    ¡°And dream of what?¡±


    A brief silence followed as Ezequiel contemplated. He nodded decisively. ¡°Forever peace.¡±


    ¡°Forever peace¡­¡± Eclipse nodded, leaning back into that tree and closing her eyes. ¡°Peace. We shall dream of it together, then.¡±


    ¡°Forever.¡±


    ¡°As long as it may last, Young Qui.¡±


    The youngling refused her. ¡°Forever peace.¡±


    ¡°Forever peace,¡± Eclipse relented, embracing the calm once more. The quietness returned. The birds died. The beetles hushed. The trees stilled. Ezequiel was no more.


    But his warmth remained. In those antiquated memories, her shivers reduced, if only in spirit. Tranquillity rested within her, and would sleep with her, too. It was so cold she could die. It was so warm she felt beading sweat. Bolting upright, her body moved first before her mind could begin to jog. In an instant, her claws withdrew, slicing through their solid fixture. The snow returned to her eyes. Darkness was significant in this echoing place, far more than the blanketed sky. A shimmering flame caught her attention.


    And what a bright flame it was. The ice stripped away like herded sheep, starting from the tips of her blued toes and flocked by her limbs, abdomen and chest. The gears in her skull began to turn properly. Her sight returned to normalcy, and her overpowering senses calmed at once. It felt as dreamlike as her dreams had. So comforting, yet distant.


    A worrisome realisation pulled her from bliss. Eclipse turned her head left, then right. She was in some kind of cavern. The stench of old carcasses mixed with that of crisp snow. It reminded her of the unfamiliar scent of refrigerated food. Mere strips of red skin remained on the strewn bones of something bigger than her deepest into the chamber. The feeling of scorching heat engulfed her eyes. Eclipse realised she was tearing up; her spirit unbreakable, but so distant from home. She¡¯d never been so far before. The world never looked so different. So hostile.


    A brilliant figure soiled by red stains stepped into the large gap that gave entrance to this place, his greying wings unmistakeable. Eclipse rose to her feet, even if it hurt. ¡°Corvus.¡±


    The Celestial, whose natural brightness still hadn¡¯t been snuffed out, scrutinised her condition with a fleeting glance. He turned back to the angry weather. ¡°You¡¯re awake. That¡¯s good. You should stay here and recuperate for a bit. I have to make us a path.¡±


    ¡°Can I be of service?¡± Eclipse volunteered, disinterested in her pleading body¡¯s woes.


    ¡°You should not have come here. I was foolish for bringing you,¡± Corvus sharply replied, giving no answer to her question.


    Eclipse hadn¡¯t the time to complain as the brilliance marched back out into the fog, disappearing in sideways hale. She sat back down, feeling her numb fingers develop feeling. Frozen blood had warmed enough for her dextrous limbs to assume motion once more. When they did, she gave her wrist an interested look. Her hand changed smoothly to her whim, the fur of a fox withdrawing under skin that looked undeniably human again. Instantly, she felt the cold. That thick coat did wonders for her survival. Eclipse couldn¡¯t help but admire the chitin slabs at her fingertips. Human nails fascinated her. Human nails, which reminded of just how different she was to Qui. Nevertheless, the Chameleon woman vowed to bridge that distance by all means necessary. Eclipse decided then that this snow would not be her deathbed.


    The ground beneath her shook half an hour later. In her spare time, Eclipse kept the fire alive with a soggy woodpile she took the time to dry with the smoke. Her eyes were trained on the entrance after the noise, and her doubt was soon quelled. Corvus returned, lugging a bizarre hulk twice his size. The hulk was only muscular enough to carry itself, clearly starved. Its skin¡ªher eyes might have failed her in seeing¡ªhad developed an oxidised copper colour from exposure, only spared by a fair abundance of bodily hair, especially around the chest and chin; just above the latter was an especially large jaw and big, blunt teeth designed to break down bones and wood. It was as though a Gygant had been transformed by the winter, a functionless brain that only sought to eat ¡ª the product of that weather impossible to thaw.


    Corvus dragged the beast unceremoniously across the imperfect stone floor, leaving behind a trail of bright red. He dropped it back-first onto the firepit, invigorating its flames with mana before it extinguished. The small pit grew into a fierce roast, devouring the flesh of the deceased giant.


    The Celestial sat upon his legs and closed his eyes. ¡°I hope you¡¯re a willing meat eater.¡±


    Eclipse made an affirming gesture.


    ¡°Good. Hroths barely make for fine dining, but only the dead are picky eaters here.¡±


    The Chameleon acquiesced wordlessly. A new concern claimed her. ¡°Corvus, do we know where we¡¯re going?¡± the now half-Vyxen asked.


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°How so?¡±


    ¡°We do.¡±


    Eclipse sunk some at his firmness. The uncharming stoicism of his downward stare had lingered for a good while now. Dissociation, no doubt.


    ¡°How far are we from a clue, do you know?¡± she figured she¡¯d ask.


    ¡°Six miles.¡± Corvus reached forward to pull the charred beast from the fire, flipping it over before dropping it belly first. Once more, the fire roared at Corvus¡¯ command.


    Eclipse grimaced. Regardless of the Badlands, it felt awfully disturbing to cook a human-like monster this way. ¡°I take it this isn¡¯t your first time traversing this land?¡±


    ¡°Far from it.¡± Corvus closed his eyes and leaned back on the rocks. ¡°Far, far from it. I spent two years testing the waters.¡±


    ¡°For what purpose?¡±


    ¡°To find the missing Guardian, and punish him for his inaction.¡±


    Eclipse leaned on the wall opposite him. The air chilled for a moment when an especially strong current invaded their refuge. ¡°Did you?¡±


    ¡°I found him.¡±


    ¡°You didn¡¯t punish him,¡± she surmised.


    Corvus stopped responding. Neither of the two spoke for a minute, listening in on the snaps of wood. The tension felt like a mounting confession of dire sort. A soft breath preceded his words. ¡°I discovered he had already been punished by mine own before. Perhaps it is hypocrisy, but I have never overcome my spite towards those responsible.¡±


    ¡°If your kind already dealt their punishment, why were you still pursuing him?¡± Eclipse asked.


    ¡°Greed is the Sin of wanting more of what you already have. So, they wanted more.¡±


    ¡°More recompense?¡±


    ¡°It was never enough.¡± Corvus¡¯ head was nearly pierced on a rock when he banged it on a low ceiling. ¡°Emris was the subject of discrimination as soon as the fad of his making settled.¡±


    The always curious nature of Eclipse tickled her nose. She leaned forward, warming her face on the blazes, smelling that odourless meat. ¡°The fad of¡­?¡±


    ¡°Emris wasn¡¯t born through traditional means. He was an amorphous mother cell conglomerate given life by our previous Major.¡± Corvus noticed Eclipse¡¯s subtle disgust and chuckled. ¡°Indeed, he was but a slab of meat.¡±


    ¡°A venerated role like that bestowed onto such a lowly existence¡­¡±


    ¡°The Legion thought the same thing. The Major had delegated allkind¡¯s most important defensive role into the hands of a science experiment. When Emris went on to escape his duties, he became the spite of our entire race.¡±


    The beast had been cooked sufficiently by then. With the woman¡¯s unspoken aid, they removed the giant to cool and used their sword and claws to carve edible pieces off its corpse. Digging their teeth felt like biting leather shoes, and the taste was about on par, but their hungry stomachs cared not for such luxuries. The virulent gale became a nuisance to the alien twosome, who sat in silence during the course of their meal. The cold felt negligible at the skirt of the pit.


    By the time they had had their fill, the ¡®Hroth¡¯ had only had a leg consumed. Their wastefulness carried in the infrequent stares they gave each other, and the awkwardness between them. Their strength renewed, they stood almost simultaneously, not wanting to prolong this gruesome memory any further. The fire, unguided by Corvus, was extinguished not a minute later. The warmth of the cave sent pangs of nostalgic anguish as they left it; like a comfortable blanket after a full night¡¯s rest.


    They returned to the snow, which hadn¡¯t slowed, and all of two minutes mercied the return of the Lambda, their watchful eyes blinking into and out of view, only to shift around them as they passed through. The feeling of numbness in Eclipse¡¯s limbs returned, though she more optimistically braced this fate now that she knew their journey had an end. This enormous expanse felt eternal, but it wasn¡¯t. It wasn¡¯t. That much was enough comfort to push on.


    The winds, for a brief window in a fortnight, slowed enough for a whispered conversation to take place. Eclipse kept her eyes trained on Corvus¡¯ indomitable march. There was something so rhythmical and spirited about him. His drive was absolute. He would see his wife, standing or a grave. There resided in him the conviction of a madman. A madman is what anyone else would have guessed. A smile grew on the fox¡¯s face.


    ¡°You haven¡¯t said a word to charm me, but you¡¯re dazzling, Corvus.¡±


    ¡°I am a being born of and to carry himself by grace,¡± Corvus explained, humouring her piqued interest. He eyed her back when he noticed that look of hers.


    ¡°True to your roots.¡±


    ¡°And you¡¯re not,¡± he asked, though more so affirmed. He was right. Eclipse had thoroughly disgraced her upbringing having done what she did.


    ¡°I don¡¯t regret it,¡± the exile assured. ¡°I will miss my family¡¯s embrace, but their love and guidance is still here with me.¡± Eclipse emphasised by prodding her left breast.


    ¡°I¡¯ll believe you.¡± Corvus kept to his trek and returned to silence.


    It had been two hours and a quarter when Corvus¡¯ pace slowed to a halt. The freezing temperatures had shown kindness, but still were inhumanely bitter. Eclipse¡¯s every muscle shook and her ability to move her arms and neck had been all but hindered. Her pupils rolled to see what the Celestial had stopped for, only to notice a mountain entrance that shone with some of the most beautiful jade pillars she¡¯d ever seen erupting from its maw and throat like a great many teeth. Corvus¡¯ stillness gave her just enough time to take in the grandiosity of its features, to feel the boiling envy of what that Orios fellow had blanketed in his wrath, before proceeding within. She followed him with a spring in her step, wanting to get away from the snow as soon as possible. The inside of the tunnel glowed with those crystal jades stalactites and stalagmites, providing a dim yet sufficient light source. Enough to avoid tripping by the narrow gaps between the minerals.


    ¡°This place¡­¡± Eclipse wanted to ask, but Corvus had already gone too far ahead.


    Rubbing her shoulders, though her hands lagged in moving up and down, proved to help in some part to remedy her stiffness. Her heavy breaths exhaled clouds of condensation, each directing her toward the shrinkingly distant Celestial. She wanted to shout, even scream out Corvus¡¯ name; to wait for her, to hold her hand, to give her time.


    Corvus remained steadfast, untroubled by her. The dying signal ricocheting his skull was most fervent now. Its source was near, as was made obvious by the heat that loomed ahead. Corvus¡¯ footsteps were strong, making no effort in disappearing himself. With how the heat neared, the Celestial was confident the source had no secondary exits to exploit. With this truth settling his mind, he took a deep breath, relaxing. He would have his answer soon.


    Eclipse¡¯s breathing was ragged. She stumbled, more helpless than she¡¯d been since her earliest youth, and cursed her body for its weakness. Twice she¡¯d cut herself on the jagged pillars, their edges sanded by time into serrated knives and spears. Her claws were drawn, and with them she helped push off of the most protruded daggers. The metal scratched badly, reducing their pleasant sheen into a rougher criss-cross medley. A hole had been poked through her left gauntlet''s baggy leather. The lack of Corvus¡¯ heat made her panic, even if the snow didn¡¯t reach these depths. Her desperation had her cut twice, thrice, quadrice more. Cold tangerine blood spilled in dots on her clothes, bleaching them a new colour. The warmth finally drew closer. Her eagerness grew, and though she dragged her ankle cuff across a jade that tore it apart, she finally reached the source of Victus-graced comfort. The sources, it turned out.


    When Eclipse clumsied into the scene, leaning on a flat bit of what was now just a pocket of crystals, her racing synapses made sense of something quite uncanny. Sitting at the core of this space was a Celestial, another Celestial, draped in hard scarlet armour; two diminished, tarnished wings covering tenderly the body of a young woman clothed in just simple garbs, a lethal choice in this region. She didn¡¯t shiver, however. The curling goat horns on her head explained her immunity to the cold.


    Corvus stood before them, a step further than Eclipse, and watched them with a silent stare. The reflection of the crystals across the length of his sabre shone like little suns. Eclipse realised all too quickly that, like the shadow of the King stretching above mankind, death loomed overhead like a beacon.

 Chapter 9: Fall

    Mhaieiyu


    Arc 3, Chapter 9


    Fall


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 Chapter 10: Immovable Objects

    Mhaieiyu


    Arc 3, Chapter 10


    Immovable Objects


    The last whisper of that proud, unconscientious evil burnt through the last of the fuse that would ignite the bomb guarding the scraps left of Corvus¡¯ moral and goodwill. A roar unlike a being of grace¡ªmore in tune to the almighty feline Gorgehouser¡ªsmashed past and out Corvus¡¯ vocal cords, a deafening cacophony of anger, as the Celestial slung his semi-broken wings uncaringly to leap toward his target, standing less than a dozen yards from his position.


    Vermillion¡¯s laughter subsided as he watched the violent force come forth. Had he been anyone else, at least a glint of concern would¡¯ve manifested, as the furious angel would have even the greats of this world question the extent of their abilities for a moment. The kind of face Ir-Thildan made when an apprentice of his magic showed overwhelming will.


    But Vermillion was untroubled. His amusement had withered, but only in anticipation of what was to come next. Corvus¡¯ sword sliced through the air in such a way that it made a faint squeal, and in less than a second, impaled Vermillion¡¯s defences. The tip of the sword shone yellow, then white. It disfigured, and kept pushing. The tip then ebbed, crystalised and webbed into a great many cracks that grew through the whole of the blade. Its structure, pushed well past the limits of its durability, succumbed to its damage and smashed like glass, spreading dangerous shrapnel in every direction. It cut Corvus¡¯ brow. The enraged angel was briefly stunned as his body, with no leverage to pull from, lost balance and smashed against Lust¡¯s invisible guard, ricocheting him off of it. Corvus caught himself, managing to still stand, but was doubtlessly shaken.


    Vermillion, on the other hand, just stood there. His hands were folded neatly behind his back, mirth once more returning to him.


    Corvus breathed heavily, his adrenaline keeping his mind off the sweltering pain he had just subjected himself to, and he looked at his ruined sword. All of half an inch of sharp steel remained past the guard, which also looked fragile at this point. His outburst did nothing. No wonder the likes of Erica had no chance against this man. The thought of her struggling pointlessly to find an exploit in this Devil¡¯s armour left him weak. His eyes shot back toward his opponent when he saw movement.


    Vermillion tittered exactly once, lifting an arm up to eye-level, before snapping his thumb and middle finger. Corvus¡¯ sight sharpened, and in time with the Disciple¡¯s thrust of fingers, the angel¡¯s wings flapped painfully once more. The brief climb to midair, an instinctual action only, curled Lust¡¯s lips down. A new expression adorned his handsome face: disappointment. And disappointing it must¡¯ve been, as a distinct lack of anything followed. Corvus landed, and nobody was hurt, except his damaged wings perhaps. It mustn¡¯t have been a fluke. Vermillion had manifested his offence, to no effect. That Great Power, one that he must have relied on the whole of his life, failed to gratify him with violence. The frustration he exuded was searing to listen to.


    ¡°Cunt,¡± Vermillion simply spat, ¡°your body should be broken. Don¡¯t fucking do that. Don¡¯t delay my fucking intentions.¡±


    The childish contempt of one who had everything spoonfed to him, only to have a mouthful of food dropped before it could reach his lips. A great insolence in his world view; to deprive him of a want. Of an urge. Of a whim.


    Corvus drew a tired breath, but even in his anger, he managed to process what just happened. Somehow, he had stopped what struck and led to the death of Erica. His bloodthirsty eyes honed in on Vermillion¡¯s every feature, skinning him for a chink in that armour. Perhaps he could only stop what could be seen coming?


    Invigoration coursed through as vengeance became feasible. An ignorant assumption, but a believable one. The cold in his blood gained life in favour of a lukewarm wish. A sinful wish. His wings¡ªthe pain of which he ignored yet again¡ªbat with renewed vigour. Vermillion watched as the crippled bird managed to leverage its imbalanced flight to travel unpredictably. An opening would be hard to find, but find it the Celestial must. Or, so he was convinced. The truth was, he was only ruining his future flying by acting so recklessly. Vermillion, disgruntled and put off, could only watch the angel zoom around him with his hands on his waist.


    Bellum couldn¡¯t care less for the battle underway. ¡®Battle¡¯ was a poor descriptor regardless. She had come to know modern day Lust¡¯s overwhelming abilities; to do battle with him was heroic martyrdom, nothing more. She didn¡¯t care about that, though. With Vermillion¡¯s eyes elsewhere, she brought herself down to meet Myldew¡¯s disintegrated self. Her breaths had been reduced to pathetic wheezes, her neck no longer strong enough to hold up her head. The violent impact had flattened the bones in what remained of her wings, as well as broken numerous ribs from the rear. If she were human, her lungs would have been trampled, no doubt. Her lifeblood dropped and sizzled into thin air from numerous cracks in her skin. The colourlessness of her eyes foretold her approximating fate. The Demoness held up her head for her, a shaking hand resting on the angel¡¯s cheek. Such antitheses they must¡¯ve seemed to an outsider, yet so tragic their union came to be. What could be deemed a miracle of history was being wasted by tradition and common justice. Common as it were, both parties had become numb to it, accepting it as the order of things. But this denial defied their true feelings for one another. Bellum was too hard of mind to pursue further. This protection she was offered, the shelter she received away from the cult that long ordained her, was a means to an end of her own benefit, surely. So why, why was she crying so? Shaking and shivering became spasms and sobs. Her whole body shook, down to her entrails. An overwhelming, overpowering sense of injustice pervaded her. Bellum lowered her head sorrowfully in front of that angel, whose vision only blurred worse with each passing second. The light was beginning to fade from her whole, and if she could, she would give that warmth all to the woman in front of her.


    The Demoness¡¯ goat horns grew out her skull, spiralling into a perfect ring of hard bone. Two appendages prodded the back of her robes. She grasped at her hair, sobbing inconsolably. Her head hung low and lifted, before dropping and lifting again. Delirium, or something else was brewing dangerously inside her ¡ª the fastest catalysts a brain could cook up. From her back, two coal-feathered wings split forth and loosened off her hoodie, and then two more littler ones were revealed under the bigger pair, which were smaller than a Hawk¡¯s but larger than a Swan¡¯s.


    Seeing no urgency to defend himself, Vermillion kept his eyes on the ground. The occasional drop of Corvus¡¯ feet on the stone floors promised an opening eventually, he just had to piece together a pattern. Several times he repeated his action, snapping his fingers and pointing them to a spot he hoped the Celestial would fall to next, only for the attack not to carry out when the prediction failed. The more he did so, the more his diminutive patience thinned. The Crimson squeezed his teeth together tighter by the second. It was then, when he¡¯d turned his body to the side, that a new set of sparks flew off of his form. The blur that had attacked him existed only briefly before retreating to the shadows. The deed made Vermillion jump a bit, but the sight of Eclipse¡¯s bold attack disturbed Corvus the most.


    The Celestial had hoped that in finding a blindspot, Vermillion¡¯s power could be circumvented. A naive thought it turned out to be. Instead, the force of her claws swam around him and dispersed near his left ankle, lifting a bit of dust by his feet. This made Corvus stop. His fractured mind couldn¡¯t conceive the sheer uselessness of his efforts.


    And then, the crucial mistake was made. A horrible scream overwhelmed the angel as Eclipse watched him land for too long. Vermillion had already snapped his fingers, a relieved smile settling on his face as his terrifying power finally manifested. Corvus, still of mind and trying to keep pace, was overtaken by a fierce eruption. A brutal force collided in his front, and for a brief instant, he wished to all mercy that his friend had been there by him.


    That friend, which he disgraced on their first meeting. That friend, whose family was forced to stand and watch as he brutalised him. That friend, the Guardian, who he admonished up until the day they fated to meet. But he had made up for it, in the years that followed. He did.


    Maybe the Guardian wouldn¡¯t have noticed in time. Maybe he wouldn¡¯t have shielded him fast enough. Maybe his protection would have been wasted, insufficient to stop this monster¡¯s bombardment. But the effort would¡¯ve been nice. It would¡¯ve been.


    Corvus¡¯ whole self disappeared from where he stood. His body was hurled at untold speed toward the ceiling, punching a hole into hard rock and propelling him into the very skies he lived to venture; those icy skies, that froze wings and ebbed life. Beyond still, past the clouds that stole away the sunlight, and into that same sunlight. Here, so high above the Badlands, he felt the rays of the heavens. That pleasant warmth. That oh-so needed shine, which radiated off his wings to enhance their splendour. His broken body flailed at first, but it slowed and steadied in those heavens. That glorious heaven. That timid yet ever-present warmth. Like lit coals at the foot of the bed. Like a softly boiling bath. Like a motherly embrace. Like Aquila¡¯s motherly embrace.


    And then his body fell. Back into the seal of clouds of Orios¡¯ tempest. Back into Mortos¡¯ playground. Back into the land of Victus'' mistakes. And it was freezing.


    ¡°The annoying bat, floundering pointlessly, has finally been dealt with.¡± This was the proclamation made to break the silence, alongside the very audible roar of wind that began to eat away the warmth of this place. Vermillion turned his head lightly toward his self-proclaimed ¡®love¡¯, not actually seeing whether she was safe and well. ¡°See? I said I could do it. It only took a bit longer than usual. When it comes to protecting that which I hold dear, there is no might nor reason for me to fail. I am the perfect shield. The envy of even the Guardian; alas, they are but an imitation of the past, as all things are. And Sin came first, did it not? It did! It verily did.¡± He spread his arms far and wide, watching the furious snow rain sideways from beyond the hole he¡¯d excavated with Corvus¡¯ flesh and bone. ¡°Sin should be celebrated as the rawest absolute of sentience. To be of your own will is to be willed to want. Without want, there is no will. Observe this great power in my hands: a carnal embodiment of absolute will. Of absolute want. And to that end, nothing, not man nor beast, can stand against my desire.¡±


    This ceaseless rant riveted none but himself. Eclipse, awestruck by her loss and the impossibility of escape dawning, bit her tongue and faced her unstoppable opponent. She couldn¡¯t survive the cold without Corvus. This was the end of her journey. Her memories of Ezequiel, they too would die with her. Just that thought raged her to survive. To at least try.


    ¡°Oh, come now.¡±


    With no end in sight, Vermillion¡¯s amusement grew yet once more when Eclipse flew in from the shadows she hid in, swiping at his being from several different angles, sounding off the barbaric clangs of a delicate weapon that wore to the knuckle in seconds. Her cestus blades, sturdy enough to carry her across stone walls, reduced to nothing as they battered his invisible barrier. Her right ring knuckle lost its whole sword. A smatter of laughter left his lips before, to spite her, he punched Eclipse in the gob, briefly stunning her. The exile managed to retreat, her weapons now useless, into the darkness once more. She could only see where her feet landed by the innate senses afforded to her.


    ¡°So far from home, Dweller. There are no trees to worship here,¡± Lust¡¯s carrier scoffed, hands on his waist. ¡°Just know that your decisions led you to come here. It¡¯s easy to see me as some kind of villain for opposing you, but don¡¯t forget whose land you intruded upon. And don¡¯t blame me, either. I¡¯m only defending myself and my beloved. You¡¯ve killed yourself.¡±


    Unbeknownst to Eclipse, Vermillion had kept track of her approximate whereabouts. And, so far from his love, he had no need to be cautious. A fierce explosion should wipe her out ¡ª what need was there for precision when it came to a worthless woman like her? With a snap of his fingers, the simple smile he wore became sadistic. His finger would soon move, and her body would become a memory.


    ¡°And to think we entrusted the Guardian¡¯s delivery to your kind. Failure should¡¯ve been expected¡ª¡ª¡±


    The feeling of stillness in Eclipse¡¯s blood, which forewarned her of the extreme danger to come, had only just settled in when a sudden anomaly would spare her the need to run. That relentless force that should have consumed her was overrun by something else entirely. As sudden as a lightbulb flickering to life, the Demoness stood off her knees and stepped up to Vermillion. And then, with her four wings in full display, she smashed her naked fist into his side. The sight of the woman¡¯s feathers didn¡¯t register quite as fast as the perilous strike she made, which Eclipse fully counted on failing.


    But no ¡ª something new happened. Contrary to anything prior knowledge dictated, the punch collided well and true, knocking Vermillion down to his knees. Eclipse¡¯s breathing stopped then, her mind and senses confused to no end. The familiar sound of knuckles meeting skin didn¡¯t come; instead, an otherworldly beaming took flight, and with it, Vermillion¡¯s entire stance changed. When he dropped, he gagged and sputtered, all the air robbed from his lungs. A visceral shake of his torso followed, after which a non-trivial amount of blood dripped from his nose.Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site.


    ¡°Ah¡ª¡ª¡± he moaned, putting a stop to his own noises. An experience unknown to him for more than a decade, pain, smacked him with the novelty and unpleasantness it warranted. His hand covered his red-wet nose, quickly staining them the same. He looked back at the girl, whose action had left her squeezing out hateful shuddering breaths, a defiance that rusted when Vermillion¡¯s lovingness reemerged. ¡°My sweet¡­¡± His voice was afflicted, but he ignored his flaw and made an effort to stand. He was clearly shaken.


    The Demoness¡¯ wings began to depress, falling by her sides. Several streams of her salty tears hit the rocks, and her body slumped forward, caught by Vermillion¡¯s arms, which wrapped neatly around her. Unlike his power¡¯s unwillingness to allow the world to touch him, this woman was permitted to. Whether that be by his own will, or by a power so unfathomable even the girl refused to give thought to.


    Eclipse knew better than to attack. If his passions were so true, an attempt now would mean a very deliberate and swift end. She had nothing worth cutting him with, either.


    Vermillion inhaled her scent, his fingers clutching the Demoness¡¯ impoverished garbs. ¡°You¡¯re right. I¡¯m losing sight of what matters.¡± Pulling away, he lowered his spine enough to be at eye-level with Bellum, who still was too timid to look back at him. ¡°Let us leave this place at once, Princess.¡±


    The exile hadn¡¯t even realised the loudness of her own breathing. Her sixth sense, which she had suppressed until now in favour of a suicide charge, came crashing down on her all at once. A gigantic weight split her mind open. Eclipse felt light in her own body, and the fade in her vision welcomed her to faint. Leaning against that wall, her marred back strained, she dropped on her haunches and passed out. And, as Vermillion carried the girl through a tunnel in the distance, this dank ravine illuminated only by distant jades was overcome with a great torch. The burning flame of want.


    ? ? ? ?


    The Hubbite defensive had gone about as awfully as a Crimson could ask for. The soldiers, egos inflated with certainty that manpower and control over the city had teetered in the Syndicate¡¯s favour, were taken by storm with a sudden flood of Northbeasts. What should¡¯ve been a clean-up operation turned into a miniature Galloping, the nature of which escaped comprehension. Hiding behind a midwall with a handful of trainees, Sven shouted into his communicator and at his lackeys in a stressful roulette. The soldiers, learners all, murmured and shrieked in terror of the situation. What was meant to be an easy display of real action had turned into a disorganised mess that left novices exposed to the deadly monsters. The ginger-haired cadet, like a leader in the making would, tried his best to inspire courage from his fellow cadets. After a rousing speech inspired at least a few, one of the youth approached Sven and sat by him, rifle at the ready. He ducked his head when a distant bang shuddered dust on his helmet.


    ¡° ¡®amn it, where¡¯re the easterners¡­¡± Sven cursed under a breath, facing the cadet next to him. ¡° ¡®wenty-two, gather six and sling ¡®round that alley.¡± He motioned toward a passage between buildings across the street. ¡° ¡®ind higher ground and spray down. ¡®he rest of us will cover you and relocate further south once the area¡¯s clean. ¡® need you to spot me any signs of Yanskies coming through. ¡®ou on the right frequency?¡±


    ¡°Haven¡¯t tweaked it. Are you sure about this?¡± the other cadet asked.


    Sven dared to peek over the midwall. The streets looked empty, but he didn¡¯t trust his senses anymore. His sight had already shown more than a few anomalies by now. It became obvious to him that a few Ordained had become stationed near here, and their Obscure magic left even one¡¯s eyes and ears not to be trusted.


    The cadet understood his silence as apprehension, but knew that they had to move eventually. He trusted Sven¡¯s order, and left to rouse half a dozen others of their panic. Sven reached for his communicator again. The passing of each minute wracked him with more concern. The Harvirillian Initiative should have made their rounds by now. With little to no magic backing, who knows how badly the Yanksies would fare off in a similar situation as theirs?


    The cadet came back with no good news. None of the petrified men dared move from their station.


    ¡° ¡®e are gonna die if we don¡¯t move. ¡®ick your asses up, pronto!¡±


    ¡°They¡¯re convinced we need an officer to guide us through.¡±


    ¡° ¡®ou pisspots will scorn an officer back home, but whine like sissies for one now? ¡®ngrates¡­ ¡®ell ¡®em I¡¯ll tag you to and fro,¡± Sven ordered, checking his gun for ammo. The cadet nodded and returned to the pile.


    With recruits this fragile, the future seemed fruitless. The new Head of Men hadn¡¯t done much to inspire the new meat, it seems. Times like these made Sven wish he was born a little sooner. A group of five trainees returned to him a minute later. Less than he ordered, but he hadn¡¯t the patience to bark for more. He checked his communicator one last time. The Harvie Company should have been here half an hour ago. Sven steadied his breaths and picked up his rifle. Hopping onto the seemingly deserted street with a frightening silence save for their shuffling boots was nerve wracking to say the least. Fifty long, arduous steps lay between either end of the street. The barebones staircase to higher ground lay before them. One of the cadets dropped a magazine, and he froze. Common sense told him to pick it up. Instinct told him to carry on. Sven nabbed the thing and pushed the idiot forward. Once they reached the stairs, Sven waited for his trustee to make it to a defensive position before beelining back to those left behind.


    He threw himself over the midwall when the drumming sound of an echoed clang caught him off his guard. Sven felt a searing hot drop of sweat fall from his itching helmet. After a moment of stillness, he gingerly inspected his body for injuries, physically counting the presence of his limbs and digits. All looked in order. No odd warm patches and no blood on the floor. Wiping his brow, he inspected the area he felt the noise had come from. There was no point turning back just to catch another glance of his inexplicably mangled fellows.


    The street was still empty.


    Sven reached for his communicator again, but it sparked to life before him. A stern voice crackled, ¡°Inbound Yanksie presence. Present location accordingly.¡±


    An agitating message to be certain. Those cryptic words came from his designated Strategics Commander, and they naively requested to ensure an adequate battlefield for mass mobilisation; to present a scene depicting the Syndicate as self-assured and independent from international input. The street looked clear at first, but Sven trusted his gut. The throaty, jittering chuckles of a great hyena sounded close to his ear. Sven exhaled. The Grinner loomed behind him, as did death.


    His first course of action was to throw himself back over the opposite side. That terrible clang resounded again, so harsh that it stormed his ear drums and aroused a faintness in him. Survival called him to his feet. He lessened the heft of his gear by discarding all but his vest and rifle, and whatever number of bullets lay loose in his pockets. Whipping around, he fired two bullets at nothing. The Grinner had moved. Sven felt his jaw lock his teeth together. His eyes scanned his perimeter as fast as he could, but the terrifying presence was simply absent. Had he hallucinated it?


    Of course not. Their blood had tainted his shoes, and the Northbeast¡¯s black saliva formed a coagulation of visceral slime. The stickiness of his soles was disgusting. This was in their nature. Brawny as he looked, he made an effort to study his enemy before coming here.


    The Grinner was a terrific foe for the very reason it differed from its likeness ¡ª its independence. Unlike Crawlers and Bulkheads, Grinners were competent enough to drive themselves to action. A simple order would suffice, though they only took them from those of higher command of the Crimson order. The Syndicate designated this brass as Greater Ordained. That this Grinner was present at all meant that such a cultist was also near, likely commandeering a number of less significant Crimsoneers as well.


    Not good. Not good at all. The Syndicate had severely underestimated their opponents¡¯ willingness in this fight. But what purpose did this incursion serve? Standing in the middle of the street, Sven¡¯s panicking mind wondered these questions. He assured that his rifle remained cocked and at the ready. As he had explained to that young man with white hair, Blackpowder arms served little in slaying the Crawler family, as they lacked a central nervous system, but they could disintegrate limbs and render jaws useless for a magic user or swordsman¡¯s peace of mind. Grinners in particular sported long, slender legs which could easily be blown apart. But their agility was difficult to match. Sven knew he would have to wait for the beast to come close enough for a reliable shot.


    He reached for his communicator and said, ¡° ¡®ne on one with a smiler right now. ¡®dvise.¡±


    His answer would come late. One of the men atop the stairs rushed to the edge of the platform and shouted, ¡°We¡¯ve spotted two cloaked figures entering different houses! Should I request a shelling from Command?¡±


    ¡° ¡®hey won¡¯t heed, trust me!¡± Sven shouted back, ¡° ¡®f we had the option, they¡¯d have carpet bombed this whole area by now.¡±


    ¡°Maybe they¡¯re protecting the industrial infrastructure! The cloaks entered irrelevant buildings!¡±


    ¡° ¡®pply shrapnel devices then!¡±


    A reflection of something irregular caught Sven¡¯s attention. He peeled his eyes back around him. Planting himself in the road, he opened himself to attack. Hiding would do no good. Grinners picked off men from cover all the easier.


    The Cadet nodded, though it took him a moment to act. They hadn¡¯t been properly trained in the use of explosives, and with how finicky they were, the concept proved foreboding. A single gunshot drew him to his allies faster, leaving Sven alone again.


    That feeling.


    That unmistakable feeling of utter dread. Sven had felt it once before, when he was very young. Back during the last onslaught, shy of a decade earlier. That pervasive parasite that took his bravery and chewed it to bits. Sven had many times faced the possibility of death, and not once buckled. The idea of falling as a soldier, he had embraced it since he was a teen and became a mercenary. In a world as otherwise dull as this, he preferred the excitement. If it killed him, then it¡¯d be a life well spent.


    But this? This exceeded his rationale. This betrayed his acceptance. This ominous vibe told him differently. It whispered in his ear, ¡®But do you know what happens next?¡¯


    The quality of being dead. The feeling of being dead. The experience of not experiencing. The nuance of not being at all. He never gave it much thought. To die, well, it could be painful. But what lies beyond? What was he before he was born? What will he be after he¡¯s lived? Oh, Goddess, were Her Gates even real?


    Were Her Gates going to welcome him if they were?


    And what if they didn¡¯t?


    Where would he¡ª¡ª


    Sven swung his body around in an instant and fired thrice. The Grinner had sped across from one alley to the next. Whether it had taken damage had yet to be seen. The Cadet wiped his brow and chewed his cheek, seeking that iron taste. He had a habit of tasting his own blood at times like these. It kept him sharp.


    That fucking clang again. What was that shit?


    An answer came to his wrist. ¡°We¡¯ve already dispatched backup to the Harvirillian Initiative. Demonstrate your service to the Syndicate and kill it.¡±


    Distant from Sven¡¯s predicament, a whole other set of problems were underway. Nestled in a square with four interconnecting roads, resting by an old obelisk indicative of the Hub¡¯s many achievements as a collective, a number of soldiers of the East had gathered. Some were severely injured, with those in best shape doing their best to restore their condition. Standing as their guard, prudent as ever, was a knight that fell short of the contemporary era. His garbs were of studded leathers and an iron circlet, like an old king. His hair, a tangerine ginger, was relatively short and hadn¡¯t been slicked in a day or so. He hadn¡¯t a dot of facial hair on his face. Truth or not, he at least looked quite young. In his grip he carried a sword¡ªabout a hand-and-a-half of grip¡ªbuilt of a metal that bore a light that waned when it had stilled, returning to a dull bronze blue. The long double-sided edge was indeed traditional, and of superb craftsmanship, its handle waxed a nice deep rouge, and its pommel engraved with a precious fiery jewel.


    Scattered ahead and around this scene were a great number of Crawlers, and among them, half a dozen Bulkheads that irritated themselves not to charge headlong at the group. For each of the Bulkheads, a Lesser Ordained had stationed themselves in the building windows. Every now and then, they would reposition, confusing the gunmen. Whenever one of the soldiers tried to take aim, a number of the creatures would leap toward them, only to be pushed back by that impenetrable sword.


    ¡°O Knight of the Eagle¡¯s Emblem, o descendant servant of Her Morrowlynde, how far you have come to impede our footfall.¡± These were the words that tormented this hopeless lot. From the depths of these interlopers, one especially powerful womanly voice pleaded with the swordsman. Hers was one of mature age, but still luxurious with a fading youth. ¡°Good is our luck, however, that our righteous step should be to you. Could you open your heart to our Lord, now that you have graced him and us with your greatness?¡±


    ¡°Ah, that would be a betrayal of my intentions here, I¡¯m afraid,¡± the knight said, courteous to a fault. His rosy cheeks were bright only with the stress this had taken on his body. Another Crawler leapt from its station, only to bounce beautifully off his sword. Unmaimed, it simply returned to its post, glaring viciously at the whimpering soldier most likely to die from a new injury.


    ¡°We, Children of the Jewel-Eyed King, understand that you are grieved by burden. I have nothing but adoration for your flock¡¯s prerogative. You, who stand often alone in deed, but righteously. You are so brave for your kin. It humbles us.¡±


    These words, honey laced with poison, came off all the sweeter from their issuer. A woman robed in velvet and red pushed through the masses. Six silver necklaces adorned her neck, each a different length and fitted with tiny pearlish amulets. Most were simple enhancers, but one in particular shone heavy; a headache-inducing glint threatened to burn a dot into the swordsman¡¯s sight.


    ¡°You have a way with words, don¡¯t you?¡± the man urged a smile and lowered his head respectfully. ¡°We should exchange names ¡ª it¡¯s due course.¡±


    ¡°But I don¡¯t need yours, hero of the East.¡± The lady Crimson returned his gesture in kind. ¡°Noble descendant of the impassable lineage, Amar Harvirillian.¡±


    The soldiers he was entrusted with cocked their weapons and aimed at the woman. The instant they did, upward of a dozen different Crawlers leapt in from different directions. The gunfire that sounded off was silenced by that sword which, reduced to an afterimage, pushed back all targets simultaneously, as though it existed on a separate layer of time, unfettered by the boundaries of common reality. The swordsman moved with it, but lagged behind in comparison; he was a mere vessel for the true might that was his living iron. The display was otherworldly, and although the Yanksies had whole faith in the Harvies, this show of power still left them speechless. Its wielder returned to the same position as before, looking just a bit more red-faced but without trouble.


    The woman¡¯s adoring smile only grew, and once more, she bowed forward. ¡°I was baptised Aurielle, devout and ordinated practitioner of God and his Judgement¡¯s will. It will be an honour to die by your hand.¡±

 Chapter 11: Onera Nostra

    Mhaieiyu


    Arc 3, Chapter 11


    Onera Nostra


    Emris stared expectantly at his communicator, awaiting some kind of answer from his comrade. Once all of a minute passed, Emris grunted, pressing a leathery palm to his face. Corvus wasn¡¯t the kind to drink without him. Was he asleep? It wouldn¡¯t fit his routine. That angel was especially systematic. A fleeting worry came and went, overshadowed by his current predicament. He may as well begin his travels now, if only to get his mind off of things. A drink might do him a favour as well, if only the lockdown had been fully lifted. Only essentials were open during times like these.


    So be it.


    Emris entered the dark dinge that were his quarters and dropped his ass on the seat of the motorbike he had stationed within. The rest of his living space was a mess of old or postponed projects ¡ª mechanical parts strewn across his unswept floor, a half bottle of miscellaneous motor oil kept on a dirty rug as well as a cabinet with an assortment of trophies he had collected overtime. Hanging off of hooks drilled into the wall were a small assortment of old leather jackets, most of which had been patched half a dozen times. One in particular had sunbleached from dark to a light grey, and bore a giant tear that nearly halved it. The lot were practically just filthy rags he kept earnestly. Leaning on the wall next to his bike were two rifles, one of which was worn out and the other distinctly clean, new and completely out of place. His sleeping station was a couch with numerous black stains on it. The whole thing had depressed overtime, appearing slumped and somewhat crushed. His living quarters were a perfect depiction of entropy.


    Emris kept no mirrors. Looking at his withering state, each day ever-sicker, only soured his every mood.


    The motorbike was kept near a large metal door that rolled to the ceiling, just beyond which lay a dirt path that weaved toward the road. His room had been specifically arranged there where he could expedite travel; a necessity for a Guardian. Emris reached for the handlebars and gripped them firmly; their grips soiled with an old sticky residue that couldn¡¯t be washed off. He glanced at his silent, dim living space for a moment as he checked his pocket for a bulge. Confirming his locket remained with him, he sucked in air and commanded the door screech open. Slowly, the orange sunrays welcomed the light, and with a satisfying hum, he sped off toward civilization, heading south toward Caesea Island ¡ª homestead of the Urchinfolk.


    As the wind deafened him, Emris¡¯ mind wandered toward the empty feeling in his head and stomach. It only hit him now. His subordinate, Colonel Elena, had died in No Man¡¯s Land. A snake-like appendage slithered out from his lower back, resisting those winds and winding around his abdomen, becoming taut and squeezing his stomach. Emris spat at the road, hands fiercely on those bars. His thoughts were far from numb; a scary thought, as it had been a while. He cracked his neck to the side, feeling the leathery rope constrict with considerable strength.


    The city¡¯s borders were not far ahead when his communicator crackled awake. The robotic voice said, ¡°Third Brigadier, respond.¡±


    Emris grumbled something under his breath, lifting his wrist to his lips. ¡°Aye.¡±


    ¡°Status?¡±


    ¡°En route to Caesea.¡±


    A few seconds passed. ¡°Mission statement.¡±


    ¡°Call it a rescue. Platoon member¡¯s gone on a bender down there, could leak intel or some shite.¡±


    The wind began to die down as the city began to overwhelm his surroundings, replacing a dying field with a colossal garden of concrete. Emris put his hand back on the steer, already anticipating the result and picking up speed.


    ¡°Chief Command has issued emergency reorientation. Cleanup operation is awry, provide aid. Priority elevated to Epsilon; failure is unacceptable.¡±


    Emris rocked his head to the side, already discontent. His silence drew pressure from the Strategics office.


    ¡°Cleanup operation is closely tied to Elior¡¯s plans for unity between the Syndicate and Yanksee. Failure is not an option. Withdrawal is not an option. Noncompliance will be a punishable offence.¡±


    ¡°This is what you call Epsilon? Vicks, shite¡­¡± Emris said, reaching for the device again. ¡°Report location.¡±


    ¡°Aubrey Plaza is the nucleus. Stretching Uvie 12 to Plomo Ave.¡±


    ¡°Fuck me.¡±


    ¡°Best of luck, 57th.¡±


    Emris rammed his boot up the shift lever, bounding off toward the centre east of the city while phoning in his two remaining Platoon members. Only Markus could afford to come.


    ? ? ? ?


    There isn¡¯t a word accurate enough to describe the plummet of one¡¯s sense of security from mind to gut. That immediate sinking feeling when demise is suddenly all too near, like when a car speeds your way too close or too fast to deviate its course. Suddenly, that blink-or-you¡¯ll-miss-it moment becomes an instant to someone else, and a slow-motion nightmare to the victim of its course. Despair isn¡¯t enough. It¡¯s so much rawer than that.


    There are few times when one can be absolutely assured of death. This was one of them. The descent was guaranteed to continue, and so it did. Gravity would be Eleven¡¯s undoing. Ironic that a boy whose entire life had been pulled by a leash would be killed by the very pull of nature ¡ª so it was okay, Eleven reasoned. The same old, same old. A shame the sight wouldn¡¯t be pretty. White hair stained red by the blown up melon of his own.


    A common phrase that¡¯s backed by the closely dead is that one¡¯s life flashes before one¡¯s eyes moments before it ends. Eleven saw none of that. He saw the fall, and he thought of the people he had left behind in his odd time of self-discovery. He hadn¡¯t asked for any of this, of course. It wasn¡¯t right to strip a bird from its nest too early for it to fly. But he was old enough. He simply chose not to fly. Such Sloth not to explore beyond. Such Melancholy not to feel worthy. Such Apathy not to care. Such Greed to live. Such Vainglory to assume he should live. Such insatiable Lust for one¡¯s own security. Such Gluttony to waste one¡¯s life indulging alone. Such Envy to feel as though he should have been more. Such Wrath to lash out at those that tried to take him away. But had he felt Pride at all?


    Had he felt Pride at all? Eleven never valued himself as a man of competence, nor would anyone else. Say, hasn¡¯t he been falling for some time now? Eleven¡¯s vocal cords didn¡¯t hurt quite so much anymore. He looked at the ground ahead, at the fate that rested before him. He looked to his left, at the falling body of the soldier that had lead him to his death. Her scream never ended. She never quietened. She¡¯d screamed for what must have been half an hour now. What was happening? The scene unfolded before him. He will die. Is this how slow death feels to others?


    Had he felt Pride at all? Eleven¡¯s worth was next to none. He¡¯d spent his life hidden away in the land of books too fantastical to be helpful, or too specific to be applicable. How could he feel Pride? To feel Pride is to value one¡¯s abilities above the abilities of anyone else. How could he possibly do that?


    But isn¡¯t it his right?


    Eleven was useless, but he was a Tsuki. His blood was a treasure people actively hunted for. They hunted his family. They spilled the blood of both his parents all in the same day. They wished for his blood. This blood of his, it was special. It was worth something. Eleven, he was worthless; a mere container for this very special thing within him. This very special blood, which would soon find itself scattered and dried, painted upon a very un-special surface, made from very un-special concrete, a rubble made from a very un-special building for very un-special people to toil in.


    What audacity. The blood of the Tsukis was worth gold; just watch this river course unfold. Such power. What a ridiculous notion that it might be wasted, or could be wasted. The very first coils of Pride were passed on from the mighty Leonidas, whose blood was so flawless, none could ever spill it, no matter the plan at hand. All other Sins suffered eventually. They were slain. Butchered, burned, ripped through, punished. But not Pride. Because to kill Pride, one must have the sheer audacity to surpass the power of Pride.


    That audacity didn¡¯t exist.


    The very fabric of space wouldn¡¯t allow it.


    Eleven had fallen for fifty whole minutes when something finally changed. A leathery snake flew out from a lower floor in the building, its sharp anchors digging into his thigh and yanking him into the window it came from. His leg was pulled from its socket, for which he cried out, but he hit a smooth surface very unlike rubble smelling of vinegar and bleach. Peeling his face off the fine masonry, the bruise-headed Tsuki returned a teary-eyed look to one of an older gentleman that was mid sob. His unfamiliar crimson gown hung down the whole of his body like a great curtain flung onto his back, covering the top of his head.The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.


    The very first thing he said was, ¡°I don¡¯t know¡­ I don¡¯t know how I just did that.¡±


    Drags of breath sucked in and blew out the Cadet¡¯s lips. He reached around, confirming his rifle still clung to his chest, but in feeling the metallic instrument the cultist had also stiffened, putting his hands clumsily in front of him as that same coal snake slithered and whipped menacingly against the floor. Eleven¡¯s heartbeat threatened the integrity of his ribs. Leg damage be damned, he picked himself up and stood, making a point not to put all his weight on the wrong foot.


    In that endless scene he had been a subject to a feeling all but new to him. A rush of gloat, as if he had any right to feel that way. It felt out of place ¡ª unbelonging to him. Nevertheless there was no mistake to be made. That feeling, that self-righteousness, that demand for his being greater had stood up for him and spared him from certain death. A single whisper from an ancestor of a thousand greats saved his life.


    With this newly found courage, he turned to face the Crimsoneer. A Lesser Ordained, no doubt this time. Judging by his silver beard, he must¡¯ve been at least middle aged.


    ¡°You saved me. Thank you,¡± Eleven offered his graces, a meek smile on his face.


    The cultist couldn¡¯t respond. It didn¡¯t seem like what he had done was entirely of his own free will. To take another¡¯s hands to muddy with soil and then thank them for it felt patronising.


    ¡°What¡¯s your name?¡±


    That hooked tendril slithered into his lower back some, disappearing a part of its length. ¡°It doesn¡¯t matter.¡±


    Still hurt, Eleven sat down by him, under the window he¡¯d flown into. He exhaled a sharp grunt. ¡°Ironic that you¡¯re submissive to this crazy world¡¯s influence, huh?¡±


    No reply.


    ¡°It¡¯s a lot like me, really¡­¡± Eleven pulled up his knee, testing the bounds of his pulled muscle. It hurt just to inch it. ¡°What¡¯s it like, your faith?¡±


    The Crimson turned to him suddenly, clearly uneased by the question. ¡°My faith¡­?¡±


    Eleven wouldn¡¯t relent his honest smile, however. ¡°Yes. You do all of this for the sake of¡­ Mortos, correct?¡±


    ¡°That is correct.¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s it like? Is he a figure who commands affection, or respect?¡±


    ¡°Why are you at all concerned, Syndie?¡±


    The teen rustled his white hair. It had dirtied a good bit by now. He remembered the sudden silence of Iye when she hit the ground like a bag of rocks. ¡°I suppose I¡¯ve been curious,¡± Eleven said. ¡°There must be a good enough reason to oppose the common majority, right¡­? It¡¯s too conceited to just assume you¡¯re all brainwashed.¡± Eleven gave the fidgety cultist¡¯s shoulder a hard pat. Of course the lack of a response soon after left his lips feeling dry. He licked them. ¡°It¡¯s not that simple, is it?¡±


    ¡°The faith of us up north makes sense, really,¡± the cultist began to explain, never facing the soldier out of fear or shame. ¡°Victus¡¯ worst mistakes are discarded up there. Each day we¡¯re forced to bear the cold, and ward from those¡­ things.¡±


    Eleven pressed his back firmly against the wall. He did have a fair bit of knowledge regarding the icy edges of the world. Like the claw of a Wyvern clutching its demonic grip against the sunny world in the South, infested with creatures that would annihilate any thawed nature.


    ¡°It''s Mortos who seeks to cull the imperfection.¡± He reached for his pockets to produce a small wooden piece of indiscernible figure. With his other hand, he revealed a knife, with which he carved small strips of the wood. Emphatically he presented the two items, carving away as he did, to the teen. ¡°This meaningless bit of kindling, it is chaotic and without shape. It hasn¡¯t got a purpose nor place befitting of the rest of the world¡¯s beauty. Such is the nature of careless creation. It is made, but should it have been? If this is ugly, how is it that nature is still so beautiful as it is?¡±


    Eleven¡¯s lips were sealed and curled down a tad. He didn¡¯t have an answer. If he had done anything in life, it had been learning useless trinkets and observing the nature outside his windows, or the nature he visited on his medicine hunts. He¡¯d placed a keen eye on the flying little insects, and the springs, and the lively treetops. Birds were of a precious colour, and patterned, too.


    ¡°Mortos¡¯ deed, for all of eternity, has been to trim away the weeds from Victus¡¯ garden. She plants her seeds, gives life to the flowers that are us, and Mortos slaves behind her to keep only the colour and not the vines.¡±


    A horrifying scream echoed into the chamber of this common office room from outside. ¡°And by stripping the weeds, you get a more pure product, is that right? It makes sense from the offset, but who gets to decide what should and shouldn¡¯t exist?¡± Eleven pried, starting to see some level of reason from this cult¡¯s ideals.


    ¡°God does.¡±


    ¡°God does¡­¡± the cadet repeated.


    ¡°Yes. I believed and still do in the imperfections of our Dear Mother. I feel no spite, but heavens be damned, what is this muck?¡± the Crimsoneer shunned, grasping his head and scratching at his scalp. ¡°And God, where have we gone astray? His common gospel was so passive, I joined the Crimsoneers in a sworn effort to pursue Divine Judgement, but what is this hell we¡¯ve subjected ourselves to? Why do we succumb to so much bloodshed? I don¡¯t hate anyone. For faith, such a tender thing, the amount of violence¡­!¡±


    The waves of pain coursing through Eleven¡¯s leg started to overpower his slowing adrenaline. He breathed sharp and deep, the hairs of his arms standing at attention as another gruesome noise filled his ears. The smell of dust was sharp in his nose. Perhaps the whole building would fall.


    ¡°I wonder the same thing,¡± the quartz-hair said, ¡°but in all forms of life. People are cruel to their own kind for the pettiest reasons. I remember watching this boy, perhaps half my age, from my high balcony many years ago. I¡¯d have all the spare time in the world, but I wasn¡¯t allowed out for safety concerns, so I watched from above.¡±


    The cultist finally peaked at the lad, even if Eleven was too engrossed in the cracks of the walls to notice.


    ¡°Anyway, this little kid would help his crippled brother walk to the academy. You don¡¯t understand the number of times I watched him be tripped or spat upon, just for lending a hand. They were too ashamed to harass the helpee, so they picked on him. I¡¯ve never seen someone trip on a rock so consistently. The divines must have hated his entire existence.¡±


    ¡°These were children?¡±


    ¡°No. Adults weren¡¯t so engaged, but the few were horrible men and women. At one point, a drunk threatened to kill him and his brother if they ¡®belittled the view¡¯ ever again. I haven''t seen them since.¡± Eleven clasped his hand back on the cultist¡¯s shoulder. ¡°For being different. They were cruel to them, for being different. For not fitting in. We¡¯re animals, all of us, deep in our core. We just dress nicely.¡±


    ¡°I suppose we are,¡± the Crimson acquiesced, standing on his own two feet. He was wobbly, distressed by it all. His hoodie almost fell off his head, but he caught it in time. ¡°The Disciple of Capricorn will burn me to ash if I don¡¯t kill you.¡±


    ¡°The Disciple of¡­?¡±


    Turning around, the cultist finally showed Eleven his full attention. His eyes were still bloodshot from grieving his predicament. From his back, a timid, slender black snake slipped out and slid behind him; the disturbing appendage indicative of one¡¯s closeness to God. The excuse of a soldier, code named Eleven, understood this gesture as acceptance. There was no evil before him ¡ª he didn¡¯t have a choice, is all.


    The boy grabbed a desk and forced himself to stand, electricity coursing down the nerves in his thigh. A unique kind of pain. He kept his arm draped loosely on his hanging rifle. ¡°We could still talk.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s a matter of time before he checks into my consciousness.¡±


    Eleven took note. He must be referring to another power of that unknowable kind of magic: Obscure. Perhaps that explains how he failed to see the window he leapt out of. A string-puller of senses, maybe? Inspecting the tendril, he noticed the slim edges that protruded near the tip, and the sharp dagger at the end. It couldn¡¯t be pleasant to get whipped by one of these.


    ¡°And if he does?¡± Eleven asked, still unaware of whom he referred to.


    ¡°My family won¡¯t think of me anymore.¡±


    ¡°Does this have to be violent?¡±


    ¡°Had I been put under a more thoughtful man, perhaps not.¡±


    With no more words left to speak, the two fell under a portmanteau of silence. A bizarre blend of empathy and an impulse toward violence. Either man had a reason to kill, both caught in a similarly awkward corner. On one end, Eleven couldn¡¯t run fast enough even uninjured. The Shepherd wouldn¡¯t be spared by his own for trying mercy. Neither party wanted to fight, but a feeling of urgency crept onto their backs. Like two gunslingers on a fated afternoon, it was a race to see who¡¯s nerve would falter first.


    Unbeknownst to the cultist, Eleven would have to reload to fire even once. His only ace was a theory. His eyes sharpened onto that snake that slid dangerously by the cultist¡¯s side. It was without will, but its poison coursed with a vigour belonging to a foul form of life. A mere root of the colossal tree belonging to the King¡¯s self. Flicking backward for a moment, the tendril finally shot forth. Eleven couldn¡¯t help but flinch as the thing swept toward his skull. He closed his eyes, anticipating the impact, not even trying to avoid it. And then he waited.


    Ten seconds passed, perhaps. The leathery cracking sound not too unlike a whip caught his ears thrice now. Eleven¡¯s eyes opened. He was right. The tendril snagged on its fourth leap forward. An instant after the boy would be struck, the exact same scene would unfold again, mere seconds earlier. He looked at the blood that trickled from a knee injury from earlier, and understood. No wonder his family suffered such a fate. This blood, this golden blood of his, carried a value and challenge to it that millions had contested before. Oh, to have a power like this.


    ¡°Stop,¡± Eleven commanded, moments before that fifth lash.


    The Lesser Ordained did stop, if only for the certainty in the lad¡¯s voice. It wasn¡¯t a plea, but an order. Suffice to say he was surprised. ¡°Stop?¡±


    ¡°You can stop. Your superior would understand, trust me,¡± the Cadet insisted.


    The cultist wet his lips. ¡°I can assure you¡ª¡ª¡±


    ¡°You don¡¯t have the right to kill me. Try as you might, you¡¯ll never succeed.¡±


    An angry step forward, he balled his fists at the teen. ¡°And what, pray tell¡ª¡ª?!¡±


    ¡°The blood of Leonidas courses through me,¡± Eleven quickly explained, showing him his scuffed hands.


    The Crimsoneer stopped, paralysed at the sight; his tendril slowed.


    The outside lights shone perfectly around the boy¡¯s back. That total arrogance that dripped off his aura ¡ª it didn¡¯t fit him at all, but it was there. A disgusting confidence cloaking an otherwise humble existence. With a renewed smile, Eleven haunted the older man with his absolute calm. ¡°It explains how I¡¯ve lived in this awful world for so long. I struggle to believe it, but it¡¯s true.¡± A long gasp escaped his lips as he grasped his chest, feeling the beat of his unstoppable heart. ¡°I am the Manifestation of Pride, Tokken Tsuki.¡±

 Chapter 12: Pride

    Mhaieiyu


    Arc 3, Chapter 12


    Pride


    The stinging graze of that elastic tendril¡¯s final snap tingled his neck with a kind of hot pain one experiences mere glimpses before death. It¡¯s quick: much quicker than the burn of a hot pan, and yet so slow, too. A cut like this runs deep, and at least partly beheads its victim. The loom of death is the afterthought that lingers during the pain, that brief pain that guarantees fatality. What is an eternal fate for anyone else, Tokken experienced much differently. The same sting still took over, yes, but it came accompanied with a new sensation. A memory of one, that he¡¯d long suppressed in the dreams that ailed him. Those dreams, where the clutch of jaws closed his lifespan.


    That final bite. A menace of a jarring, throaty sound. The splatter of saliva as those prickly teeth snap, just like the tendril had, slicing unevenly through flesh and crushing delicate bones, splashing the contents of arteries, rupturing nerves and surely, so surely, causing death. Naturally, somebody would experience this once, too.


    Tokken had. But it wasn¡¯t once. Goddess, the thought of it paled his skin. It might¡¯ve been twice, maybe thrice. It could¡¯ve been a dozen times. He never wagered to guess. He couldn¡¯t count then, he had no wish to now. This memory, which only resurfaced in his dreams and never stayed in his consciousness, reemerged now of all times, but of course it did.


    He felt it again, the edged whip¡¯s blow. Vicks, it hurt each time. But it didn¡¯t give closure. It wasn¡¯t the end. The scene would replay again, as it had for him then. As it had when he fell. Reality itself changed in its course. It corrected itself, tried again. It replayed, seconds back, the same scene, but only slightly differently. If Tokken couldn¡¯t compel himself to thrust the knife he always carried, perhaps a tree would fall on the monster that tried to eat Chloe. If his fall couldn¡¯t be helped, an unwilling participant¡¯s mind would so suddenly have to change. If this tendril had a thirst for his blood, his special blood, then what would have to change to prevent its spill?


    Who knows. Perhaps nobody did. Perhaps even Mortos had no clue. Who cares, either way? Leonidas had decided that his blood was too good to spill, and so, it wouldn¡¯t.


    Tokken dropped his head down at the whip, weaving under its elastic and hardy reach. It swung through his hair, breaking through a small knot and tearing out a couple strands. Tokken, breathless but with momentum, backstepped a second swing of the whip. This was a mere combat experience to the cultist, but Tokken had seen this already. It was a choreographed dance by now. Under threat of another bout of that hot sting, the teen slipped delicately and deliberately through each of the cultist¡¯s attacks, leveraging each hop of his paralysed leg. The Lesser Ordained was astonished, but unsurprised. He had been ordered to kill Pride. An impossible task.


    Tokken travelled the length of the scaly black rope, each time coming a little closer, further out of reach of the weapon¡¯s hellish blades. The cultist, not foolish, too walked backward; but there was only so much space to be had before his back met the wall. Tokken took his knife from his pocket. That crimson blade, his accursed heirloom, which refused to leave his side no matter how far he chucked it. With one precise cut, leveraged by his own stumbling legs, the knife dug itself deep in the roots of the appendage, hacking down its base like a lumberjack¡¯s notch cut and ceasing its function ¡ª a curse defeating a parasite.


    The cultist, astonished by the injured cadet¡¯s capabilities, only stood alongside him as they both caught their breath.


    ¡°You were right,¡± the hooded figure said, his hands shaking in place. ¡°You are Pride.¡±


    ¡°I wasn¡¯t lying,¡± Tokken blurted, spitting saliva between heaves, ¡°I found this out today, a minute ago.¡±


    ¡°That explains it. Capricorn isn¡¯t just cruel, he had no idea who I was up against.¡±


    Tokken uprighted himself, standing eye to eye with the Crimson. ¡°I¡¯m sorry you were put up to this.¡±


    The man lowered his head. ¡°It¡¯s alright.¡±


    ¡°Now that I¡¯ve won, can I ask you something?¡± he asked, not really expecting an answer from his adversary. ¡°Can we talk instead? I¡¯m not big on fighting.¡±


    Naturally, an answer he¡¯d come to expect. The Crimsoneer looked at him with a twisted expression between sympathy and refusal. Tokken¡¯s ever-hopeful smile wouldn¡¯t bend.


    ¡°We¡¯ve discussed this,¡± he said, ¡°that is beyond my means. My superior¡ª¡ª¡±


    ¡°Then let me talk to them, too. You called them ¡®Capricorn¡¯, is that right?¡±


    ¡°The Disciple of Capricorn, yes. His is a fiery tempest. You may survive him, but he won¡¯t take easily to words of reason.¡±


    As he said this, something of a commotion rang from outside. Gunfire, followed by a sizzle and a bang. The crisp smell of something burnt filled their nostrils. Somebody¡ªor something¡ªhad been reduced to ash. The stench of blood began to recede in place of an almost satisfying odour. Cooked meat. If Tokken were to guess, the tempting flesh of a Mynotaur had been ripped apart.


    ¡°Would you like to live?¡± Tokken asked. ¡°If we¡¯re being honest, I¡¯d rather spare you, if I could.¡±


    The Lesser Ordained looked about himself; the airtight presence of armed riflemen ready to gun him down if he were to run, the sweat-inducing state of the bored out window, the trickle of dust from the ceiling and the black oil leaking out his destroyed tendril. With a slump almost amusing to himself, he conceded with a simple, ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°Then, lead me to Capricorn. Show me him, and give me a chance to change his mind. At the very least, let me understand your perspectives.¡±


    There was no doubt about it, what with such a sympathetic show of face. The cultist had no confidence whatsoever. He knew his superior, and now the ignorance of this boy. Worse, though he didn¡¯t embody it now, his arrogance as Pride could emerge at any second. It reminded him of the brief interaction he¡¯d witnessed of Aquarius, or more aptly, Lust, while waiting on that brutalised island. That man was already deeply enthralled by his own ego and desires. How long before true Pride would show worse symptoms? The thought raised his blood pressure.


    With no desire to upset such a Sin, the cultist bowed his head a tad. ¡°I last saw him stationed a few streets adjacent to us, ¡®overseeing'', as he put it.¡±


    Tokken pawed at his damaged leg and sighed. Of course it was far away. This might be the most painful thing he¡¯d ever endured, but such were the stings onward the path of uncertainty.


    Never mind the throbbing of his head and heart. The fear of getting cut again, of getting whipped again, of being beheaded. That roaring tempest that had finally been set free overwhelmed all other thought. Tokken understood now to more depth just how controversial a figure he had been ¡ª how could he break this to Mumble, he wondered?


    ? ? ? ?


    A thick musk settled in his nose, and Emris, old primitive instincts his fort¨¦, sniffed at the air. It was an unpleasant smell that was hard to shape. It was sharp enough to peer through the haze, rancid enough to overwhelm the metal, and powerful enough to bypass the oils of the deceased Crawlers strewn about the streets. That horrid, nauseating fragrance was familiar, but only strangely. Emris struggled to imagine what on Earth it could be. His one tendril, wrapped around his belly, tightened a tad in response.


    Emris grunted, steering his bike to the best of his ability. He¡¯d dropped low enough on a turn to nick the concrete, but he paid it no mind. This old Betty was knackered anyway. As he peeled down the road, he caught a glimpse of something all too bizarre. A lone soldier fell out a first story window, rolling haphazardly to his feet. The wheels screeched to a halt, and finally that bastard snake loosened a tad. Emris watched on, noticing the red that had masked a bit of his forehead. It was just one man, and he¡¯d torn his top wear to the point his chest and part of his back were exposed, also covered in bloody gashes. He swung a shotgun from his chest and cocked it, pointing it at the building, and then around himself.


    Memories of the Mercater riflemen tore into his head wound, knocking unkindly in his brain. Endorphins and adrenaline wrestled in his blood system and pumped his heart like a freight train¡¯s coupling rods; his entire system in motion. The Grinner had spared no leniency on the lone human. His communicator had served him no purpose. His higher ups were too focused on maintaining order in the core of the conflict and, stranded out here, Sven¡¯s stress and enthusiasm had intertwined to keep him alive. The whizzing of bullets was nostalgic now ¡ª even as he stood, soaked in his own sweat, blood and the oil blood of that monster, glimpses of his being fired upon by revolutionaries reemerged.


    What a sight.


    He''d kept his wits about him, outpacing the laughing Northbeast by clambering into an apartment and luring it up a tight flight of stairs. An illegally kept rifle had been his choice to fire a fat slug into the thing''s jaws, smashing apart its teeth into a nasty assortment of small shards and driving through the side of its skull. With a blown face, the Grinner''s giggles were gargled and messy, but it still roamed alive. A horror that should not still be did so unflinchingly, unaware or unconcerned in its undoing.


    He''d leapt from the window, cutting his thigh in the process. Sven''s knees ached, but he had to stay grounded. His eyes returned to his surroundings, keeping track of the beast through the reflections on the windows. Sven''s brows tightened when he realised the Grinner had noticed, and started smashing the glass, dispersing dangerous shards. His shoe crunched on one when he turned, and he looked down. From one of those tiny pieces, a reflection revealed the beast''s position.Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.


    Sven swivelled quickly, firing a volley toward the general direction he''d discerned. The Northbeast, laughing, surprised him by swooping past him, its enormity subsumed by a total lack of foot noise. Sven''s good arm was clamped down by those mashed razors, tugging it out of its socket and dragging him along for the ride. Sven wasted no time. He shuffled his gun to his free hand and pulled the barrel to meet the beast''s neck, lodging six rounds into its snake-like blasphemous skin.


    The Grinner cried out a mixture of chuckles and distress, a vile and oily ink-black substance dribbling down the man''s arm. With a fervent shake of its head, Sven''s body was hurled violently against a collection of rubble, a few new rocks falling atop him and chambering his broken self within the dust and gravel.


    Sven looked up, his face caked grey and his sight swollen to high hell. A blur of a slinking beast approached him, like a cat stalking its prey. Between glints of clarity, its mangled face struck in the man a fear he didn''t remember experiencing before. How would it be, to be devoured by a broken jaw and ruined fangs? He almost wished he hadn''t taken the shot. A good mouth would just kill him.


    It snarled its vicious noises, a snotty hyena cackling at its disabled prey. It couldn''t have been seven feet away when it flew ¡ª it flew sideways.


    A rocket had jetted past and taken the Northbeast like a fly on a windshield. The sharp bang split Sven''s ears.


    Emris shuffled between carrying on or lending a hand. The soldier he''d watched seemed well enough capable, and if he ran into him by chance later, he might even offer a word of thought. The Cadet''s position had worsened in a matter of seconds, though. That tendril had resumed its tight squeeze. Emris reached behind himself and clamped the fucking thing hard until it crunched, and with a tug that hurt a lot more than he''d expected, he ripped it out from his spine, ending the constriction. Undoing himself from this tangle, Emris'' loose mouth and showing teeth tickled at the sight of the beast further ahead. It had thrust the poor bastard into a dust heap, and seemed ready to kill him off. Emris grunted, putting one foot forward.


    His figure disappeared. His afterimage blitzed forward in a sequence of zips, firing himself like a bullet of his own. By the time he had time to think of it, his fist collided brutally with the Northbeast''s skull. The Grinner''s body flew beside Emris, coming to a halt a good few feet past what he''d travelled. His newly cast shield was wasted when he realised its head, already poorly attached after gunfire had riddled its neck with holes, had fully severed from its frame and smashed into a building side, reducing it to a husky splat of black oil. Finally, it had died.


    Emris took a single breath. Of course, looking back at the soldier that fought tooth and nail, he felt insulted on the Cadet''s behalf.


    Approaching the rubble wasn''t easy. Loose bricks, shards of glass and foundation lining was scattered about the floor. The poor sod had been tossed into a ruined building''s crumpled memory of a facade. From the heap jutted whole rebars and severed pipes. It''d be a miracle if he hadn''t been impaled.


    The hardest part was looking at that disgraced, buried face. Just an eye remained above ground, his nose snorting dust to get some air. Emris took to peeling the heavy rubble that weighed him down before ripping the body from its tomb. A cascade of dust fell off him and his clothes as the Cadet was made to stand. His shoulder and arm had been bitten into, though his time underground had slowed his bleeding enough to clot; dry blood clung to his forearm. One of his eyes, likely caked in dirt, wouldn''t open, and he stood on wobbling legs. Emris ignored the fact he''d probably pissed himself as he already looked mudded regardless.


    Emris looked him up and down. Pitied as he might be, the Brigadier bore no patience for heroes. He wanted to admonish him for tackling the beast alone, or condemn him for not wearing his battle vest, or not communicating outside his local bubble of operators. But, just as the Guardian parted his teeth to speak, the lonesome learner did something unimaginable.


    At a thread from death and battered to ruin, the Cadet shook his arm a bit, willing it into proper motion, and pounded his chest. With the same arm, he made an L shape to his right and showed four skyward fingers, of which three had been severed from the first knuckle. The miserable sod had had the gall to salute. Of course his legs gave in and he fell after the gesture. Emris caught him by the chest and kept him on his toes.


    The Brigadier glanced at the badge on his shoulder and committed his name to memory. "Sven," he uttered. "Right."


    ? ? ? ?


    One last wave from behind the large rounded glass would cast off the Celestial elite and their entourage. Of all of them, Elior noted just how flabbergasting Thaumiel''s exit was. Though the Skyborn Major¡¯s power over their flock was supreme, it was his right hand man that possessed the wherewithal to make uncontested such a right. Indeed not his voice but his true power must be immeasurable; he hoped never to have to cross paths with a being as he. Closing his eyes, Elior revised his plan, and with a fickle smile, he quickly confirmed that wouldn''t ever be necessary.


    The Head of Men retreated from the window gaze to favour the room he was in. He was utterly surrounded by boxy devices¡ªcomputers¡ªand a cesspool of blurry screens, scattered papers and furiously hammered keyboards. A number counting three dozen: young and old, men and women. Three seniors, one for each dozen, reported directly to Elior and two other chief strategists: his most resourceful first senior, Merean, and her still-recovering grey-haired counterpart, Hoern, whose mobility had been restricted to a wheelchair for the sake of not stressing his chest wound.


    This arrangement allowed reasonably effective supervision regarding the broader defence operation, which had escalated dramatically from what was originally presumed to be a simpler cleanup endeavour. One of those men hammering away at his keyboard struggled to hold up the right speaker of his headset to his ear, having just finished communicating a mission detail to one of several scattered divisions. The whole of the room was desperately trying to stitch the formation back into shape, but the lack of visual aid made every bit of new intel equally vital and nauseating.


    ¡°We need a scout,¡± a remarkably bold junior strategian blurted out.


    ¡°We should have asked to hire Celestial aid when the executives stopped by,¡± fired off another. More tacticians chimed in.


    ¡°Any worthwhile Nynx suit engagement?¡±


    ¡°We had half a dozen, but they¡¯ve been dropped.¡±


    ¡°Status?¡±


    ¡°MIA, save one. He¡¯s definitely dead. Gear was faulty.¡±


    ¡°Fucking Hephaestus.¡±


    ¡°Yes, fucking Heph.¡±


    Elior seemed amused. He never appeared to lose his composure, regardless of the boiler room setting. Hoern would assess any questions thrown, a solitary thinker. Merean was also the sort, but ever since Elior showed up, they pooled their knowledge and thought together. Elior kept stumping her, it was fascinating. He could close his eyes, rub his chin and cook up the exact right answer. Sometimes he¡¯d just bounce off with such a response in an instant of being questioned by these lackeys. Remarkable, like asking a resplendent God.


    ¡°Elior, sir!¡± a senior strategist called.


    Merean, defensive and traditional, cocked her brow and spat. ¡°You address your supervisor first.¡±


    ¡°Forgiveness, Madam Chief. Two platoons have reached a vantage point. Crawler presence is being shortened with shrapnel explosive application, but they¡¯re cornered.¡±


    She stirred the black coffee in her paper cup with a wooden spoon. The roasty smell was strong. ¡°Ask them if they have observational equipment.¡±


    ¡°I was about to say, they already scoped the main incursion. They¡¯ve spotted a huge concentration of Crawlers in what is likely a square with considerable cultist presence.¡±


    Elior took an empty seat when its occupant ran out the room to gather something or other. ¡°Anything else?¡±


    The senior strategian seemed unnerved to respond, whether it be for the news she had or the lack of permission to address their supreme authority. With apprehension, she replied, ¡°Yes. Among a pool of soldiers, he¡¯s trapped in the middle. Without a doubt: the Harvirillian noble, Amar.¡±


    A brief pause of dialogue set between the three, a silence doused by the incoherent murmurs and panicked shufflings of the room. After a while, Elior struggled to contain his satisfaction, the corners of his lips tensing as not to show a smile. He knew she noticed, and divined how disturbed she may have become for it.


    ¡°Very well,¡± he said. ¡°Focus your attention elsewhere.¡±


    Merean looked away from the monitors to face the Head of Men. ¡°But, your plans¡­?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll ask you to remember my blood, Merean,¡± Elior rebutted, creaking the swivel chair as he stood again, its previous occupant having returned and very politely recovered their seat. With a look that mixed between frigid and sly, he said, ¡°Do not underestimate the Harvirillian line. Their crest is their sword, and Amar is the perfect example of such.¡±


    Merean straightened herself to meet his level.


    Elior opened the door and took a step outside for a breath of fresh air. Before the door closed behind him, he said, ¡°It¡¯s about time we gave those bitter families a more cherishable reunion. Merean, advise the ground team of this: we¡¯re dispatching the Wraithsman. Upon my authority.¡±


    Chief Strategian Merean looked put off thereafter. She faced forward, ever the steely-eyed woman, kept her focus on the bleating ruckus of the room as she received intel passively from her subordinates as she long now had. An elbow met her thigh and she dropped her eyes further down.


    The older sod wheezed a bit as he spoke. ¡°I figured you¡¯d settled in by now.¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s a lot at stake, Hoern, and too many pieces are out of place. The Galloping¡¯s purification is weeks behind schedule; we have no knowledge of the cultists¡¯ next move; The Ward and R&D are constantly asking questions that I simply don¡¯t have the answer to; and now we¡¯re putting ourselves at the mercy of old, prodigious, surely pompous family lines. It¡¯s all distressing, I suppose,¡± Merean went into depth to explain, rubbing her forehead raw with her fingers. ¡°I¡¯ll need stronger stimulants than these, at this rate,¡± she pointed out, shaking her nearly empty cup.


    ¡°Suffice is to say, a lot has fallen on our plates. Agh, I¡¯ll admit, with all the old Heads dead or gone within a month, this feels too much like an intentional decapitation of power.¡± Hoern groaned, leaning back into his chair. In something between a breath and a whisper, he asked, ¡°Do you doubt the Syndicate¡¯s future?¡±


    Merean suppressed a scoff. ¡°By Elior¡¯s hand, unorthodox as this may all be, I¡¯m strangely confident.¡±


    Hoern produced an old cackle and ground more of his elbow into her. ¡°Are you sure you¡¯ve not just caught eyes for the man?¡±


    A natural smile finally adorned her stressed, wrinkled face. ¡°Well, if I were younger, I might have given it more thought. But no. His reign is different, and differences will surely bring change. I had less faith before.¡±


    Amid their conversation, a spike in volume drew their attention. One of the younger men had dropped his head between his knees and shook with anxiety. Seeing how overwhelmed he had gotten, two more tried in vain to comfort him as they continued to work through the stress.


    ¡°Where¡¯s our fucking Celestial gone?!¡±


    Hoern coughed, and raised his voice to a horrid boom of authority and grim lungs. ¡°QUIET!¡±


    His apathy toward Corvus was obvious; to be truthed, he¡¯d wished him a dead man. Of course he had. The gash on his chest was by that Celestial¡¯s hands ¡ª proof of his sudden becoming of madness after Erica¡¯s passing. Hoern took a blurry glance at his lackeys to make sure they continued to work before he succumbed to his weariness. Addressing Merean again, he exhaled and said, ¡°I hope so. Give me another year and I¡¯ll be in the ground. We won¡¯t be breathing well much longer.¡±


    Merean shook her head and reached for a loosely opened document on the table, rereading its material for the eighth time. With a passive, absent voice, she asked, ¡°Why do you ghoul us so?¡±


    Hoern coughed again, resting his hands on his lap. ¡°Haven¡¯t you heard? Elior fetched us a new candidate to be Head of Arms, and took him on as an advisor.¡±


    The woman¡¯s eyes narrowed on the nearly-snoozing soul.


    ¡°Of course, ¡®nought to be a single bloody threat to these peoples¡¯,¡± A bleak, almost sadistic sort of grin grew under his baggy eyes. ¡°Aye, a Yanksie of course, and a nutcase. He proposed a solution to the Dwellers problem. Burn their fucking trees down.¡±

 Chapter 13: Rats Are Still a Creed

    Mhaieiyu


    Arc 3, Chapter 13


    Rats Are Still a Creed


    It¡¯d been a while too long now since the young Duke prowled his urban territories and nested in the dilapidated apartment complexes long abandoned that he called home. These quiet places were a treasure trove for sinful doings, and there where they hadn¡¯t succumbed to violence or sex was to be found a special kind of quietness where one could contemplate just how life had turned to be this way, and how life was still aflame after it all. A head-stew, as Mumble called it.


    He rested his head on that spectacularly overgrown tuft of mane he¡¯d been growing for years, and atop his oversized hoodie, and then on hard concrete. The howl of the wind blowing through the narrow alleys swept up and about him, which helped cool him off. Around him were cans of beer and soda, some so aged they¡¯d lost colour, and to his right there was no wall or fence, just a drop four stories tall. The self-proclaimed Pride rested his arm on his stomach and inspected his weapon as he waited, listening in as the noise grew in the distance. It wasn¡¯t the ruckus that unnerved him, quite the opposite. In his young age Mumble could hardly remember the last Galloping incident, and that was during his time at his childhood isle, far from most of the Crimsoneers¡¯ active range. Now, accustomed to a city overrun by people or officials, the boy couldn¡¯t deny that the silence, while pleasant, itched his skin something fierce.


    At the tock-tock of footsteps, Mumble turned his character grin toward the empty doorframe, watching as a very familiar rogue and snobbish tween walked in. ¡°Been a bit,¡± Mumble hummed and said, ¡°glad to see ya¡¯ve pulled through it, even in this mess. What lot, eh?¡±


    ¡°You twat, Mums!¡± an especially irritated Tez lobbed back and stuck a malnourished finger out toward him. ¡°Ya vanished on us without word¡¯r wisdom. Where in North¡¯s Glacier did ya swim off to, brat?!¡±


    ¡°North¡¯s right,¡± Mumble nodded only because he had to contain his laughter otherwise. ¡°I¡¯ve settled with them Syndies.¡±


    ¡°Ya did fucking what?! Mumble!¡± Luce, a pretty face torn with venom shouted out.


    ¡°It¡¯s fuckin¡¯ ¡®Pride¡¯, fer fuck¡¯s¡­ Listen,¡± ¡®Pride¡¯ began, ¡°I¡¯ve got ¡®em on a leash, aight? They¡¯ve kept me around doin¡¯ odd jobs n¡¯ all, but nothin¡¯ serious. Here¡¯s the real squeeze.¡±


    Tez and Luce managed to calm down enough to hear their younger boss out, taking a good look at the pistol Mumble brandished. Luce barely caught eye, but Tez had a much more palpable reaction.


    ¡°Industrial grade¡­¡± Tez gasped, taking a step closer to inspect the pristine firearm. ¡°This is a forty-nine, can¡¯t be older. You can tell just off the sheen on the metal ¡ª ya managed to snag that? And just one?¡±


    ¡°For now, yeah. Interested?¡± Mumble charmed, wrestling the pistol from Luce¡¯s grip as she tried in vain to take a ¡®closer look¡¯ herself.


    ¡°Vicks and ¡®er golden Gates¡­ To crawl right into that boiler pot and bring us a sample n¡¯ all. Ya¡¯ve gone and outgrown ya roots, Mums.¡±


    The young lad sprung to his feet and struck him with the soft bottom of his fist, ripping off him a yelp. ¡°It¡¯s ¡®Pride¡¯, or are ya brain-dead?! And I ain¡¯t outgrowin¡¯ a motherfucker, I¡¯ve just done us a service beyond our means for once, bu-bub. Who¡¯s out sayin¡¯ I ain¡¯t a Duke worthy o¡¯ name, eh?!¡±


    Luce, who had clambered onto the boy¡¯s back to try and reach for the weapon, asked, ¡°I don¡¯t get it. This some sorta deal we gotta think on?¡±


    ¡°Yes¡ª and if you¡¯d lax on me, I¡¯ll go on!¡± Mumble faced Tez foremost, knowing him as the brains of his handfuls of scrubs. ¡°We¡¯ve gotta show ¡®em we¡¯re worth these streets.¡±


    Tez showed his brow and reached behind himself to produce a rusty flask of coffee. ¡°They want us for a fry, Mums.¡±


    ¡°Fuckin¡¯...! Yes, yeah, ol¡¯ management, sure! But figure this,¡± Mumble continued, tugging a finger on the razor wire connecting his knives just to feel the sting, ¡°the ol¡¯ geezer¡¯s gone. It¡¯s a new guy now, some twat from whatsit where. Case is, he¡¯s givin¡¯ the ol¡¯ place an overhaul, an¡¯ he¡¯s gonna need a heap o¡¯ hands his way, too.¡±


    Luce finally yanked the pistol from the Duke¡¯s hands and aimed it out the gap that should¡¯ve been a wall until the building was left to rot. Her lips curved, satisfied with the feel, imagining the force. ¡°I¡¯m down.¡±


    Tez stook another finger at her this time, ¡°Don¡¯t run off without ya fucking head, Luce!¡±


    ¡°Eat me.¡±


    Mumble punched Tez¡¯s side before continuing, ¡°That¡¯s why we gotta show the uppity twats we¡¯re an ace in the sleeve an¡¯ all. We got just the gig, too.¡±


    Tez was too short of breath to ask.


    ¡°See, they¡¯re cleanin¡¯ up the last of the streets, aye? They got a shit-load o¡¯ gun but no cleaver, and with them Northbeasts, that ain¡¯t amountin¡¯ to much. So say we give ¡®em a chop for uh¡­ leverage, eh?¡± That beastly grin of his widened to a monstrous length of teeth. ¡°Heh, we¡¯d be honoured as fuckin¡¯ war heroes, and get easy pickin¡¯s for now till tomorrow and years on.¡±


    Luce shrugged. ¡°We oughta pick up the leftovers while we¡¯re at it.¡±


    Tez took a long sip of air. ¡°Right¡­ because they ain¡¯t getting us guns for that. They¡¯d slap us with the ol¡¯ political shit and leave us be ¡®til they lost calmness, but¡­¡±


    ¡°Aha, that¡¯s where we got an ace for ours!¡± Mumble retorted, patting the front of Tez''s chest hard enough to steal his breath again. ¡°See, I happen to be in cahoots now with one o¡¯ their VIPs. The Tsuki kid. Pigeon sh¡ª¡ª Tokken, that one.¡±


    Tez closed his eyes at the sound of that surname. Whereas Tokken¡¯s name fell on deaf ears, it was the ring of the Tsuki moniker that bounced heavily and around in the caverns of his skull. The lanky Urchin¡¯s hands slid down his sides to either of his thighs and he sighed.


    ¡°Figured. Ya¡¯re meddlin¡¯ with powers well beyond us, Mums.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s¡ª huh?¡±


    Luce and Mumble both kept a keen eye on Tez, whose voice had lost much of its clarity and volume. He tried to look calm, but the wrinkles on his face, like calligraphy, betrayed his inner feelings. Right then, Mumble spotted it: that gaze into the abyss, or up the monolith of life¡¯s greater things. Things so much larger than yourself that you become ant-like in comparison. Mumble¡¯s teeth gnawed, the young lad standing up to bump hip with his older lackey.


    ¡°Watch it, watch it, watch it! I ain¡¯t finna dig us a pit, so don¡¯t be gettin¡¯ all sobby and shite, bu-bub. We¡¯ve our own slot in this land, we fuckin¡¯ earnt it I say. I¡¯m ya Duke, so learn some fuckin¡¯ perspective.¡± This aggressive tone only worsened at a lack of a response. Taking one of his corded daggers, he pointed the crescent¡¯s tip toward Tez¡¯s neck and barked some more. ¡°Wanna feel like a pissant?! Stare at us, why don¡¯t ya? Look ¡®ere.¡±


    The lank opened his eyes and stared him down. The height discrepancy didn¡¯t do the kid any favours.


    With the hissing licks of a snake, Mumble made his final remark. ¡°You¡¯s got one task. Keep me happy. And keep me happier¡­ by goin¡¯ to fetch Bruce.¡±


    A humoured huff was cast behind the lad, as Luce approached the quiet scuffle. ¡°Finally, I wondered when ya¡¯d ask ¡®bout ¡®im.¡±


    Mumble turned her way with a nasty smirk. ¡°¡®Course he¡¯s fine. His meat¡¯s all guarded up by Diamond Hide. Just gotta make sure his ops don¡¯t figure it out ¡®fore they do ¡®im in proper, eh?¡±


    Luce crossed her arms. ¡°Right, well he took a few fuckin¡¯ nicks for ya, you shoulda known. Walkin¡¯ off on us like that¡­ At this rate, he¡¯ll challenge ya for the position.¡±


    ¡°Pfft, that lunk? I¡¯ll do my prayers.¡±


    Right as the conversation gave close, the three paid attention to the opening in the room. The undeniable bang and crunch of many tons of concrete falling in on themselves signalled a rather frightful reality. An entire building had collapsed.


    ¡°It¡¯s time. Luce, help Tez ¡®ere fetch Butch. I¡¯ll gather the peons; let¡¯s fuck up some cultists.¡±


    Luce sniggered as she made way. ¡°Ya do be soundin¡¯ way too excited ¡®bout this, cinnamon.¡±


    That sinister smile of his only grew as he pondered the thought. He¡¯d never met a Crimsoneer in his life, or so he believed. The idea of trampling over such a frightful creed chilled him with a perverse satisfaction. These horrid hounds would be cornered by his rancid rats. What beast would bear sharper fangs, he wondered? It was time to find out.


    ¡°Oi, Wishmaker,¡± Mumble, ¡®Pride¡¯, spread his arms out to meet the whispers of the wind. ¡°Lend us ya wishes, kindly. Let us rats feast this eve.¡±


    ? ? ? ?


    For all his newly found power, the boy had rather quickly returned to the older product of a squeamish, mewling recluse. His time training under the Syndicate had accustomed him to the huff and puff of overexertion, but he¡¯d not been prepared for this. The cultist that not too long ago had felt his life was a teardrop from demise had changed his mind a fair bit, watching the quartz-hair teen dance around having to use his pulled leg.


    Vague immortality be damned, his every hop hurt like hell.


    ¡°How much¡­ further¡­?!¡± Tokken shouted between clenched teeth.


    ¡°We¡¯ve barely started moving,¡± the hooded figure replied, well ahead of the lad and with half a mind to just run off.


    ¡°Right¡­ Of course¡­¡±


    Those times back in the forest where he injured himself, Tokken would usually starve himself at home for a few days before daring to move again. The sooner you become idle, the quicker you¡¯ll heal. Forcing his leg in motion was in pure defiance of anything his childhood instincts taught him. Tokken¡¯s mind was on a tailspin. Just what exactly did he intend on doing with this man¡¯s boss? Had he a silver tongue to smooth out this mess? Of course not. And why in the Twins was there so much moisture in the air when the factory fumes still lingered? It was like standing by a forge out here. That bastard sun¡­


    A sudden touch.


    Tokken snapped toward his shoulder, where a hand had clasped.


    ¡°Relax,¡± the Crimson said, ¡°I¡¯d like to get to our destination sometime today. Steady on.¡± He¡¯d graciously taken the weight off the teen¡¯s leg, helping him to walk onwards. It took a moment to register, but this would prove much easier. Not wanting to keep the man busy, they picked up the pace. The heat was unbearable.


    Or maybe it was the anticipation.


    His vest itched the skin of his back and he felt disgustingly damp. No matter where he looked he could taste the saltiness of his sweat. His heartbeat was faster than usual. The nerves, the exhilaration. For the first time in his life he felt truly powerful. To be able to omit death itself felt otherworldly. How had he ended up with this power? How could it be that he would be chosen as the sole living candidate for Pride? It made no sense, when he thought of it. Perhaps such electoral powers were beyond human comprehension. It didn¡¯t matter. The whispers in his ears were so pleasant, it helped him push his limits.


    They arrived before a building after a good while of writhe-walking. The cultman¡¯s cloak had been thoroughly sweated in. Looking up, Tokken swore off like a sailor. Of course the overseer was on a rooftop, it only made sense.This novel''s true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there.


    ¡®For fuck¡¯s sake.¡¯


    The newly vested Pride gave the cultist a look of concern and sighed. ¡°I shouldn¡¯t have cut you. That tail would have come in handy right about now.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s not as dextrous as that, I¡¯m afraid,¡± the cultist said in turn. Looking up at the height of the building, he asked, ¡°are you sure about this? Never mind your pulled leg, Capricorn is far from the most reasonable of men.¡±


    ¡°You said so already.¡±


    ¡°Emphasis matters. It¡¯s not stubbornness for a cause more so than it is foolhardiness on his end. He''s righteously insufferable.¡±


    Tokken staggered into the building. ¡°I have to. I¡¯m useless if I just try to battle this out like the rest of them. My power may be great, but I¡¯d spend aeons sorting this one by one. I need to reach the top, and not just figuratively it seems.¡±


    The cultist stepped inside with him, but kept behind. ¡°If I go with you¡­¡±


    ¡°You¡¯ll be punished if my gamble doesn¡¯t work.¡±


    ¡°Are you going to make it all the way up?¡±


    ¡°If there¡¯s a stair railing, yes. Here¡¯s to hoping.¡± He offered the sullen Crimson something of a smile before taking his leave, one hop at a time up the painfully long stairwell. He¡¯d have plenty of time to wonder just how deep into the mess his life had fallen into since his lukewarm time in the forest.


    ? ? ? ?


    Slumped over the backseat, a body caked in dust and coagulated blood hopped at the beat of the bike¡¯s suspension, stale air blowing his skin cool and rattling the damp, hard hair that clung to his head. Emris made some kind of effort to secure the living corpse, but still made it a point to keep an eye on him just in case. It had been a mile or two off his designated path before his communicator kicked back to life with more drivel.


    With a crackle, a voice came in. ¡°Fifty-seven.¡±


    ¡°Och¡­¡±


    Emris didn¡¯t open his line, refusing a response.


    ¡°Fifty-seven, you¡¯re veering. Mission value is Epsilon. Desertion is treason.¡±


    All these voices¡­ Their threats meant squat to the Guardian. They¡¯d spent years cultivating good enough relations with the Celestials just for the privilege; their authority over him was a sponsorship if anything.


    Emris looked back again, and saw that Sven¡¯s eyelids had cracked open. With no-one else to amuse himself with, the veteran faced forward and slowed the vehicle. ¡°Where¡¯s your platoon, Cadet?¡±


    The wounded soldier barely mustered the strength to move his eyes.


    The clarity in Emris¡¯ voice didn¡¯t fit his usual huskiness. He coughed. ¡°Ye can¡¯t be prancin¡¯ on yer own, twat. Barely nabbed ye from that fuckin¡¯ thing.¡±


    The bike hit a bump, which jostled the ruined body more as if to punish him for some misdeed.


    ¡°But I¡¯ll say, ye¡¯re a different breed of man, standin¡¯ up to a Grinner on yer lonesome. Figure yerself lucky I found ye.¡±


    The bike swivelled and squeaked to a standstill as the two arrived at what seemed to be a supply tent. Emris quickly peeled the broken man off the leathery adhesive and draped him over his shoulders with little effort. The prosperous Cadet, a few fingertips lesser than he woke, heaved dust at the shift in weight while muttering half the word ¡®Guardian¡¯. Emris shook his head.


    ¡°I¡¯m yer Brigadier, Cadet.¡±


    With an ounce of dignity restored, Emris dropped Sven on a bed to be attended, quickly swarmed by four or five medics. Watching as they treated the hero, the Guardian reached behind himself to choke the life out of a tendril that dared slip out his spine. A huff and a hop, and he ripped off on the road once more, all the more motivated to tear the heads off these worthless invaders.


    And ah, what a sight. Waltzing out a building, on an empty street, a lone Ordained dared to show itself to the light. Emris took a deep breath, cracked his neck, and brought himself to stand on the seat of his still-moving bike. His hands glew, and of them, two plates of ice raised right from his wrists. The whispers of the King needled in his ears, and the satisfaction he felt when what he heard sounded like a plea.


    ? ? ? ?


    Tokken spent a veritable lifetime bringing himself to the peak of this concrete mountain. It started with hops and ended with himself literally dragging himself up the stairs. His body, drenched in sweat, couldn¡¯t bear it anymore. He had stripped himself down to the vest; not that it would make a lick of difference. Pieces of his garbs, ammunition, his two good boots, his holsters and pistols and his empty canteen were left behind on different levels, scattered down the winding staircase¡­ Tokken knew better than to discard his rifle. Powerful as he felt, Vibarius still seemed a threat somehow.


    Pissing his life down the drain, Tokken approached the steel door that led to the roof¡¯s exterior. He swore to have forgotten what all this was for. His leg, his useless fucking leg. Of course it couldn¡¯t have been his arm that was pulled. He walked, or hobbled, or more so stumbled to the metal and lay flat against it. The cold of its dirty touch felt amazing to his sticky skin. Tokken¡¯s hand wandered about until it flimsily found the knob, and he turned it. In an instant, his weight brought him outside and dropped him uselessly on the floor.


    The wind felt incredible.


    The one and only Manifestation of Pride lay there like a heap of filth on the concrete, enjoying the coolness of the powerful breeze. His bliss wasn¡¯t interrupted when the pound and rubber of boots alongside the clinks of their metals came his way. The privilege of not having to move another muscle felt too kind to himself.


    But then it got hotter. So much hotter. Unbelievably so. Had the sun fallen off its harbour? Victus, had it? A hand clasped the grey-quartz-hair¡¯s head and ripped him off the floor, but the teen dangled off the offender¡¯s fabulous grip. Tokken¡¯s eyes took a moment to remember they still existed, processing the fine jawbone off this highwayman¡¯s rather charming face. That and his pestered snarl. In five seconds, he would lob the teen right off the rooftop, smashing his head dead against the edge ¡ª the spit on his hard work almost as offensive as the murder itself.


    With time too short, Tokken stammered out, ¡°I¡¯m is Pride! I have¡­ I¡¯m Pride¡­¡±


    The bulge in the man¡¯s muscles as he prepared to throw the kid unstiffened. ¡°Hah? What fookin¡¯ non¡¯ense. Shitty fit, too. Bad excuse.¡±


    Tokken opened his mouth to speak but his body succumbed to gravity once more when the unlikeable sod dropped him an inch off his feet. He only just saved himself from smashing his face. The cultist put a boot to the lad¡¯s hair.


    ¡°Haha, look. Pride¡¯s a legend, yeah? Somethin¡¯ well clad. Shite¡¯s just good to look at, like damn!¡± the hoodless barbarian exclaimed,


    His speech, like his movements, were irregular and sluggish. His body teetered like a loose pendulum, drunk on the sovereignty he indulged in. Scanning his whereabouts, Tokken noticed a flattened box of tobacco near his cheek, and judged by its colours, which hadn¡¯t been sunbleached yet, to be recently emptied. The jerk looked tired, kept awake by his indulgences, and judging by his boyish bravado, Tokken assumed this man had a taste for Pride specifically. A perfect candidate.


    ¡°Hah, yeah¡­ Yeah, so, I¡¯m a busy-ass bloke. Burn,¡± the senseless man said, presenting his open palm albeit not invitingly. The sound of growing plasma beamed by Tokken¡¯s ears as a blinding ball of fire collected in his hand. Seconds from his face being torn apart by the heat, Tokken realised that his other arm wasn¡¯t hidden behind him as he first imagined; everything below the shoulder was absent, as was made clear by his flailing sleeve.


    The breeze felt nice after that.


    Revisiting the scene a handful of seconds earlier, Tokken first tried to push the hand in another direction, but the strength of the killer¡¯s arm proved to outweigh that possibility. And so, for a second time, he was cooked alive.


    Then, he forced his soup muscles to roll out of the way, only his timing wasn¡¯t quite right. It took four odd tries before he managed to avoid the worst of it, though it still seared his side. It was a wasted effort. With a humph, the cultist pointed his palm back at the boy and killed him with the product of a flamethrower. There would be no avoiding the violent spread of such a spell.


    ¡°Capricorn!¡± Tokken managed to shout a moment before being devoured by the fire.


    The man reacted to that, undoing his spell for a moment. ¡°Hah¡­?¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re Capricorn, right? You¡¯re the Disciple?¡±


    That stern look of untrust developed a facefull of wrinkles, but Tokken was thankful to stay alive for longer than five seconds. ¡°Aye,¡± he said quietly, keeping his first boot close to the Cadet¡¯s groin, ready to crush his testicles if he deemed it worthwhile.


    Tokken¡¯s arm muscles barely possessed the strength to gesticulate, but still he pleaded with the man. ¡°My name is Tokken. Tokken Tsuki ¡ª my name has ties to your faith. Please, let me explain myself.¡±


    Capricorn looked the youngster up and down, his mouth hanging slightly agape like an idiot. A heavy footfall gave him a step backward, from which he stumbled. ¡°Grey hair¡­¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s white, dick. No thanks to you,¡± Tokken spat, forcing himself to stand despite his exhaustion.


    The Disciple scratched his sweaty scalp and glanced at the lands below. ¡°Ya ¡®in¡¯t too bright, mouthing me off. Frankly I barely give a shite whose you are. Got enough shite to live off as a religious man.¡±


    ¡°Then you¡¯ll do well¡­¡± Tokken caught his breath, ¡°... to respect a Sin, right? Isn¡¯t that how it works?¡±


    The man smiled at the boy¡¯s ignorance. ¡°We lot came about because twats like yous didn¡¯t figure the work out ya¡¯selves, know¡­¡±


    Tokken looked up at the scornful man with a scowl unbefitting his station. His ego, the ego that didn¡¯t exist for years until an hour ago, grounded the boy into a position he didn¡¯t rightfully earn. The look on his face, despite his pathetic predicament, gave Capricorn something to think about.


    ¡°If we¡¯re to judge history, and I can¡¯t say I know much, your creed has had just about twelve thousand years to show something for yourselves, and here you still are, shambling about.¡±


    Capricorn returned the boy¡¯s stare. His steely disposition, reminiscent of a gunslinger in the sands of old, allowed an appreciably imposing glare that challenged that insignificant boy¡¯s own. His eyes, dumbed by an inadequate brain, actually gave credence to the possibility of this lad¡¯s Pride. Above all else, how unbelievably reckless he was being.


    ¡°Fook it. I¡¯ll say it,¡± Capricorn coughed out a chuckle. ¡°Ya¡¯re a ballsy fookin¡¯ liar at the least.¡±


    The teen could finally calm his nerves and rest his plans to fight when the one-armed cultist twirled around and approached a box vent where he had stashed some of his less pertinent belongings: specifically, a bottle of red wine. He poured some of the contents into a glass and raised it above his shoulders to let the teen see.


    ¡°Fancy?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t drink.¡±


    ¡°Tit.¡±


    The man took a cigarette from his jacket pocket and lit the end aflame with his magic. In the same hand, he took the wine glass and turned to face the impudent boy. He tilted his head down to puff from his cig, and then downed a mouthful of wine ¡ª a combination of impropriety and refinement that made little sense to class or commonfolk.


    After a while of observing this miserable man, Tokken cleared his throat to speak.


    ¡°So, Disciple of¡ª¡ª¡±


    ¡°Meschae,¡± he interrupted, exhaling another cloud of smoke. ¡°It¡¯s Meschae.¡±


    ¡°Meschae¡­ I have questions regarding you, your following and your intentions here. Mostly the latter.¡±


    Capricorn wrinkled his forehead again. ¡°We¡¯re ¡®ere to kill a heap o¡¯ you fooks, then piss off.¡±


    ¡°If you simplify war, it does really come down to that. I need details.¡±


    Meschae¡¯s agitation paused when he shut his eyes forcefully, as if wracked by a migraine. He stammered some incoherent nonsense under his breath, for which Tokken was about to ask, but a hand shoved him aside as Meschae stepped toward another end of the rooftop, clasping the edge of the parapet.


    The boy¡¯s skin itched at the sound of a great, condemning roar.


    ¡°What¡¯d ya mean ya can¡¯t fookin¡¯ take it ya droop-tit slag?!¡±


    The sudden tone shift, from a murmuring dope to a rancorous leader hellbent on being heard, twisted Tokken¡¯s stomach into a knot. It was with the power of his voice that the Cadet remembered he wasn¡¯t speaking to dregs anymore. If the likes of Xavier were a powerhouse for the Syndicate, the blazing nutter he now stood alone with could be compared as such for the Crimson faction. Tokken¡¯s single asset, his Sin, served as the one thread keeping him from his abyssal plummet.


    ¡°Who are you¡­ talking to¡­?¡± Tokken asked in a whisper, realising the answer before it had to be given. Observing the man ramble profanities to himself, it was obvious he had some kind of unknown contact with his underlings. It made sense. In the absence of a radio, it would make no sense how he could commandeer his folks from up here.


    ¡°Who in fook¡¯s Amar? I don¡¯t have two shites-worth for it, get ya pissin¡¯ beasts in there! I ain¡¯t takin¡¯ a loss ¡®ere, c¡¯mon!¡±


    ¡°That¡¯ll be the Harvirillian.¡±


    ¡°Sayin¡¯ what is who?!¡± Meschae barked back at the boy, who had to compose himself before speaking again.


    ¡°Amar Harvirillian, one of three military nobles of the Harvie dynasty.¡±


    The twisted look on Meschae''s face spelled how little he cared for this noble family, but his concern for success kept him quiet.


    Tokken, smiling with misplaced pride, explained, ¡°If they¡¯re here, you¡¯re pretty boned, man.¡± He couldn¡¯t help extend his arms gloriously. It didn¡¯t look right on him. ¡°The Harvirillians are known to carry swords that defy reality. Amar¡¯s in particular refuses to see its allies bleed.¡±


    ¡°... Ain¡¯t ya wise past yar own few years, brat.¡±


    ¡°I did a fair bit of reading. Hasn¡¯t come in as much use as I would¡¯ve liked, but we ought to reap what little we sow. We were told a fair bit about them during our briefing as well, but we weren¡¯t entirely confident on who of the three would pop in, if any,¡± Tokken explained, stepping up to the wall himself and taking a lungful of air. ¡°This really gets on my nerves, you know. All this violence, is this the only way we can move forward? Really?¡±


    ¡°Yappin¡¯s too easy for ya,¡± Meschae hissed, finishing the last of his smoke. ¡°Ain¡¯t two ways for it. If I want something, I fookin¡¯ take it, why dun¡¯ I? We make concessions when ya gob¡¯s ¡®bout to be cut. That¡¯s when aaall the prayers¡¯re comin¡¯ out, eh?¡± His knowing smile unnerved the boy. ¡°Yeh, we all¡¯re focused on stayin¡¯ alive. Some of us are more honest-like, ¡®s all.¡±


    Tokken took the knife from his belt and flipped it open. Its crimson veins glowed with excitement. It¡¯s as if it hungered, tempting Pride to act. But Pride¡¯s will was greater than any object, no matter how famished nor loud its beg.


    ¡°So,¡± Tokken breathed, ¡°to live violently is honesty to you?¡±


    Meschae looked at that knife and nodded, his doubts of the teen washed away. ¡°Aye, that¡¯s how I sees it. An¡¯ now, I want ya to stick by, ¡®less I live a lil¡¯ more honest-like now.¡± His one hand opened again, unveiling a new ball of a white flame whose gusts boiled away the sweat on Tokken¡¯s face.


    The eyes of Pride witnessed the chasm of destruction in Meschae¡¯s frigid pupils. ¡°That makes my next request a little easier.¡±


    Meschae ground his boot into his spent cigarette. ¡°Pipe it out.¡±


    ¡°I want to meet the impostor that subsumed Noire.¡±


    ¡°Easy, he¡¯s down ¡®n that hick town southeast.¡±

 Chapter 14: The Me the Heavens Made

    Mhaieiyu


    Arc 3, Chapter 14


    The Me the Heavens Made


    His plummet was inevitable.


    The young boy had seen battle in the form of one man¡ªa Celestial man¡ªwhose mind gorged on brutality and sleep if nothing else. This sir was a disgrace to morals: not driven by mayhem nor madness, path or plight; simply a rancorous urge. An urge that slept just under his skin, or a frustration that desired exit once in a while, and what a perfect dummy for such a cause the twisted angel had been appointed.


    A defenceless man whose body would break, and then unbreak, to be broken again. Of course it was actually a boy, he found out ¡ª he was told as much when he was first tasked, but he¡¯d dozed through the details, never one to revel in burden; a disgrace to morals and to his flock. It was amazing his wings hadn¡¯t been severed sooner, allowed to stay only by ruling of that previous Skyborn Major ¡ª the same that permitted this unreason to take place. And for what purpose, she asked herself?


    Her name was Aquila, the grey-feathered Hawk that watched the arena from a higher ground, hidden behind panes of an impossibly strong crystal glass. She¡¯d asked herself that question several times now, and again each time she watched the young Emris get pummelled within an inch of his life, or well past what a mortal¡¯s body could endure. To Tygrith¡¯s vile satisfaction, no amount of damage would spell an end to the Guardian¡¯s life ¡ª he by no means possessed the power to fell one such as he. But until the boy learned, Tygrith could relish unbridled in the pain he inflicted.


    Emris struggled to rise to his feet, his experiences thus far teaching him the futility of languishing in his agony. Whether it splintered his bones further made no difference, he just had to keep himself mobile. Tygrith offered the boy a modicum of mercy today, entirely due to his sluggish composure. His speed and interest were lagging, but his blows were still destructive forces nonetheless. Emris hadn¡¯t yet developed much power for his own, but understood basic defensive manoeuvres, criss-crossing his arms to take the worst of Tygrith¡¯s wrath, though it ached the muscles in his forearms to a point he couldn¡¯t bring himself to fight back. Twice he had cast his birthright shields, and twice they were dispelled without much thought. His one true purpose was so delicate that it developed a well of grief in the young Guardian, his guard too weak to even protect himself. The day¡¯s session ended with a whistle, seconds after Tygrith had pushed Emris¡¯ brains out his temples with a hammer-fall of his fist.


    The ruthless ¡®mentor¡¯ departed the room with an uncouth look on his face, casting a single glance toward the overseeing angels whilst strictly avoiding Aquila¡¯s gaze. With an unceremonious wave he was out, back to his life of laze.


    Two Celestials of short hierarchy descended toward the broken Guardian and made an effort to accelerate his healing with their light-becoming magic, that of the Illuminative kind, before shuffling him off to his quarters barely conscious. Aquila watched this, a hand unknowingly pressed against the crystal, which noticed only when one of the overseers ushered it off, as not to stain and disturb its transparency.


    ¡°You look morose, Bladancer. Please, you mustn¡¯t ill your mind with these sights,¡± a pleasant voice gently said behind her.


    Aquila had no need to turn around. The seniority in that voice belonged to one alone. With an awkward smile, she nodded. ¡°It is my duty to watch over the young during their practising years, Chairman Apollo. I just can¡¯t fathom this method.¡±


    The old archangel joined her in sympathetic quietness, uncertainty hanging from their necks as they watched the arena be cleaned in earnest. Its fine, soothing sands had been morbidly carpeted in all manner of unmentionable matter. Apollo lowered his head, no doubt ashamed of the present.


    He didn¡¯t turn to face her either when he said, ¡°I have nothing to offer in this regard, it is not in our own good to question the Skyborn¡¯s ways, feeble as that may seem¡­¡±


    Aquila didn¡¯t respond.


    ¡°Perhaps there is some light in this, Aquila? Something we humbler folk cannot see?¡±


    ¡°My mentorship must be flawed if this is the correct way forward.¡±


    ¡°Please, don¡¯t shed tears,¡± Apollo hushed softly, holding her hand, ¡°We must withhold our reservations and make peace with this. The Skyborn mustn¡¯t be questioned. If you have any animosity for this, please, direct it toward me and the Principalities.¡±


    Aquila wiped her eye and looked down at the old soul. She could see in him the same sadness, but understood he couldn¡¯t express it. With a little smile, she lowered herself to caress his back. ¡°It is alright. I could never shower anger on such a gentle being. If this is how it must be, I will endure it, and make my apologies to the Guardian afterwards. It is a shame though. I¡¯m sure he would have much preferred to spar with the featherlings.¡±


    ¡°Speaking of which, I¡¯ve heard good of the selection for this Guardianship?¡± Apollo murmured.


    ¡°Yes, the Bow has been picked, and the Sword is nearly chosen. One Lyth and Erica for the latter. Two fine young girls, each a spirit unto their own.¡±


    ¡°A female entourage, I see. It has been long.¡±


    ¡°Indeed. I have confidence they will serve him rightfully. This staying true,¡± Aquila grinned, ¡°there has been a surprising turn of events among the candidates. A bit of a late bloomer, I will admit¡­¡±


    Apollo¡¯s curiosity made itself evident when his tired eyes opened once more.


    ¡°I divine Dear Mother intended his to be a Swan, but he has embraced his Hawkness, and to no disappointment, either.¡±


    The sound of a third being entered the room, putting an end to their conversation. This other person¡¯s presence overwhelmed the senses and demanded acknowledgement from the elder. It was a Celestial of significant stature and blinding white radiance, adorned with many a shining and great wing. His face, too, was devoured by the light, though forever a smile could be gathered if you looked past the glare. It didn¡¯t take long to deduce the magnitude of their significance.


    A few words were exchanged between he and the old one, whereas the lady charged with steering the youth to battle kept her gaze on the now empty and clean arena. Apollo wished her well before departing, urging her to rest. Aquila nodded to him. She refused any reverence to the Skyborn.


    Tygrith was the name that had slit in gashes across the young Guardian¡¯s mind and soul. Ever since the day he first heard that name, Emris was plagued with the excruciating daily task of endeavouring to survive that demented wing-blessed. No amount of effort was sufficient. Emris¡¯ private life had been compressed into figuring out how best to stay Tygrith¡¯s advance. Nothing else occupied his mind. In doing this, Emris understood the depth of this assignment: he was being forced to intuit his technique in a brusque, natural fashion. Damned be all if he didn¡¯t wish to be under Aquila¡¯s guidance instead. Her blissful, encouraging and still strict tutorage was vastly preferred, but no matter how many times the youngling insisted, his superiors wouldn¡¯t have it. He could approach them without effort, be greeted in kind, but these pleas fell to the deaf alone.


    Emris stopped relying on others for salvation. The Celestials had taught him not to bother. Their gracefulness was spared for those deserving, or truly needing, perhaps. Though it hurt¡ªit hurt so much¡ªEmris was technically at no real risk of danger; that is, his life was safe. The Guardian¡¯s blood could be spilled a thousand times over.


    So here, in his enviable silver-and-topaz room, after his dinner, Emris dedicated sleeping hours toward self-defence. With each passing day he would sit and contemplate the many ways his ¡®mentor¡¯ had crippled him, and thought of inventive ways to overcome them. Emris knew his torment wouldn¡¯t end until he could prove he could overcome his assignment ¡ª until he could outdo that slovenly brute.


    The sound of his bones, he remembered them.


    Idealising, conceptualising, strategising. He¡¯d experiment over and over. He had to. What else was there to do?


    The tears at his innards, he still felt them.


    He could push aside his knuckles and duck under, or swivel after parrying with one of his weak guards, or push through the pain and deflect the harassment. If he timed Tygrith¡¯s hands, Emris could surprise him.


    But his eyes had been ripped from their sockets before.


    No matter, he could listen for cues.


    But his ears would ring from the blows to his head.


    It¡¯s alright, he thought: I can time it.


    His mind, spilled over the floor, couldn¡¯t piece together any kind of arrangement.


    No matter what he came up with, no matter the confidence he owned for tomorrow, he would be disproven. Tygrith would see a feeble rebuttal and crush it to ash. Of course he could ¡ª he had hundreds of years of wisdom versus Emris¡¯ few. How long had it been, since he was born?


    How long had it been since he was awoken from inert flesh?


    Why did he have to be so different? Athena, his predecessor, had bested her trial and left this tomb of violence at age six. She was so effective, she barely needed instruction. Was that why he was being put up to this?


    Was that why he was being put up to this?


    Was that why he wasn¡¯t being given instruction?


    Because of Athena? Because of Athena? Because of her? Because of her, a natural-born, he was subject to this? But he was humble flesh. His own skin wasn¡¯t his own. This body was a wingless copy of someone else¡¯s. His hands and arms, destroyed countless times by that man, weren¡¯t his to command. He was borrowing them.Stolen story; please report.


    Emris didn¡¯t exist. He was a copy-cat. A disgusting Chameleon lookalike. If he reverted to his core form, he would fit on a dinner plate. ¡®So how, Aquila?¡¯ he thought to himself. ¡®So how, ______?¡¯


    ¡®And why did you make me, ______?¡¯


    To see how easy it was to do what Victus did.


    ¡°I¡¯m getting tired of this shite,¡± Tygrith moaned unto no-one.


    Another day above the yellow glow of those tender sands, once more matted with just blood upon blood. Emris had tried yet again to come up with something, only to have his shallow hopes crushed by a kick to the side so fierce it tore a rib, piercing his lung and heart.


    The supposed mentor looked down at this and, for once, gave the impression that he was genuinely disappointed. ¡°I ain¡¯t feeling it, nay. Borboris, Fluere!¡± Tygrith snapped his teeth to say, his foot still pressing on the boy¡¯s squashed leg. ¡°Tell those pompous fuckin¡¯ Principalities I¡¯m takin¡¯ leave for a few. Been at this for too long.¡±


    The two Celestials called, sitting by the top of the staircase to the sands, sidled each other with a look. As the male fidgeted to speak, Fluere stood up at attention and said, ¡°I don¡¯t think that¡¯s an option, Tygrith. The Guardian¡¯s training carries priority¡ª¡ª¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t give a shite,¡± Tygrith¡¯s derision flared, ¡°The blighter¡¯s not going anywhere. Haven¡¯t seen a lick o¡¯ progress since I started this racket. I¡¯ve had it.¡± Turning his back to the whole, the slob made way for the back exit to his quarters, fully intent on hibernating an octave or more. ¡°Just tell the boss his lab meat ain¡¯t cutting it and send me a real fuckin¡¯ Guardian.¡±


    The slam of the door behind him echoed around the expanse of the room, falling especially heavy on Emris¡¯ ears. He realised then that his assumption was incorrect, that he wasn¡¯t safe in the slightest. The impossible task of defeating his teacher had a time limit. He had to do it, but how?


    His mind poured, not responding to the soft remarks of good effort from his Celestial peers as they picked him up. His every thought clung to those words. If Emris didn¡¯t succeed soon, the considerations for his termination would only grow. It made sense. The Guardian¡¯s importance as the shield of allkind couldn¡¯t be underestimated. The people needed his invincible aid. Emris was far from invincible. He would soon be replaced.


    For the next nine days and nine nights, Emris dedicated his every conscious moment to the effort that now carried a lifetime of significance. Motivation to live carried him forward. His muscles would burn and his bones would fall apart in his own bedroom just trying to piece the blueprints to his survival, and so it was alright. He was immortal until the Celestials decided it was enough.


    ¡®Until the Celestials kill me.¡¯


    The stray thought hit the young man as hard stone. He could endure anything and survive, that much he knew; it was only them who posed a threat to his existence. If not for Tygrith¡¯s judgement, he would be able to live on. If it weren¡¯t for the people¡¯s need, he could live without fear. It wasn¡¯t his enemy that could do him in, but his own ward and his own creed.


    The Celestials would be his killers.


    Emris¡¯ training paused. He stopped shadow boxing, or imagining what tactics Tygrith had used. He stopped idealising combat mechanics, deflections or techniques to best him. A state of catatonia took over his body.


    He sat on his bed. Tygrith alone wasn¡¯t his concern, but the entire flock. The whole Legion could plot against him, and he knew there was no overcoming that. So, instead, how could he survive this? How could he survive them? Must he prove the impossible just to earn their favour? And what if it wasn¡¯t enough? Sweat began to bead from his fingertips. His pupils, pinpricks, danced around the possibilities. The probabilities. The experience of death, a sweet kiss away. He couldn¡¯t afford to stay still for every second contributed to his judgement the passing that would soon overcome him the poor praise of his supervisors the disdain from his tutor the Skyborn and his radius of influence they would all soon cast him away as unnecessary insufficient and irrelevant.


    That a new Guardian should take his place? Awful, this couldn¡¯t be.


    To be granted life only for it to be taken away? Abhorrent, please don¡¯t.


    Truly, Seraph of Death Selena, what an awful plight you have bestowed us.


    Truly, Jealous God Mortos, what a terrible thing you¡¯ve wrought upon us.


    The feeble boy¡¯s stomach turned to knots, his blood slowed to the cold, his heart unsteadied its beat, his fingers locked, his hair messied, his face wrinkled, his shoulders shook, his legs shook, his arms shook, his body shook.


    There was a knock on the door.


    Emris threw himself awake, electricity manning his limbs and setting him in motion in a bang. The heavy clack of his feet on the cold stone made it all the more graceless. From the entrance, a face peered in. A wise face, a kind one. Emris¡¯ tension lessened when his ideal mentor in a parallel world, Aquila, stepped in his residence.


    ¡°Lady Bladancer,¡± Emris dutifully called, addressing her by her given title: one she¡¯d carved quite literally with her silk-and-weave sword technique.


    ¡°Settle, my little Guardian,¡± she soothed in kind, watching his eyes cautiously. He was fairly tall, given his transformational nature. ¡°Come.¡±


    In the presence of his only comfort, Emris was remarkably obedient. His sudden rushen thoughts paralysed; the Guardian rested on a knee and he kept his gaze to the floor, accordingly. He waited, then, for a few seconds. Nothing seemed to be happening, and the tension brewed concern. But not for long. Slowly, the swordstress¡¯ hand buried in the many hairs atop the repaired Guardian¡¯s head. She brushed them, kneaded and scratched his scalp, slid her fingers down his nape. Then, she palmed either side of his head.


    ¡°Aquila?¡± Emris whispered.


    ¡°Still, now,¡± she whispered back, a faint crack slipping in her voice.


    He kept still, and let her tend to him. Aquila¡¯s touch was reminiscent to a feeling not granted to the boy: a motherly one. He received this touch and calmed, inhaling deeply. Her scent was one of a misplaced nostalgia, her slightly coarse digits demonstrated the marring common with an experienced duelist. He had no doubt in his mind that her equals were few, and betters a handful. He¡¯d gathered such off the textures alone. Ignorant an opinion it may have been, but true all the same.


    This was pity, Emris knew so. This feeble attempt to give herself pardon for allowing his torment. It was disgraceful.


    ¡°It¡¯s all well, Lady Aquila.¡±


    But he allowed it.


    ¡°I forgive you.¡±


    A sharp breath caught in her throat. Ever a Celestial, she covered it up by bringing him close in a solid pull. She kept his head locked firmly in her arms, and begged quietly for Victus above to give mercy to this poor boy. The Bladancer understood that the Guardian would one day loathe Celestials and the Legion as one.


    His plummet was inevitable.


    Emris¡¯ fist rose from the pound of meat with a slick sludge of scarlet, carrying in its riverfall a trail of white fragments. The Guardian ripped his hand from the mess he¡¯d made, his forearm covered in the stuff, whereas his other hugged the better portion of the bike he drove on, still squeaking ecstatically from its sudden stop. Emris looked at his sticky hand, a memory invading his mind. It had been ages since he fled from his home, why was he thinking of it now?


    What was the point of denying his knowledge? The whispers of the King growing louder by day spelt it obvious. Death loomed, he feared. A certain one. One not constrained by moral, as it had been back then.


    Back then, to die would have been cruel. To be killed would be wrong. But now, with time burning short, it became less a question of correctness and more a matter of great urgency. More than once he pondered how selfish it would be to force his life on. He didn¡¯t want to die ¡ª an ironic thought, now.


    He unbent his knees, standing up to meet the height of the shattered windows around him. The Crimsoneers had made a hell of an entrance, no doubt. The Galloping had likely been redirected to invade the homes of the innocent. This brutal act, it was obvious who the evil ones were in all this. The Celestials, however, he didn¡¯t vouch for either. He wondered, then, if anyone was actually as good as the veils they¡¯d crowned themselves with.


    Why was he thinking so much? He missed the whiskey, is all. He couldn¡¯t stop now. Emris intended to hop on his bike when a sudden noise grafted new intentions in his mind. He heard a loud flame erupt from the heavens and watched from below. The flame of anger that he recognised. His teeth showed like a predator.


    ? ? ? ?


    A figure of good didn¡¯t seem to exist, even in the heavens. Whether it were devils proliferating their sin or angels carving warriors from blood; the Yanksee Kingdom overpowered by libertines, and a united nation captained by lawless militaries. Financial burden, power struggles, religious contempt. The world had established itself as a feeding trough of individual appetites spawning conflict ¡ª but Amar Harvirillian was an exception.


    Here he stood, amidst unkind men and monsters around, the hero of the M¨¦nage. In this square, accompanied and fighting alone, his legendary sword, Omnibia, possessed an angry red aura, fiery with the heat of its unnatural movement. Amar felt sweat fuse his gambison to his skin. His weapon was made for defence instead of offence. This battle would be one of attrition, where the only victory he could hope for is some kind of assistance.


    ¡°I¡¯m utterly flattered to test your will,¡± the lady Ordained, Aurielle, said, her necklaces clattering in a chime. ¡°Yours is hardier than any giant I have faced.¡±


    ¡°Your words are awfully kind,¡± Amar gasped among ragged breaths, ¡°if only you could spare me a moment¡­¡±


    ¡°But I can¡¯t,¡± Aurielle was soft to say in reply, before a new cluster of the damned leapt mindlessly at the hero¡¯s ward. Once more, Amar repelled the lot in due course, a smudge in wind, returning to his post with a more tired complexion.


    ¡°For the Saintess¡¯ sake, Amar, let me shoot her!¡± one of the Yanskies bemoaned, standing with his heavy rifle in arms. He was about fed up with the Crawlers¡¯ close bites to his ankles.


    ¡°Don¡¯t,¡± Amar insisted, holding down his barrel. ¡°Observe her wares. She bears Charms, among them a rather stout one. She comes to a battle ridden with rifles, and yet she is the only cultist showing her head to the army. Surely, one of them will prevent her downfall, and the consequences may be too much to survive.¡±


    The soldier grit his teeth, feeling entirely useless. Amar brought his lips close to his ear and whispered, ¡°Observe the windows and find the others. If any rear their head, keep tabs and prepare to fire if things go awry.¡±


    ¡°What if they don¡¯t pop out?¡±


    Another soldier popped her head up, finding a stroke of hope in the Harvie¡¯s words. ¡°They surely need some kind of understanding of their surroundings if they issue a command to their monsters, don¡¯t you think?¡±


    Aurielle, too amused by the sight of soldiers huddled together, spread her arms forward. ¡°I must insist, treasured ones! We will stand here until your reserves are depleted, after which we will have no choice but to have our spawn devour you. Please, undo this cruelty and accept God into your bounding hearts!¡±


    Covered in sweat and red from the heat, Amar still chuckled. ¡°I¡¯ll reject that offer, but thank you.¡±


    Aurielle¡¯s compassion twisted into an expression of a want for carnage. ¡°Then whatever more can we do?¡±


    A new grouping of Crawlers sprung forth, but matters were worse than first seemed. A shake of the earth alerted that one of the Bulkheads that sealed their exits had broken from its formation, rearing its head to collide with Amar¡¯s guard. The soldiers, terrified, were quick to fire uselessly upon said beast, their bullets ricocheting off its hard armour. Amar clenched his teeth, grounding himself as the beast smashed into the flat of his sword. Though it seemed impossible, the nature of Omnibia forced the creature to halt, even as its plated hooves dragged mightily against the floor, skinning it of brick.


    ¡°Fire at the stragglers, hurry!¡± Amar commanded, the gravity of their circumstances becoming dire.


    Only a handful of the dozen managed the will to lock their aim on the coming Crawlers, firing at their legs to slow them to a crawl. Try as they might, only one of their guns were big enough to kill the things, feeding their panic, growing their screams.


    Amar steadied himself, a trail of blood trickling from his left nostril and ear. Aurielle¡¯s plan was proving almost too fruitful, cornering the powerhouse by coercing his nature. His heroism¡ªhis goodness¡ªwould kill him, as this world so prophesied.


    Aurielle watched in earnest, her head tilting to get a better view of the skirmish. ¡°It¡¯s dreadful, isn¡¯t it?¡± Her twisted smile took a perverse satisfaction that her religion basked in all the more. ¡°Brutal proof, can you see? Look about thee, and observe what you¡¯ve sworn to. Look where it has brought you. Can¡¯t you see it?¡± Lowering her head and putting out her palms, her lips curled to the edges of her face and she said, ¡°Proof of our sin, of the purpose of our King: let us be renewed and rid of all of them, all of us, and leave only the likes of you.¡±