《The Wandering Sword》


 Prologue

    The flames of the bonfires and torches danced under the starry evening sky, illuminating their banners in the vast camp. Half of the soldiers rested inside their tents, while the other half patrolled the area, wearing armor and chain-mail. Some took the opportunity to sharpen and polish their weapons, from swords and crossbows to spears and halberds. Despite the purpose of their establishment, a great tranquility permeated the air.


    A false tranquility.


    Not far from them, elusive figures traversed the grasslands of a plain, dragging wheeled cannons with stealthy steps, akin to a feline. They halted when they were within good range of their targets. The men clenched their teeth, drops of sweat caused by the heat and anxiety trickled down their faces in a salty cascade.


    After a few minutes, they heard the signal they had been waiting for: the galloping hooves of several dozen horses approaching from behind.


    The soldiers in the camp, suspecting what was happening upon hearing the movement, went out to investigate its source, only to be met with an unpleasant surprise.


    The artillerymen aimed at the camp and fired their weapons. With a deafening roar, flaming cannonballs shot out like a meteor shower. Entire tents were set ablaze violently. Amid agonizing screams and cries, dozens of soldiers fell to the fire or the deadly impact of the projectiles. The parts of the camp that were spared from being hit were engulfed in panic and confusion. The soldiers who had just emerged from their rest were not prepared to face the nightmare before their eyes.


    Meanwhile, the riders abruptly halted and formed a formation that encircled the enemy. The artillerymen withdrew and took refuge behind them. Unlike their victims, they wore lightweight wool and cotton garments, with reinforced leather pieces and helmets adorned with feathers and turbans.


    Satisfied with the results of the initial offensive, the leader of the attack smiled and stroked his long black beard.


    "Faricums! Crush the infidel invaders!" he ordered his men, unsheathing a curved and elongated saber in front of him. "For the glory of Senshan!"


    The cavalry launched into a rapid charge towards the camp, brutally striking the defenseless survivors with their lances and swords. Following in their footsteps, groups of friendly swordsmen ventured on foot and engaged in combat with the few enemies who still refused to die. With their superior mobility and maneuverability, they easily overpowered the clumsier and slower armored warriors.


    From the edge of a nearby steep hill, a young man attentively observed the confrontation with his sky-blue eyes. He spoke:


    "They fell into our trap."


    A serene smile appeared on his handsome face with fair skin, a Greek nose, a thin beard, and mischievous eyebrows. His hair was black, straight, and reached his neck, styled on both sides. A light suit of scarlet and articulated plates covered his entire body except for his head. On the left side of his chest was an elaborate relief in the shape of a red rose.


    Taking advantage of his apparent distraction, an enemy soldier attacked him from behind with a curved blade, but only managed to cut a few strands of hair. The swordsman easily evaded the attack and unsheathed his dazzling rapier. He touched his opponent''s neck with the tip, instantly leaving him senseless.


    The lone swordsman found himself facing six other adversaries armed with sabers, who had come to the aid of their fallen comrade.


    "It''s about time, I was starting to get bored," he retorted with irony, extending his sword toward them with a challenging and confident smile.


    The warriors lunged at him simultaneously, attempting to strike him with vertical and horizontal cuts, which he evaded with graceful movements and bends like a dancer. His sword slid along the blade of one of them until it reached his chest, then he swiftly executed a horizontal spin, striking the throats of two others. Within seconds, three out of the six had been brought down before they could react.


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    While his battle continued, the enemy forces below the hill had just destroyed the entire camp. The warriors raised their swords and spears to the sky in victorious cheers.


    But...


    "Eh?!"


    Their celebration was abruptly interrupted as they witnessed something that left them breathless.


    "What is this?!"


    Like dust carried by the wind, the corpses and wreckage they had left behind vanished without a trace, revealing a pristine plain with small mounds of scattered earth. They had fired their cannons and brandished their swords against a mirage.


    Before they could further investigate what had happened, a series of powerful explosions erupted beneath their feet. Most of them perished, swallowed by the earth or consumed by the blue flashes. The troops who believed they had achieved victory ended up suffering a overwhelming defeat in the blink of an eye.


    With the same ease with which he had defeated the previous opponents, the swordsman from the hill defeated the remaining three adversaries with precise thrusts and strikes of his sword, like flashes of silver in a storm. Such was his skill that neither his face nor his armor had suffered a scratch during their brief encounter.


    In the distance, the leader of the attackers stared in horror and bewilderment at the newly created graveyard of his once numerous units.


    "Hilil senshan..." he murmured.


    Galloping at full speed until he stopped by his side, a rider arrived, one of the few survivors of the massacre.


    "Dibi!" he exclaimed, clearly shaken. "It was all an illusion! The infidels have deceived us with sorcery!"


    "What?! Sorcery?!" he responded, agitated.


    A long arrow pierced the messenger''s chest before he could deliver his discouraging news. The terrified leader searched the surroundings for the rest of his personal guard, only to find their bodies lying on the ground.


    He felt a slight prick in his left shoulder. As he lowered his gaze, he found a small dart embedded in it. Quickly, he felt his senses dulling until his vision blurred, and he fell backward from his horse, which fled in terror.


    It seems there were no unforeseen events. The operation has been a success, the swordsman judged with delight, observing the events from the hill. Then, he turned his attention to the soldiers he had defeated minutes before. Despite being motionless and fallen, not a drop of blood flowed from their bodies.


    Perhaps they will provide us with some useful information if we''re not lucky with their leader, he analyzed thoughtfully, glancing at his sword, its tip completely blunt. They were so confident that they didn''t see the need to bring their true aces up their sleeves. The reason why the Holy Houses of Elvira have come here. They have no idea what awaits them.


    The swordsman triumphantly pointed his sword at his unconscious opponents.


    "What were you thinking challenging me? Santario Monteros" he exclaimed with playful arrogance. "The greatest swordsman in all of Elvira!"


    After saying it, he burst into laughter, making fun of his own pretentious and childish remarks.


    "The greatest swordsman in all of Evirna?"


    "Ah?!"


    Santario abruptly stopped his laughter upon hearing that voice, which made him jump. Its coldness, smooth yet sharp and elegantly virile, sent shivers down his spine.


    A silhouette emerged from the corner of a tree trunk a few meters away. It was literally a dark knight, clad in armor as black as the night itself, barely distinguishable thanks to the moonlight and the stars reflecting off its surface. An intimidating helmet with three straight horns concealed his face completely.


    A gust of wind blew in his direction, causing his violet cape to flutter. The tall and athletic knight stood in a majestic posture, facing Santario with a long double-edged sword held in his left hand, as dazzling as his counterpart''s.


    "You bastard!" Santario shouted.


    Sharp edges like razors and a pointed tip like a spear appeared on the swordsman''s rapier, which he fiercely directed towards his new and mysterious opponent like a dragon''s claw.


    "Did you say... you were the greatest swordsman in all of Evirna?" the knight repeated his question calmly and politely.


    Santario blinked a couple of times, taken aback by his peculiar demeanor, which was far from that of an enemy warrior in a fight to the death.


    "Yes, that''s right. Santario Monteros, heir of the House of the Royal Rose," he defensively replied, keeping his guard up. "And it''s Elvira, not Evirna."


    "I see..."


    The knight briefly averted his gaze. He closed his eyes and smiled with closed lips behind his helmet.


    "In that case..." He returned his gaze to the swordsman and held his sword with both hands, tilting it challengingly towards him. "You will have the honor of facing Shehor. The greatest swordsman in all of New Eynsof."


    Both furrowed their brows, gripping their hilts tightly.


    "On guard!"

 C1-1: The Beginning of the Journey! The Legend of Legends

    "If thou art reading these words, it can only signify one of two things: thou art a foolish dreamer who seeketh to inflate thine ego by becoming a legend of songs and epic chronicles, like many others before thee, or thou art like unto myself, a different kind of na?ve and innocent soul, born with the path of the Way flowing within thy blood.


    "If thou belongest to the first group, this book is not for thee. Close it, forget it, and never open it again. But if thou belongest to the second, as I am certain thou dost, then proceed forthwith.


    "The Way is not merely a manual for the warrior; it is a way of life that aligneth thee with the nature of all things. It leaveth no room for concern over the ''forging of legends'' and other trifling concepts, insignificant to the invisible and immortal forces that govern this world.


    "...".


    Amethyst eyes read with concentration the words of a yellowed page floating in front of him like a surreal specter.


    "...


    "For the true legend is one that begins without intending to be a legend. It is the legend that is sown like a seed within the heart and sprouts in a sea of infinite spirals beyond mortal comprehension and the understanding of their gods. There is no legend more legendary than the one thou inscribest within thyself with the edge of its spirit.


    "That is the legend of legends, the most supreme and authentic legend of legends, the true legend of legends, the noblest and primordial of legends. The mother legend of today''s legends, the legends of yesterday, the legends of the day before yesterday, the legends of the day after tomorrow, and the legends of the day after the day after tomorrow... I reckon with this thou canst grasp the notion of legends.


    "...".


    "As the years go by and I reread this segment, my initial conclusion is reinforced: my Master wrote it while drunk¡­" judged his reader out loud, with a chivalrous voice befitting his armor, black as coal, covering his entire body. He was barely illuminated by the light of his "book," projected by an orange gem he held in his right hand, and the flame of his small torch, which he held in his left. A helmet with three straight and short vertical horns completely concealed his face; his eyes were barely visible due to the darkness of its slits.


    "...


    ¡°Wilt thou be able to reach the end of the Way?"


    With that eloquent question, the introduction of the extensive text came to an end.


    A small detonation to his right caught the knight''s attention; his violet cape and the sheath of his sword shook slightly as he turned towards its origin. He observed a black whirlpool with flashing discharges at the center of a crystalline mirror embedded in the walls of a cave.


    At last... I swore it would be summoned faster.


    The knight placed the torch in a nearby holder, letting go of it. Then, he closed his "book," stowed it in a special case, and stood centimeters away from the generated portal.


    "When thou striketh as swift and potent as a lightning bolt.


    "When thou learnest to meld with shadows and silence, to flow with thine surroundings like a stream of wind.


    "When thine heart and warrior spirit burneth like fire, yet thine mind remaineth ever calm and serene like the waters of a lake.


    "At that moment, thou shalt be solidifying thy progress upon the Way, and it shall be thy signal to return. The gate of the mirror shall open unto thee, and by invoking its power, thou shalt have to cross.


    "Beyond it, the journey to the end of the Way awaiteth thee."


    Vividly, that other excerpt from the book appeared in his memories, which he had memorized perfectly for years.


    The time has come.


    The knight swallowed saliva and, with a short leap, entered the portal.


    Electric flashes in a dark tunnel flickered and dazzled him from all directions, feeling as he was propelled forward with a strong and straight pull aimed at a distant light on the horizon. He couldn''t move a muscle, but he sensed how the distance to the light was rapidly closing, as if the space between both ends was folding and merging like a sheet of paper.


    Before he realized it, he landed, squatting on the other side of the mirror. As he stood up, he found himself in a similar but smaller cave, illuminated by narrow straight fissures that allowed sunlight from the outside to enter.


    Incredible! It was exactly as described! the knight thought, still amazed that the powers of that mirror were genuine. Now I just have to see if it took me to the city of Cirencre... The first thing I should see is that grand dome according to the manual.


    He approached the fissures, which formed a doorway. To the left of it, there was a small rectangular panel. The knight pressed it with the palm of his left hand, and soon it began to glow with a faint bluish light. The ground shook a little. Sliding slowly, the hidden door began to open. The knight was bathed in countless rays of sunlight that made his armor gleam.


    "Phew!" he emitted a short whistle as he exited the door and marveled at the elevated and magnificent perspective granted by the hill where he stood.


    Cirencre, a city of beautiful multi-story stone and brick houses, observation towers, and a huge marble cathedral in its center. A wide dome protruded from almost its entire front end, with a bronze wheel at the pinnacle. To the east of the city, an extensive harbor could be distinguished, with several sailboats docked at its piers.


    "It''s... fantastic," the knight murmured. The door behind him closed again, blending with a small rock behind him. It''s more beautiful than I imagined¡­


    Encouraged, the dark knight began to descend the hill, following a path through a park with lush vegetation that led him to one of the city''s cobblestone streets. The crowds around him moved aside as he passed, observing him with astonishment and extreme caution, especially noticing the intricate white diamond-shaped pattern on his violet cape. The knight was too distracted admiring the architecture of the buildings to notice this strange behavior.


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    Along his way, he reached for a canteen hanging over his right shoulder.


    Damn it... I forgot to fill it at the waterfall before coming, he lamented, noticing its lack of liquid and starting to feel plagued by thirst. He focused his attention on an establishment in front of him, whose sign hanging on its facade indicated that it was a bar-inn with an allusive illustration. Luckily, I wasn''t so absent-minded as to come without coins.


    He walked up to the entrance and pushed the door, stepping into its dim interiors, with a reception on the right and a spacious bar on the left. Groups of men conversed amidst shouts and laughter as they drank overflowing glasses at tables and the end of the bar, with its owner attending to them and engaging in friendly conversation.


    The knight completely ignored the reception and headed for the bar. As soon as he set foot in it, the customers and employees noticed his presence. Their mouths closed in a sepulchral silence, and their faces turned pale as snow. It was as if death itself had made an appearance.


    The owner, a fat man with a wrinkled face, gray beard and hair, stared motionless in fear as his unexpected visitor stopped behind the bar.


    "Good afternoon, sir," the knight greeted him cordially.


    "W-What... What do you want?! What brings you here?!" the owner nervously interrogated, his eyes wide open.


    "Water, to fill my canteen," he replied, observing him and his employees with innocent curiosity. What''s the matter with them? Why are they so uneasy? Don''t they see wandering knights often? the traveler wondered.


    "Ah... You want water?" the owner reiterated with a forced smile, trying to confirm that he had said that and not what he had expected.


    "Yes, please," the knight confirmed, nodding slightly. "Do I need to pay anything?"


    "No! Not at all!"


    The owner turned to a blonde employee behind the bar, who was as petrified as he was.


    "Ainora!" he called her by name. "Bring water!" She still hadn''t snapped out of it, so he snapped his fingers. "Quickly!"


    After that more imperative shout, the employee went to a small pantry behind her and retrieved a clay jug, which she placed shakily on the counter.


    "Thank thee," the knight said politely. He opened his canteen and filled it with the water from the jug.


    As he did so, the man rummaged through drawers in desperation. He took out a couple of bags and placed them on the table.


    "Look!" he exclaimed nervously, revealing the contents of the bags: several handfuls of golden and silver coins. "Authentic Niespal gold! Dortman silver! It''s all yours!"


    "Thou art most gracious, good sir!" exclaimed the knight merrily, utterly misconstruing the man''s intentions. Having completed the task of refilling his canteen, he continued, "But verily, there is no necessity for thee to bestow thy generous gift. Mine purpose was solely to replenish my canteen... Farewell! Once more, I express my gratitude!"


    He turned his back after saying goodbye and proceeded to leave the premises.


    "Huh?!"


    All the tables in the establishment had been completely vacated.


    Where did everyone go? he wondered, bewildered. Oh, right!


    Suddenly, he remembered something important, causing him to turn back towards the bar.


    "Pardon me, good sir, I am journeying to Netzach. Knowest thou the way...? Perchance not..."He faltered, unable to complete his question upon realizing that the owner and his staff had vanished as well.


    How peculiar... The knight scratched his helmet. Maybe they were closing for their restful hour... he deduced. Well, I suppose I should return later.


    With the same tranquility he had upon entering, the knight exited the local tavern, strolling once more through the city streets, just as desolate as the bar. He lifted a portion of his helmet, allowing him to bring his canteen to his mouth.


    "Aaah..." He let out a great sigh of relief after taking a refreshing sip. He withdrew the canteen and lowered the piece again. "It is most refreshing!... Hm?"


    Soon, he spotted something that caught his attention, drawing him toward it with the fascination of a child at the entrance of a circus: a circular plaza adorned with a pair of realistic and intricately detailed marble sculptures. These depicted two warriors¡ªone in elegant light armor with his face uncovered, and the other taller figure donning a more voluminous full-body cuirass, billowing cape, and an impressive helmet featuring demonic visages on its sides and front, each adorned with a small pyramid-shaped horn upon their foreheads. The combatants crossed their weapons¡ªan elegant rapier and a formidable double-edged sword, respectively.


    It resembles my own! the knight noted, recognizing a few similarities between his armor and that of the more imposing warrior.


    Let me see...


    The knight lowered his gaze to a small plaque on a rock, describing the monument.


    "The Thunderblade that defies the Dimension Cutter."


    That was its name.


    Monument to the duel of Santario Monteros, Lord of the Holy House of the Royal Rose, against the Abiyr Junini of New Eynsof during the Battle of Cirencre in the Nefeshic Wars, on the 12th of Signos in the year 1077 A.H.R, he read from an inscription below.


    1077... Almost twenty years ago, precisely around the time of my own birth, the knight calculated, drawn to that detail. I wonder if those are the wars of which I heard tales during my training travels in Tiberland... Stories that spoke of a great war that transpired years past in a distant realm. A war in which the foremost maskirian kingdoms of Elvira and their ''great Holy Houses'' fought against an infernal army... He furrowed his brow, recalling tumultuous memories. I had the opportunity to personally encounter one of those Houses...


    His meditations were interrupted. He felt several individuals approaching him with a resounding trot from behind. Upon turning, he found rows of soldiers, armed with spears, swords, and round shields, standing in formation around him. Metal helmets resembling curved hats covered their heads, atop breastplates worn over lightweight garments. Their formations blocked all exits of the plaza.


    As expected, the knight was taken aback by their appearance.


    What are all these soldiers doing here? Is something amiss?


    One of the blocks of soldiers parted on both sides, making way for a tall and muscular man who strode through them with powerful footsteps. His armor, adorned with intricate ornamental reliefs in the shape of salamanders and additional protective plates, signified his status and superior rank. His face was rectangular, with a rugged nose and features against the warm whiteness of his skin. His eyes were gray, like his closely cropped hair, styled back into a pronounced widow''s peak. A goatee beard hung from his chin. Menacing steel spikes protruded from the head of a long mace he held in his right hand. An oblong shield was gripped by his left, protecting the upper half of his body.


    That insignia!... This individual must be a noble of that ¡®Royal Rose¡¯ Holy House, just like the one on the monument. The knight''s eyes focused on a relief in the shape of a rose on the left side of his chest, exactly like one of the statues he had just admired.


    "Good afternoon, Ser!" greeted the dark knight, bowing forward before taking a few steps closer to him. "Troubles in the city? Bandits, beasts, Ashaim?" he inquired.


    Impassive as a mountain, the stoic man with the mace and shield remained silent.


    "No matter what it may be, thy solution has arrived: Ser Mavros of Havenfalls. My wandering sword for thy Lordship''s safety," the dark knight introduced himself with a courteous tone befitting his self-proclaimed title. "Just say the word, and I shall be honored to offer thee my services."


    The man ignored him. His attention shifted to the onlookers in the nearby buildings, peering out to observe the scene from their windows. Mostly children and teenagers.


    "What are you all staring at?! Your lives are in danger!" he shouted at the top of his voice. "We have a demon among us! Hide yourselves immediately!"


    The young ones closed their windows and retreated, immediately frightened by those final and imperative exclamations.


    "Inan?! A demon?!" Mavros protested as he approached the leader of the troops, believing he had misheard.


    The soldiers escorting him lowered their weapons and assumed a defensive stance, pointing them towards the dark knight, forcing him to step back. Unintentionally and unable to avoid it, Ser Mavros would wage the first of many battles in his journey.

 C1-2: Ser Janpelan of Salamandera! The Devastating Morning Star

    Soft, white hands caressed the spines of a row of books on a shelf.


    It''s going to be a long journey... I should bring something to entertain myself along the way.


    Her owner, a young woman with grayish, wavy hair tied in a ponytail, ran her perceptive eyes of the same color over them, scanning their titles from left to right as she read. The light from outside, streaming in through the open entrance of a small balcony, illuminated her slender, moderately tall figure clad in a turquoise dress.


    She pulled out a couple of books, holding one in each hand.


    Which one should I take? ''The Lost Sagas of Ebalkurim'' or ''Voyages through the Sand Seas of Ayaria''? she wondered, contemplating their covers without being able to decide on one in particular. Hmm... I''ll take both.


    She finally decided with a playful smile, turning around to go to her bedroom. It was a simple yet well-decorated room, teetering between disorder and order. A large, heavy gray cloth backpack rested on the bed, onto which she placed the books.


    "Well," she said, placing her hands on her waist, admiring her belongings with satisfaction, "I think I''m ready now."


    Then she looked up at her tongue-and-groove ceiling. The abstract and colorful stains on the wooden boards made her daydream about her short-term prospects.


    "What are you all staring at?! Your lives are in danger!"


    "AH?!"


    An imperative shout from outside startled her awake.


    "We have a demon among us! Hide yourselves immediately!"


    Driven by curiosity and concern, the girl hurried to the balcony of her room, which offered her a privileged view of a nearby round plaza. She immediately spotted numerous groups of soldiers surrounding a dark knight.


    Father! Her eyes opened wide upon seeing him leading them.


    "Inan?! Demon?!" Startled by the serious accusations against him that echoed in the plaza, Ser Mavros of Havenfalls attempted to approach the troops'' leader to discuss and clarify the situation.


    However, spearheads and swords were extended towards him. The personal guard of the noble warrior stood in his way and forced him to step back.


    "Listen, I comprehendeth not the meaning of this affair, but verily it is a grievous error..." Mavros declared unto them, seeking to persuade them with gestures, his arms aloft and outstretched. "I am but a wandering knight traversing these realms. I am not the ''demon'' thou dost seeketh..."


    "An Abiyr masquerading as a wandering knight... how amusing," the mace-wielding leader mocked, his oblong shield and armor adorned with salamander motifs. "Just because several years have passed since we last saw you doesn''t mean we have forgotten. He turned to look over his right shoulder. "Marksmen!"


    From among the groups of soldiers armed with swords and spears, units of arquebusiers and crossbowmen emerged, taking positions in an orderly formation.


    "If you are merely a ''wandering knight'' as you claim, you shouldn''t be able to withstand this," he told Mavros, smirking maliciously. He turned to the marksmen. "Crossbowmen! Take aim!"


    The soldiers raised and aimed their crossbows and arquebuses at the dark knight.


    "Hark!," Mavros exclaimed in protest. "What manner of trial is this?! ''Tis not even equitable!"


    "Fire...! Wait!" Just before completing the order, the leader raised his left hand as a signal to halt, stopping his soldiers. His eyes anxiously focused on the sculpture behind their target. "Make sure none of your shots miss... if any of your arrows hit the monument, it will be the last shot you take in your entire service... understood?"


    He warned them with unsettling seriousness and murderous eyes that made them tremble. Each of the marksmen nodded silently.


    "Verily, ''tis commendable that thou dost cherish thine city''s heritage, yet there is no need to menace thy men thusly," Mavros criticized him, having overheard the entire conversation.


    "Shut up!" the leader snapped, irked by his unsolicited opinion. "Crossbowmen! Fire!"


    The crossbowmen touched their triggers.


    Mavros gripped the hilt of his sheathed sword.


    My armor should be able to repel the arrows, and even the projectiles from those firearms... but I''m not particularly eager to find it out. Mavros assessed his options. "If thou dost persist in this folly..."


    The crossbowmen finally pulled the triggers. Arrows were launched toward different parts of the knight.


    But¡­


    "It can''t be!"


    The troop leader exclaimed. Just as the arrows were about to pierce their target, Mavros executed a swift spin like the eye of a hurricane, swirling wind around his body. The arrows shattered and fell to the ground as if they had collided with a wall. Mavros completed his masterful spin, returning to face them with his unsheathed two-handed sword inclined forward.


    "Waste not thine arrows upon me!" Mavros shouted with great clamor. "I am no foe of thine!"


    Now the soldiers'' source of terror was their opponent. Their muscles trembled at the thought of having to engage in close combat with him after witnessing that impressive display. Even the arquebusiers were uncertain if their guns would have any effect.


    "Just as I expected... you stopped them effortlessly, as even the weakest Abiyr would," the leader took several steps forward. He was the only warrior who hadn''t been intimidated. "Soldiers! You have nothing to do here! Withdraw and guard all the streets leading to the plaza!" he ordered them. "I will take care of this bastard."


    "Yes, Ser Janpe!" They complied instantly, grateful that he no longer involved them in the tense situation. They turned in unison and walked away, leaving the two of them alone.


    "Now I know what you''re capable of. I brought my men just to test you," the warrior identified as ¡®Ser Janpe¡¯ by his men said to Mavros. "It would have been dangerous to have them nearby if I were to intervene, but now that they''re gone, nothing will restrain me."


    He raised his mace towards his head.


    "I, Ser Janpelan of Salamandera, from the House of the Royal Rose, will be your opponent!"


    Mavros narrowed his eyes, locking his gaze firmly with his courageous adversary.


    "Hm?"


    To his surprise, Janpelan watched as the knight sheathed his sword, replacing it with another weapon he had holstered on his back.


    "In such a circumstance..." Mavros flourished a metallic staff, exceeding five feet in length, clasping it with both hands. "Mine knightly code compelleth me not to shy away from thy challenge. On guard, Ser Janpelan!"


    An Abiyr in the city?! After decades of disappearance?!... Is my father going to fight an Abiyr?!


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    The girl on the balcony couldn''t help but worry, open-mouthed and filled with unease, witnessing him confront that individual, whom he had always insisted was only a thing of books and the stories he had told her when she was young.


    Suddenly, she overcame her nerves, furrowing her brow with determination.


    I must help him!


    She turned around, hurriedly venturing into her room to search for something.


    "Your sword," Ser Janpelan said to Mavros. "Why did you sheathe it?"


    "For I bear no intention of slaying thee," Mavros did answer. "If defeating thee in an equitable combat be the sole means to gain thine ear and persuade thee that I am not whom thou deemest me to be, then let it be so."


    How strange... He has the armor and inhuman skills of an Abiyr, but he doesn''t speak like one, Janpelan began to doubt his initial conclusions. That armor he''s wearing... Now that I look at it more closely, it seems somewhat familiar¡­


    However, that didn''t change his desire to fight him. A confident smile spread across his face.


    "You''ll only convince me that you''re not a threat when you become a corpse. My morning star will shatter your bones like glass," Janpelan said in a bold provocation. He assumed his stance with his mace and shields raised. "Come on! Come here and attack me!"


    Seconds passed. Mavros refused to accept his invitation, remaining steadfast in his position.


    "Nay, thou come," he spoke, casting his gaze aside. "I am too slothful to run... Thou art the one who seeketh combat, forsooth, it matters not to me either way."


    This imbecile! Janpelan furrowed his brow, annoyed by the eccentric speech patterns of his adversary and by what he interpreted as mockery.


    "You''ll regret giving me the initiative!... ORAAAAH!"


    He lunged at Mavros like a furious rhinoceros, his mace serving as the horn. Mavros calmly awaited his charge, devoid of any fear. As Janpelan approached within meters of him, he swung his mace from behind his left side in a powerful lateral sweep, cutting through the air with its speed.


    "Eh?!"


    However, it had only stirred up dust. Mavros was no longer there.


    "Here." Someone called him from behind, tapping his back twice like a knock on a door.


    "You!" Janpelan glanced over his shoulder¡ªit was Mavros. He had managed to slip behind him with a nimble roll on the ground at the precise moment he made his sweep. Immediately, Janpelan attempted to strike him with his mace as he turned towards him, but Mavros evaded it once again by sidestepping.


    "I hope it''s not too late¡­"


    The girl from the balcony returned, now holding a wooden staff with a crystal blue tip in her right hand and an open book in her left.


    "Hm!" She quickly spotted her father repeatedly attacking his opponent with his mace. "Let''s see... Somnoro sagittam..." The girl read a page from the book, trying to memorize one of its contents on the go. "Alright! I got it!"


    She then closed the book and placed it on a chair. Holding her staff with both hands, she pointed its tip towards the dark knight.


    "Not bad," Mavros said to Janpelan in sincere and calm admiration, effortlessly evading his new attempts to strike him by circling around him. "Thou art remarkably nimble for thy weight and stature, Ser Janpelan..."


    Is he calling me fat or what?! The warrior was offended by his insinuation. "Shut up!"


    Janpelan tried to silence him with a surprise strike to his face using his shield, but Mavros anticipated and evaded it by leaning back.


    Take this!


    At that moment, Janpelan swung his mace forward with all his might. Mavros managed to recover in time to jump to the side, revealing what was behind him.


    No!


    Janpelan''s lips curved downwards in the greatest horror, but it was already too late to abort his attack. The spikes of his mace shattered the head and neck of the statue of Lord Santario Monteros, the rapier swordsman. Open-mouthed in astonishment as if he had just witnessed his mother''s death, he watched as each fragment of marble fell at his feet.


    All those gold coins... all those days she spent in her workshop to create this masterpiece... my wife is going to kill me¡­


    He was petrified, his mind absorbed in what he feared the most.


    I almost have you... I just need to perform the ''sequence.


    From the balcony of her home, his daughter finished focusing on the equally stunned and distracted knight with her staff.


    But just as she was about to complete the final and crucial mental step to cast her spell, a fat fly buzzed by her eyes, disrupting all her concentrated effort.


    "Damn it!" she muttered angrily, hearing it fly away. Because of that fly, she would have to prepare the spell from scratch again.


    In the plaza, the two warriors were still stunned by the unfortunate accident.


    "Holy Maskirio!" Mavros exclaimed apologetically to the distraught Janpelan, feeling hurt and guilty as he looked at the rubble of the decapitated statue. "I do swear ''twas not a deliberate act, for I am a man who doth hold art in high esteem. I knew not ''twas behind me, I..."


    "SHUT YOUR MOUTH!"


    The towering Ser gripped his weapons in fury. He slowly turned his head towards the knight, with crazed eyes and a twisted smile.


    "Now... you''re going to die," he declared, gritting his teeth.


    His mace!


    His mace and part of his armor suddenly became engulfed in violent, fluid flames that seemed to have a life of their own. Mavros was dazzled by the ball of spikes, which gleamed like a miniature sun.


    Now, finally¡­


    Taking advantage of the knight''s newfound distraction, the girl with gray hair had once again prepared herself to cast her spell.


    But¡­


    Buzzzzz.


    The fly once again interrupted her at the most crucial moment.


    "This has to be a bad joke¡­" She bit her lower lip, growing increasingly irritated.


    Nefesh... So this Holy House knows how to control it too, Mavros raised his eyebrows, the flames of his rival reflected in his pupils. "Thy morning star is the first I have chanced upon that doth fulfill its sobriquet... I discern the reason wherefore the emblem of thy lineage is the salamander, emblem of fire," he said.


    "ORAAAH!"


    Janpelan''s response was a powerful and sudden sweep with his mace. For the first time in the battle, Mavros couldn''t move to dodge it.


    Heavens!


    He managed to intercept the blow with his staff, but it had such force that it pushed him back several meters. A trail of flames momentarily engulfed him.


    It''s stronger than I thought, Mavros realized in astonishment. He had barely managed to stop himself and remain standing after that impact. If I hadn''t used my staff, it would have injured me. An ordinary weapon would have shattered.


    A loud and sharp noise interrupted his thoughts. As he turned in its direction, he saw a line of fire moving rapidly towards him like a voracious snake. Mavros rolled to the side to avoid it, and the line dissipated just a few meters from crashing into a wall. Jinpelar pressed on, harassing him up close with new sweeping attacks and downward flaming strikes with his mace. With some effort, Mavros maneuvered through the fiery onslaught, as if dancing with a tempestuous star.


    All of his attacks are formidable... but they leave him momentarily vulnerable, Mavros discovered after studying his movements. I just have to wait for him to finish one of them to deliver the blow I need to defeat him.


    Good... No matter how much you move, it will catch you¡­


    Janpelan''s daughter was about to attempt casting her spell on him for the third time from the safety of her balcony.


    But, just like the previous failures.


    Buzzzzz.


    The fly once again caused havoc at the most inopportune moment. The third time had been the charm. Her pent-up anger erupted like a volcano:


    "AAAAAH! FILTHY WRETCH!"


    Determined not to tolerate its impertinence any longer, she released her right hand from her staff and immediately charged a new and devastating spell that she knew perfectly well.


    Pyromantic art: Wings of the Fire Bird!


    She extended the palm of her hand, from which a wide fan-shaped blaze emerged, covering a 180-degree range in front of her within a radius of at least three meters.


    "DIE!"


    The overwhelming flames managed to trap the unfortunate fly. The girl watched its ashes fall onto the cobblestone street.


    "At last..." she muttered with a smile of calm and relief as she prepared to dissipate the fire. "You won''t buzz anymore, you cursed creature."


    Luciara?! Her father was startled and paralyzed by the sight of her on the balcony of their house in the midst of the battle. He had been drawn by the glow of her pyromantic spell.


    What on Mater is she doing? he wondered, nervous about her apparent and childish recklessness.


    Mavros widened his eyes to their maximum extent.


    Now!


    Completely focused on the duel, he didn''t fall into the same distraction. The opportunity he had been waiting for had arrived.


    "HYAAAH!"


    "Eh?!"


    As Janpelan snapped back to reality, he saw the knight lower his staff in a vertical swing towards his solar plexus. Reflexively, he raised his shield to protect himself, but¡­


    "COUGH!"


    CRACK


    He coughed in pain, and his flames extinguished. The blow was so powerful that his shield barely served any purpose. His body was propelled several meters and he trembled from head to toe in an internal earthquake, as if he had withstood the impact of a solid stone pillar instead of a simple staff.


    "Father!"


    Concerned, his daughter watched as his back collided with the wall of a building. He released his mace and dropped to his knees with his head bowed.


    Oh my God! What a brutal hit! What a terrible Nefesh! His chills made him break into a sweat as he observed the cracks in his sturdy shield. It could have shattered the Maqsdo steel. If I hadn''t protected myself...


    He lifted his head, terrified. The knight approached him with slow steps.


    Damn it! I can''t move!


    Mavros stopped a few meters away from his defeated adversary.


    "Art thou now more at ease, Ser Janpelan? May we engage in discourse?" Mavros said in a firm yet calm tone. He sheathed his staff, considering the battle over.


    Although he has left me defenseless, he doesn''t intend to deliver the finishing blow. It seems that for him, this fight is already over... He''s definitely not an ordinary Abiyr, he thought.


    Ser Janpelan raised an eyebrow, intrigued by this unusual behavior. His doubts were growing, but as a final precaution, he reached for a strange dagger sheathed at his left side¡ªa last resort at his disposal.


    "Listen... I want you to answer some questions, Abiyr."


    "I''m all ears, Ser..." Mavros agreed to his request.


    This time nothing will interrupt me!


    The crystal tip of the staff gleamed. Luciara would finally be able to cast the spell she had been trying so hard to help her father in his troubles.


    A fuchsia sphere shot out from it, guided towards its target.


    "But wherefore dost thou address me as Ab¡­?"


    Before Mavros could finish his question, he felt a powerful blow to his skull followed by a small explosion. The Somnoro Sagittam had hit its mark.


    "Ah!" Mavros staggered, rubbing the area where he was struck in pain. "What...?" He quickly felt his consciousness slipping away. "...is happening?"


    His vision blurred completely as he fell headfirst to the ground, under the gaze of his bewildered opponent.


    "I did it!" Luciara celebrated, closing her fist and placing it at her side in excitement.


    The confrontation had ended, Mavros had been defeated in a way he didn''t see coming.


    But his misfortune in Cirencre had only just begun.

 C1-3: Prisoner! The Arrival of the Jinnad of the Seas

    The wind blew sails, large and unfurled. A mighty vessel was driven toward its intended destination by the sea currents.


    Almost there, deduced its captain, guided by his sailor''s instinct, honed by years of experience. He held a compass in his right hand, its needle oscillating toward the southwest.


    It seems Senshan is in good spirits...


    A confident smile graced his lips as he observed the panorama beyond the windows of his exotic cabin, lattice-like and transparent as glass. The sky was clear, and the waters calm; their journey enjoyed impeccable conditions.


    On a rustic desk before which he sat, a small map was spread out. His right index finger halted, touching a particular point.


    Today, a great bounty awaits us.


    ***


    "Aaaah¡­"


    Someone awakened from a short slumber, opening his eyes. He shook off the heaviness clouding his vision and the rest of his senses.


    What happened? Where am I? he wondered, barely discerning shapes and blurred lights around him as he stood up.


    "Ah?!"


    When he attempted to move, he realized something halted him abruptly, preventing his motion. Upon investigating, he found his limbs bound by chains to a wall.


    "Well, you didn''t take long to wake up... You must have a thick skull, wretch."


    That voice!


    The prisoner raised his gaze towards its source.


    "Ser Janpelan!"


    It was him, the imposing warrior with whom he had just engaged in combat. He still wore his armor and wielded his mace, but had discarded his damaged shield. A couple of guards accompanied him in the interrogation chamber of a gloomy dungeon. Dim yellow lights descended from stones held by ornaments on the walls.


    "I don''t care if you forgot what happened... We had some pending questions, and you will answer them," Ser Janpelan said to Mavros, ready to begin without further ado. He signaled to one of the guards, who fearfully brought forth a peculiar device with a spherical tip and a long handle, embedded with a small transparent gem at its center. He held it close to the knight''s chin.


    "Why are you here?", Janpelan asked.


    "For a personal journey," Mavros curtly replied.


    The guard observed the gem on the artifact, which shifted to a vibrant green.


    "Green!" he loudly communicated to his superior.


    "What kind of ''personal journey''? What is your mission?" Ser Janpelan continued the interrogation.


    "A venture to perfect mine advancement on the Way, according to mine knightly code," Mavros earnestly and resolutely elaborated. "I doth fear thou shalt not be able to comprehendeth unless thou dost release me to demonstrate."


    "Green!"


    "Where do you come from? Which Tarburian realm do you hail from?" Janpelan disregarded those statements and moved on to other questions of interest. "Is your people plotting to incite a new Holy War?"


    Tarburian? So this House also uses that term? Mavros furrowed his brow at that specific mention. "I come from the Maskirian realm of Tiberland; I neither belong to nor serve any such ''Tarburian'' realm. Furthermore, I wot of none," asserted the prisoner. "I have come on mine own accord. As I did mention, it is a personal sojourn. I simply aspire to better myself as a roving knight and succor those in need along the way."


    "Yellow!"


    For the first time, the gem''s color changed to a shade that aroused the interrogator''s suspicion. It represented partial truthfulness.


    "If you do not belong to any Tarburian realm, how is it that you possess and wield their artifacts? You could not have traveled here from a realm as distant as Tiberland without being noticed throughout Elvira," Janpelan questioned, crossing his arms in skepticism. "We know you arrived through the Tarburian mirror in the city park. Only the Holy Houses of Elvira are aware of its existence. The only others with knowledge of its use and existence are your people, its creators," he argued. "You should know well that my subordinate''s Usogalai can discern whether your words are true or false," he menacingly extended his mace. "So, answer: Do you have cities in Tiberland? Are they remnants of New Eynsof?"


    Mavros stared at him intently. Seconds passed, along with the tension between them.


    "I already did inform thee, in Tiberland, I ne''er did encounter any folk by that name," he finally replied. He lowered his head for a moment, perturbed by certain memories. "Only its ruins... and a Holy House interested in its secrets," he locked eyes with Janpelan. "I stumbled upon these ''artifacts'' purely by chance and did learn how to wield them, including that mirror through which I arrived," he affirmed. "But beyond that, I know naught of what thou dost call ''Tarburians.''"


    "Green!" The gem''s color changed back to honesty.


    "Wait... Did you say you encountered another Holy House there?" Janpelan lowered his mace and arched his eyebrows, highly intrigued to delve deeper into this information he had been ignorant of until now. "What was its name?"


    Resentment from a tormented past manifested in Mavros'' eyes as he was forced to delve into those memories to retrieve the answer.


    "Magn... Magnolia," he replied in a sepulchral tone.


    "Green!"


    "Magnolia?!"


    Janpelan startled at that unexpected mention.


    "You said Magnolia? The first and most powerful of the five Holy Houses?"


    "Yes," Mavros reaffirmed . "They invaded Tiberland in secret."


    "Green!"


    The interrogator averted his gaze, furrowing his brow.


    Tiberland... That island near Anglion, the seat of the Holy House of Magnolia. The two have always respected its sovereignty, Janpelan recalled. Magnolia has always been the most important and influential House in our league. Its Lords have acted as the kings of Anglion and the High Priests of the Maskirian Church in a dynasty that dates back to the time of the Holy Rebellion... but if what this Abiyr says is true, they violated our statute by not informing us of their movements on the island and the discovery of those ruins. It seems this could be bigger than I imagined; I must inform Lord Monteros immediately.


    If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.


    "Ser Janpelan?" Mavros called, confused by his prolonged and contemplative silence.


    The burly man snapped back to reality.


    "I am leaving. There is something I must attend to... I will be back soon," he communicated. "We will continue with the questions then... You will tell me more about Tiberland."


    "Wait!" Mavros stopped him as he turned around. "Before thou depart, Ser Janpelan... Who did aid thee in my defeat? The individual who cast that nefeshic spell from behind, which did render me asleep."


    Damn it.


    Nervousness gripped Janpelan at that uncomfortable question that shook him. His lips curved, his teeth clenched, and his eyes widened in evident unease. However, he managed to regain control swiftly. His face adopted an expressionless demeanor befitting a professional card player.


    "No one helped me... It was me," he asserted, turning towards the knight. "I... moved so swiftly that you couldn''t see me. I and all the warriors of the House of the Royal Rose move at the speed of lightning; never underestimate us."


    A cold drop of sweat ran down his forehead.


    Thank goodness Lord Monteros isn''t here; he would laugh in my face.


    "Red!" The guard with the truth detector accidentally shouted, driven by inertia.


    "You imbecile!"


    His superior showed no sign of being pleased with his slip-up, his muscles creasing into a sinister smile as he restrained his urge to crush him with his mace.


    "Ser Janpelan, pardon me, but if thou dost move at the speed of lightning, then I can invert the sky and earth with a snap," Mavros commented in friendly sarcasm. "Why dost thou dishonor thyself by lying in such a manner?... I could discern that the nefesh of that spell did not pertain to thee. I am even certain I heard a maiden nearby ere receiving it... Was it she who...?"


    "ENOUGH! IT WAS ME WHO DEFEATED YOU! PERIOD!" he shouted in agitation. "Guards! Strip him of his armor and take him to the dungeon!"


    "Yes, sir!"


    Both nodded and approached the knight to unfasten his pieces.


    But as soon as they touched them¡­


    "OW!"


    Both quickly withdrew and shook their hands, feeling an intense burning sensation, as if touching a hot iron. A faint amethyst aura emanated from the armor, covering it from head to toe.


    "Thou mayest lock me in yon dungeon if it reassures thee," Mavros said, annoyed and defensive for the first time. "Yet thou shalt not strip me of mine armor."


    With several steps, Janpelan''s assistants continued to retreat until they were behind him, their voices muffled in strained groans. Time passed, and the black knight continued to defiantly confront them.


    That nefesh... I''m certain he''s holding back. If he wanted to, he could break those chains and finish us in an instant, Janpelan recognized as he observed the vibrant aura, just as frightened as his men but concealing his fear as he was obligated to serve as their example. He glanced at the narrow space of the room. Unfortunately, this is a terrible place for me to confront him. I have no choice but to prevent provoking him and trust in his apparent goodwill, he concluded reluctantly.


    "Guards! Remove his chains and take him to the dungeon! There''s no need to take off his armor¡­"


    ***


    A small click. Vibrating the neighboring bars, a grated door screeched horribly as it was opened.


    "Ent... Enter..."


    Mavros calmly stepped inside his cell, obeying his jailer. Rather than ordering him, he pleaded, pointing the uncertain tip of his sword at him. It was like a man forced to subdue a lion with a short, old branch.


    The annoying creak returned as the door closed. The jailer took longer than necessary to secure it with his trembling hands.


    "A typical dungeon..." was the knight''s verdict as he surveyed the dirty rock walls and floor. A faint glowing stone at the highest point of the ceiling served as his only feeble source of light.


    "A Grianzan knight..." someone muttered reluctantly in a low voice from the neighboring cell.


    "Eh?"


    Mavros'' eyes met the amber eyes of a rather young boy, probably no older than 14, observing him with sharp disdain, his hands gripping the bars.


    But that disdain transformed into the opposite as he got a better look at his new neighbor.


    "No... I can''t believe it! You''re not one of those damned Grianzan knights! You''re an Abiyr!" he exclaimed with effusive joy, his lips open and curved upwards.


    His appearance piqued Mavros'' curiosity as he didn''t resemble anyone he had encountered before: tanned and bronzed skin like the sunset, round amber eyes; a straight and prominent nose with its tip raised like the bow of a ship. Greasy blond hair with black roots sprouted from his head in disheveled, wavy tips. His body was slender and of short stature, yet strong and well-proportioned.


    But his most striking feature was his ears, with lobes triangular like the tip of a water droplet.


    A boy so young? In this dungeon? was the first thought that crossed Mavros'' mind. Why on Mater does everyone here call me an ''Abiyr''?


    "You are a legend! You protected my people during the Nefeshic Wars," the young boy continued exclaiming with excitement. "My family''s caravan was saved by one of you in the massacre of Netzach."


    "Massacre of Netzach?..." Mavros tilted his head, disoriented and intrigued by this unknown event.


    "Ah?... You don''t know? You didn''t fight in the war?" The young boy blinked, astonished by his complete ignorance.


    "No... I was born when it should have already been ending. I have spent most of my life far away from here," Mavros replied, feeling at ease enough to drop his ¡®knightly¡¯ persona and speak in informal speech. He lowered his head with a touch of discouragement. "This is my first time visiting these lands. As you can see, I haven''t started off very well," he said, looking back at him. "What''s your name, young boy?"


    "Shei... Sheida," he answered, not expecting that such an important figure to him would have bothered to know.


    "Mine is Mavros, Ser Mavros of Havenfalls," Mavros replied with his own polite introduction. "A pleasure to meet you, Sheida."


    ***


    Seagulls flew overhead a fortress of stacked rocks that guarded an extensive port.


    A tall observation tower with a bell rose at one of its ends. Inside it, a soldier monitored the horizon of the seas on that sunny afternoon. There were no ships in sight, just the infinite blue. It seemed like it would be a long and tedious shift without any notable events.


    The soldier was about to close his eyes and take a short nap when...


    "Eh?"


    He brought his hand to his forehead, glimpsing something approaching from the distance. He pulled out a small telescope to observe it better. It was a large ship with billowing white sails, atop of which a flag with a white cross on a blue background fluttered. A shield of the same blue background was embroidered at the center of the cross, with a golden rooster holding a double-headed axe with one of its legs. A royal crown perched at the top of the shield, accompanied by a collar with intricate geometric motifs beneath it.


    "A Grianzan merchant ship..." the soldier muttered, identifying its friendly flag.


    Next, the soldier used a small mirror that gleamed under the sun to send a signal to the sailors. They quickly responded with their own. With a green light, the ship continued to advance towards the port. When it was close enough, it slowly turned to face the small fortress with its starboard side.


    "Ah?!"


    The ship revealed its true colors. Before the soldier could react, it unleashed blue bursts of cannon fire upon the fortress defenses and the warships moored at its docks, destroying them and sinking them instantly. Its flag was lowered, replaced by a very different one: a large white star on a black background with an angry-faced genie wielding two crossed short sabers.


    "Corsairs!"


    The bell of the tower was repeatedly rung by its soldier, but it was already too late to repel the attack from the sea.


    The ship docked smoothly at an empty commercial pier in the port, with the present bystanders fleeing in panic to the sound of the bell. With great agility and coordination, its crew disembarked with sabers in hand under the direction of their leader. Their attire and appearance were very different from the city''s inhabitants they invaded. They wore colorful shirts and lightweight trousers, with pointed leather boots over their tanned skin. Their eyes were amber and their noses straight and prominent, with black beards of varying cuts and ears with droplet-shaped lobes.


    "As we discussed on the Jinnad... Taraked!" The leader called out to one of his men, in charge of a group. "You and your men will be responsible for sabotaging the crystals. We will go for the gold. When we''re done, we''ll meet right here."


    "Yes, Captain!" He and his companions complied with his instructions.


    Despite his position, the "captain''s" attire didn''t differ too much from his subordinates: a long open-chested shirt with long sleeves and carmine pants held by a knotted black silk belt. Light plates of greenish metal like jade protected his limbs and abdomen. A carmine bandana covered his forehead and a good portion of his dark hair, disheveled on the sides and reaching his neck. His face had graceful features: small, piercing eyes denoting cunning and mischief, enhanced by black lines of eyeliner along the edges. Short, thin mustaches and beard beneath his elegant aquiline nose.


    In his right hand, he gripped a large cutlass with a golden hilt, its tip touching the ground like a staff.


    Suddenly, something made him raise it. A group of port soldiers ran to confront him and the other invaders on the pier. Although the defenders outnumbered them, they showed no fear at all. The corsairs angled their sabers towards their lances and swords in a clear challenge.


    "Good afternoon, gentlemen! On behalf of my crew, I, Baharen Ibad, captain of the Jinnad of the Seas, accept your surrender," the corsair captain taunted them with mischievous irreverence.


    The defenders took the bait and rushed to attack him. They would soon realize that they should have heeded his insinuation.

 C1-4: Protereus! The Roar to Which the Waters Obey

    A large and voluminous figure emerged from a wooden door, once again receiving the daylight after a brief visit to the darkness.


    "That scoundrel..." muttered in a low and bitter voice as he paced through the premises of a military barracks.


    On its thick stone walls, banners were hanging. Yellow fabric banners, embroidered with a coat of arms featuring a royal crown and two horizontal stripes below it: one white, with a golden and majestic castle with spiky towers, resembling more of a palace due to the beauty of its architecture; and another red, with the silhouette of a black bull with curved and sharp horns, charging towards the east. Among them, simpler banners alternated, consisting of a white background with an elaborate red rose in the middle.


    Numerous soldiers made their presence known. Some came and went; others remained in immobile groups, conversing and resting in an outdoor courtyard and a small tavern. However, they all stood tall and fell silent as they noticed the proximity of that individual, their captain: Ser Janpelan of Salamandera. A gesture that expressed their respect for his position and fear of his strong character.


    At least he never got to see her. He only knows that I didn''t defeat him but not who did it. For now, she is not in danger, concluded Ser Janpelan, feeling relieved. His feet descended the steps that led to the spacious main hall of the building.


    Moreover, I am more concerned about the youthful follies that might cross her mind than that Abiyr. It reminds me so much of myself when I was her age¡­


    "Father!"


    "Luciara!"


    Ser Janpelan startled as he saw his daughter swiftly approaching him from a corner of the room, stopping to embrace him. Both stood upon a long red carpet that ended at the beginning of the steps.


    "Are you alright?" she asked, releasing him to look into his eyes.


    "I''m fine, don''t worry," replied Ser Janpelan, his brow furrowing in mild anger. "But what did I tell you about not coming through here until further notice?"


    "I know... but I was really worried. I couldn''t just wait without knowing anything," she argued. "What did you do with that Abiyr?... Did you execute him?"


    "No, he''s alive. I''m interrogating him in the dungeons, and once I''m done, we''ll decide his fate. That''s all you need to know," he informed her, with a curt demeanor. "Luciara, do you realize how fortunate you are?... What were you thinking attacking an Abiyr? That foolishness could have ended in disaster."


    Luciara frowned.


    "Foolishness? Do you call the Somnoro Sagittam I used to save you a foolish act? Do you know how difficult it was to execute its sequence?" Luciara retorted, baring her teeth in an angry grimace. She was becoming as irritated as he was by his responses. "What else was I supposed to think about other than saving you?! Did you expect me to just stand idly by?"


    "Of course, I did!" Janpelan asserted angrily. Several soldiers approached, curious to eavesdrop. All Salamandera family disputes were always good material for entertaining gossip... as long as they were shared away from their ears, of course. "Don''t you understand?! The last thing I want is for you to get involved in my fights! If I was meant to die there, you were not supposed to follow me!"


    "Exactly! If it weren''t for me, that Abiyr would have taken your head!" Luciara replied. "And don''t give me that ''I had everything under control'' nonsense, because I saw how he overwhelmed you!" she scolded, accurately anticipating his next telepathic response, which drowned in embarrassment when exposed publicly. "Instead of complaining so much, you should be grateful!" Her anger subsided. She clasped her hands together, looking at him with tender eyes like a cat begging for affection. "With some money for my travel expenses, and allowing me to use the ''mirrors''... you know I''ve earned it."


    "Ugh! I know you too well! I knew you would try to use your tricks to manipulate me!" Janpelan reproached, exerting all his strength to resist her charms. "I told you before, and I''ll say it again now: it''s a terrible idea, garbage, to put it mildly," he pronounced. "If you want to become a Holy Warrior like me so badly, then go and do it, but don''t count on my support. And until that happens, if it ever does, you are absolutely not allowed to use the ''mirrors.''"


    "FATHER!" Luciara scolded, extending her staff towards his face with her left hand and igniting the palm of her right hand in flames.


    To the fortune of their witnesses, who couldn''t stop whispering and stifling laughter, the altercation promised to reach its crescendo. But¡­


    BOOM BOOM


    The echoes of distant and powerful explosions reached everyone''s ears, pulling them away from their distractions. Amusement turned into tension.


    "What was that?"


    "Has the Abiyr escaped?"


    "Could they have come to rescue him?"


    The hair on several guards stood on end as they pondered the possibilities.


    No... it can''t be him... It''s coming from outside the barracks, Ser Janpelan silently analyzed, his focus sharp. I think it''s coming from the harbor... Could it be...?!


    The faint sound of a bell that followed confirmed his suspicions.


    "Corsairs!" Ser Janpelan exclaimed. He turned to his men. "Soldiers! Gather in the courtyard immediately and inform the others!" he ordered. "We''re going out! The port guard may require our assistance."


    "Yes, Ser!" His men nodded promptly and dispersed.


    The warrior turned to his daughter.


    "Luciara! Stay here until I return!"


    "You told me not to come through here earlier, and now you''re asking me to stay?" Luciara challenged him, sarcastically feigning confusion. "Make up your mind."


    "Things have changed! Now no street is safe!" he shouted at her, suspecting what she might be up to. "Here, you''ll be protected by my men. Don''t you dare go out looking for me!"


    ***


    "How did a young lad like yourself end up in such an unpleasant place?"


    While chaos unfolded on the surface, the conversation between the wandering knight Mavros of Havenfalls and Sheida, his neighboring prisoner, continued from the point where they exchanged their names.


    "Well..." The lad lowered his head, clearly embarrassed. "It''s so ridiculous, I didn''t do anything wrong to anyone... I didn''t steal, cheat, kill, blackmail, slander, blaspheme¡­"


    "Yes, yes! I understand!" Mavros interrupted him, exasperated by his unnecessary list of crimes he didn''t commit. "What did you do?"


    Sheida returned his gaze, quite serious.


    "I played music with my ayadis in exchange for tips on the harbor boulevard," he revealed.


    "Inan?! For playing music?!" Mavros exclaimed in surprise, unable to believe it was for that reason.


    "Incredible, isn''t it? They caught me this morning. I have to spend the entire afternoon here as punishment for doing it without a ''musician''s license.'' " He smiled, containing his great annoyance. "According to them, I have to get one from the town hall to be able to play... Since when do you need a blasted license to make art?... Curse it! I wasn''t even begging! I was working!" He vented. "These Elvirean rulers and their rules of¡­"


    "They are strict in this kingdom," Mavros interrupted him before he could utter his profanity. "If they imprisoned you for something like that, it''s no wonder they would attack me without asking questions¡­"


    "But believe me, this is nothing. Ayarians like us at least live in peace around here," Sheida assured. He averted his gaze. "In the Grianzan area, they punish us for much less..." he recounted, visualizing memories of resentment. "And what about you, Abiyr? Why have you come here after so many years? Why did you let yourself get arrested?" he inquired, with the obvious intention of changing the subject. "My parents and grandparents have told me that you could defeat entire legions of Elvireans single-handedly."


    "It''s a long story..." Mavros prepared to tell him. "And please, don''t keep calling me ''Abiyr.'' Call me Mavros or Ser Mavros, whichever you prefer."


    ***


    Ser Janpelan led his men through the streets of Cirencre towards the port area. The synchronized trot of their footsteps and the clash of their armor pieces created a unique melody as they passed by. Crowds fled in terror from where they were heading.


    "Ser Janpe!"


    "Eh?!"


    Amongst the crowd, a young soldier appeared, crouching down, catching his breath as he gasped from exhaustion. The Ser stopped, forcing his units to do the same.


    "Are you from the port guard?" Janpelan asked him. "What is happening?"


    "Yes!" the soldier confirmed, looking up at him in shock. "We were attacked by Ayarian corsairs! We tried to stop them, but we were no match for them. I barely managed to escape," he informed them. "They split into two groups... They''re wreaking havoc on the boulevard."


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    "Two groups?" Janpelan wanted to delve further into that information. "Do you have any idea where they went? How many of them were there?"


    "From what I could see... One group moved north, and the other went south. There were about twenty of them combined. But be careful, they''re highly organized... They''re not ordinary corsairs."


    The south of the port... That''s where the city bank is, Janpelan realized as he interpreted that information. His eyebrows raised. I''m no tactical genius, but it''s as clear as day! That''s their main target, the group in the north is just a distraction!


    "Thank you for warning us!" The captain turned to his troops. "Soldiers! Let''s split up! Twenty of you will go north, and the rest will come with me to the south."


    As the forces of the barracks agreed on their division, the messenger lowered his head to the ground. He contemplatively watched the drops of sweat falling onto the floor.


    I almost forgot! His eyes widened. I have to warn them, or they''ll end up like us!


    "We''ll meet at the port!" Ser Janpelan finished giving his instructions. "Move out!"


    "Wait, Ser Janpe! There''s something...!"


    It was too late to warn them. Ser Janpelan and his groups split up and rushed off to their designated points, leaving the messenger''s words to be lost in the wind.


    Damn it! How could I be so clumsy? That was the first thing I had to tell them! The young soldier clenched his teeth, angry at himself. I can barely feel my legs... But I must warn them without fail.


    ***


    "Ugh!"


    "Uaagh!"


    Moans and blunt strikes echoed in the polished marble. The full-body armors and longswords did not prevent the guards of the Cirencre bank from being knocked down by their skilled attackers, who entered a corridor until they reached the reinforced door of a vault. A frightened employee was pushed by them, leaving him face to face with the door.


    "Open it," their leader ordered him with cold composure, touching his back with the tip of his cutlass.


    The employee obeyed without resistance, unwilling to risk his life for someone else''s wealth. He operated several mechanisms and combinations that caused the door to slide slowly to the side, revealing its contents: five rows of shelves with locked chests at their ends. Each shelf had a distinctive small banner hanging, representing a particular flower.


    The looters swarmed towards them, easily breaking the locks of the chests with thick pliers to open them. Gleaming together like an evening sun, gold coins of different shapes and denominations piled up inside. Tenderly caressing them like the hair of a beloved woman, Captain Baharen Ibad tested several of them.


    "They are genuine," he conveyed the results of his brief examination to his men with a smile. "Empty the chests!"


    In unison, his subordinates proceeded to take out bags in which they deposited the contents of each box until they were dry.


    "Thank you, my friend. You were of great help," Baharen said to the employee, patting him on the right shoulder. "As a reward, I will only put you to sleep."


    Without further ado, he delivered a devastating elbow strike with his left arm, which was more than enough to render him unconscious.


    "Let''s go!"


    The corsairs withdrew with their loot, crossing the threshold of the bank''s entrance to venture back into the streets and return to their ship.


    But¡­


    "Stop right there!"


    They were already waiting for them. Soldiers blocked all their exits, several of them aiming crossbows and arquebuses at their heads. Leading them, Ser Janpelan pointed his mace at the cornered plunderers.


    "Damn it..." muttered the corsairs. Apparently, they hadn''t expected to be caught red-handed.


    "Ser Janpelan of Salamandera..." Baharen whispered, fixing him with predator-like eyes, like those of a shark.


    Penetrated by those eyes, Janpelan opened his mouth in astonishment.


    This Ayarian... he looks familiar... he resembles... For a moment, he thought he was facing a ghost from the past. But he quickly regained his composure and focus as he dismissed the thought. "Surrender! There''s no escape for you!" Janpelan ordered him and his men. "Drop your weapons and that gold that doesn''t belong to you!"


    "It seems you don''t know who I am, but I know exactly who you are," Baharen said, smiling maliciously and confidently.


    "Shut up!" Ser Janpelan shouted at him. "One more word, and you and your henchmen will face our shots!... You have ten seconds to surrender... 10... 9... 8¡­"


    The captain exchanged silent glances and gestures with his men as the countdown continued.


    "7... 6... 5..."


    The countdown stopped, the metal fell and vibrated on the ground as it bounced off its surface. All the corsairs dropped their possessions as they had been ordered. Their arms raised in a sign of surrender.


    "Good..." Ser Janpelan addressed his men. "Arrest them!"


    He advanced alongside them to finish subduing the corsairs.


    When they were close enough...


    "Hm?!"


    Before they could react or realize what was happening, the corsairs brought their left hands behind their backs as if they were scratching with them. With their right hands, they covered their noses.


    Is this...?!


    Smoke!


    Out of nowhere, a dense cloud of smoke appeared and enveloped everyone, obscuring their vision and making it difficult to breathe. The soldiers couldn''t stop coughing and staggering with their eyes half-closed.


    Their leader was the first to recover, enduring it better than his subordinates. He searched for the looters where they were supposed to be. His free left hand clenched in frustration¡ªthey had vanished completely. Damn it! They tricked us!


    Meters away from them, the corsairs ran at full speed through the maze of streets, laughing with joy at the success of their clever escape.


    That was close... If we hadn''t brought our dukhans, they would have given us a lot of trouble. Some of my faricums would have died in combat¡­ Baharen acknowledged that luck was on their side. But I''m sure they didn''t have much effect on a Holy Warrior like him. He won''t be long in catching up with us...


    The image of the harbor and its boulevard soon appeared before their eyes. Their docked ship could be seen on the nearby horizon. The corsairs were about to enter the pier when...


    Blast!


    Their captain halted them, retreating just in time to avoid being incinerated by a streak of fire that passed inches away from him. With a leap that shook the ground upon landing, Ser Janpelan stood between them. An impassable wall with his armor and flaming mace.


    "This is as far as you go!" He pointed at them angrily with his left index finger. His pupils seemed to be engulfed in fire, just like the rest of his body. "Surrender or prepare to die!"


    It was a wall the corsair captain was determined to defy.


    "Take this!" His bag of gold flew and landed at the feet of some of his comrades. "Fall back, faricums!" he imperatively exclaimed, never taking his eyes off his opponent. He brandished and leaned forward with his cutlass. "I will kill him! Meanwhile, stand guard. Taraked must be on his way."


    "Yes, Captain!" They obeyed, taking positions around them at a safe distance.


    Someone observed the confrontation discreetly, peering from the corner of a building overlooking the pier. Her worry and anxiety were palpable on her face and gray eyes.


    No... Don''t tell me he has to fight again¡­


    Disobeying her orders once again and eluding the soldiers guarding her, Luciara had ventured out to find out about her father and the city''s situation.


    An Ayarian like that corsair should be quite easy for him to defeat. Unlike the Abiyr, he doesn''t seem to have anything extraordinary and is completely defenseless, she judged, never losing sight of him. But... I can''t shake this sinking feeling... I never had it with the Abiyr¡­


    Ser Janpelan gripped his mace with both hands, increasing the quantity and intensity of the flames enveloping it.


    "You said you will kill me?!" he lashed out at the captain. "Are you planning to take your crimes to the greatest extremes?!"


    "Crimes? Do you dare to lecture me about morals, you cursed infidel?" The corsair responded with astonished indignation. "Have you forgotten about your own?"


    What?!


    The warrior was momentarily petrified, but then replied without words. He executed a violent horizontal sweep with his mace, sending a fan of fire towards his opponent. The corsair smiled nonchalantly. Wisely, he refrained from retreating or moving aside as many would have done. The captain inferred that such movements would not be enough to escape the flames and thus certain death.


    How?!


    Astonished, Ser Janpelan watched as the captain leaped forward just as the fire was about to engulf him. The corsair soared over him like a seagull, performing an aerial somersault before landing behind him.


    "Bastard!"


    Ser Janpelan spun around, attempting to catch him off guard with a powerful vertical strike. The spikes of the mace bit into and shattered the stone. Once again, the captain eluded death, executing a backward jump that rivaled that of a circus acrobat.


    "I have prepared for years for this encounter," Baharen declared with overflowing confidence. "I know what to expect from you, Ser Janpelan of Salamandera, and I have the perfect countermeasure to defeat you. That''s why you will be the first Holy Warrior to fall beneath my cutlass. Beneath the cutlass of Baharen Ibad! Captain of the Jinnad of the Seas!"


    Ibad! Ser Janpelan''s eyes widened, understanding everything. This guy must be...!


    "Ser Janpe!" a voice shouted from the distance.


    It was the soldier who had brought him the news several minutes earlier. Baharen''s men quickly spotted him and easily forced him to surrender, preventing him from relaying the crucial piece of information. But it was already too late.


    Baharen raised his cutlass.


    "Protereus!" he cried out to the skies.


    A crystal gem on the hilt of the cutlass shimmered with a blue glow.


    Janpelan shook his head from side to side, immediately noticing that something had changed. The previously calm waters of the pier began to churn and collide with the stone as if a storm was raging, despite the clear sky above.


    "Ah?!"


    Father!


    Suddenly, the water around him did more than just ripple. It rose up in two massive, self-contained masses on either side, crashing into his body with undeniable speed.


    What... what the hell did he do?!


    Dazed by the powerful impact, Ser Janpelan struggled to maintain his balance. He felt the cold water drenching his body, cascading down in foamy streams.


    My flames! Regaining his senses, he horrifiedly observed himself. I can no longer summon them!


    The extensive moisture had completely extinguished them and would ensure that he would be unable to reignite them for a considerable time.


    This is what my premonition was about!


    Luciara witnessed the scene with the same desperation, barely containing her screams.


    That Ayarian can control nefesh through that sword, and not only that! The element he commands is water! Exactly the one that can nullify our flames! Even our pyromantic art is subject to the most basic laws of nature! These reflections only fueled her anguish.


    Damn it! I''m too far away to help him. She observed the unfortunate messenger, who had been forced to his knees with his arms and legs bound in a corner, and also noted the numerous corsairs guarding him. And it''s too risky for me to approach with those wretches guarding his back. If I do, they could overwhelm me with their superior numbers, and worse, they would alert him, and I would lose the opportunity to catch him off guard with a Somnoro Sagittam, the only thing I could use to bring him down with my current knowledge... He''s lost! I can''t do anything!


    She lowered her head, feeling helpless under the weight of adverse circumstances. She was starting to give up.


    No! I have to do something!


    In the end, she refused to abandon hope and regained her determination.


    There must be some way I can save him... I have to find it.


    Her agile mind quickly came up with an idea. An idea, however, that filled her with great doubts.


    Absurd, completely absurd. None of the ''craziness'' he has criticized me for would compare to that... He is a...!


    "Well, well, what do we have here?"


    "Ah?!"


    A voice accompanied by depraved laughter behind her startled her out of her thoughts. As she turned around, she found herself surrounded by at least five or six corsairs from all directions.


    "My, aren''t you beautiful," the one who appeared to be their leader said, looking her up and down, appreciating the quality and design of her dress. "You must be a Lady."


    The malevolent looks and smiles they gave her were enough to make her pale with the intentions they implied. Now, not only her father but also she herself were in great trouble.


    Only someone could save them. Someone whom she would have ample reasons to reconsider.

 C1-5: Zujae nim rhabla! The Cruel Punishment of the God of the Seas

    "Did you really?! You defeated Janpelan of Salamandera?! You overpowered a Holy Warrior with a single blow?!" Sheida exclaimed to his narrator, the wandering knight Ser Mavros of Havenfalls, listening to the tale of his encounter with fascination.


    "That''s right," he nodded. "But as I told you before, I only wanted to subdue him so that I could talk to him. It seemed like we were finally going to have a conversation when someone cast a sleep spell on me from behind... I never got to see her, but I''m sure it was a girl who had been nearby," he confirmed, briefly averting his gaze as he recalled her voice. "Then, I woke up chained in one of these dungeons. Ser Janpelan had brought me there to interrogate me. Everything was going well, but then he said he had to go do something and that he would return later to continue with the questions. He ordered me to be locked up in these cells while he took care of it. That''s how I ended up here."


    "Well..." Sheida took a few seconds to digest the whole story. "You''re lucky that the commander of this city''s detachment is Janpelan. The old man is strict and always in a bad mood, but he''s fair," he affirmed. He had gotten to know him well during the time he had been living in that city, and except for his current detention, he never had any problems with him. "Any other person wouldn''t have bothered waking you up for interrogation. They would have just taken advantage of the situation and cut your throat, thinking you were a Abiyr in that armor," Sheida said. "As you noticed, the Elvireans are very paranoid about the Abiyrs. They fear them more than anything else; they still remember them as relentless demons that fought and annihilated entire legions of their armies."


    "What? Abiyrs fought against the armies of Elvira?" Mavros raised his eyebrows.


    "Yes, didn''t you see that monument that was where you fought? The one that Janpelan accidentally damaged," he asked. "Well, it represents a duel that Santario Monteros, now Lord of his Holy House, had here with Junini, one of the most powerful Abiyrs. According to several survivors of that battle, Monteros barely managed to escape with his life."


    Right... that monument that I was admiring before Ser Janpelan and his men attacked me, Mavros remembered. That knight who had armor and a sword similar to mine...


    The conversation paused briefly.


    "By the way... you just told me that a girl put you to sleep with a spell while you had Janpelan cornered, didn''t you?" Sheida curved his lips upwards in an amused gesture. "There''s no doubt, I know who it is..."


    "Do you know?" The wandering knight observed him expectantly, eagerly awaiting the answer. "Please tell me."


    "Luciara of Salamandera, the only daughter of Ser Janpelan," Sheida revealed with a playful smile.


    "Inan?! His daughter?!" Mavros exclaimed, incredulous.


    Sheida nodded his head up and down a couple of times in confirmation.


    "She''s an aspiring sorceress. She has become quite famous in the city for the disruptions she causes while practicing her spells. It seems like she wants to become a holy warrior just like Janpelan, but he opposes it and they always fight..." Sheida averted his gaze, raising his head as if the ceiling was a starry sky that he traveled with his dreamy eyes. "And also... because she is the most beautiful girl in this province... and to me, in all of Najta."


    "His daughter a sorceress? The most beautiful girl in this province?" Mavros touched his chin with his left hand, reflecting aloud on such a profile. Sheida is right! That''s why Ser Janpelan reacted like that when I tried to inquire about her identity!... It''s what one would expect from a father concerned about his daughter... he thought. He was beginning to understand the reason for his erratic reaction during their last exchange in the interrogation room. "Who would have thought that Ser Janpelan would have a daughter like that... She must truly have talent in sorcery to be able to put me to sleep. I would like to meet her... if he allows me, of course," Mavros commented. He looked at Sheida with mischievous eyes. "Did you say... that you think she''s the most beautiful girl in all of Najta?... So, she has enchanted your heart..."


    "W-Well..." Sheida lowered his face and ran his right hand through his neck, blushing and feeling his muscles numb with embarrassment. "I..."


    "Hm?!"


    Suddenly, Mavros jumped to his feet and turned his back to Sheida. He tensed up and turned his neck from side to side, alert and on edge.


    "Uh?..." Sheida was disoriented by this change in attitude that completely disrupted the conversation. "What''s happening, Mavros?"


    My nefeshic sense detects something! he interpreted, receiving ethereal readings. Less than two miles to the east!


    Less than ten seconds passed when he realized something else that made his eyes widen with unease.


    Ser Janpelan?!


    ***


    "Hehehe¡­"


    With their irritating laughter, a pack of hyenas cornered Luciara against the wall, seeing her as an easy prey. The tips of Luciara''s right hand fingers clung tightly to the walls. Shivers manifested as droplets of ice running down her skin. Her eyes kept moving from one of her assailants to the next as her heartbeat grew more intense. Three or four more pirates joined the initial six, further diminishing her chances of escape.


    "Huh?"


    The gang leader detected something in the girl''s left hand that alarmed him: a crystal-tipped staff.


    "I see! So, you study nefeshic arts like our captain!" In a swift motion, he brought the tip of his saber inches away from her neck, which Luciara observed like the fangs of a venomous snake. "No sudden moves."


    On a nearby stone pier, Baharen Ibad, their captain, confronted the unsuspecting Holy Warrior, Ser Janpelan of Salamandera. Janpelan looked on in dismay at the water drenching his body, completely extinguishing the once raging flames.


    A malicious smile stretched across Baharen''s lips as he savored Janpelan''s astonishment.


    "It seems you''re frightened because your pyromantic arts have lost their effect," he said. "But the loss of your flames is the least of your worries, Ser Janpelan of Salamandera."


    "Damn you!"


    Janpelan was about to rush forward to strike him with his mace, but just as he took his first steps¡­


    "Huh?!"


    He felt a great pressure that hindered his movements and made him come to a stop.


    What... What''s happening to me?


    "HAAAA!"


    Taking advantage of his immobilization, Baharen leaped forward to attack him with a slash, but Janpelan managed to intercept it with some difficulty. The pirate captain was forced to retreat with a backward somersault. However, the Holy Warrior was pushed back a couple of steps by the force of the blow he received.


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    I barely intercepted it. A little more and... Janpelan''s skin tingled at the thought of what would have happened if the cut had reached his neck. What''s happening to my body? It''s becoming incredibly difficult to move... Why has it suddenly become so heavy?


    He examined himself, searching for answers.


    "AH?!"


    Answers that he didn''t take long to find.


    The water that covered him, which had been flowing down to the ground, rose up and crawled over his armor, concentrating around his back, shoulders, and neck. The drops and threads combined to form the silhouette of a frail figure. The "figure" clung tightly to his victim''s shoulders and neck in a suffocating embrace.


    "For eons, sailors of my homeland feared the legend of the wrathful and merciless god of the seas: Protereus," Baharen narrated to Janpelan. "Occasionally, he claimed his tribute by destroying vessels in storms and voracious whirlpools. A fortunate few managed to survive the devastation amidst the wreckage of the shipwreck. But Protereus did not spare them; emerging from the sea in the form of a decrepit old man, he mounted their backs and carried them away to his domain forever. The abominable Zujae nim rhabla, the Elder of the Seas."


    He paused briefly, approaching Janpelan with calm steps. He extended his right arm to the side, proudly displaying his cutlass.


    "My cutlass is the embodiment of the will of the god of the seas. With it, I have invoked the Zujae nim rhabla to deliver your divine punishment," he said.


    The corsairs surrounded Luciara, deliberating the fate that awaited her in their hands.


    "What should we do with her, Taraked?" several of them asked their leader. Taraked: the captain''s right-hand man.


    "That attire, her staff... this woman must be the daughter of some powerful noble," deduced another, smiling sinisterly. "We could kidnap her and demand a ransom."


    "That''s exactly what I was thinking, Amir" Taraked approved his suggestion. "Let''s show her to the captain."


    Captain Baharen swung his cutlass forward, aiming its blade once again at his rival''s jugular.


    "You will sink to the depths of the sea, disappearing eternally into its depths," he proclaimed to Ser Janpelan, continuing his previous speech. "But first..., my cutlass will make you taste death¡­"


    Something he spotted halted him just as he was about to strike.


    "Eh?!"


    Something that his men, too distracted with their hostage, hadn''t noticed yet.


    "You''re coming with us, woman," Luciara was informed by the leader of her assailants. They approached her with the intention of touching her arms to pull her and subdue her.


    You better not touch me, beasts! she threatened inwardly, her eyes fierce like those of a rattlesnake.


    But just as they were about to touch her, and she was about to reveal her hidden weapon...


    "Ah?!"


    They were alerted by the same thing that had distracted their captain on the pier. The rest of the pirates guarding their entrance turned toward its origin.


    "AAAAAH!" With war cries, squads of city soldiers charged against them.


    Clashes of swords and spears echoed through the air. The battle erupted as the raiders fought to protect their loot.


    "Damn it!" Taraked exclaimed. He moved his saber away from Luciara, dismayed by how the soldiers were starting to overwhelm his comrades due to their numerical superiority. "We must support them!" He turned to one of his companions. "Amir! Stay here and make sure she doesn''t escape!" he ordered. He turned to the others. "The rest of you, follow me!"


    They quickly obeyed and accompanied him to the combat zone. For a moment, it seemed that their intervention had once again tipped the scales in their favor, but¡­


    "AAAAAH!"


    From the opposite side of the harbor, other groups of defenders appeared, advancing in their direction, ready to finish surrounding them. They were the soldiers Janpelan took to the bank and left behind after they were stunned by the smoke bombs.


    "This doesn''t look good... At this rate, they''ll defeat us..." Amir muttered absentmindedly, anxiously contemplating the discouraging development of the confrontation. Some of their comrades were injured and lost their sacks.


    This is my chance!


    The guard had made the grave mistake of turning his back on his hostage in those moments. Luciara''s right hand opened and was enveloped in yellow flames. Her arm flexed.


    Pyromantic art: Burning Strike!


    "Ouch!"


    The pirate squealed and jerked in surprise as he felt a strong burning sensation on his buttocks, where Luciara viciously struck him.


    "Take that!"


    Taking advantage of his daze, she slammed the tip of her staff into his head. The pirate fell, unconscious and unaware.


    I''ll do my part too!


    Hopeful, Luciara decided to join the action. Immediately, she found the bound messenger soldier, ignored by friends and foes in the confusion.


    "Just wait a moment, I''ll free you."


    She covered her right index finger in flames. With them, she carefully burned and cut the ropes that immobilized him.


    "Damnation..." Captain Baharen muttered, never taking his eyes off the battle. He was starting to worry about the loot, but above all, about his men on the verge of defeat.


    "ORAAH!"


    With great discomfort due to the oppression weighing him down, Janpelan attempted to sweep Baharen with his mace, but the captain easily dodged it with a leap.


    "Faricums! Retreat! Get back to the Jinnad!"


    Even amidst the heat of the battle, his thunderous command echoed in the ears of all his comrades. They turned around and fled at full speed, crossing the pier with their wounded and the bags they managed to keep in their possession.


    Damn it!... I can''t do anything to them!


    No matter how hard Janpelan tried to stop them, his slow movements with the mace were harmless and evaded by all the pirates as they passed him by. One by one, they boarded their ship.


    "Ready."


    Luciara undid the messenger''s final restraint, finally freeing him.


    "Thank you so much!" he thanked with relief, getting to his feet. He glanced for a moment at the soldiers chasing the pirates during their escape. "You shouldn''t be here, Lady Luciara," the messenger said, turning to her. "But come and help us save your father! Ser Janpe is in grave danger!"


    The first soldiers were just meters away from setting foot on the pier. Captain Baharen raised his cutlass, pointing it towards the sky.


    "Protereus!"


    The sea responded to the call. Just as the soldiers were about to cross the threshold, they crashed into a towering wall of water that rose up in front of them. Soon, more walls followed, blocking access to the rest of the structure.


    "Damn it!"


    "We can''t get through!"


    No matter how hard they tried to pass through and break it, the soldiers couldn''t breach the impregnable barrier. Time and time again, they were knocked to the ground or their attacks were repelled. Their morale plummeted once again.


    As I feared... Something like this wouldn''t be enough, Luciara reflected, her fears revived as she witnessed the magnitude of the pirate captain''s magic. If before she saw herself with minuscule, but existing, possibilities, now she was completely incapable of changing the course of events. Neither I nor anyone here is a match for someone with such mastery of nefesh... There''s only one individual who could equal him.


    Her brow furrowed.


    I''ll take the risk, she nodded. "I''ll be right back! I''ll seek help!"


    She swiftly left the port. She had no reservations left; she was about to make a bold gamble.

 C1-6: A Wandering Sword! The Entrance of the Eccentric Hero

    There is a very strong nefesh near Ser Janpelan... and it''s hostile.


    Mavros continued interpreting the signals he captured with his keen senses.


    Ser Janpelan... His nefesh is rapidly deteriorating! I can barely perceive it anymore!... The owner of that aggressive nefesh is attacking him... and everything indicates that he intends to kill him.


    The last revelation ignited his alarms completely.


    "Are you okay, Mavros?" Sheida still didn''t understand what was happening. The fellow prisoner had been in that bewildering state for almost a minute. "Say something."


    Mavros was clear about it: he couldn''t stay idle.


    "Sheida, I feel like something terrible is happening outside... Lives are at risk," he finally communicated with utmost seriousness, looking at the boy over his shoulder. "I can''t stay here any longer. I have to go out immediately."


    "What?... What are you talking about? No sounds from the outside reach here. How can you know what''s happening outside?" The young man questioned, clearly confused.


    Mavros ignored him and walked until he stood in front of the bars of his cell.


    "And how on Senshan''s dunes do you plan to get out of the cell without the keys?" Sheida continued questioning. "The jailer isn''t even close for us to try to steal them."


    Mavros grabbed a couple of bars with his hands and affirmed, "I don''t need to leave by opening the door."


    An amethyst aura emanated from his body, surrounding him from head to toe. His energy slowly flowed, changing its distribution and concentrating more in his arms and hands.


    Nefesh! Sheida identified, amazed. Could it be?!


    Amidst muffled grunts, Mavros pulled both bars, exerting an immense pressure.


    "HYAAAAAAH!" he shouted with vigor.


    What he did next left Sheida speechless. The bars he held, and others nearby, bent like flimsy wires in an instant. Their supports broke as if shaken by an earthquake, creating a wide enough hole to escape from his confinement.


    "In... Incredible..." Sheida stammered. His lips were still stiff from the shock. "This is... the strength of an Abiyr¡­"


    Mavros calmly walked out of the cell, as if he had opened the door to his own house.


    "Sheida," he said without looking at him, "I''ll see you again after all this is resolved. In the meantime, it''s best for you to stay here."


    "But...!"


    Mavros hurried away before the boy could respond. He quickly ascended a staircase that led him to the door of the dungeons.


    "Beautiful..." the knight sighed, tense. He tried pulling and pushing it by its handle, but the lock had been placed from the outside. "It''s locked¡­¡±


    On the other side of the door, the few guards remaining in the barracks were urgently searching different corners, their gazes shifting in all directions. They were looking for something or someone, but without any luck in finding a trace.


    Three of them gathered right in front of the dungeon''s door.


    "Did you see her?" one of them asked the other two.


    "No¡­"


    Both shook their heads.


    "She''s nowhere to be found."


    "She must have escaped without us realizing."


    The one who asked the question lowered his head. His lips curved downward, struck by the fear that ran through his veins.


    "Maskirio... We''ll be roasted like rabbits¡­", he said.


    BAM!


    A sudden crash, followed by a loud thud, startled the three of them. The door of the dungeon had been knocked down. The first thing they saw in its frame was the extended fist of the escaping "prisoner." They were left silent; their previous terror instantly replaced by another, more immediate one.


    "Where did you put my weapons?" Mavros asked them bluntly. There was no time for theatrics. "Take me to them now. I promise I won''t harm you."


    ***


    "Ser Janpe!" The soldiers desperately called for their leader.


    Their cries were unable to penetrate the large water trap in which he was imprisoned by the power of Protereus, Captain Baharen¡¯s cutlass. Baharen turned his back on his defenseless prey and addressed his crew, who were already aboard their vessel.


    "Do we have any casualties?" he asked his subordinate, the sub-captain Taraked.


    "Just a few injuries, no one has died. Hopefully, everyone will recover," he reported, standing at the bow of the Jinnad of the Seas. "But we lost half of the loot."


    "That''s what I wanted to hear," Baharen smiled with immense relief. He looked at the sky with gratitude. "Thanks to Senshan"


    However, he then lowered his head in serious contemplation.


    Several of those soldiers who attacked us were the ones who welcomed us when we arrived. I should have made sure they drowned. I underestimated them by thinking they wouldn''t return after having a taste of the power of Protereus, he self-criticized. He had merely swept them out of his path with waves of water. My restraint almost cost my crew dearly.


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    "You care more about your men than the riches they went to steal... worthy of a captain."


    "Ah?!"


    Someone had praised him from behind. It was his rival, none other than Ser Janpelan. The Holy Warrior stopped a few meters away from him. The effects of Zujae nim rhabla, the ¡°Elder of the Seas", were evident: his posture had become more hunched and unstable as he struggled to stay upright, resisting the pressure that weighed down his shoulders and hindered his breathing.


    But despite his hardships, his eyes didn''t reflect the same hatred as before. On the contrary, they were filled with respect and a certain understanding for his adversary.


    "You wretch... You''re still standing," Baharen replied, disgusted by his tenacity. He turned back to his men on the ship. "Faricums! Set sail without me!" he ordered as he headed back to the port.


    Initially, his crew was completely disoriented by that instruction, which they saw as delusional and suicidal. Baharen showed them his cutlass, pointing to its gem¡ªa gesture that was enough to dispel all their concerns.


    "Un... Understood, captain!" Taraked nodded. Then, he addressed the other corsairs. "Prepare the sails!"


    While his men prepared to depart, Baharen returned his attention to the target of his personal vengeance.


    "Your time has come!" The blade of his cutlass moved toward Janpelan in deadly strokes, strokes that the Holy Warrior managed to fend off using his mace as a shield with his last remaining strength.


    "You... you are the son of Qadir Ibad, commander of the Sulfnat of Moruk navy," Janpelan murmured amidst their exchange.


    "That''s right. It''s good that you''ve refreshed your memory, because I''ve come to bring justice by taking your life," Baharen asserted. "I know that you killed him!"


    Baharen relentlessly attacked him with new blows filled with anger. Once again, the cutlass blade clashed with the sturdy metal of the mace.


    "Yes, I fought him to the death in the waters of this city during the Nefeshic Wars... I was the victor," Janpelan acknowledged with cold melancholy. "I''m not proud of it, I mourn your loss... but you speak of ''justice'' when you don''t know what it''s like to fight in a war. To defeat the enemy at all costs, to kill or end up losing your life in their hands. All of us who were sent to fight had to assimilate and abide by its rules, whether we liked them or not... And that includes your father and the other warriors of the Sulfnats. We both were just fulfilling our duty that day, and only one could return home to his family."


    "You say I don''t know what war is? That I don''t understand its rules?" Baharen retorted, offended by his claims of ignorance and innocence. "Before you die, know that Baharen Ibad, captain of the Jinnad of the Seas, is part of the vanguard that will expel your infidel kingdoms from these ancestral lands."


    "The vanguard?"


    The corsair''s attacking cutlass prevented the Ser from delving into that mention that sparked his curiosity.


    ***


    Come on! I have to go faster! I can''t tire out now!


    Hundreds of meters away from the somber duel taking place at the port, Ser Janpelan''s daughter embarked on the journey to the barracks. However, her legs, strained by the effort, responded less and less to her urgency.


    The sweat emanating from her pores increasingly tempted her to stop.


    "Curse¡­"


    Suddenly, she saw a black flash. Something passed by her side at such speed that it blew her hair and dress with a refreshing gust of wind.


    Could it be her?... Sheida wasn''t exaggerating.


    Mavros''s eyes delighted in the brief image he could capture of the young woman. He tried to appreciate it once more by looking over his shoulder.


    Perplexed, Luciara turned around.


    It''s... It''s him! He''s heading towards the port!


    The aspiring Holy Warrior managed to clearly distinguish and recognize his figure for an instant.


    Oh my! The knight returned his gaze forward. His distraction almost caused him to collide with a parked cart, which he narrowly avoided with an agile swerve. His course remained undeterred.


    I''ll ask Ser Janpelan to introduce her to me... after saving him, he said to himself, focused on what was important.


    ***


    On the horizon, the Jinnad of the Seas slowly began to retreat, ready to return to the endless blue without its captain.


    "Look!"


    "They''re leaving!¡±


    "Did they kidnap Ser Janpe?!"


    "Did they kill him?!"


    The soldiers commented helplessly, frustrated by their inability to do anything to stop them and save their leader due to the walls of water erected around the dock.


    I... I can''t anymore...


    Ser Janpelan depleted his last reserves of energy, deflecting and evading each of his opponent''s violent cuts and thrusts. His vision became increasingly blurry. His oxygen-deprived muscles ceased to function.


    No... more...


    He finally collapsed, falling to his knees with his head bowed. No matter how much he tried to stand up again, it was impossible; the wicked "Elder of the Seas" who tortured him with his weight had pushed him to his physical limits.


    Baharen approached him calmly, convinced of his indisputable victory.


    "You will be my first casualty," he declared, brandishing his sword and preparing to sever his neck. "My first casualty in this new holy war."


    This is where it ends... I will truly be reunited with my creator¡­ The veteran Holy Warrior began to accept his fate with resignation. I''m sorry... Luciara... Menuha... I won''t be able to bid you farewell¡­


    He closed his eyes, bravely awaiting the blade''s edge. Baharen raised his cutlass and walked over to stand beside him, ready to decapitate him.


    But...


    "What?!"


    He stopped when he saw something appear above the watery wall of the dock, gracefully gliding over it to land between him and Ser Janpelan like an eagle. Overwhelmed by the force of its presence and its striking entrance, Baharen took several steps back.


    You! Confused, Janpelan lifted his head and recognized him, his face filled with astonishment. But how?!


    An Abiyr?... Impossible! Why have they returned?! What is one doing here?! the corsair wondered, observing him rise to his feet, paying special attention to his black armor and his weapons: a double-edged sword at his left hip and a staff protruding from his back. "Who are you?!" he exclaimed imperatively, pointing his cutlass at him and gritting his teeth.


    Mavros assumed an impressive combat stance, with his left arm in front and his right arm behind him, just like his flexed legs.


    "A wandering sword in service of justice!" he replied with passionate character and energy, swiftly changing his posture. "I am Ser Mavros of Havenfalls!"


    The wandering knight would face the first of a formidable series of enemies. One of the many members of a fearsome vanguard whose shadow loomed over the legendary region of Najta.

 C1-7: Ignite! The Staff that Purges the Inner Demons

    "A wandering sword in service of justice!"


    Captain Baharen Ibad''s ears received the self-proclaimed title of his victim''s savior like thunder.


    A wandering sword? In service of justice?... What is that pose... What is all this nonsense? His eyes, brimming with bewilderment, fixed on the guard of the uninvited guest; palms open and fingers pressed together: firm and sharp blades pointed at his heart.


    The errant knight concluded his introduction:


    "I am Ser Mavros of Havenfalls"


    Then, he clenched his hands into fists and assumed a more practical and orthodox stance.


    Is this real? Is it really you? Exhausted, Ser Janpelan of Salamandera wondered. For a moment, he believed it to be a surreal hallucination preceding his death. How did you escape the dungeons? Why are you here?... Did you come... to help me?


    Questions not dissimilar to those of his equally disoriented executioner, whom Mavros observed with curiosity.


    This individual... bears striking resemblance to Sheida, he judged, noting the shape of his ears, his tawny skin, and piercing amber eyes. He must be an ''Ayarian'' like him.


    The corsair captain pointed his cutlass at the knight, breaking him out of that brief reverie.


    ¡°What is an Abiyr like you doing here?! What are you and your kind plotting?!¡± Baharen exclaimed with fervor. "Many years have passed, but we have not forgotten your betrayal. If you think you can reappear to deceive us again, you are sorely mistaken!"


    First ''demons,'' then ''legendary heroes,'' now ''traitors''... What the hell were these famous Abiyrs that everyone confuses me with? Why can''t anyone agree?


    Mavros furrowed his brow, frustration bulging the veins on his forehead. His helmet conveniently concealed them.


    "Hearken unto me, both of ye," he said to Baharen and Ser Janpelan, briefly glancing him over his shoulder. "This doth vex me greatly, thus I shall speak it once and only once."


    Ser Mavros bowed his head, remaining still and silent. The silence and stillness did sow tension in his witnesses. After a brief pause, he raised his head suddenly and shouted at them:


    "I AM NOT AN ABIYR!"


    That impetuous outburst startled them, sealing their lips for a while.


    "You''re not an Abiyr?... You bastard! Are you mocking me?!" Baharen finally reproached him, unable to believe him in the slightest due to his armor, characteristic of them. "Why have you come to interrupt me? What do you seek?"


    "I seeketh naught. I merely sensed that thou wert about to slay this man" Mavros explained in his ¡®knightly¡¯ speech. "I knoweth not thy reasons, but I came hither to stop it. I can discern when a person hath light, when there is sufficient virtue within them to merit life. This man possesseth it."


    The captain''s left eyebrow arched several times, his lips curved into an angry smile of indignation.


    "Are you saying that this man, a Holy Warrior, a veteran of the Nefeshic Wars, possesses ¡®light¡¯, ¡®virtue¡¯?" he questioned. "Please! Don''t make me laugh! He and his people massacred as many people as yours... How does an Abiyr have the audacity to come and tell me these things? Why do you pretend now to be the hero of one of them?"


    And they continue with this ''Abiyr'' business¡­


    Mavros was on the verge of reprimanding him again for his persistence, but soon came to the realization that it would be in vain. The people of these lands couldn''t help but associate him with those legendary figures of the past.


    "The Nefeshic Wars¡­" murmured the knight. "I care not if thou believest me not, but I partook not in those conflicts. I was born when they should have been underway. I merely heard and read a few tales of their events in the lands whence I hail: Tiberland, the lands where I spent my youth," he assured with a funereal coldness. "Yet there I had the misfortune to engage in a smaller, more discreet war, but a war nonetheless. I know what it doth to people; it compelleth even the noblest of souls to become emissaries of hell to survive its horrors... Tell me, what hath this man done to make thee yearn for his demise?"


    Baharen was captivated by the palpable solemnity and authenticity of Mavros¡¯s words. For a moment, his skepticism and animosity towards him vanished.


    "My father: Qadir Ibad, commander of the navy of Moruk, my Sulfnat. That Holy Warrior whom you protect unjustly killed him twenty-one years ago in a naval battle in the waters of this city. His remains were lost forever in the sea," he recounted with a similar solemn demeanor. "I had just been born back then. Because of him, my father could never return to my mother, and I could never know him. Since I was a child, I swore to follow in his footsteps as a sailor and avenge his honor. Now I finally have the opportunity."


    He straightened his body firmly, like a warning from a venomous cobra.


    "So not even you, an Abiyr, will take it away from me," he asserted, reclaiming all his fierceness and hostility. "Step aside or suffer the wrath of Protereus!"


    Mavros remained unmoved, appearing calm and impassive in the face of his threat.


    "Verily, I do not justify the crimes of any man, but thou art mistaken in judging the actions of one during times of war; a warrior who did not slay a defenseless civilian but another warrior in battle," Mavros argued. "I comprehend thee, for I too have endured a similar anguish, but revenge shall not restore the father thou never knewest. No matter how assured thou art otherwise, thou art now the one committing an injustice. Ser Janpelan is not the person deserving of the death thou hast plotted in thy mind."


    His amethyst irises intertwined with the captain''s amber eyes, penetrating beyond the reflection of his pupils. He glimpsed fragments of his soul; fragments that allowed him to make an important decision. Next, he unsheathed and brandished his staff forward with both hands.


    "If mine words doth not serve to maketh thee reconsider and purge thine inner demons, then I shall doth it myself with mine staff."


    Why isn''t he using his sword? Why does he challenge me with that staff? Baharen wondered. His intrigue did not extinguish his determination, which burned intensely. "So you insist on obstructing me... You have asked for it, Abiyr. No matter how strong you may be, you have been a foolish animal by challenging me in my territory."


    "Thy territory?"


    Mavros frowned, unsure of what he was referring to.


    "M-Mavros..." With difficulty, Ser Janpelan raised his head to warn him.


    The knight turned to look at him over his shoulder.


    "Ser Janpelan!" he exclaimed in alarm, realizing the extent of his sorry state and its cause: the humanoid mass of water tormenting him from behind.


    "Be... careful. Don''t let it wet you or... you''ll end up like me."


    While the two were distracted, the captain raised his cutlass towards the sky.


    "Protereus!"


    "Watch out!" Janpelan alerted the knight, anticipating what was about to happen.


    Mavros turned his head forward.


    "Huh?!"


    Suddenly, he saw two large and powerful jets shoot towards him from the opposing walls of water at the dock.


    You can''t escape. You will be punished by the Zujae nim rhabla just like that Janpelan bastard. Baharen felt confident as he saw the jets about to crash into his body, just as they had with his previous victim.


    But¡­


    Mavros calmly closed his eyes, making no attempt to dodge them.


    "What?!"


    Baharen couldn''t believe it. His jets were repelled and diverted less than a meter from him, crashing forcefully into the ground and against the barriers. How did he stop them without making any movement?" He couldn''t understand. "It''s as if invisible walls are protecting him!


    "Now I do comprehend thy meaning of ''thy territory''," Mavros said, unveiling his eyes once more. "Thou canst wield dominion over the waters of this port with yon blade and its crystal. I do acknowledge that thou possesseth extraordinary aptitude with the nefesh to accomplish such feat."


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    "Shut up, you pretentious fool!" The captain scolded him, infuriated, raising his weapon again. "Protereus!"


    This time, not just two, but at least six simultaneous jets shot towards him from different points of the surrounding barriers, covering him from all 360 degrees. The result was the same: each one was repelled and scattered on the stone before they could touch their motionless target.


    "You wretch!"


    "I''m afraid you won''t be able to touch me with that. I, too, have learned to manipulate my nefesh. I can stop each of your attacks with it," Mavros announced, maintaining his calm composure.


    Without warning, the knight flexed his legs to gain momentum and launched himself toward his opponent. Before he could react, he was inches away from him, bringing down his staff with great force towards his body. Baharen blocked it on reflex, angling his cutlass in front of his face. His blade absorbed the blow, but its strength pushed him back a couple of meters, causing his muscles to tremble.


    Hilil Senshan! The legends weren''t lying! Baharen''s skin paled as he realized what he was facing. Ah?!


    "HYAAAH!"


    Mavros didn''t give him a moment''s rest, pressing on with his staff. His thrust was repelled. Something forced him to step back.


    "Hm?!"


    It wasn''t Baharen''s cutlass what caused the block, but a mass of water that came from one of the barriers and formed a solid defense around its master. Mavros attempted to break through it with renewed thrusts and sweeps, but it was futile. The shield was completely impregnable.


    But then, it yielded under the continuous attacks. The water collapsed onto the ground unopposed, revealing that there was no one behind it. His rival had vanished as if by a magic trick.


    Where did he go?


    Mavros focused on coordinating all his senses to locate him. His ears caught a faint vibration. Baharen pierced through one of the walls of water, flying with his sword extended towards him like the voracious jaws of a great shark. The knight managed to evade it by stepping aside. Instead of crashing, his opponent merged into the opposite wall and navigated its depths like a swift marlin, propelling himself back to the exterior for a new assault.


    This time, his cutlass was not held outstretched.


    "HAAAAAA!" With a war cry, he swung it in a sharp spin towards the errant knight.


    Damn! Mavros narrowly managed to deflect it with his staff, but Baharen resumed his offensive by attacking in the same manner from the opposite side. The cycle continued for several iterations. Despite the variations he made in each of his swift flights, Mavros managed to dodge or repel each of his slashes and thrusts.


    I can''t keep this up forever, Mavros judged, frustrating what should have been at least his fourth attempt. He felt increasingly exhausted. I have to break his guard and throw him off balance mid-flight.


    At that moment, he saw him coming again, lunging towards him. Mavros prepared to deflect it, but¡­


    Oh no! His back! Janpelan realized it would no longer be possible.


    But what the...?! To his astonishment, Mavros felt his arms and shoulders stiffen and grow heavy. They responded with extreme clumsiness that prevented him from properly positioning his staff. The edge of Captain Baharen''s cutlass crashed into his helmet, pushing him a few meters back until he fell on his back next to Ser Janpelan.


    "Mavros!"


    ***


    "What a scoundrel Mavros is... He had to run off just when I was about to ask him to get me out of here with his nefesh..."


    Sheida gripped a pair of bars with each hand, somewhat annoyed at the knight for leaving him once again to the solitude of darkness without any satisfactory explanation.


    Nefesh, the divine essence that Senshan bestowed upon the world since the legendary times of the Blinitaka and Lilda Fanak. The essence that only the maskirian Holy Warrior, the senshamic Sahirons, the Lebias Order and the enigmatic Abiyrs reserve the privilege of knowing its greatest secrets¡­


    He lowered his head, meditating with profound seriousness on that ethereal energy that had always been a great source of fascination to him.


    I am convinced that it is a secret fire that resides within all of us. With enough willpower and focus, an ordinary person like me can ignite it just like him... and her, have achieved it.


    His hands tightened and pulled forcefully on the prison bars. He closed his eyes and furrowed his brow in an unreflective attempt to imitate the superhuman feat of his former cellmate.


    "Burn! Burn, my nefesh! Perform the miracle!" he shouted, in a completely futile and laughable effort to summon that invisible force.


    The fact that no one was there to witness it influenced his lack of fear in making a fool of himself.


    ***


    "What was that?!"


    "What is happening in there?!"


    Desperate, the soldiers tried to find out, halted before the imposing wall of water that blocked the passage to the pier where their leader had been locked with the enemy.


    "Ser Janpe!" Several exclaimed, hoping to hear his voice.


    Silence was the only response.


    Silence that was soon interrupted by several hurried footsteps approaching from behind. Someone stopped near them, placing her hands on her knees to regain energy. Her refined attire had been spoiled by the abundant sweat that soaked its fabric.


    "No¡­"


    Luciara felt desolate as she saw the wall of water unchanged. The corsair ship vanished into the seas on the horizon.


    "Lady Luciara!"


    The soldier she had released earlier noticed her return and went to greet her.


    "My father¡­" She said between gasps, expecting the worst. "Is... he dead?"


    "We don''t know! He could still be alive! That damn barrier prevents us from seeing anything!" The soldier informed her. "But something just passed through here and jumped over it! It moved so fast that it knocked us down, and we couldn''t see it clearly!"


    Luciara briefly averted her gaze, immediately recalling the encounter she had just had.


    "You say ¡®something¡¯ passed you and jumped over the barrier?" She asked intrigued. "Do you have any idea what it was?"


    "No... We''re all wondering the same thing," he confirmed. "We only saw a glimpse... a black flash."


    "A black flash¡­"


    She could now confirm it: what she had seen on the way back was not a trick played by her imagination. Her eyes filled with hope and uncertainty, anxiously shifting to the wall of water.


    ¡°Mavros!¡± Ser Janpelan called out, concerned for his rescuer, who was knocked down and stunned after the attack he received.


    "Aaah¡­"


    The errant knight groaned weakly, coming back to his senses. He was fortunate to have received only a strong blow and not a grave wound.


    What happened to me? My body suddenly lost its agility drastically...he wondered. That cut... I didn''t think someone would bring me down like that again... It''s thanks to this helmet that I''m still alive, he acknowledged. This man is truly formidable. He is on the level of a Holy Warrior... He surpasses many I have fought before.


    When he tried to get up¡­


    ¡°Inan?¡±


    Once again, his muscles fell victim to an oppressive pressure that numbed them. No matter how hard he tried to stand, he couldn''t extend his legs. With great effort, he managed to squat down.


    Damn it¡­


    The water streaming around his shoulders and neck made him realize what had happened. Somehow, he had also fallen victim to the Elder of the Seas.


    But how?... If he didn''t manage to wet me¡­


    "You look confused, Abiyr," Baharen mocked, cruelly reveling in his new situation. "What do you think happened to all the water that fell to the ground? While I distracted you, I guided it towards your body. You were so focused on responding to my cutlass that you didn''t notice."


    For the first time in the entire battle, Mavros felt true fear. Just as I imagined... I didn''t count on him displaying such cunning. He had underestimated him. It would take more than strength and agility to defeat him. His affinity with water is his greatest strength, but also his greatest weakness, he analyzed coldly. Soon, I will show him.


    In a weak and irregular motion, he threw his staff. It passed so far from the corsair that he didn''t need to block or move aside to dodge it.


    "It seems that the Zujae nim rhabla no longer allows you to think clearly," Baharen smiled with wicked satisfaction at his apparent desperation. "You''re giving nothing but your last desperate drowning kicks."


    Mavros closed his eyes and ignored his taunts. His body and spirit entered a harmonious state.


    Ignite.


    "Huh?!"


    Astounded, Baharen and Janpelan watched as the Elder of the Seas clinging to his back began to boil progressively, leaving a trail of ascending steam.


    Impossible! How can he evaporate it without fire? The corsair captain blinked.


    Staff, come to me.


    Like a living organism, the staff lying on the ground obeyed Mavros¡¯s telepathic command. It levitated in the air and, rotating like a boomerang, shot directly towards his position.


    But something stood in the way. Baharen turned around and found it, on the verge of colliding with him. Instinctively, he summoned a water shield to intercept it. A reaction that would define his defeat.


    As expected, the staff was stopped by the defensive barrier, but it did more than just hit it.


    Art of the Plasms: lightning explosion.


    At the point of impact, an explosion detonated, releasing hundreds of small but violent electric shocks. The shocks spread, piercing through the water shield, coursing through Baharen¡¯s body and water-soaked garments.


    "AAAAH!" The corsair captain let out a scream, enduring the piercing stabs of the miniature lightning, torture for his nerves. A rain of javelins from furious valkyries.


    Eventually, the storm dissipated. His victim remained standing.


    I... I''m still alive? Baharen noticed, amazed to survive such an onslaught. However, he did not emerge unscathed. His body had been completely paralyzed as a consequence.


    A swift punch to his skull knocked him to the ground.


    He... Janpelan turned his head from side to side. The wicked Elder of the Seas slowly dissolved into running water that trickled down his shoulders and back, finally releasing him from its merciless grip. He did it!


    Picking up his staff, Mavros approached his defeated enemy.


    I... I never stood a chance, Baharen lamented as his consciousness faded. He clutched his cutlass with his last bit of strength. It seems as though my master has abandoned me to my fate... Perhaps it was Senshan''s will that I die today... at the hands of this Abiyr.


    His opponent sheathed his staff.


    Father, I''m sorry... I worked so hard, but luck has failed me. I will meet you without having avenged you¡­


    The corsair captain closed his eyes, resigning himself to passing into another realm.


    However, he was unaware that the gaze of his victor held no trace of animosity.


    "Like this man whose life thou didst seek to take, thou dost not deserve to meet thy death," he assured, standing before his motionless body. "Thou hast the right to an opportunity to forsake thy misguided beliefs. I pray that when thou dost awaken anew, thou wilt be inclined to seize it."


    The corsair trembled at those unexpected words. The one he had sworn to be a bloodthirsty demon had just forgiven him with the compassion of a true saint. His consciousness did not fade into death as he initially thought, but into a temporary slumber.


    Then¡­


    "Ah?!"


    The corsair''s body dissolved into mist, becoming transparent until it completely vanished. Mavros and the recovered Ser Janpelan were left speechless by this extraordinary phenomenon. Both used their senses to confirm that he was nearby, to confirm that he had only used one of his sophisticated tricks to deceive them. But there was no doubt, any trace or sign of his presence was conspicuously absent. He had turned to dust carried away by the wind.


    "He...," Mavros murmured.


    "...has disappeared," Ser Janpelan completed his sentence. "He''s gone!"


    Baharen had been mistaken. The eyes of his "master" had been watching over him throughout all his ordeal.


    The mastermind behind the "vanguard" that stalked Najta intervened at the precise moment to ensure the safety of the young captain, one of his many assets.

 C2-1: Peace Returns! The Warm Respite after the Battle

    "Look!"


    "The barrier!"


    "It''s falling!"


    The soldiers joined in a massive clamor. They watched as the impregnable walls of water, which for agonizing minutes had kept them from reaching their leader, merged back into the sea, collapsing heavily like defeated giants. Foams and drops splashed onto the dock in a brief deluge that fell upon the only two people present.


    "Ser Janpe!"


    The exclamations turned into voices of joy. Gradually, the image of their leader, alive and with his mace in hand, became visible amidst the downpour. Their prayers had been heard.


    "Father!"


    His daughter was the first to run to meet him, followed shortly after by several of the warriors, eager to celebrate and share with him.


    "Luciara!"


    He received her embrace, laden with strength, yet gentle as the tenderest caress.


    "Luciara..." Janpelan said, holding her in his arms. Although on other occasions, he would have reprimanded her severely for disobeying his orders, he was so happy to have her by his side that he let it pass. "What joy..., what joy to see you."


    "I thought... you were going to die," Luciara said, holding back the tears that threatened to escape her eyes, moist with emotion. "I''ve never been so afraid for you."


    "How beautiful¡­". They heard someone say behind them. "There''s no happy reunion that doesn''t move me."


    "Aaa... Aaah?¡­" Interrupted groans of terror escaped the open mouths of the soldiers as they saw the speaker of those words appear beside their leader and his daughter.


    "AAH!"


    They all unsheathed and brandished their weapons, trembling as if they were victims of the coldest of blizzards. "Ser... Ser Janpe! Lady Luciara!" they alerted, pointing at the individual with the tips of their weapons and the indices of their free hands.


    Here we go¡­


    Mavros prepared himself once again to deal with this recurring reaction to his presence, which he was starting to accept as natural as sunlight in the day and darkness in the night.


    Ser Janpelan and Luciara separated and turned towards him.


    I knew it..., he was that ''black flash¡¯. The young woman touched her half-open lips. The image of the knight was captured and admired with fascination, a memory that her mind marked with the seal of the unforgettable.


    "Soldiers!" Ser Janpelan stood before his men. His resolute voice was a lash that made them straighten their composure. "Calm down! Sheathe your weapons!" He directed his gaze at the knight. "This Abiyr..., no, this knight, saved my life. You can trust him."


    What?!


    This ¡®knight¡¯?!


    He... he saved him?!


    We can trust him?!


    Stunned, they lowered their guard, taking time to digest these unexpected orders and announcements from their superior.


    Meanwhile, Mavros noticed the girl who kept her eyes on him. He directed his amethyst eyes to the almond-shaped silver ones of her lively and delicate oval face. Thin and defined lips, a short and upturned nose; those features created the same pleasant impression in the knight as their first fleeting encounter.


    "My Lady." He gestured with his left arm, inclining his back forward in a brief and formal bow.


    Luciara blushed slightly, flattered by his splendid gesture and the title he had called her, despite the remnants of dirt on her dress that did not do her justice.


    ¡°Ser Mavros... this is my daughter, Luciara," Ser Janpelan introduced her.


    Mavros extended his hand, which she hesitated for a moment before shaking.


    "Pleased to meet you," she murmured nervously. "Ser Mavros."


    "Likewise," Mavros replied.


    Both of them separated, feeling a certain awkwardness. Once the calm settled in, Ser Janpelan addressed his men.


    "How are you all? What were our casualties?" he asked, walking with some clumsiness. His body had not fully recovered from the effects of the Zujae nim rhabla.


    "We have several wounded, but their injuries are not serious."


    "For now, we haven''t counted any dead."


    The troop leader felt a deep relief.


    "What happened to the pirate captain, Ser?" another soldier asked, inspecting the dock. "Did you... the Abiyr... kill him?"


    Janpelan looked away. A shiver ran through his body as he remembered what happened to Baharen.


    "No... We didn''t kill him; his whereabouts are unknown," he said. "He... vanished during the battle."


    "What?!"


    "He vanished?!"


    "How is that possible?!"


    The simultaneous expressions of fear and disbelief reached Janpelan''s ears. Some soldiers searched their surroundings, suspecting that he might be nearby.


    "That''s right. I still don''t know how, but... something took him. I can assure you he''s no longer in the city," Janpelan reaffirmed. "Perhaps... Lord Monteros may have an explanation. I need to contact him immediately."


    It was now the turn for several of his men to lower their gazes, anticipating the bad news they were about to convey.


    "Those bastards destroyed the post office, Ser," one of them took the lead. "Unfortunately, when we arrived, it was already too late."


    "The post office?... But even if they destroyed it, they shouldn''t have found the Letexvos," Ser Janpelan assured, not showing too much alarm as he was certain of their secrecy.


    The Letexvos were advanced artifacts that allowed long-distance communication with other units stationed throughout Najta and the continent of Elvira. The "magic" of their crystal wands allowed them to hold a conversation with someone on the other side of the world as if they were face to face.


    However, their use was exclusively reserved for the members of the Holy Houses and some noble families connected to them.


    "I''m sorry, but I''m afraid they did discover them," one of the soldiers reiterated. "Nothing was saved; they ruined everything."


    "How?!" Deep furrows formed on the Holy Warrior''s face, impressed and disturbed. The office is just to the north... So, the mission of that other group of corsairs was not merely to divert the attention of those heading to the bank, but to disrupt our communications, he interpreted, recalling the development of the enemy incursion. No one apart from me, my men, and the other Holy Houses were aware of those Letexvos. How could they find out about them and their location? How did they obtain such confidential information?


    A series of footsteps interrupted his musings. The soldiers made way for a couple of companions dragging something special along.


    "Ser Janpe! We encountered this corsair nearby. It seems he was abandoned by the others."


    Luciara raised her eyebrows; it was none other than the one she had knocked down with her staff. He was tightly bound and subdued by ropes held by his captors. From his dazed and disoriented expression, he had only just regained consciousness.


    "Let''s take him to the dungeons," Janpelan instructed them, turning his head towards the sunlight. He could tell by its low position that the evening was about to fall. "I will interrogate him tonight. I am exhausted; this could not have been a tougher workday for all of us. Both you and I deserve a good rest."


    ***


    "AAAAAH!"


    Sheida''s energetic screams echoed in the dark walls. Despite the gigantic force he tried to muster through doubtful means, his hands couldn''t even scratch the reinforced metal bars that held him, remaining firm and unbendable. Exhaustion forced him to give up.


    "I... I surrender. I can''t feel... the nefesh," he muttered, releasing the bars and crouching down, gasping for breath. "What?"


    His ears picked up a distant sound that grew closer.


    "Somebody''s coming," he correctly deduced.


    Soon, Ser Janpelan advanced down the hallway of cells, followed by Mavros and a soldier guiding the captured corsair. The Holy Warrior abruptly stopped, causing the others to almost stumble over each other.


    "But what the...?"


    He had just seen the massive opening the wandering knight had created in his cell. The irreparable damage gave him an overwhelming sensation. It was like witnessing the brutal work of a natural disaster, not that of a living being, which was the reality of it.


    "You... you did this, didn''t you?" Janpelan said, his pupils fixed like nails on the bent bars and their fractured supports.


    "Oh..." Mavros murmured, shamefully contemplating the trail of his excessive destruction. "Yes, I should have told thee, Ser Janpelan.¡­"


    "¡­ What?!" The awe spread to the guard and the new prisoner upon hearing that confirmation.


    "You imbecile!" Janpelan turned around, his face boiling. "You couldn''t escape by simply breaking down the door! No! You had to make a mess by damaging the damned bars!" he scolded hysterically, restraining his desire to unsheathe his mace from the scabbard on his back and bury the knight with it. "Do you know how much it''s going to cost to install new ones?! I already had enough trouble with the mess the corsairs left behind!"


    "Sorry... I did it without thinking," Mavros apologized timidly, finding his turn to respond amidst the verbal storm. "Verily, in those moments, I could not bethink of a finer way to escapeth."


    "Mavros!"


    "Huh?!"


    Sheida called out, leaning over to see what was causing the commotion.


    "Sheida!" The knight stepped forward to see him and returned his greeting with equal enthusiasm.


    "You''re back!" the boy exclaimed with a smile that quickly faded. "Ser... Ser Janpelan," he murmured with respect and fearful restraint as he recognized Janpelan standing behind the knight.


    "This was the lad of whom I was recounting unto thee on the journey, Ser," Mavros informed him, looking over his shoulder at Janpelan. The Holy Warrior approached the cell door, quickly calming his heated emotions. The keys on the keyring in his right hand rattled with metallic clicks.


    "My men caught him this morning playing street music without authorization," he told Mavros, inserting the key into the lock. "I didn''t like having to lock him up, but the law and good customs are clear."


    The door was pulled open, emitting its characteristic and grating creak.


    This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    "You''re free, kid. You''ve served your punishment," Janpelan said. "You can go."


    Sheida didn''t think twice and hurriedly crossed the threshold. Janpelan signaled the guard, who understood and escorted the new prisoner to the door. Then, he cut the restraints and pushed him into the cell, and Janpelan locked the door.


    "Who is that?" Sheida glanced curiously at the prisoner who took his place. Despite being an Ayarian like him, he noticed from his clothing that the newcomer was not from the region. He turned his face to the knight.


    "Why did you come back, Mavros? I swore you had fled the city," he said to him, wondering at the same time why he was accompanying the barracks'' leader, feeling completely at ease despite everything Mavros had told him.


    "You misunderstood me. I had no intention of fleeing, Sheida. I only escaped because I sensed danger outside, and I wasn''t wrong," he explained, returning to regular speech. "While we were here, some pirates attacked the city." He glanced at the captive pirate. "This man was one of them."


    "Pirates?... Ayarian pirates?"


    That mention astonished him. It was the first time he had heard of an Ayarian pirate attack on Cirencre in his memory. The only one he knew of had happened during the Nefeshic Wars, years before he was born. He couldn''t imagine how they could have overcome the defenses of the port, fortified since then. Unable to resist his curiosity, he asked them, "What did they do? Were there casualties?"


    "They destroyed the fort''s defenses, looted half of the bank''s treasure, set fire to the post office... and their captain tried to kill me," Ser Janpelan gave him a brief summary that left the young man dumbfounded. "But luckily, there were no human casualties." He turned to Mavros. "And all thanks to this knight. He appeared to lend a hand when I needed it most. That''s why I owe him a debt. I owe him an apology for having locked him up here."


    "Uh?! A knight?" Sheida turned to Mavros, even more confused by the way the Holy Warrior respectfully referred to him. "So... you went out to save him?"


    Mavros nodded firmly, and Sheida blinked a couple of times.


    "He tried to kill you at first sight... And yet, you ran to rescue him after giving him a beating?" he questioned, trying to understand the logic and motivation behind his actions.


    What? He gave me a beating?! Janpelan of Salamandera didn''t take kindly to hearing that uncomfortable reminder. "Please, take this child to retrieve that ''junk'' he calls musical instruments," the Ser ordered the soldier who accompanied them.


    "Ayadis! They''re called ayadis! It''s art! Don''t you dare call them junk again!" The boy protested, annoyed, barely making himself noticeable due to his small stature. He seemed like a person shouting in vain at a tall tower. "And I''m not a child!"


    "Alright, alright, if you say so..." Janpelan didn''t even make an effort to take his complaints seriously. "Now go! I hope this is the first and last time I see you here. Stay away from trouble; the dungeons are no place for a brat like you."


    "Hump!"


    Sheida passed by, feeling bitter, following the soldier who would lead him to his belongings. Before turning the corner that led to the stairs, he looked back at Mavros one last time over his shoulder.


    The knight and the burly warrior were left alone in the darkness.


    "That corsair... hath not spoken a word since they captured him," Mavros commented.


    The new prisoner remained seated and leaned against a wall, apparently indifferent to everything happening around him. Such was his silence that his presence could only be perceived through eye contact.


    "And perhaps he won''t. He seems well-disciplined, must have sworn loyalty to his comrades," Janpelan said, thoughtfully. "But I''ll try to interrogate him anyway. For now, he''s the only one who could give me more information about his captain... and whatever may have happened to him."


    He left Mavros behind, moving a few meters away from him.


    "Speaking of interrogations... yours is still pending. I want you to tell me your entire story, Mavros," he said, turning to look him in the face. "But not here. We''ll do it after we dine."


    "After we dine?" Mavros opened his eyes, doubting if he had heard correctly.


    "That''s right, I invite you to dinner and to spend the night in my home," he reiterated with a friendly smile. "It''s the least I can do to thank you and make up for the trouble I caused you."


    ***


    Navigating through open windows, a twilight orange hue fell upon white walls and wooden finishes, the last colors of the dying day. In the center of the room stood a rectangular table with sturdy, rustic legs. Only one of its six chairs was occupied. A male figure with a long brown cloak and hood sat facing the windows, admiring the sun as it set among the rooftops, gradually giving way to the nocturnal starry sky. As darkness touched the room, stones embedded in high and strategic points of the walls began to glow with faint yellow hues, collectively illuminating the space. The hooded individual looked behind him upon hearing footsteps descending nearby stairs.


    The author soon revealed herself beyond the railing. She wore a simple yet beautiful fuchsia dress that flowed down to her feet, paired with black sandals. The smooth and soft fabric hugged her skin, enhancing the natural lines and contours of her body. Her clean skin and hair, free from the dust and sweat that had previously clung to them, indicated that she had just taken a bath for this occasion. The young lady approached the table cautiously, taking a seat opposite the mysterious hooded figure, who returned his gaze to the sky. She fidgeted with her knees, trying to focus her eyes on him, but nervousness made her glance away. She wanted to say something, to start a conversation as she would with any other person, but the fact that he was certainly not ordinary made her feel immensely shy.


    "You... you can take it off. You don''t have to wear it here," she gathered the courage to say, managing to capture his attention despite her soft voice.


    "Oh!" The individual noticed his cloak. "Right."


    He proceeded to stand and remove it, hanging it over the back of the chair. His gleaming black armor was once again exposed. The cloak had only been an idea that she and her father had to avoid drawing unwanted attention during their journey back home.


    "I don''t think I told you before... Thank you so much for saving my father," Luciara said, watching him take his seat again. "I still... I still find it hard to believe that an Abiyr would do something like that, and of his own free will."


    "Forsooth, I am not an Abiyr, though all here doth mistake me for such," Mavros affirmed in his ¡®knightly¡¯ speech. "I''m but a wandering sword of the realm of Tiberland... and I doth appreciate thy gratitude, but thou need''st not thank me, Lady Luciara. I merely acted in accord with mine own code; with mine own philosophy of doing what is just and right without expecting aught in return."


    Both remained silent for a brief moment, their gazes shifting to the outside; lost in their own thoughts.


    "I owe you an apology, Ser Mavros... There''s something you should know," Luciara broke the silence. "I... I made you lose consciousness while you were fighting my father. I attacked you from behind with a spell without you realizing it," she confessed. "I thought you were going to kill him¡­"


    "I already knew. And I doth not blame thee; I would have done the same," Mavros said amiably, showing his lack of surprise.


    "Did you already know?" Luciara was taken aback by his knowledge.


    "Yes, I overheard thee during the battle," the knight clarified. "I comprehend thou art an aspiring sorceress, studying spells on thine own for years," he said, "Well, thou art on the right path, thou hast quite some talent. Undoubtedly, thou canst fulfill thy dream of becoming a Holy Warrior."


    Luciara stood up abruptly, forgetting the manners she had managed to maintain with him until then.


    "How... how do you know all that?" she demanded, becoming increasingly agitated by how well-informed he was. "Did my father tell you?"


    "No," he shook his head, "it was told to me by a ''secret admirer'' thou hast in this city," Mavros informed her with a hint of playfulness. "He also did tell me... that thy father doth oppose thy aspirations and that ye two oft doth argue because of it," he said, adopting a more serious and discreet tone. "Is that true?"


    The girl lowered her gaze. "Yes," she confirmed, raising it again with caution. "Yes, it is true... but are you going to tell me who on Mater this ''secret admirer'' is?"


    "Luciara!"


    A loud voice from another corner of the house interrupted the conversation.


    "Luciara! Dinner is almost ready!" It was Janpelan, calling from the kitchen on the other side of one of the walls in the living room. "Set the table!"


    "I''m coming!" Luciara replied.


    She shifted her gaze to a large piece of furniture with several shelves, drawers, and a display case at its center.


    "Can I help?" Mavros offered, getting up as well.


    "Well..." She thought about it for a moment. It wasn''t something a guest was supposed to do, but a little help wouldn''t hurt. "You can help me with the plates and silverware; they''re in that drawer," she pointed to a wooden drawer in a section of the furniture to the right of the display case. "Just take out forks and knives."


    "Alright," Mavros nodded.


    Both of them went to their respective parts of the furniture. Luciara opened the display case, which held several crystal glasses lined up in order and bottles of wine. Mavros opened the indicated drawer, finding stacks of white ceramic dishes, cloth napkins, and sets of forks, spoons, and knives. They moved back and forth, taking out and placing the objects and utensils on the table. Everything was ready to receive the food, which soon made its appearance.


    Coming from a corner, Ser Janpelan entered the room carrying a wooden tray in his right hand. Wearing a white shirt, chestnut-colored trousers, and leather shoes, he looked less imposing without his armor and mace, but his thick, well-defined muscles still exuded strength. Carefully, he placed the tray in the center of the table. A round potato omelet with several triangular cuts and a warm loaf of bread lay on it. The three of them proceeded to take their seats. Each closed their eyes and clasped their hands, intertwining their fingers in a gesture of prayer: the beginning of a daily ritual that had been part of their lives since early childhood.


    "In honor of Maskirio, our master and liberator, we shall partake of this food in gratitude to all sentient beings of this world," Janpelan pronounced solemnly. As the head of the family, the role belonged to him.


    "Sohen."


    With that short word that came in unison from their lips, Mavros and Luciara closed that brief religious ritual. Their eyes opened again, and their hands parted. The three served portions of omelet and pieces of bread onto their plates. Janpelan uncorked the wine bottle and poured it into each of the glasses.


    "Help yourself, Mavros," he said, finishing filling his own glass, noticing him somewhat hesitant.


    "Thank thee," Mavros nodded politely.


    Then, he lifted the lower part of his helmet, exposing his mouth. With his fork, he brought a piece of omelet to his lips: soft dunes in a desert of warm skin. Ocher tones merging with the light that touched it.


    "Delicious," he commented after swallowing the piece of omelet and took a sip from his glass. "You cook very well, Ser Janpelan."


    "Uh?" Janpelan and Luciara looked at him somewhat astonished.


    "Mavros... Can you eat like that?"


    "Why don''t you take off that helmet?"


    They asked, respectively, noticing how the lifted piece obstructed some of the helmet''s openings that allowed him to see.


    "Uh?" He stopped his right hand just centimeters from his mouth, with a piece of bread about to be devoured. His body tensed as he realized what they might be thinking. "Verily, fret not, for I need not to take it off. I have... grown accustomed to eating thusly."


    "But it must be very uncomfortable," Luciara said, feeling sorry for him at the thought. "Doesn''t it really bother you?"


    "Come on, tronco, let me take it off for you," Janpelan offered willingly, ready to get up and do him the favor. "You''ve had it on since you arrived."


    Ser Janpelan was serious, and that caused Mavros''s composure to collapse.


    "NO! I DON''T WANT TO TAKE IT OFF! I WON''T SAY IT AGAIN!" the knight exclaimed, almost spewing fire like a dragon.


    His two hosts were taken aback. They had never expected such a sudden outburst from him.


    "I beg thy pardon, how unworthy of me..." he said, lowering his head, deeply embarrassed and aware of the inappropriateness of that impulsive act he couldn''t contain. "This helm is of great import to me. Alongside mine armor, I don it whenever possible. I prithee, I expect thee not to comprehend, but ''tis for a matter most personal. I beseech thee to show it due respect. "


    Although Ser Janpelan and Luciara calmed down upon hearing his sincere apologies, they couldn''t help but feel perplexed by the vagueness of his excuse to justify his eccentricity.


    But what bit him?


    Could something terrible have happened to his face?


    Numerous questions sprouted in the minds of the father and his daughter.


    "I... I understand," Ser Janpelan acquiesced to his plea, wishing to restore the harmonious atmosphere they had during dinner. "I''m sorry, I didn''t mean to offend you, Mavros."


    "Fear thee not, for I know thou didst not commit it with wicked intent..." Mavros replied calmly, showing that there was no resentment. "If anyone was rude and needed to apologize, it was me."


    After that, dinner resumed in complete silence. Each bite and sip represented for the three of them a new step that allowed them to leave that uncomfortable episode behind.


    "Luciara..." Janpelan called to his daughter just as the food and drink were becoming scarce, a sign that the dinner was nearing its end. "Tomorrow, you should go to Hezaran to see your mother. This morning, I spoke with her, and she was still working on that sculpture commissioned by the mayor," he informed her. "I will also visit her. I urgently need to use the post office in that city. I think you could stay with us for a day before continuing your journey."


    "That sounds good," she quickly agreed. "It''s been a while since we''ve all been together... A short stop before Netzach won''t hurt."


    "Netzach? Are you traveling to Netzach, the capital city of this kingdom?" Mavros inquired, drawn to those mentions.


    "Yes, I have everything ready to leave tomorrow," she confirmed. "I will stay there for a while to take the admission tests at their university." She glanced briefly at her father, who seemed to awaken from his lethargy. "It was challenging, but I managed to get the money I needed for my stay."


    "How coincidental... I''m also heading there tomorrow," Mavros commented. "I was planning to departeth today, but the assault on the port hath postponed it."


    "What? You''re going to Netzach too?" Luciara smiled with enthusiasm at the potential implications. "Then... why don''t you come with me?"


    "Ah?"


    "Luciara?"


    Both he and Janpelan raised their eyebrows at her proposal.


    "Verily, I thank thee for the invitation, but I must decline. This is a journey I have to maketh alone," Mavros said after a while, trying to control a sudden restlessness that gripped him.


    However, Luciara wasn''t going to give up so easily in the face of that refusal.


    "Even if you obtain a map, you''ll get lost in Netzach during your first visit. I don''t know much about Tiberland, but Netzach is larger than any city you''ve seen there, I assure you," she said persuasively. "I know it well because I''ve visited it several times, so I could serve as your guide." She paused briefly, furrowing her brow slightly. "Besides, you''ll have trouble going unnoticed with that armor. It will create serious misunderstandings with the Holy Warriors from other cities, just like it happened here. Some of them are much stronger than my father, and they won''t show you the same leniency. I can help you with various tricks that will save you from those risks." A smile crept upon her closed lips. "Consider it my gratitude for what you''ve done for us."


    Maskirio, those eyes¡­


    Although he was usually very stubborn, Mavros found himself face to face with one of his greatest weaknesses: the crystal illusion eyes of a lady making a request. There was nothing that could shake his otherwise unwavering self-determination more.


    "It''s incredible..., but for the first time in years, I have to agree with my daughter," Janpelan said with seriousness, earning a silent reprimand from her with her sharp gaze. As much as he might have wanted to, he couldn''t deny the accuracy of her observations. "You need someone to help you navigate through Najta."


    Mavros looked away, deep in thought. Those words forced him to reconsider his idea of traveling alone. He certainly didn''t want a repeat of an unnecessary confrontation like the one he had that afternoon.


    "A-alright. I''ll accompany thee to Netzach, Lady Luciara," he finally agreed, meeting her gaze. "But once we get there and I get to know it well, we''ll go our separate ways."


    "That was the deal from the beginning," Luciara said with visible delight at his change of heart. "I''m not asking you to become my bodyguard."


    Ser Janpelan surveyed the table: he and the other diners had finished their dishes and emptied their glasses. He got up from his chair. The moment he had been waiting for had arrived.


    "Mavros, after clearing the table, we''re going to talk..." His brow furrowed. "In private."


    Luciara couldn''t help but feel intrigued by the cold tone in which he said it. She alternated her gaze between the two. What are they going to ''talk'' about?... About the journey? She correctly guessed, though her intuition told her there was more to it. And she wasn''t far from the truth, as Mavros already knew.


    "Of course," the knight agreed more than willingly, also rising from his seat.


    Soon, they would find resolution to his unfinished interrogation.

 C2-2: Ramij! The Touch-ups of a Singular Art

    "Several days passed until I finally regained my determination. It was today. Today, I took my first step on the journey that, according to my code, will lead me to perfect my martial arts; to transcend the limitations of my body and spirit. The ''End of the Way.''"


    Mavros concluded the tale of his past to Janpelan of Salamandera, his attentive listener. They were in a small office, occupying opposite seats in front of a desk. The solemnity and melancholy on their faces were enhanced by the dim light of the room''s only shining stone. The only window there allowed them to glimpse the sky: a canvas of white dots in gloomy oceans of black and dark blue.


    "Well... I don''t know what to say," Ser Janpelan lowered his head. He needed time to control the various emotions that had surfaced within him. "That you lived through all of that as a youngster.., that, apparently, King Sincer could be behind a conspiracy of such gravity."


    The wandering knight observed him with renewed circumspection. "Upon reaching the ''End of the Way''..., I hope that all the mistakes, all the misfortunes that I couldn''t prevent due to my weakness and foolishness, will never happen again," he summarized with conviction what he hoped to achieve.


    Janpelan nodded. His respect for Mavros had turned into admiration after hearing his story.


    "At least Amina was there. Lord Monteros will be glad to receive news from her," he commented, forcing a slight smile. "We can count on her to set things right in the meantime, and she won''t rest until she gets to the bottom of this. Her principles stand above her loyalty to her king."


    He stood up slowly. He was more than satisfied¡ªand sufficiently alarmed¡ªwith the information he had gathered.


    "I can''t lie to you. If the worst is confirmed, this could be terrible; it''s much more serious than I imagined," he said. "I''ll travel to Hezaran right now to warn my Lord... The corsair''s interrogation can wait until tomorrow."


    He passed by the desk and stopped just to the right of the knight.


    "Mavros... I entrust you with the favor of watching over my daughter in my absence. She has the charm, intelligence, and talent for her mother''s sophisticated arts, but at the same time, she''s as reckless and hot-headed as I am. She inherited the best and worst of both worlds," he said. "We barely know each other, and I may be asking too much of you... but I wish you could convince her to abandon her idea of becoming a Holy Warrior. I don''t want her to follow in my footsteps."


    "Why... Why do you want so much to prevent her from becoming a Holy Warrior?" Mavros inquired. "She''s skilled in controlling the nefesh. Her potential is undeniable."


    The veteran turned his head slightly.


    "During the war, I was fortunate not to lose any of my loved ones," he recounted. "But I saw how other comrades went through that misfortune, some died with them. It wasn''t pleasant to witness," he locked eyes with Mavros. "I don''t want to tempt that fate; I don''t want Luciara to take that risk by following that path. No matter how much she denies it, she has no idea of the things she might face... Do you understand?"


    "I... I understand perfectly, Ser," Mavros replied without being condescending. He identified with Janpelan''s feelings and those of his teenage daughter, whom he cared so much for and wanted to guide. "I''ll try to enlighten her with my experience, but I can''t promise it will be enough to change her mind," he agreed. "When someone has sincerely chosen a passion, a purpose to live for, there''s nothing one can do to stop that will."


    "I know... that''s why I haven''t had any other choice but to let her continue. No matter how much I''ve tried to dissuade her with all sorts of obstacles and denials, it has been impossible," Janpelan smiled bitterly. "But I hope an external voice, wiser than mine, will make her reconsider."


    Both remained silent for a brief moment, serenely wandering through the valleys of contemplation.


    Mavros stood up from his seat.


    "Now that we''ve talked about that... I already have some ideas for your daughter''s journey itinerary," Mavros commented, resuming the conversation. "Would you like to hear them?"


    "Sure," Janpelan agreed, showing visible interest.


    Suddenly, the image of the black armor of the knight brought back vague memories of the war. Memories rushed in like drops of drizzle.


    "But before that¡­" The Holy Warrior was about to bring up a new topic in the conversation, but he choked it back just as it was about to come out. His inner voice stopped him, persuading him it was better to refrain.


    "Yes? Ser Janpelan?"


    "Oh... forget it, it''s nothing important," he lied, feigning nonchalance. "So, what do you have in mind for Luciara''s journey?"


    ***


    Maskirio... Am I doing the right thing? Should I have accepted that request?


    The amethyst irises of Mavros were directed at the patterns on a tongue-and-groove ceiling. Their markings were ominous specters under the ever-present cloak of darkness. A vision that, nevertheless, didn''t bother the wandering knight in the least, as he was preoccupied with real concerns. He lay on his back on the bed of a small guest room.


    Should I leave them while they sleep? This question kept him from sleeping. His desire to get to know and form bonds with people like them conflicted with his sense of caution, born from his murky experiences.


    No, he entrusted me with this responsibility... I''ve given my word as a knight to both of them. It would be disrespectful to break it in such a cowardly manner. However, his most prioritized sense: that of honor, led him to stick to his decision. I''ll fulfill the deal, I must do it. I need her to carry out this journey without complications, and she needs me to test if her path truly leads to the Way. I will protect her without fail, even if it means risking my life.


    Once fully convinced, his eyes closed, surrendering to the enchantments of the gods of sleep.


    ***


    KNOCK KNOCK


    Luciara tapped on the closed door of a room. She was wearing a crimson dress with long sleeves and matching pants, both adorned with white lines, among which the patterns on her dress stood out, forming floral motifs on both sides of her chest.


    "Ser Mavros... Are you awake?" she asked.


    The thunderous roar of a tiger was the response she received.


    "Mavros?!" Alarmed by such an unsettling sound, she decided to open the door and enter without asking for permission. "What?"


    Astounded, she found the knight still asleep in bed. The "roar" had been nothing more than one of his intermittent snores. Like demons touched by holy water, the darkness of his room had been dispersed by the morning light. The sheaths of his weapons and tools, hung on hooks of a coat rack, shone like jewels. However, the helmet prevented the rays from reaching his eyes, which was why he had not yet awakened from his slumber. Precisely that fact left the young woman more astonished: the knight had slept without removing a single piece of his armor.


    "Aaah¡­"


    By the sounds she caused, Mavros woke up. He raised his neck, driven by the instinct to find out its source.


    "Ah!"


    Both he and she jumped when their eyes met.


    "Lu... Lady Luciara?" he called, still showing signs of drowsiness. "What art thou doing here? Hath some mishap befallen? ?"


    "It''s already morning. I just came to see if you were ready because I hadn''t seen you," the girl explained.


    "Oh!" Mavros felt embarrassed to have been awakened in such a way. ¡°Verily, I beg thy pardon, forsooth, I should have been up before thou. I should not have made thee come ," he excused himself. "I had trouble sleeping yesternight."


    "It''s okay," she reassured him, offering a kind smile that faded as she examined him from head to toe with perplexity. "Do you wear that armor to sleep too? Could that be what disrupted your sleep?"


    "Huh?" Mavros glanced briefly at his body, understanding what she meant by her bewilderment. "Yes, that¡¯s right. I ever slumber with it," he assured her. "As I did tell thee yestermorn, I bear it with me at any chance. I knoweth it may seemeth mad, but ''tis become a second skin unto me. It doth not vex me in the least."


    You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.


    "I see..." Luciara commented, unable to hide her lack of conviction. However intrigued she was, she preferred not to delve into the background of such eccentricity. "Well..." She turned, looking over her shoulder. "I''ll leave you to get ready. I''ll wait for you downstairs for breakfast. Maybe my father left something prepared before going to work."


    ***


    "Aaah¡­"


    Mavros let out a long exhalation, cold and refreshing like the wind of an alpine mountain. Nothing like a splash of cold water and a mint cream to start the day, he thought to himself as he descended the wooden stairs of the house, with all his weapons and tools arranged on his body.


    "Uh?"


    As he reached the bottom steps, he spotted Luciara by the living room table. She was completely absorbed in reading something held in both hands. By its shape and appearance, he assumed it must be a letter. It had to be the same letter he had seen being written the previous night. The knight finished descending the stairs and approached her with calm steps.


    "This has to be... it must be a joke."


    He heard her murmur with wide-eyed disbelief, directed at the letters traced in black ink:


    ¡°You don''t need to know the details since you''re not a Holy Warrior, daughter, but I''ve been forced to use the ''mirror'' due to a matter of utmost urgency. Therefore, by the time you read this letter, I must already be in Hezaran.


    ¡°Furthermore, you should know that I have ordered to deny you access to any fast means of transportation from the city for your journey. So, forget about reaching Hezaran by carriage or horse.


    ¡°Five leagues are all that separate you from Hezaran, five leagues that any Holy Warrior should be able to walk in a matter of hours, without complaint. I hope you enjoy the walk; it will be a good exercise for your body and spirit. Your mother and I will be waiting for you for lunch.


    ¡°Sincerely, your beloved father.¡±


    Those were the words it comprised. Words that made Luciara bite her lower lip in a grimace of disgust.


    "Damn it!" she exclaimed. Small sparks erupted from her fingers, scorching the paper. "Why does he always have to pull this crap on me?!"


    Upon that reaction, Mavros wasn''t sure whether to laugh in amusement or put his hand to his helmet in second-hand embarrassment.


    "It is not unto him thou shouldst complain to. The counsel was of my own making," he asserted.


    "Eh?!" Luciara turned around, finding Mavros right in front of her.


    "I did proffer the notion of subjecting thee to that little trial. He merely granted his approbation," Mavros reiterated.


    "What?! You came up with it?!"


    "Yes."


    The paper turned into charcoal and fell to the ground. The sparks in Luciara''s hands transformed into charged flames.


    "Imbecile! What were you thinking, you moron?!" she protested, restraining her urge to squeeze his neck in scorching strangulation. "Do you know what it''s like to walk five leagues?! Do you even know what a league is?!"


    "Three miles," he stated, making a correct conversion. "Fifteen in this case, for there are five leagues. I know it full well, for I have trod that path and much more in fewer than a day."


    "And what made you think I want to do it too?!" Luciara demanded. "Couldn''t you have asked me?!"


    Mavros averted his gaze, disappointed and bored by her childish outburst.


    "Mayhaps thy father wert not entirely mistaken. Thou dost dream of something which thou dost verily not comprehend," he replied with unwavering disapproval. "If a task as trivial as this doth overwhelm thee, then so doth the path of a Holy Warrior."


    Is this too much for me? Is becoming a Holy Warrior too much for me?


    Those comments managed to pinch her pride, making her feel underestimated. The girl focused on controlling her still heated mood.


    "As much as thou may be a Lady, a Holy Warrior must be prepared to take such discomforts as ordinary," argued Mavros, maintaining his composure. "Thou never knowest when thou won''t have quick transportation."


    The flames gradually subsided. Luciara lowered her arms, and her fragile serenity returned.


    "You''re right... I''m acting like a spoiled brat over nothing. I apologize," she acknowledged, with clear embarrassment, before lifting her face again with renewed confidence. "This will be nothing compared to what awaits me at the university."


    "Apologies accepted; I excuse thee, as thou art but an aspirant. The first step toward personal growth is being aware of thine own flaws," Mavros told her, delighted by her rectification. "If thou truly wantest what thou want, over time, thou shalt correct thine attitude to the one thou needest to have to achieve thy goals."


    Luciara offered him a friendly smile. "You speak more like a monk than a knight, you know."


    Like a monk... Mavros felt a slight shiver. She didn''t know it yet, but she had struck a chord from his youth with that simple joke. As the knight looked at her, she turned toward a wall; the wall behind which the kitchen was located.


    "I''m sorry to say that we''ll have to improvise for breakfast," she looked at Mavros. "Would cereal porridge be fine with you?"


    ***


    A couple of bowls with scattered crumbs were placed almost simultaneously on the edge of a stone sink.


    "I can wash mine if thee want," Mavros offered to Luciara, watching as she prepared to wash the dishes from what had been their simple but hearty breakfast.


    "Don''t be ridiculous, you''re our guest," she playfully declined.


    She picked up an ochre, natural sponge soaked in an overflowing cup of water, foamy thanks to a soap slowly dissolving in it. Then, she scrubbed the sponge along the surface of the first plate and its spoon, rinsing off the soapy water. The young woman turned on the faucet, from which a constant stream of water flowed, with which she rinsed the dishes, eliminating their last traces of dirt. Once they were sufficiently gleaming, she placed the plate and spoon on a raised flat surface to the left of the sink basin.


    The facilities in this region are far superior to those in Tiberland, just as I read, Mavros judged, contemplating how the girl moved on to wash the second plate. Although he had already seen this type of sink since the night before, he was still impressed by the practicality and sophistication of its plumbing, something unheard of even in the most affluent properties in his homeland.


    Luciara finished cleaning and putting away the last dish, then turned around to address Mavros.


    "Before we leave, I must show you something," she informed him. With a gesture, she invited him to follow her. "Come, it''s quite important."


    Curious and expectant, he obliged and followed her. She led him up the stairs and down the hallway that housed the personal rooms, eventually opening the door to one of them.


    "Is this...?" the knight murmured, admiring the decoration and furniture. "Is this thine room?"


    "Yes," she nodded, shifting her attention to a chest in the corner. "Wait a moment."


    The girl moved to the chest and crouched to open it, taking some time to find what she was looking for as she rummaged through it.


    Why would she lead me to her room? Mavros wondered as he watched her, feeling a bit nervous. What does she have to show me here?


    Finally, Luciara pulled out and placed on the floor what she was searching for: a metal box with straps similar to those of a backpack. As she removed the lid, it revealed a jumble of various small jars and tools. From that disorderly pile, she took a particular jar. Standing up, she returned to Mavros, stopping less than a meter away from him. With her right hand, she carefully twisted the lid to remove it and dipped her fingers into its contents: a transparent substance, thick and smooth like cream, but as radiant as a diamond. Once satisfied with the amount on her fingers, Luciara picked it up, placed the jar on the ground, and clasped both hands together to rub it between her palms.


    "Don''t move," she instructed.


    "What?" Mavros blurted out. His nerves trembled as he saw her apply the mysterious substance to his breastplate with both hands, delicately caressing it. His helmet conveniently concealed his face, now as red as hot iron. "Wha, what art thou doing?" he stammered. "What is this?"


    "I''m painting your armor with dinachrome," Luciara responded matter-of-factly as she finished covering his legs, implying that it was nothing out of the ordinary.


    ¡°Dinachrome?¡± Mavros whispered.


    Luciara dipped her fingers into the strange gel once more and stood up to spread it over his arms.


    "Now you''ll see what I''ll do with it," she informed him. "Lean down a bit."


    Mavros obeyed the new command, allowing the young woman to work more comfortably on his helmet, the last component of his armor that she had yet to treat.


    "Alright¡­"


    Luciara murmured in appreciation of the layer she had created over the armor. She turned around and, from her travel backpack resting on a chair near a small desk, she took out her staff, directing its crystal tip to the center of his dark breastplate.


    Art of Ramij: manipulation of dinachrome.


    The crystal glowed faintly. Multicolored and dynamic points aligned in an intricate pattern that connected with straight lines to form a geometric constellation. The mental sequence had been achieved; the cause led to the effect.


    "Eh?"


    Mavros watched in wonder as the omnipresent black of his armor slowly, like a chameleon, turned into a more ordinary dull gray.


    "Perfect," Luciara judged, more than pleased with the result.


    "What hast thou done?" Mavros asked in amazement, repeatedly examining the new color of his pieces.


    "I manipulated the particles of the dinachrome. By ordering and vibrating them at different frequencies, they change the color of the surface they cover," she explained. "It''s one of the most basic techniques of Ramij: the nefeshic art of retouching and restoring objects."


    "Ramij? It''s the first time I''ve heard of such an art," Mavros commented, genuinely intrigued. "So, thou dost master it?"


    The young woman nodded.


    "My mother''s lineage has been practicing it for centuries. She belongs to one of the few clans in the world that knows it," she revealed. "This is the first nefeshic art I learned, and the only one my father didn''t object to," she diverted her gaze. "How could he not want me to fix his armor for free, besides scratching his back and removing his shoes after work?" she said with sarcastic irony. Her eyes met Mavros''s. "But I can''t complain; it''s been very useful to me. Thanks to it, I could take on several jobs that gave me enough money to embark on this journey... and create this simple disguise for you now."


    A disguise?


    The aspiring sorceress positioned herself behind him and placed her hands on his shoulders.


    "Just one more thing to remove."


    In an instant, she unfastened the clasps of his cape and took it off, folding it carefully and holding it in her arms. She then returned to face the still disoriented knight.


    "With this appearance, you''ll blend in as a low-ranking Elvirean knight," she clarified. "You''ll still draw attention ¨C a knight always does, no matter how modest their reputation may be ¨C but at least no one will mistake you for an Abiyr."


    A broad smile appeared beneath Mavros''s helmet.


    "Brilliant! This doth surpass my humble expectations," Mavros expressed his pleasant surprise at her idea. "Nay wonder thy father spake of thy needful presence. I give thee mine heartfelt gratitude, Lady Luciara."


    "You''re welcome," she replied, equally delighted by his compliments. "And please, you can simply call me Luciara from now on. We can talk without adhering strictly to those exaggerated formalities."


    "As you wish," the knight cordially complied with her request. "I have one last question for you, Luciara."


    She watched him expectantly, noticing a hint of concern in his irises.


    "Is this color change... permanent?" his simple and fearful inquiry came. "Will my armor stay gray forever?"


    "No," Luciara shook her head. "The dinachrome fades after a few weeks, and besides, you can always change its color while it remains intact. So you don''t have to worry about that."


    "Good," Mavros murmured, relieved. Despite the circumstances calling for it, he didn''t want that black color he had grown accustomed to be lost.


    Luciara went to her backpack to stow away her staff and the cloak of the wandering knight. Then, she returned to where Mavros was standing to pick up the dinachrome jar and place it back into its box, which she sealed shut again.


    "Now we are ready," she informed him, gesturing towards the box. "Please carry this for me. Most likely, we''ll need it again."


    The final preparations had been made. They only had to take the first step.


    However, unbeknownst to them, conspiracies were materializing in the shadows¡ªboth at home and far away from it.

 C2-3: Sahirons! The Legendary Masters of Ayaria

    In the east, beyond the borders of Najta, an inhospitable world awaited anyone who dared to venture into it: Ayaria. A continent where the sun reigned all year, casting its warmth over vast stretches of sand. The wind-carved grooves created countless successions of dunes, waves frozen in time. Like islands in that dry sea, oases and large rock formations rose at scattered points. Their existence represented the sole source of life for the inhabitants of such an adverse environment.


    One "island" stood out above the rest: a grand range of sandstone cliffs with imposing and rugged walls, a natural barrier against the abundant threats of the desert. Discreet passages opened in some of its sections, passageways that led to ascending paths constructed upon the rock. The destination of these paths was a grand open-air city. A significant portion of its magnificent structures were nothing more than strips of rock excavated and sculpted with extraordinary beauty and precision. Surrounding them, rows of merchants displayed their goods in small shops and makeshift carpets.


    "Good, pretty and cheap!"


    "Lerian palm dates! Divine fruits within your salary''s reach!"


    "Faisha! Instant cure! Better to have it and not need it than to need it and perish without remedy!"


    All competed to attract the streams of potential customers passing by with flamboyant slogans.


    But away from that crowd, the most impressive creation stood: a two-story palace, its entrance composed of six narrow columns preceding its arched doors. The columns were composed of two parts: a pyramid anchored to the ground and another one on the ceiling, connected at their tips like hourglasses. On the second level of the structure, walls exhibited elaborate reliefs depicting the sun. Among them, a large balcony offered a privileged view of the city. An emblem composed of intricate curved lines converging at a central point was inscribed in the stone at the peak of the palace: a graphic approximation of one of nature''s most powerful forces.


    Beyond the balcony portal lay a grand meeting hall, featuring an expansive table in front of a majestic throne carved in sandstone. A man sat upon it, his hands resting on the ends of its straight armrests. The authority exuded by his posture and stature made him blend seamlessly with the sculpture at first glance.


    Suddenly, an individual entered the room through one of its doors and stood before the man.


    "Mugnatir," he greeted him by his title with his raspy voice, kneeling in a brief bow, "Why have you summoned me?"


    He was a robust man with a thick beard and black hair, with clusters of gray indicating his proximity to old age. His rugged features, among which stood out his broad aquiline nose, large ears, and amber round eyes like those of a feline, gave him a wild appearance. The orange cape cascading over his back and the reddish attire protected by pieces of greenish metal suggested a military rank. His feet were adorned with pointed leather boots.


    "Before I tell you, do you bring any new report for me, Rayishar?" The man on the throne interrogated him. His words echoed in the room like those of a god: circumspection and virility embodied in his voice.


    "Yes," Rayishar nodded, "The Jinnad of the Seas has docked safely in Likitia. The loot is ready to be transported."


    "Good," Mugnatir muttered coldly. His closed lips stretched into a small smile. "Hehehehe."


    Ugh... Here it comes, Rayishar thought, a concealed expression of annoyance and disdain appearing on his mouth. Those interrupted laughter bouts were the signal that he was about to be subjected to one of Mugnatir''s arrogant monologues. His master extended and opened both hands, showing him the black, oval gems embedded in the metallic gloves he wore on them.


    "Still haven''t figured out the reason I summoned you, Rayishar? Do you know what I have in my hands?" he said, "The upgraded version of my Mitelos! The ''Soul Whips''!"


    Rayishar grunted in confusion, not understanding the significance of that pretentious name and Mugnatir''s satisfaction with it.


    "''Soul Whips''? What are you talking about?... They look like the same old Mitelos to me; I don''t see any difference."


    Mugnatir rested his hands on the armrests once again.


    "You easily let appearances deceive you! I know what they can do. I''ll demonstrate it right now, to you and the other Sahirons," he assured his subordinate, "Go down to the dungeons and bring a Grianzan here! It can be anyone; I''ll leave that to your discretion."


    Rayishar frowned, his countenance turning into that of an irritated beast.


    "Argh," he grumbled. Despite having spent years under Mugnatir''s leadership, there was nothing that bothered him more than obeying his instructions, no matter how small they were. "As you command, Mugnatir."


    He complied reluctantly, turned, and left through the same door he had entered. Then, Mugnatir made eye contact with a circular panel embedded in the wall to the right of his throne: a panel with the same pattern of lines as the palace emblem.


    Slowly, he raised his right arm and extended his hand to press it.


    This is a perfect occasion to activate the multiple zeldan. To call all the masters of Ayaria and bring them here: to the Rock of Savar.


    The panel sank slightly. As soon as Mugnatir withdrew his hand from it, it retracted again, and its lines glowed in an intense light blue.


    I, Mugnatir, command you to heed my call, my Sahirons!


    Outside, in the city, many turned their attention to the grand building as they noticed its emblem shining in the same manner; beams of its light spread above its streets and beyond. It was the unmistakable signal that the legendary mystical warriors of those lands, the Sahirons, also known as the "Masters of Ayaria," had just been summoned to the interior of that palace: the Rock of Savar. In the meeting hall, a faint mist materialized next to one of the chairs at the table, dissipating to take the form of a person: the first Sahiron to respond to the "zeldan" ¡ª the subtle but powerful nefeshic link sent to them ¡ª and be transported by it to that place.


    Baharen Ibad, Ayarian master of water. Carrier of the will of Protereus, the ruthless god of the seas. Creator of surges that destroy ports and ships.


    Mugnatir recognized him instantly: he was one of his most loyal and young warriors; a warrior he had rescued from certain capture the day before thanks to the power of his "zeldans." He looked fully recovered from the battle, dressed in his characteristic corsair attire; his golden cutlass was wielded in his right hand.


    Another mist appeared to his right, at the central seat of the table, revealing a feminine silhouette.


    Ramilah Makrar, Ayarian mistress of the sand. Creator of illusions that deceive the senses. Stirrer of tempests that devour everything in their path like voracious locusts.


    She was a mature woman, but with a well-preserved natural beauty: voluptuous figure and warm bronzed skin. Plates of jade metal joined with strips of black and scarlet silk covered her body in a protective outfit that looked both like that of an exotic dancer. Her face was partially concealed by a veil, beneath which lay her handsome features: sharp chin, full lips, lively eyes, and a well-defined nose. Her left hand held an elongated golden staff, its upper end terminating in a solid sphere.


    In succession, the other Sahirons made their appearance until they occupied the remaining seats at the table.


    Ruk Samaron, Ayarian master of the air. With his wings, he soars through the skies like a desert hawk. His ''feathers'' and claws cut through even the hardest of steels.


    He was a young man, wearing armor equipped with a pair of wings hanging from his arms, their ''feathers'' actually sharp scales resembling knives. His helmet had the shape of a hawk''s head, ending in a prolonged beak at its top; the features around these pieces displayed regal traits befitting the animal they represented. Golden gauntlets with crystalline gems embedded on their backs and grooves at their ends covered his hands.


    Babol Afarit, Ayarian master of fire. The sole successor of the legendary Surul Kaduwa style, the invincible undulating blade. Everything touched by his whips and whirlwinds of fire turns into ashes.


    Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.


    The new and final Sahiron to present himself was contemporaneous with his counterpart of the air, appearing to be around 25 to 30 years old; yet, his more expressionless and sophisticated aura stood out, created by his circumspect eyes and completely shaved beard. The plates of his armor had wavy patterns and edges, resembling static green flames. His head was covered, except for his face, by a helmet bearing features reminiscent of a fox''s jaws. His right hand held the golden hilt of a peculiar whip with a long and flat metal blade, coiled in a spiral.


    Mugnatir glanced at each of his warriors. He was pleased; they all responded promptly, none ignoring his call.


    "Excellent," he said. "You may be seated."


    The four sheathed their weapons and took their respective seats after his instruction.


    "Mugnatir," Ramilah called him on behalf of her companions, taking advantage of her central position at the table. Her voice denoted power and character, an essence of feminine authority that rivaled his masculine one. "Why have you summoned us again today?" She asked. They had had another meeting the day before, and it was not common for them to gather again with so little time apart.


    "We finally have the ultimate weapon to conquer Netzach," Mugnatir announced, "and to crush the wretched Holy House of Lis once and for all."


    Some arms crossed.


    "This isn''t the first time you''ve told us that..." Babol, the master of fire, questioned, revealing his pessimism. "Every time we''ve laid siege to Netzach the other Holy Houses have forced us to retreat."


    "But not this time."


    Mugnatir stepped away from his throne, standing tall before his warriors. His height, reaching six feet three inches, contributed to his imposing image. A black tunic with triangular yellow stripes and linear patterns like his emblem covered him from head to toe. Beneath his hood, a distinctive face peeked out. His physique was remarkable, different from the rest of the Ayarians, with even darker skin, toasted like coffee beans, thick lips, and a broad nose. Some of his short, black, tightly coiled hair could be seen. Despite his rough exterior appearance, his presence exuded great class and elegance.


    "This time, we have something foolproof. An advantage that not even the combined Holy Houses can surpass," he asserted. He opened his hands and displayed the black gems in his palms, just as he did with Rayishar. "The Soul Whips!"


    Once again, his audience showed no signs of being impressed, despite his sensational enthusiasm.


    "Aren''t those the same ''Mitelos'' you''ve always had?" Ruk challenged, disoriented by not seeing anything new. "What''s so special about these so-called ''Soul Whips''?"


    Mugnatir furrowed his brow. "You''ll see, their appearance is deceiving," he affirmed, not losing his confidence despite the poor reception. "Do I have a volunteer?"


    Ruk and Babol responded with silent glances expressing their annoyance and total disapproval. Ramilah, on the other hand, smiled nervously. As strong as she was herself, she knew how formidable her leader''s exceptional talent in sorcery could be. The last thing she wanted was to find out what new ability he had mastered.


    "Oooh..." Mugnatir muttered. At this point, he didn''t need to hear an oral response to know the general consensus. "Nobody dares. A very wise, but cowardly choice."


    Someone stood up.


    "I volunteer!"


    What?!


    His companions turned wide-eyed. It was none other than Baharen.


    "I can help you to test those Soul Whips if necessary, Master!" the corsair reaffirmed, armed with a courage that took his fellow companions by surprise.


    "Admirable, very well, Ibad. That''s the spirit a Sahiron should have," Mugnatir was pleased with his attitude. He scolded the other warriors with a stern gaze. "You should be ashamed! He, who has just joined our ranks, has made you all look like a joke!... SPINELESS BUNCH!"


    They all fell silent after his reprimand. It had been a strange and uncomfortable moment, one of the many that the eccentric and volatile character of Mugnatir was accustomed to.


    "Mugnatir..." Ramilah called out, ignoring his outburst as she noticed something that seemed more important to her. "Where is Rayishar? Shouldn''t he be...?"


    Just as she was about to finish her second question, the robust man silenced her as he entered the room.


    Rayishar, Ayarian master of strength and physical prowess. Arms that lift and break blocks of granite, legs that leap walls inaccessible even to giants of myths. The greatest beast tamer of all Sulfnats.


    Using a chain attached to a collar around his neck, he dragged a prisoner into the room, his hands cuffed. With his fair skin, beard, and chestnut hair, it was evident that he was a foreigner. Tattered rags were his pitiful attire.


    "Mugnatir, here''s a Grianzan, just as you requested." Rayishar said, standing before him.


    "Good, good," Mugnatir replied. He turned to Baharen. "You can sit, Ibad. I was just teasing all of you. I''m not foolish enough to punish my warriors with my abilities," he clarified, pointing to the prisoner. "This filthy Grianzan will be the chosen one."


    The prisoner shuddered as the eyes of the hooded man landed on him. More than his ordinary left eye, with its droopy form and almost-black iris like the night, it was his right eye that terrified him: a metallic patch with a small reflector. In its center, a oval-shaped crystalline gem fixed with a bright, mobile red dot acting as its pupil. The pronounced scar from a deep cut extended below that artificial eye to the limits of his right cheek, a bitter and indelible reminder of a humiliating defeat suffered in his youth.


    For the prisoner, it was like looking at the face of a true monster. All the rumors he had heard about him turned out to be true.


    "Rayishar, remove the chains."


    Amidst stifled grunts, Rayishar followed the instruction. Now, the handcuffs were the only thing restricting the prisoner''s movement. Mugnatir extended his right hand toward them, aiming his black gem ¡ª the Mitelo ¡ª in their direction.


    Wha-?!


    In an instant, the handcuffs loosened and fell to the ground on their own, leaving the prisoner astounded.


    "Step back," Mugnatir instructed Rayishar, noticing that he was still close to his target.


    Understanding what Mugnatir might be about to do, Rayishar obeyed and moved to one end of the table. Mugnatir turned his gaze back to the others.


    "Watch what happens to any human being who is lashed by the Soul Whips," he said with a sepulchral seriousness before returning his attention to the test subject, still paralyzed by fear. "Come, come and try to kill me, you damned sheep." Mugnatir provoked him, and the red dot in his artificial eye flickered with intermittent but controlled hatred. "Isn''t that the order of ''His Majesty Renardin''? Aren''t you going to do anything to the greatest traitor of the Kingdom of Lebias? The most wanted criminal, the vile assassin of the last princess of the Dragar dynasty: Mugnatir!"


    The provocation had its effect. The prisoner''s hands clenched into fists, and a grimace of anger spread across his wrinkled face.


    "AAARGH!"


    Then, he lunged towards Mugnatir to strike him. He forgot his terror for that moment and transformed it into wrath, directing it towards the infamous figure. After all, he had nothing left to lose.


    Mugnatir remained completely unfazed. He lifted his right hand and placed it in front of him as a signal to halt.


    Soul Whips: torment of the soul.


    "Uh?"


    To their astonishment, the witnesses saw how the prisoner seemed to obey the gesture like a trained dog, abruptly stopping just as he was about to punch him. The prisoner stood there, completely petrified, transfixed, and gaping. Cold sweat ran down his trembling muscles.


    "You are witnessing the mild phase of the Soul Whips: torment of the soul," Mugnatir explained to his warriors. "At this moment, this wretched sheep is daydreaming, not just any dream, but a nightmare as terrifying as hell itself. He has lost control of his consciousness, of his soul."


    A nightmare¡­


    More terrifying than hell itself?


    He has lost...?


    His soul...?


    The Sahirons repeated to themselves in their thoughts as they continued to watch the subdued prisoner, hypnotized by the sight. The prisoner brought his hands to his head.


    "AAAAAH!" he cried out, frightening everyone. Unlike the battle cry he had previously let out, this was a cry of deep horror and despair.


    Other similar screams followed. The unfortunate man could not stop shaking his head, a victim of indescribable suffering beyond physical pain.


    Having seen enough, Mugnatir opened and extended his right hand again.


    "Soul Whips: annihilation of the ''self''."


    The screams suddenly ceased, and the prisoner''s head jerked sharply and briefly. He dropped his arms, and his suffering vanished, along with any other sensation. His eyes slowly rolled back, revealing an empty white. With nothing holding him up, he collapsed, falling backward like a tree struck by lightning.


    Ruk and Baharen exclaimed:


    "Is he dead?!"


    "But how?!"


    They couldn''t take their eyes off the lifeless body. The other Sahirons kept their equally great perplexity in silence. While they were already familiar with similar techniques, they had never witnessed ones as irrefutable and devastating as the ones their leader had just demonstrated.


    "Yes! His soul is annihilated! I attacked his mind with highly concentrated mitelic currents to destroy his consciousness. His body is nothing more than an inert shell, a withered plant," asserted Mugnatir, clenched his fists, and raised his arms, waving them angrily. "The same fate awaits Renardin and all the Holy Warriors who stand in my way!"


    "And what about the Abiyr, Master? Aren''t we going to do anything if he opposes us again?" Baharen inquired. Despite his experience with the wandering knight and the group''s deliberations from the day before, he couldn''t help but feel uneasy about his existence, which translated into a potential threat.


    "You said it yourself, only if he challenges us again," Mugnatir responded, regaining his composure without a hint of doubt. "For now, we''ll wait while continuing to gather information." He smiled maliciously. "I''m sure we can manipulate him. We can gain a lot from his presence in Najta."


    The captain nodded and turned to his neighbor.


    "Sayih Ramilah, have you received any news about Amir?" He referred to the man from his crew who had been left behind during the battle at the port of Cirencre.


    The woman shook her head.


    "No," she said, regretting not having anything good to report.


    His fate was practically a certainty for her and everyone else. Baharen was also aware of it, but he clung to small shreds of hope.


    "I''m sorry, Ibad... I''m afraid there''s nothing we can do anymore," Mugnatir added, understanding his feelings. "But I promise you... I guarantee you that with my conquest plan, he and many other Faricums before him will be avenged."


    "We will avenge them," Baharen murmured, gazing meditatively at the surface of the table before returning a determined look. "I will fight with all my strength to make it happen. May Senshan bear witness."


    Once again, his words momentarily silenced the room with the power of his firmness.


    "What is this ''conquest plan'' exactly?" Ramilah inquired, crossing her legs and intertwining her fingers in a sign of evident interest.


    Mugnatir proceeded to walk around the table.


    "That''s what I was getting to; it''s the second and most important reason I''ve gathered you, my Sahirons," he said to them. "The details are plentiful, and each of you has roles to play, so listen very carefully because you must understand it perfectly."

 C2-4: Danger! The Hidden Threat Beyond the Woods

    Four fingers and a thumb firmly held a rod of transparent crystal, which was connected by a cable to a rectangular metal box. A bluish line projected onto a small, bright screen. A constant beep emanated from it through small holes on its surface.


    "This has to be a joke¡­" A man muttered bitterly, seated in front of the machine in incredulous irritation. The device wasn''t fulfilling its purpose. The fact that this had been one of his many failed attempts to get it to work in the last few hours only heightened his frustration.


    Struggling to control his anger and not break the machine, he roughly placed the rod into a holder beside the apparatus. Instead, he vented by hitting the table on which the box rested with the palms of his hands.


    What the hell is wrong with these contraptions?! Even the spares don''t work! he protested inwardly. He couldn''t understand how all the Letexvos, those singular boxes from that secret communication chamber, were presenting the same issue. No matter how much he and a specialist examined them, they found no anomalies or malfunctions that could explain such behavior. He simply couldn''t establish any connection; all the lines were dead without any explanation. Once again, the urge of Ser Janpelan of Salamandera to relay his news to his Lord was thwarted by another unforeseen circumstance.


    A door was opened and closed behind him. Someone had just entered the room. Ser Janpelan turned to see. It was a young man dressed in the uniform and armor of a foot soldier from the Kingdom of Niespal, the Ser''s realm. His tense muscles and wide-open eyes well reflected his own urgency.


    "Huh?" The Holy Warrior soon recognized him. He had been in his service in Cirencre for over a year, so he knew him well. "Escabor?"


    The Holy Warrior began to suspect the worst. It couldn''t be anything good if a soldier from his city had come to find him there.


    "I have a report to give you, Ser! They told me you were around here," he informed him. "I''m sorry to report¡­ the corsair we captured is dead."


    "What?!" Indeed, he hadn''t come to see him for anything good. His list of recent misfortunes had just received a new entry. "You said¡­ he''s dead?"


    "Yes," Escabor nodded. "We found his body in his cell when we went to check on him this morning. There was foam in his mouth," the soldier detailed. "Apparently, he poisoned himself with some hidden venom."


    The Ser clenched his hands, veins protruding on their backs. That was all that was missing to start off the day on the wrong foot. His only bridge to the "vanguard" mentioned by the pirate captain had collapsed.


    "The mother who bore him!" His right palm shattered the table into pieces with a single, unrestrained strike. The machine crashed violently onto the floor along with the wooden fragments. The Holy Warrior smiled in embarrassment, astonished by the instant disaster his primitive outburst had created. On the other hand, the soldier also curved his lips, but in an expression of fear at witnessing that spontaneous display of strength.


    Ser Janpelan rose from his chair and turned to the scared subordinate.


    "This is bad, very bad¡­ Something very strange is happening, and we''ve already lost too much time," the Ser concluded, concerned about the current situation. That, along with his ¡°accident," extinguished the fire of his anger as quickly as a wave of water. The Holy Warrior stared intensely at the soldier. "Listen! I''m going to write a message that has to reach all the bases of the Holy Houses in Najta and Elvira. We''ll use all the carrier pigeons and messengers we can. This can''t be delayed any further."


    ***


    A pair of travelers journeyed along a smooth and uniform path surrounded by woods: unending rows of firs arranged in formations resembling military squadrons. Their sharp, narrow forms resembled green daggers pointing toward the sky.


    The travelers were a stark contrast: one of them, a knight in gray armor, maintained a steady and unwavering pace despite the heavy metal box hanging from his shoulders. The second, a young woman, could barely walk behind her companion, burdened by a heavy cloth backpack on her shoulders. Her drooping arms and shoulders were signs of exhaustion, along with her sweat.


    Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.


    "Mavros... let''s rest for a bit," Luciara pleaded with the wandering knight. She stopped to clutch her knees, catching her breath with repeated panting.


    Mavros slowed down and looked over his shoulder at her. He noticed that she truly needed it.


    "Alright," he agreed.


    He went to join her by the side of the road. Both remained silent, enveloped in the soothing tranquility of nature. Apart from the two of them, there was no one else in this stretch of the journey. Luciara took the opportunity to drink some water from a canteen.


    "We''ve been walking for nearly four hours," Mavros estimated. "We must be very close to Hezaran."


    The young woman closed and secured the canteen after finishing her drink.


    "How do you manage to walk so much without getting tired?" she asked him. She still found it surprising that throughout the journey, the knight hadn''t shown the slightest hint of exhaustion. He had only stopped now and then because of her; if it had been up to him, he would have continued without pause.


    "Habit, constant training, that''s the secret," came his simple reply. "When you get used to pushing your body through these kinds of exercises every day, gradually tasks that you used to find exhausting become trivial."


    "Every day?" Luciara observed him, astonished, far from enthused by what he was implying. "Seriously?"


    An approaching sound interrupted the conversation. The sound of something dragging across the ground fiercely. It emerged from a bend in the road and revealed itself, moving in the opposite direction. It was an elongated, rectangular metal carriage with four wheels: two at the front and two at the back. It propelled itself without the aid of horses, as if it were a beast in itself. A steel beast capable of far exceeding the speed of even the swiftest gallop thanks to its nefesh heart.


    A curros, Luciara recognized the unusual vehicle, watching as it passed by her side like a shooting star, disappearing on the horizon in the other direction of the road. It was going quite fast, much faster than usual... Why would it be in such a hurry?


    The young woman had good reasons to feel intrigued. Those vehicles weren''t very common, and their ownership was restricted by the kingdoms for military and public transportation purposes. This one, in particular, was of a military nature. She had observed the flag of her kingdom and the Holy House of the Royal Rose painted on its panels.


    Mavros also managed to catch that detail. During their walk, they had seen others pass by, but only civilian ones: one of which the girl would have taken if she hadn''t been forced to undergo that physical trial.


    "Well, we''ve rested enough," the knight judged, standing up. About five minutes had passed since they had sat down. "We should... Hm?"


    An unsettling tingling ran through his body like lightning.


    My nefeshic sense detects something! He had perceived something, something wild and dangerous. His muscles tensed and straightened into an alert posture.


    "Mavros?" Luciara watched him, disoriented by this sudden change. Her less acute senses were still ignorant of what he had detected.


    But that changed very soon.


    A strident roar resounded beyond the trees in front of them.


    What the...?! She jolted upright, her skin turning as white as a cloud. That hadn''t been just any roar; it was agonizing, heart-rending. It was the sound an animal would make with its last breath, the final flames of its life. The sound it would make as it fell prey to bloody violence.


    Mavros positioned himself in front of Luciara.


    "Don''t move, stay behind me," he ordered her, his cold seriousness revealing the severity of the danger. He gripped the hilt of his sword with his right hand, poised to draw it. Though he couldn''t see it due to the dense trees, he sensed the movement of the threat, keeping it in his gaze.


    Thankfully, he noticed it moving away from them. There came a point where its presence became almost insignificant. After tense seconds, the knight released his hilt. He took the lead, a few steps forward.


    "We''re safe," he paused to inform his companion, still immobile. "We can continue."


    Somewhat hesitantly, the lady prepared to follow him and resumed their march.


    "That was scary," she commented, clear traces of shock in her voice. "What on Mater was that?"


    "From the sound of it... I''d say it was a stag," Mavros told her. "It must have been hunted by some forest beast."


    "That''s what surprises me," Luciara said, growing more fearful as she delved into it. "It''s known that bears and wolves live in these woods, but they usually don''t come this close to humans."


    If it was a ''bear'' or some ''wolves,'' they weren''t the ones she imagines, the knight reasoned. It wasn''t the first time he had this feeling, not the first time he had detected this unsettling sign. He knew very well what it belonged to, knew how terrible it could be, but he chose to keep it hidden from the girl, not to frighten her more than she already was.


    The two walked on until the path finished ascending and started to slope gently downward. At the end of it, a village of buildings with brick roofs, walls, and tiles came into view, similar in style to those of Cirencre but smaller and simpler for the most part. They clustered in several blocks along valleys with undulating hills all around. A basilica with a pair of twin domes stood out in the center of the settlement. The domes'' tips ended in small observation towers: helms maintaining an impassive watch over those domains.


    "We''ve arrived, this is Hezaran," Luciara announced to the knight, coming to his side and gazing alongside him at the village''s perspective.

 C2-5: Lady Menuha! The Invisible Hands that Transform Rocks into Treasures

    "Why are we deviating, Luciara? Weren''t we heading to Hezaran?" Mavros questioned as they marched. The girl had moved ahead to guide him along a specific trail, one that wound through the wooded outskirts of the city.


    "We will... but tomorrow," she clarified, "Today we will visit my mother. She should still be staying at the mayor''s residence."


    The knight nodded in understanding. "I see," Mavros responded, picking up the pace once again. "So, this residence is around here¡­"


    "That''s right," Luciara nodded, her gaze fixed on the path ahead. "I know the way because it''s not the first time I''ve visited it. For years now, the mayor of Hezaran has been one of my mother''s most frequent clients."


    "Now that I remember, I think your father mentioned during dinner that she was a sculptor. He said she was working on a sculpture for that mayor..." Mavros commented, suddenly intrigued to delve into the topic. "By any chance... did she sculpt the one in the square where your home is located?"


    "''The Thunderblade that defies the Dimension Cutter,''" Luciara recited its name from memory, turning to look at the knight. "One of her many works displayed throughout Najta," she confirmed, her brow furrowing slightly. "Don''t even think about telling her what happened to that sculpture yesterday. Remember the story you''re going to use."


    "Huh?" Mavros was taken aback by the seriousness of the warning. "I haven''t forgotten the ''story,'' I was the one who came up with the idea after all... But hasn''t the Ser already spoken to your mother about me? Maybe he told her about that and much more."


    "If he did, rest assured that his ''accident'' was one of the few details he concealed," Luciara asserted, her frown deepening. "And you, for your own sake and his, should do the same."


    She really means it... it''s not a joke, Mavros realized, which heightened his attention. It was the first time since he met her that he had heard her speak with such gravity. The two fell into silence as they rounded a curve in the path. What kind of person her mother, Ser Janpelan''s wife, is?


    Just as that question began to dominate Mavros'' thoughts, he and Luciara emerged from the curve. Ahead, at the end of the path, a grand structure came into view. It was an expansive mansion, two stories tall, with large windows and steep dark roofs, built against the walls of an immense rock face. Carefully landscaped gardens of shrubs and trees adorned its exteriors, shielded by tall walls and a wrought-iron gate.


    A pair of guards stood sentinel at the gate, armed with halberds. Their curved helmets resembling hats and their steel breastplates and pauldrons were their only protection over their red and white striped baggy garments. It didn''t take long for the two to identify the approaching travelers, stopping a few meters from the entrance.


    "Lady Luciara!" One of them recognized her, signaling to his companion to open the gate.


    As a gap large enough appeared, she and Mavros entered the mansion''s grounds.


    Once his companion closed it again, the guard approached them.


    "We were expecting you. Your father informed us that you would arrive this afternoon on foot," he said to Luciara, observing her with a mix of awe and confusion. It wasn''t often that a Ser''s daughter was seen walking and carrying her belongings herself like an ordinary commoner.


    The guard turned to look at Mavros.


    "You must be the escort we were notified about."


    "Zat''s correct," Mavros answered, employing a distinct and forced accent. "Segr Mav... Mathias of Mandygnog, wandering sword."


    The guard inspected him from head to toe, more out of admiration for his full-body armor than suspicion. After a brief pause, he positioned himself in front of them.


    "Follow me," he instructed. The guard led them, taking them to the grand edifice. Mavros appreciated the great care and the verdant beauty of the strips of vegetation that bordered the pavement. Then, they arrived at steps that ascended to the mansion''s doors. The guard removed their lock with a key and pushed them open with a gentle shove.


    "Have a pleasant stay," he said before returning to his post.


    "Thank you," they both courteously replied before entering. A spacious room with refined stairs and wooden furnishings unfolded before their eyes.


    "Good afternoon."


    A group of three servants, dressed in clean tunics and black pants, emerged to greet them from the right. Elongated hats of the same color covered the tops of their heads.


    "Good afternoon," Luciara and Mavros returned their polite greeting.


    The group halted before them.


    "It''s good to see you, Lady Luciara," said the leader of the group. "We have already prepared your room, as well as one for the Ser. Shall we assist you with your luggage?"


    The girl unslung her backpack from her shoulders and placed it on the ground. She immediately felt immense relief as the pressure of the load she had carried for hours disappeared.


    "Yes, please," she replied. She turned her head in both directions, looking for someone who didn''t appear. "Where is my mother, and Lord Galeras?"


    "The Lord Mayor should arrive shortly for lunch. He must have left the town hall by now," he informed her. "Your mother is currently working in her studio."


    "Oh..." Luciara averted her gaze, aware of what he meant by her ''studio''. "I better go greet her later¡­"


    "No, don''t worry, I can take you to her right now," the servant offered. "I highly doubt she''d mind taking a break to meet with you; quite the opposite, she''ll be delighted to see you." He turned to Mavros. "Ser, you can leave that box here. We will carry it up for you and Lady Luciara," he said, referring to the metal box with the Ramij implements he carried on his back like a backpack.


    "Ah, please, do not fret. There eez no need for concern. It eez not an inconvenience for moi," the knight declined with a touch of grace. "I shall carry eet upstairs at a leeter time."


    "As you wish, Ser..." The servant conceded after his firm refusal, perplexed by his lack of annoyance in carrying such weight. He looked at Luciara. "Come with me."


    ***


    The white marble gleamed with the purity of spring water, bathed in the daylight that filtered through the translucent roof: a rectangular stained glass with square patterns of black and bold lines. Hammers and chisels carved the surface of the rock in harmonious synchronization, displaying dazzling skill and precision, depicting clouds that enveloped a young and apollonian man, bald-headed with a short beard, dressed in light pants and a long, fine, billowing fabric wrapped around his torso and neck in multiple folds. A symbol in the shape of a circle with three pentagons aligned like the vertices of a triangle was embroidered in the center of a strip of cloth passing over the left side of his chest. Around his neck, a necklace with an amulet of the same emblem clung. His legs were together with bare feet, and his arms extended with open hands, floating motionless and imposing among the clouds: a star that ruled the skies.


    A few steps away, emerald ovals watched with complete concentration the metamorphosis of the rough block of rock into this refined abstraction where reality and the divine converged. No detail eluded them, not even the smallest and most inconspicuous to the common eye; those minute details that always made the difference. The tools came to life under the power of their influence; they levitated in the air just like the man they were sculpting. With the palms of her hands extended, the sculptor directed like a conductor the imaginary assistants working in unison, smoothing and chiseling the stone.


    This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.


    Her keen ears picked up a series of footsteps spreading through the cleared room where her masterpiece was being finalized; her solitude had been disrupted. From their distinct differences, she deduced that they belonged to three people. Under different circumstances, this interruption would have greatly irritated her; if there was one thing she always made clear to her clients, it was not to be disturbed while she was engrossed in her rigorous creative process.


    But that occasion was an exception.


    You came. A small smile tugged at her lips as she identified the author of the approaching footsteps. The tools aligned and descended in an orderly fashion, each finding its place within an open box beside the sculpture.


    She sensed all three individuals stopping behind her.


    "Lady Menuha, please pardon the interruption," one of them said to the artist, a servant from the mansion, as she recognized. Menuha picked up his uncertainty about her potential reaction. "But your daughter has come to visit."


    "There''s nothing to apologize for," the woman said, turning around and heading toward her daughter.


    Is that her? Is she her mother? Mavros found it hard to believe as he observed her slender, regal figure, which immediately suggested a distinguished lineage, along with her face - with her large, serene, oval eyes and finely stylized features. Long, ash-blond hair flowed down her back, tied halfway in a ponytail similar to her daughter''s. She wore a white dress that cascaded to her feet and a brown scarf around her neck - simple but exuding a great deal of elegance. Her appearance was a stark contrast to that of her husband.


    "Luciara."


    "Mother."


    Once they were close enough, they exchanged a brief yet heartfelt embrace.


    "How have you been?" Luciara inquired after they parted.


    "Somewhat busy, as you can see, but quite well," her mother responded with a calm yet confident and firm voice.


    "It seems you''re almost finished with it," Luciara commented, glancing at the artwork behind her.


    Menuha, her mother, followed her gaze.


    "I only need to polish a few details," she said. "I''ll most likely deliver it to Lord Galeras before the end of the week," she replied, gazing at the fruit of her effort and talent with cold satisfaction.


    "Sublime," Mavros judged aloud, his eyes fixed on the sculpture, just like the two women. The level of detail and the mastery of aesthetics and proportions were a feast for his vision. That... that man is Maskirio. The knight realized that the sculpted character was none other than the deity of their religion: Maskirio, "the liberator," "the closest to the heavens"... the greatest avatar of God, the supreme creator and lord of the universe. His physical appearance and symbolism were unmistakable.


    Drawn by his voice, Menuha turned toward the knight, regarding him with discreet interest.


    "Mother," Luciara called, stepping to Mavros'' side to introduce him. "This is the escort who accompanied me."


    "I know, your father told me yesterday."


    Approaching, she extended her right hand, which the knight caught in a handshake.


    "Menuha of Salamandera, pleased to meet you."


    Mavros felt an electrifying sensation coursing through his nerves. A sudden surge that immobilized his muscles for a few seconds. It had been quite revealing, not just an ordinary shiver. The subtle signals he read from her emerald eyes, locked onto his amethyst ones, were the definitive confirmation.


    "Segr... Mathias of Mandygnog, wandering blayd," he murmured to Menuha, regaining his senses. "Pleazed as well. I am at your service."


    They released their hands.


    Now I understand why Ser Janpelan would fear her as much as Luciara was hinting¡­ After that handshake, he regarded the woman with even more respect than before. A respect tinged with genuine awe.


    The servant moved a bit closer to join in the conversation.


    "Well... I''ll leave you now," he announced. It was evident he had no further reasons to remain there. "If you need anything, you can find me or any of my companions."


    He bid them farewell with a small bow before turning and exiting the room, his footsteps fading away.


    Luciara scanned the surroundings with her gaze, searching for something or someone.


    "Where is my father?"


    She asked her mother, puzzled by not having seen any sign of his presence. Menuha lowered her gaze.


    "He... had to leave early," she said, returning her gaze. "He said he had to go urgently to Netzach."


    "Netzach?"


    The mention of the capital was unexpected for the young woman. Due to his occupation, Ser Janpelan didn''t usually travel to it much, let alone with such haste.


    Mavros furrowed his brow. Something happened... and he told her more than that, he accurately surmised. He wanted to ask the sculptor several questions, but he refrained from doing so as he didn''t see it as the right time or place.


    "Yes, an unforeseen matter came up that he needs to resolve there," Menuha reaffirmed to Luciara, maintaining the same vagueness of details. "It seems he''ll have to stay for a few days, so you''ll probably run into him."


    Luciara averted her gaze to the side. "I hope it''s nothing serious," she murmured, with a touch of unease. If he had to go to Netzach for more than a day, it must be something serious... Could it be related to what happened yesterday? the girl wondered, eager to dig deeper.


    Just as she was about to do so¡­


    "Ser... ''Mathias''," Menuha addressed Mavros by his false name. Mavros raised his eyebrows, sensing a subtle irony. "My husband and I are grateful for escorting our daughter here," Menuha continued. "Your services couldn''t have been more timely."


    "It''s mah honoah to do so, my Laydee," the knight responded with courtesy, flattered but also confused by her last remark. "But... why do you say I''ve been tr¨¨s timely?"


    "This morning, several animals were found dead on a farm outside Hezaran, all brutally mutilated. There are wild beasts roaming these woods."


    Beasts!


    Luciara and Mavros swallowed, recalling the unsettling experience they had before reaching the mansion.


    "The mayor has ordered a search; there are already men who have been sent to deal with it," Menuha added. "Hopefully, they''ll find and hunt them down this very afternoon."


    "What kind of b¨¦asts are we talking about? Are zey beyond ze reach of a wandering sword like myself?" Mavros inquired with a particular gravity, to which Menuha responded with an uncomfortable silence. She briefly glanced at Luciara before returning her gaze to the knight.


    "There''s no certainty... For now, there''s suspicion that they might be wolves or bears," she finally answered. "If that''s the case, someone like you would be qualified to fight them, but given the current uncertainty, I''d advise you to refrain from taking risks. The men who have been sent are more than prepared to deal with those and other threats."


    She''s speaking half-truths... She wouldn''t worry so much about us if it were something like that. She knows I can handle that kind of danger, Luciara mused. She doubted that her mother was telling them the whole story. Just like Mavros, whose helmet hid his complete skepticism.


    The who or what isn''t known yet, that''s true... but she''s completely lying about her suspicions. Something tells me they''re the same as mine... She doesn''t want Luciara to hear them, the knight reasoned. His desire to go out, confirm, and put an end to his worst fears flared like flames fueled by firewood.


    Menuha addressed the two of them:


    "It''s best for both of you to stay inside the mansion as long as the roads are unsafe."


    "Agreed. Anyway, my plan was to spend tonight with you and leave for Netzach tomorrow," Luciara told Menuha. She looked at her legs, somewhat sore from the prolonged walk. "The last thing I want is to walk again today after the trick my father played on me."


    Menuha smiled with closed lips. "He and his great stubbornness to put obstacles in your way," she joked. "In the end, he''ll have to relent. Even this one didn''t manage to stop you."


    "Of course he will relent," Luciara smiled with determination. "If he''s steadfast, I''m even more so."


    That familial exchange brought a small smile to the knight''s face, caught up in his ''ward''s'' enthusiasm. However, it quickly faded as he heard footsteps approaching. The footsteps halted a few meters away from the three; it was the same servant who had guided him and Luciara there.


    "Please, come with me, lunch is being prepared," he informed them. "Lord Galeras has arrived. He wants all of you at the table."


    All three nodded. Menuha took the lead, positioning herself at the forefront of her daughter and Mavros.


    "Let''s go," she instructed, glancing back at them. She fixed her gaze on Mavros. "You''re going to make a good impression on Lord Galeras, Ser ''Mathias''. He has always been a great admirer of Grianzan culture."


    ***


    Like the swift winds of a tempest, a hazy figure moved through unending successions of trees, following a well-defined path within the green labyrinth.


    "Hm!" Suddenly, they came to an abrupt halt. Something anomalous had caught their eye. It was a corpse, the corpse of a mature stag, its antlers and robust build betraying its male gender. Its eyes and mouth were wide open, frozen in eternal horror.


    The figure approached cautiously, coming into better view under the shadow of the firs. It was an individual, slender but athletically proportioned, with short hair that reached just past their neck. They wore worn-out boots, loose trousers, and a lightweight, long-sleeved leather jacket adorned with the emblem of a rose embroidered on its left side ¨C all quite old and frayed. A mask of black fabric was tied behind their head, with only a small slit revealing the bearer''s sky-blue almond-shaped eyes. These eyes fixated on the gruesome remains of the unfortunate creature. The fresh look of abundant blood flowing from its wounds, and the puddles beneath them, suggested a recent ¨C and brutal ¨C death. Deep gouges from sharp claws were displayed on its broken legs and chest, torn apart like puzzle pieces, its entrails nearly entirely devoured. Its neck and throat had been ripped off by a massive bite.


    This isn''t something a common beast could do. It''s official now: an Ashaim¡­ I did right in taking this task.


    The hooded figure''s right hand tightly gripped the hilt of a rapier, sheathed on the left side of their waist. Just as they had imagined, the evil lurking in those woods was among the most terrible known.


    I must find and exterminate it as soon as possible. If those fools get ahead of me, they''ll end up like this stag.

 C2-6: A New Attack! An Unignorable Threat

    Five men moved together through the outskirts of Hezaran, traversing the rows of pines and firs in its forests. Shadows from the dense foliage fell upon their bodies, while the sun discreetly followed their steps from the highest point in the sky. One of them, quite confident and leading the group, remarked:


    "Beasts... This is going to be very easy."


    He wore metal protective plates on his limbs and a chestplate over lightweight garments. A curved helmet made of the same material, shaped like a hat, covered his head. In his left hand, he held a small round shield, and in his right, a straight-bladed saber, the hilt of which protected his knuckles.


    The equipment of his companions didn''t vary much, with their choice of weapons being the only differences: a couple of them carried spears, and the remaining two held loaded crossbows. Their beards and strong, broad-shouldered bodies were characteristic of men in their thirties.


    "These Holy Warriors... Even the greenest among them think they can come here and treat us like fools," a spearman complained, recalling the audacity of a masked low-ranking agent from the Holy House of the Royal Rose, who had conveniently passed through the city. The said agent had volunteered to hunt down the beasts that had become news in the area since dawn.


    You don''t need to send your own soldiers. I can handle this problem for you.


    The soldiers remembered the words with which the man had introduced himself to the mayor in the town square, just as he was about to dispatch them and at least another fifteen men from the city''s forces to search for the beasts in the woods.


    While most were more than happy to leave that matter in the hands of the unexpected visitor, the five remained eager to be part of the mission.


    Thank you, but I must decline; I prefer to work alone. A beast responsible for such destruction might be beyond your capabilities. It''s safer to leave this to a Holy Warrior, was the agent''s response to the soldiers'' proposal to accompany him on the hunt. His words, though polite, were interpreted as a display of arrogance and disdain by the soldiers. The youthfulness betrayed by his soft, refined tone of voice only reinforced their rejection, giving them a pretentious impression.


    In the end, the five experienced soldiers decided to go on their own, with or without the approval of the Holy Warrior. The mayor would reward the first to find and hunt down the beast¡ªor beasts¡ªlurking on the outskirts.


    "Those bastards always want to steal all the glory for themselves," the other spearman remarked, sharing with his comrade a similar resentment towards the renowned martial artists. "They''re never satisfied with anything."


    "If you don''t want that snob to steal it from us today, you should stop chattering and focus more," advised one of the crossbowmen with wise and sardonic seriousness, his hands guiding his crossbow, ready to respond to any movement in the silent and solitary vicinity.


    "True," the second crossbowman supported, having adopted a similar attitude. "We could encounter those so-called beasts at any moment."


    The criticisms struck a chord with the others, who became as cautious and attentive to their surroundings as the marksmen.


    A few seconds passed when¡­


    "Uh?!"


    The five abruptly halted, having heard something almost simultaneously. Their eyes turned toward its source: a cluster of lush, tall shrubs. Their leaves and branches rustled in pronounced and incessant shakes, further igniting their alarms.


    It''s there!


    Guided by their leader''s signals, the soldiers took their positions.


    The crossbowmen aimed intently at the bush. The tips of their index fingers brushed against the triggers of their weapons. Drops of cold sweat and their muscles, trembling with nerves, compromised their aim. Even though it hadn''t been revealed yet, they and their other companions could tell that what was behind the vegetation was large; larger than they had imagined.


    ***


    Led by the servant, Mavros, Luciara, and her mother Menuha entered a luxurious dining room with a rectangular table that occupied a significant portion of the space. Transparent windows filled the room with natural light. A man was seated right at the front, occupying the head seat of the table with his back to them.


    "My Lord, here are your guests," the servant announced.


    The man proceeded to stand up and turn towards them. He was abnormally tall and slender; his nearly six feet seven inches of height surpassing Janpelan¡¯s and making Mavros appear as a kid. He had dark, small eyes, a broad and uncluttered forehead; a prominent aquiline nose with a mustache just beneath it. His face was lined with small wrinkles and creases on his fair skin that betrayed his age, as did his short, partially balding black hair. An elegant suit and jet-black trousers covered his body from head to toe.


    "Good afternoon," he greeted all three with a slight and jovial bow, "Lady Luciara."


    He leaned down to kiss her on each cheek: a traditional greeting between men and women in the Kingdom of Niespal and other nations of the Magnos Sea. He then turned his slightly puzzled gaze toward the wandering knight, clearly not recognizing him.


    "Lord Galeras, this is the escort who is accompanying my daughter on her journey," Menuha clarified, noticing his confusion.


    "Oh... it''s you." The mayor extended his hand with formality. "Lucios of Galeras, Lord Mayor of Hezaran."


    Mavros returned the gesture with a firm handshake.


    "Segr Mathias of Mandygnog, wandering sword." He replied with a respectful nod. "An honoah to meet you, Lord Mayor."


    The two let go of their hands.


    "Likewise..." Galeras formed a slight smile with his lips. The knight had made a positive first impression on him. "Mandygnog... so you come from Grianz. Est ce voteg premiar foin Najta?"


    His last words were spoken in the distinct tone of Grianzan, the dominant language of the nation that was the knight''s place of origin for his false identity. They translated to "Is this your first time in Najta?"


    "Ui, sa l¨¦." Mavros nodded, meaning "Yes, it is." He had just perfectly adopted the accent he had been using somewhat. "Yai voyay¨¦ poug voig la grand vil de Netzach, et nues esp¨¦gons, servig Sa Mayest¨¦ Renardin."


    Menuha, and especially Luciara, raised their eyebrows. The knight''s skillful oral delivery was surpassing their expectations.


    Not bad, Menuha judged. Her decent understanding of the language allowed her to grasp something like: "I have traveled to see the great city of Netzach, and hopefully, serve His Majesty Renardin."


    He speaks it quite well! Luciara thought. For a moment, she had feared he would make a fool of himself, but this demonstration managed to dispel her worries.


    ¡°To serve your king, Lord of the Holy House of Lis, sovereign of Grianz and the capital domains of the League of Elvirean Vice-Royalties in Najta... Great and noble aspirations yours are, Ser.¡± Galeras said, switching back to Vitan, the common tongue of Maskirian kingdoms. ¡°Bon chens.¡±


    "Mersa beaucap." The knight nodded, thus concluding the brief language exchange.


    Galeras glanced over his shoulder to the dining table.


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    "Please, make yourselves comfortable," he said to his guests, urging them to take seats. He turned to the servant, still standing nearby. "Thank you, Enqueri. You may leave now."


    The servant nodded silently and turned to depart. Mavros, Luciara, and Menuha proceeded to take seats adjacent to Galeras, who returned to his own.


    "Lady Menuha," Galeras addressed her, seated to his right, at the corner. "Without the intention to rush you, how is the progress on the ''Ascension to the Heavens''?"


    He referred to the artwork for which he had commissioned her services. The sculpture that her daughter and Mavros had the opportunity to admire.


    "It''s almost done, I just need to add the final details. I''ll have it ready by tomorrow." Menuha replied. "If you wish, I can show it to you after lunch."


    "Right at the threshold of the Maskirian Week. Wonderful, just as I wanted." Galeras smiled. "I would love to see it. I have a feeling it will be even more exquisite than the previous ones I received from your grace."


    They both continued to exchange some remarks about art. Mavros followed them with interest. Luciara, on the other hand, with anxiety that she could barely control.


    Please... don''t. Don¡¯t bring any of that up in the conversation, she pleaded, looking at her mother. She feared that her words might invoke an annoying and familiar torment.


    "By the way, Lord Galeras, do you plan to publish new poems soon?"


    NO!


    Luciara clutched her head, restraining her urge to scream. Her mother had just lit the fuse.


    "Publish ze poems? Are you a writer, Lord Mayor?" Mavros inquired, genuinely interested in this new piece of information that had just come to light.


    You too?!


    Luciara looked at him incredulously. He had only made the situation worse.


    Galeras formed a broad smile on his serious and reserved features.


    "Indeed, Ser Mathias. After my duties as regent, literature is my second occupation. My true passion," he replied.


    Luciara averted her gaze and covered her eyes with her left palm. The horror begins¡­


    "For years, I have dedicated myself to the pursuit of beauty through the union of the pen and paper," Galeras continued his monologue, his overflowing devotion for his hobby palpable "Many believe that writing is the most trivial of arts because ''anyone can do it.'' But not ''anyone'' can do it with rigor, not ''anyone'' can create aesthetics, music, life from words. Words that awaken emotions, words that make the soul travel to hells and paradises."


    He paused briefly, noticing Menuha.


    "Although lately my responsibilities have not allowed me much time to write, there is a compilation I finished a few months ago, and I intend to arrange for its publication both in Niespalian and Vitan. I have called it ''Galleries of Sonnets.''"


    Galeras stood up. He looked at each of the diners.


    "Please, allow me to recite to you the Vitan version of its introductory sonnet, a dedication to my hometown: Dacorbo."


    He swallowed, taking a deep breath to prepare himself to recite it.


    "Oh magnificent castle, oh golden towers!


    ¡°Of honor, of dignity, of lineage''s grace


    ¡°Oh ¡®R¨ªo Grande¡¯, Ladumancia''s king!


    ¡°Noble waters, if not immaculate embrace


    ¡°Oh fertile valley, oh regal hills!


    ¡°That pay tribute to the sky, exalting the day


    ¡°Oh eternal homeland, oh my own land!


    ¡°Both for ladies and gentlemen, we sing and say


    ¡°If among those remains and cherished lore


    ¡°That Nilge and Roda generously share


    ¡°Your memory''s not the wellspring I implore


    ¡°May my distant eyes never bear


    ¡°Witness to your castle, your towers grand,


    ¡°Your valley, your hills, oh homeland fair, Niespal''s own gem!"


    A few seconds passed. With his silence, Galeras announced that he had finished.


    Luciara couldn''t have been more relieved. His verses had felt endless to her. His poetry had always been the most boring and unbearable thing she could read or listen to. In general, she was never a big fan of that literary genre.


    However, Mavros and her mother didn''t share her impression. The two burst into resounding applause that went straight to the poet''s ears.


    Seriously? The young woman had no choice but to imitate them so as not to appear rude.


    "Thank you, thank you very much," Galeras said, bowing in a gentle gesture of appreciation.


    The applause subsided, but one pair of hands continued.


    "Uh?"


    Everyone turned towards its source.


    Luciara?


    In contrast to her mother and the wandering knight''s applause, her hands conveyed an annoyance and a lack of enthusiasm impossible to conceal with each slow clap.


    Dammit¡­


    The young woman immediately stopped, realizing her blunder.


    "Lady Luciara?" Galeras seemed eager to delve into her reaction. "Was there something you didn''t like about my sonnet?... If you have any feedback, I''m willing to listen."


    Luciara smiled nervously.


    "No, I have no feedback... I found it... very good, masterful," she stammered.


    "Mmm¡­"


    Suddenly, she had an idea that turned her smile from nervousness to mischief. An idea she knew was foolproof for her intentions.


    "In fact, your sonnet reminded me of one I read recently," she continued. "I can''t recall the title, but I think it was by Lord Azoveda¡­"


    Lord Azoveda! Upon hearing that surname, Galeras'' composure shattered like a glass hurled to the ground. His hands clenched into fists, his brow furrowed, and his lips curved in a displeased line.


    "How can you compare my poetry to the monstrosities of that ignorant, talentless buffoon?" he reproached. Luciara covered her mouth to contain her laughter. "How can you even read it?" He turned away. "So many authors deserving recognition, yet all the presses in Niespal can''t stop publishing the trash of that vulgar drunkard!"


    Galeras continued to spew fire and venom at the mentioned character.


    "Huh?" Mavros appeared confused by the writer''s sudden change of mood. "Who eez zis ''Lord ¡®Azoveda¡¯?" he wondered aloud, hoping one of the ladies at the table would have the answer.


    "Lord Fedaro Azoveda. Alongside Galeras, one of the most popular poets in the Kingdom of Niespal," Menuha chimed in. Mavros was seated right to her left. "Azoveda has parodied several of Galeras'' works and even directly mocked him in some of the poems he has published." She shot a disapproving glance at the still-distracted Luciara, who was enjoying the poet''s rant. She was right to the left of the knight. "Galeras sees Azoveda as his archenemy. He can''t stand the sight of him, let alone hear his name, and my daughter knows it."


    Suddenly, Galeras fell silent, regaining his composure. After a couple of quick inhalations and exhalations, he turned back to his guests.


    "Forgive me, I let my passions get the better of me," he said, embarrassed by his hysterical diatribe. His face slightly wrinkled. "But listen; as long as you''re lodged under this roof, I beg you never, ever utter that infamous name again," he told them with resolute and imperative coldness, focusing his attention on Luciara. "Understood?"


    Mavros and Menuha nodded.


    "Und... Understood," Luciara was the last to comply. "I''m sorry, Lord Galeras, it won''t happen again."


    "Thank you." Galeras nodded, satisfied with her apologies.


    Taking advantage of the brief moment his gaze shifted away from her, the young woman turned her head to the side and covered the mocking smile that appeared on her face.


    It was worth it, she thought.


    However, the amusement was not meant to last for long. Suddenly, they all heard a series of footsteps approaching from behind the Lord Mayor.


    "That must be lunch," Galeras said. He looked at Mavros. "I''m sure you''ll enjoy it, Ser. Today''s main course is from your homeland: magret de canard," he announced.


    The steps halted, just a few meters behind Galeras.


    "Hm?"


    Mavros and the ladies looked at those who had caused the interruption with a puzzled expression. It was Enqueri, the head of servants, and a soldier in helmet and armor. It was obvious that they weren¡¯t there to deliver the food.


    "Lord Mayor!" the soldier called, causing Galeras to turn around to face him. His labored breath indicated the physical effort he had made to reach them. "I regret to report that another farm has just been attacked!"


    The dreadful news startled everyone. The mayor moved away from the table to address the soldier.


    "Another farm? Do you have more details?"


    The soldier nodded.


    "The family tending the land watched from their cabin as the beasts slaughtered the cattle under their care. Not a single head of cattle survived," he narrated. "They were so terrified that they didn''t dare to fend them off. Their appetite was insatiable, and their brutality perverse."


    Beasts... So it''s a pack, Galeras deduced from the plural, discarding the hypothesis he and much of the city had about a lone daring bear. "An attack in broad daylight... Have you gone to verify these testimonies?" he inquired.


    "No... but from the terror of the head of the family, we have reason to believe he''s not lying. He truly fears for his life, as well as the lives of his wife and children," the soldier lowered his voice slightly. "And rightfully so," he added discreetly, leaning closer to the mayor''s left ear.


    What is he telling him? Why is he whispering? Luciara wondered with justified suspicion.


    Galeras turned pale as he absorbed what the soldier had revealed.


    Oh no... I''ve made a grave mistake. I should never have allowed those five to leave, he acknowledged, imagining their dire consequences. The Holy Warrior might have a chance, but ordinary soldiers like them¡­


    Thanks to their sharp hearing, two of the diners managed to catch the same keyword that the mayor received.


    Asha¡­


    ...im.


    However, rather than intimidating them, this word convinced them more than ever that they couldn''t stand idly by. Something had to be done, and soon.


    One of the two stood up.


    "Lord Mayor, allow moi to volunteer to ''unt down zese ''beasts'' zat ''arass your lands. I can leave right now."


    Everyone turned surprised toward him.


    "Ser Mathias?" Galeras looked at him perplexed. "I appreciate your concern, but you don''t have to trouble yourself with this problem. You''ve just arrived in my city, you haven''t even had lunch," he turned his gaze to Luciara and Menuha. "I''m very sorry, I have to leave you, but the food should be arriving. Please enjoy the feast without me."


    Despite his refusal, Mavros stood firm, refusing to return to his seat.


    ¡°Lord Mayor, I must insist on my proposition. I can''t just stay and enjoy your food while knowing zat innocent locals are in danger. No matter ''ow petite my contribution might be, I refuse to stay idle."


    The strength of his resolution further captivated those present.


    "Mavros," Luciara murmured. She covered her mouth upon realizing her slip. Thank goodness, she quickly regained her composure, noticing no one had paid attention. I almost messed up again.


    Galeras arched an eyebrow. Discouraging this "ordinary knight" from joining this suicidal mission would be more complicated than he had imagined.


    "Ser Mathias... please, come with me."

 C3-1: Ashaim! The Ancient Essence of Evil

    "Ser Mathias... please, come with me."


    That order from the Lord Mayor and owner of the mansion, Lucios of Galeras, echoed in the dining hall until they reached Mavros'' ears. An order in which the knight could discern a certain weariness, well-concealed by his polite tone.


    A few seconds passed. All eyes were fixed on him, awaiting his response with anticipation.


    Finally, Mavros simply nodded in silence. He pushed away from the table to follow Galeras and his companions, who led him out of the dining hall.


    I don''t know what''s happening, but it''s serious. Galeras has never been an effusive man, but I''ve never seen him so serious before... What did that soldier tell him? Why did he say it in a hushed voice so no one else could hear? Luciara wondered with suspicious anxiety, watching as he and Mavros turned into blurry silhouettes in the distance until they disappeared around a corner.


    From that same corner, three servants appeared, pushing a wheeled table. It carried, in addition to cutlery, a bread basket, plates with silver round covers, a bottle of wine, and crystal glasses. The servants advanced until they crossed the threshold of the dining hall and entered it. Lunch had arrived. In methodical order and silent coordination, they placed the plates, cutlery, and glasses in front of Luciara and her mother, Menuha.


    However, the lady remained indifferent to the activity around her, completely absorbed in her reflection, projected by the cover of the plate that had just been served to her.


    "Mother?" Luciara called her, noticing her deep preoccupation. She could tell something was bothering her.


    "Hmm?" Menuha glanced at her, returning to the present. "Did you call me, daughter?"


    "Are you alright?" Luciara asked her. "You seem distant."


    "I''m fine, it''s nothing," she replied with a forced smile, which soon faded. She lowered her gaze again. "I''m just a bit uneasy about this situation with the beasts... and your escort''s intentions."


    One of the servants uncorked the wine bottle and poured each of their glasses halfway, the second placed the bread basket in the center of the table. Once both were done, the third servant lifted the plate covers in succession, revealing slices of juicy grilled breast.


    Duck, thought Luciara and Menuha simultaneously, recognizing the origin of the meat instantly. It wasn''t the first time they had eaten this Grianzan dish in the mansion. Two sliced and peeled peaches, along with slices of dill-seasoned potatoes and boiled vegetables, adorned each plate.


    "Enjoy your meal," the three servants said.


    "Thank you," the two ladies replied.


    The household staff nodded and turned around to leave, taking the wheeled table with them.


    "So... Are you worried about Ser Mathias going out to hunt those beasts?" Luciara resumed the conversation where they had left off. "I understand why you would be, considering they seem to be more dangerous than everyone expected, but I can assure you that no matter what happens, he will be safe," she affirmed with full confidence. "He''s been escorting me for just over a day... but I''ve come to realize he''s stronger than he appears."


    Menuha slightly furrowed her brow, her emerald ovals meeting her daughter''s crystalline grays.


    "I know, I''m already aware. Your father told me everything about ''Ser Mathias''," she clarified firmly. "But still, I can''t help but feel a bit uneasy. Even someone like him shouldn''t underestimate what might roam the woods."


    What might roam the woods? Luciara felt her veins freeze in a shiver as she recalled those words. She didn''t know why, but the sheer tone and icy manner in which her mother spoke them made her momentarily share in her unease. She sensed that she was hiding something dreadful, just like the soldier and the mayor.


    Menuha picked up her cutlery, shifting her focus to the plates. She had spoken enough.


    "Let''s eat..., the magret de canard is going to get cold."


    ***


    Threads of wind that sneaked through his helmet caressed Mavros'' face, accompanied by vegetal fragrances that pleased his senses. The mayor and the soldier had led him to the gardens on the mansion''s outskirts. Close to the gated entrance through which he and Luciara had entered, a large curros was parked, guarded by two soldiers. The robust carriage looked like a mighty rhinoceros at rest. A rhinoceros with wheels, which unlike its fierce natural counterpart, awaited docilely to be mounted.


    Galeras and the soldier paused beside the vehicle, turning toward Mavros.


    "Ser Mathias, I will be frank with you," the Lord Mayor said. "These beasts attacking my domains are no ordinary creatures. All available information indicates that, unfortunately, they are Ashaim monsters."


    The knight remained unimpressed, calmly awaiting the mayor''s next, expected words.


    "As written in the Blinitaka, the Ashaim are creatures corrupted by an infernal essence. A dark legacy of the Immortal Union, resurfacing from time to time as a reminder of their wicked cruelty," Galeras continued. "An essence of unbridled malice and brutal violence, beyond the reach of ordinary weapons and methods. Only the Holy Warriors, with their mastery of nefesh and sacred arms, have the capacity to eradicate it. Not to offend, but for these reasons, you are not up to such a threat," he pronounced, delivering the judgment. "Now that you know, I ask the favor of keeping this matter in strict secrecy. Do not mention it to my servants or the ladies."


    As the rocks of a cliff against a fierce wave, Mavros stood his ground, unswayed by the expanded details, not the least bit intimidated.


    "Verily, I comprehend thy concern, thou wishest not for me to peril my life in futile endeavor," he said calmly, devoid of any displeasure, "I have conveyed unto thee the semblance of a common knight."


    "Uh?!" Galeras and his companion¡¯s pupils widened to their maximum. The burgeoning aura of the wandering knight was reflected in them. A luminous and light amethyst halo, like that of a nighttime star, radiated from his entire armor.


    "Do you know... do you know how to use the nefesh?" Galeras struggled to comprehend, "Are you a Holy Warrior? Why didn''t you say so earlier?"


    "Thou art mistaken... I am not a Holy Warrior," he quickly refuted, "Yet, I am well-suited for this noble quest: I possess the power to manipulate the nefesh, and my trusty blade can readily inflict harm upon the Ashaim; many of their kind have met their doom by its edge. For these reasons, I do hereby pledge my participation in this endeavor."


    The mayor raised his eyebrows in skepticism, increasingly noticing how the knight had completely abandoned the Grianzan accent with which he had presented himself. His new and eccentric speech patterns sounded even more foreign to the poet.


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    "Who are you?" he inquired, "You''re not a Grianzan knight, are you?"


    Mavros shook his head.


    "I beg thy pardon for the falsehood, I did not know how thou would take the truth," he confessed, "I pledge that I shall reveal it unto thee, but upon my return from the completion of mine quest."


    With that, he took a few steps towards the gate, leaving his astonished witnesses behind. He flexed his legs.


    "Wa¡­"


    Before the mayor could finish his call, the knight took a powerful leap that carried him to the other side of the gate. As soon as he landed on the grass, he sprinted away, quickly disappearing from the sight of his amazed audience.


    Maskirio... he can leap over walls with ease, and runs as fast as a curros, Galeras cast a short glance at the parked vehicle, Not even most Holy Warriors reach that speed. Only the most prodigious achieve such feats, he added, drawing even more perplexed as he realized the extent of his guest''s abilities, If he''s not a top class Holy Warrior, what is this man?


    ***


    I arrived too late, someone lamented, stopping at a point in the forest that immediately caught their interest; a point they wished they could have overlooked.


    The corpses of several soldiers lay scattered alongside their weapons near a group of toppled bushes, like abused dolls mutilated by a deranged child. All the bodies bore claw marks and bites that had torn off entire limbs, some had even dented and penetrated their armor. Fresh blood still flowed from their lethal wounds, revealing their recent demise. The tip of an arrow was embedded in the trunk of a pine tree. The missed mark was the only trace of what had undoubtedly been a brief resistance.


    Driven by great indignation, the individual clenched the hilt of their sheathed rapier with their right hand.


    Fools... I warned you, and yet you chose to ignore me. If you had the sense to listen to me, none of this would have befallen you, the masked Holy Warrior berated the dead men in their thoughts, with suppressed desolation. While the soldiers had earned their antipathy for their stubborn attitude during their only encounter, the last thing the foreigner had wished for was that the reckless adventure would have these consequences.


    "Hm?!" Subtle but distinct signals they perceived made the warrior forget their sorrow and focus on their origin. An origin they estimated to be a mile away from there.


    In that area, a small caravan had set up camp in a clearing among the trees. Picturesque wooden wagons, with curved wooden roofs like barrels, were lined up haphazardly alongside their horses. Groups of people of all ages surrounded them: men in lightweight leather vests over shirts, trousers, and multicolored pointed shoes. The women, on the other hand, wore similar upper garments; long skirts covered the rest of their bodies. Beyond their attire, their most striking features were their skin, as tan as the sunset, their eyes, amber like honey, and the lobes of their ears, pointed like water droplets.


    Oblivious to danger, they all enjoyed the sunny afternoon. Some conversed and ate around campfires, while others cheerfully practiced with musical instruments.


    Among this gathering of artists, one stood out from the rest. A young musician, instead of guitars and flutes like his peers, played two strange black objects that resembled oysters. Small, round indentations dotted the surface of each, forming a heptagonal pattern around a wide, round protrusion fixed in the center of the simple structure. The musician''s palms struck both objects at different points, creating sequences of harmonious and synchronized sounds. A dynamic yet gentle and warm melody perfectly in tune with nature, capable of plunging even the fiercest spirit into the deepest peace and serenity.


    He told me he intended to travel to Netzach as part of that ''personal journey'' of his... I wonder if he''s already there.


    The young man''s thoughts turned to someone he had met the day before, a person who had left an indelible mark on his memories.


    I hope he doesn''t have the same problems he had in Cirencre, he mused, his lips forming a small smile. I still find it hard to believe I had the honor of meeting him; not only did he defeat a Holy Warrior with a single blow, but also a Sahiron in his own domain. Perhaps, as he insisted so much, he''s not an Abiyr, but he definitely has some connection to them.


    His gaze shifted to the entrance of the camp, which connected to a rugged trail through the forest. Maybe I''m asking for too much, but I wish to encounter him once more. To see him with my own eyes perform some other feat, just like the ones I''ve heard about since I was a child, he yearned.


    However, a noticeable change in the atmosphere interrupted his daydreams. The young man noticed that his fellow companions almost simultaneously ceased their practices, murmuring in fear.


    The reason soon became obvious: something was lurking in the shadows of the trees.


    That something slowly emerged from the veil of darkness, revealing itself in the daylight. Several screams couldn''t be contained as the campers'' fear turned into terror upon getting a closer look at the pack that was encircling them. Quadrupedal beasts with tails, sturdy yet athletic bodies and limbs, thick, curved claws resembling hooks. Their heads were broad, with strong jaws and long, blunt snouts, large, triangular ears. While their shape resembled that of a wolf, their intimidating musculature and size were more akin to that of a bear - a completely impossible crossbreed in nature.


    But more than that, what horrified them was his grotesque appearance: mostly torn and cadaverous skin revealing swollen muscles, especially around his eyes, bulging and reddened. Viscous saliva dripped in hungry threads from his horrendous half-opened jaws, growling and revealing his long, sharp fangs: protruding and irregular, both in size and shape, like the unsheathed blades of a Swiss knife.


    Those eyes... that skin... The young man was petrified as he associated this terrifying image with several old stories, legends of twisted monstrosities. Could it be...?!


    ¡°Back!¡± several men, the older and stronger ones present, ordered. They formed a barrier to shield the boy and other vulnerable members of the camp. In their hands, they held long knives and improvised torches that they brandished at the monstrous creatures, hoping that the sight and heat of the fire would be enough to keep them at bay.


    Terrified, the younger ones, women, and the elderly retreated to the wagons. However, the young man with the peculiar musical instruments still couldn''t move from where he was, not wanting to miss anything.


    "Sheida! What are you doing?!" One of the torch-bearing men scolded him, momentarily diverting his attention from the beasts to look at him over his shoulder. "Go with the others now!"


    His brief distraction was not forgiven. Without showing any fear of the flames, one of the creatures poised to lunge towards him.


    "Baba!" Sheida screamed in horror.


    The man turned his gaze back in front of him to be met with the open jaws of the monster; its fangs about to close and tear his head off in a single brutal bite.


    But¡­


    A powerful sound reverberated in everyone''s ears. Then, absolute silence.


    What... What happened?


    Sheida quickly snapped back to his senses, anxious to find out.


    How?! The lifeless body of the aberration that had been on the brink of killing his father lay sprawled on the ground, observed by him and the other men in astonished shock. A large hole pierced through its head, severely scorched.


    A crackling sound dominated the atmosphere, constant and fluid like the flow of a swift river. The beasts were the first to pinpoint its source, emerging from nearby trees. Baring their fangs and emitting prolonged growls, they took a few steps back.


    Men and the young Sheida watched in astonishment as a masked warrior in tattered pants and a leather jacket walked up to stand in front of them, confronting the monster pack without a hint of fear. In the palm of his left hand lay what had left them dumbfounded: a small shield, but not an ordinary one, rather one composed of ceaseless bursts of dazzling electricity. In his right hand, he gripped the hilt of an elegant, silvery rapier, which he inclined forward as he assumed a rigorous combat stance.


    "Who is¡­"


    "That man?"


    The campers murmured, captivated by this mysterious individual who had just averted a tragedy. Especially Sheida and his father, who had the fortune of being rescued by this providential intervention.


    The swordsman couldn''t afford to dispel the justified confusion of his onlookers. His survival¡ªand theirs¡ªdepended on his absolute focus on his objectives, ready to strike at any moment.


    His sword and shield would measure up against an old and relentless evil, his reason for existence and battle.

 C3-2: Silver Storm! The Lightning Fencing

    Mavros ran as fast as his legs could carry him. The trees lining along the rustic path passed before his eyes like fleeting figures.


    I''ve been moving around here for quite some time, and I still don''t sense anything. This forest is too vast¡­


    He slowed down, overcome by something that had been bothering him for a few minutes.


    I should have asked for the exact location of the last attack by those beasts. Even with my nefeshic sense, finding them in a place like this without a point of reference will be like finding a needle in a haystack.


    He clenched his fists, with his head bowed and his brow furrowed. That ¡°something¡± bothering him was undoubtedly the fact that he was completely disoriented.


    Curse me... I was too hasty, he admitted, frustrated by how his quest was getting more complicated than necessary, and all because of his foolish mistake.


    But¡­


    ¡°Ah?'' he jerked his head up, very alert. He finally detected something unusual. The distant, faint rumble of thunder, accompanied by something else that caught his attention.


    That was... Nefesh! Someone has just released a large amount of electric nefesh to the southeast! he interpreted, straightening his body in that direction. Now that I remember, Lady Menuha mentioned that some men had been sent to search for and hunt down the beasts. She didn''t tell me, but it''s likely that some of them are Holy Warriors... Does this nefesh belong to one of them? Did they encounter the beasts before me?


    ***


    The masked swordsman stood on guard, immobile and solemn as a statue, with his right leg forward and the left behind it. The silver of his rapier sword gleamed in the pupils of the looming eyes of the monstrosities surrounding him. Their continuous growls were the only thing interrupting the silence of what had become a tense calm.


    Behind them, the campers observed them with absolute interest. The initial commotion over what could have ended in a gruesome tragedy was slowly dissipating. Their thoughts organized and regained clarity as they tried to find explanations for the events they were witnessing. Despite the looming danger, no one wanted to retreat. Everyone had the intuition that they were about to witness something astonishing.


    One of them swallowed hard.


    I... I should be dead, he thought, feeling icy chills as he recalled the image of the open jaws of one of those abominations just inches from his face. In the blink of an eye, that image turned into that of a harmless lifeless body lying on the ground. This man... This man was a blessing from Senshan.


    His son gave him a long look, blinking several times, struggling as much as he did to believe what had happened. Then, his eyes shifted to the author of that miracle.


    It was lightning... He saved my father with a lightning bolt. I could barely see it... It was as fast as one from a storm, Sheida remembered, appreciating the firmness and elegance of the swordsman''s stance. The violent electrical discharges forming a shield in his left palm and the beautiful sword held in his right hand became his main source of fascination, just as it did for the other young and adult campers.


    That electricity... There''s no doubt, it''s nefesh.


    That sword... It''s not ordinary. It looks like that of a noble.


    His guard... it''s very solid and refined. This fellow is no ordinary soldier. He''s well-trained.


    These were the deductions of several of them as they examined him more closely. The audience raised their eyebrows. The three conclusions merged into a more decisive one.


    This man is¡­


    A Holy Warrior?


    The beasts took a few steps, aligning themselves in a fan-like formation around their prey. They flexed their paws and parted their jaws. Nevertheless, their challenger continued to face them without a hint of fear. As far as his sight and other senses could tell, it was a pack of eight.


    Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    Suddenly, what everyone had been waiting for happened. The monsters lunged in unison towards the solitary swordsman. Their fangs and claws aimed at him with uncontrollable desire to shred him to pieces.


    Just as they were about to make contact.


    Now.


    He placed his left hand in front of him, creating a strong electric field around him that repelled the monsters as they collided with his barrier. Affected by the shock they received, the beasts were stunned. The swordsman launched his counterattack. He moved to the far left of the formation to neutralize the first of the beasts.


    "Senshan!"


    "It can''t be!"


    The mouths of the audience hung open in astonishment. The swordsman delivered straight consecutive thrusts that pierced the head and chest of his enemy at such speed that they could only see them as blurry flashes. In less than five seconds, the beast collapsed dead on the ground. Light columns of smoke emanated from its punctured flesh. It had been a genuine lightning-fast attack.


    The swordsman immediately advanced towards the next of the beasts to repeat his deadly combination. One of its companions blocked his path and tried to intercept him by lunging at him with its claws, but he immobilized it with his electric shield and, with a dancer''s graceful spin, severed its neck with the edge of his blade. He narrowly avoided being splattered by the jets of blood that gushed from its open throat with an agile sidestep, allowing him to reach his original target.


    That fencing style... That art of nefesh capable of manipulating electricity for unstoppable attacks and impenetrable defense... I''ve heard and read stories about a Holy Warrior famous for these qualities; for his unmatched elegance and precision in sword combat... ¡±The best swordsman in all of Elvira.¡± Sheida recalled as he watched in amazement how the swordsman killed the third of the monsters with the same ease as the previous ones. His name and identity came to the tip of his tongue. The historical hero whose magnificent monument had been partially destroyed by the wandering knight he had just met.


    His eyebrows arched.


    Could this man be... Santario Monteros, the leader of the Holy House of the Royal Rose?!


    Meanwhile, the beasts that had survived the onslaught of their human opponent ran in a disorganized column towards him. He took a defensive stance, merely waiting for their charge. With his sky-blue eyes, he followed and calculated in meticulous detail each of their footsteps, every one of their slightest movements, in order to compose his symphony. He wanted to end this confrontation as quickly as possible, and his plan required him to concentrate fully on careful planning for success.


    When they were close enough¡­


    Art of Lightning: Silver Storm.


    The swordsman turned into a streak that slid through his adversaries, describing straight and violent strokes: a constellation of lightning where silver and blue intertwined. An explosive visual spectacle that left the campsite breathless. The constellation vanished as quickly as it had been created. The swordsman stood still with his sword held horizontally, his back to the last beast in the column. Like a series of falling dominoes, this one and the others collapsed to the ground in perfect synchrony. The entire pack had been annihilated. Their once fierce bodies were now peaceful corpses.


    "In... Incredible..." was the word muttered by several of the onlookers in common. It was their verdict on the end of this short but spectacular battle, where one side clearly had the advantage.


    Finally able to take a break, the swordsman lowered his guard and relaxed his tense muscles. He dissipated the electrical charges from his left hand to retrieve a handkerchief from a pocket of his old leather jacket.


    It seems these were all, he judged, wiping the remnants of flesh and blood from his sword blade with the handkerchief. His calmness was enviable, giving the impression that all of this had been a simple task for him. The outbreak has been eradicated.


    Behind him, the campers timidly began to approach, perplexed and nervous due to his apparent indifference toward them. They still couldn''t find the right words to express their gratitude.


    "Hm?!"


    To add to their bewilderment, he had a small startle as they came within a few meters of his position. He suddenly froze and stopped cleaning his sword.


    A nefesh?! He shifted his gaze in all directions. It has tremendous magnitude, and its bearer is rapidly approaching... It''s no Holy Warrior I know. He put away his handkerchief and wielded his sword again as a precaution. Intimidated, the curious onlookers stepped back. Who or what could it be? A local elite warrior?... An Ashaim abomination of Quinctos level?!


    For the first time during the entire encounter, the swordsman addressed his spectators, looking down at them.


    "Listen! This place is still not safe!" he informed them imperatively. "Withdraw immediat¡­"


    "Watch out!" they interrupted him with an alarmed exclamation. Their fear resurfaced as they pointed their index fingers at something just steps away from him.


    As he returned his gaze to the front to see what they were referring to, he spotted something launching itself maliciously towards his body.


    Damn!


    He narrowly managed to avoid a direct hit, but it grazed the middle part of his right side in a whip-like motion, slicing through his jacket and reaching his skin. He cautiously touched the cut with his left hand, feeling warm blood oozing from the wound.


    Before him stood his assailant. His earlier count of his enemies had been inaccurate.


    The battle was not yet over.

 C3-3: Ascending Blade! The Wandering Sword Strikes the Fury of Battle

    Panting and muffled cries, panic once again gripped the camp. The terror they had thought was over had returned. Beads of cold sweat trickled down the forehead of their erstwhile defender: the masked swordsman.


    Less than ten paces away from him, the assailant he faced: a horrifying amalgamation of a canine and a bear, with torn skin and muscles bulging like fallen kin, but taller, bulkier, and with a more pronounced and hunched back. Its head was massive, with wrinkled-lipped jaws and a flat snout reminiscent of a war hound. A third, large eye sat in the center of its forehead. Three long, narrow tails extended from the tip of its tail; a trio of elongated and sinuous whips that writhed and swayed with a life of their own.


    His human prey still felt the gash on his right side that it had inflicted with one of those deadly weapons. Blood stained the palm of his left hand and the tips of his fingers as he kept his eyes fixed on the infernal creature.


    "Oh no¡­"


    Several campers feared the worst as they saw his pained expression. His only hope of surviving this situation seemed on the verge of extinction.


    But on his lips, a forced smile emerged, concealed beneath the veil of his mask.


    It''s not serious. I''ve endured worse in my ''trainings'' at the Royal University of Iowon, the swordsman assessed with relief. The wound was superficial, and the amount of blood he was losing from it would be insignificant. Nevertheless, he swallowed hard at the alternate scenario his imagination projected in his thoughts. But if I hadn''t moved in time¡­


    The partially open jaws of the beast and the guttural growl that emanated from them snapped him back to the present. Its tails cut through the air, with even more chaotic twists and turns than before.


    This must be the leader of this pack of abominations, the fencer observed. Its level of corruption is stronger than the others I just exterminated. But its nefesh is very low, almost nonexistent. Its level of danger must be barely that of a Tribos, and solely due to its physical constitution. If this abomination isn''t the owner of that nearby nefesh, then who is it?


    The beast let out a roar. In powerful undulations, its tails moved toward the swordsman, interrupting his contemplations. He saw them coming and, with swift backward leaps, managed to evade them and retreat to a safe position. The whips lashed savagely at the ground he had previously stood on, sending several clumps of earth flying in disparate directions.


    "It seems that he¡¯s back on his feet!"


    "Thanks to Senshan!"


    His audience celebrated, regaining their composure as they realized they had been fooled by a false alarm; their champion was far from falling. The swordsman''s left hand opened, generating electrical charges that formed his characteristic shield.


    In any case¡­ How... how could I let myself get so distracted that I didn''t notice it? How did I allow myself to be taken by surprise? He reproached himself, embarrassed and angry at the lapse he knew could have cost him dearly. Determined to make amends, he prepared to confront the beast. His hands and legs assumed their rigorous fencing stance. This one might demand a bit more effort, but it won''t be too complicated. I have plenty of energy left to execute another ¡°Silver Storm.¡± He focused his pupils on the abomination like the tips of poisoned blades. Now, you''ll see!


    But just as he was about to demonstrate his best technique once more¡­


    The branches of nearby trees rustled. Someone leaped out of them with a great bound. He landed crouched between man and beast with a soft thud.


    "Ah?!"


    At their unexpected entrance, everyone jumped in surprise.


    "A knight?!"


    "But where did he come from?!"


    The campers exclaimed, voicing their confusion and bewilderment.


    The unique newcomer proceeded to stand up. A gray knight''s armor covered his body from head to toe. A metal staff was sheathed on his back, and the scabbard of a double-edged sword clung to the left side of his hips.


    That armor... A Grianzan knight? What the hell is one of those fools doing here? Sheida wondered, confused and suspicious as he got a better look at him. His distrust was justified, as their presence wasn''t common in that province under the jurisdiction of the Kingdom of Niespal, especially in that secluded part of the forest away from the common trails. Despite all signals that he had come to help, the bad experiences that the young musician and the members of his community had had with them in the past made him initially frown on his intervention.


    It''s... It''s him! He''s the bearer of that elevated nefesh I''ve been sensing! the swordsman realized, astonished. That character bore no resemblance to how he had imagined him.


    I''m pretty sure it''s around here¡­


    Slightly disoriented, the knight tried to confirm his location, a task hindered by the limited field of vision offered by his helmet.


    But what the...? The first thing his eyes met were the wide-open jaws of the beast, as large as half of his body, lunging at him to engulf him in a single bite. In a timely reflex, the knight sidestepped with a short hop, eluding his opponent who continued forward. Its jaws clamped shut like pincers, tasting nothing but air and dust as the knight flanked it on the left.


    I see... This is one of those Ashaim beasts, he recognized, immediately grasping the situation. Without hesitation, he unsheathed and wielded his sword with both hands, unwavering and fearless. What was a spine-chilling and rare experience for most people had become an ordinary task in his life. One of the few tasks where the incapacitating strength of his staff was insufficient, and the lethality of his bladed weapon was justified.


    Just as I suspected, they were around this place. But... Where is the Holy Wa...?


    The beast''s whips thrashed wildly toward the knight before he could delve further into his doubts.


    "Watch out!" the audience warned him, but it was already too late to evade them.


    Even the experienced fencer was impressed by what happened next. With his sword, the gray knight deflected and blocked with exceptional skill and speed each of the monster''s repeated lashings. The whips relentlessly clashed against the unbreakable diamond of his defense.


    That speed and agility... They come quite close to mine, and he isn''t even wielding a light sword, the masked warrior perceived, which made him furrow his brow in jealousy¡ªan occurrence that happened with very few individuals. Although his trained eyes could closely follow the movements, they were as elusive to the other spectators as his fencing thrusts and cuts. It seems the warriors of these domains live up to their reputation.


    He can''t be a Grianzan knight, at least not of the ordinary ones I know. Not even if they were reborn could those cowards fight like this... Sheida analyzed, beginning to set aside his prejudices. Most likely, he''s another Holy Warrior... But why... why do I have this strange feeling that I''ve seen him before? Something about him feels familiar...


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    In escalating frustration at not being able to harm him in the slightest, the beast curled its lips into a grimace, revealing its ugly fangs to the knight. Then, it released its three whips in a simultaneous strike at different parts of his body.


    The knight executed a whirlwind spin. The monster let out a scream; nearly half of its three tails went flying through the air, landing in the grass. Hot smoke emanated from the flesh cut by the sword.


    The metal of his sword remained undamaged upon contact with its flesh and blood, the masked fencer was particularly drawn to this detail, knowing better than anyone how significant it was. There''s no doubt, he''s a Holy Warrior. Does he belong to the Holy House of Lis? Or is he an agent of the Order of Lebias?


    Mute with anticipation, the crowd eagerly awaited what appeared to be the nearing conclusion of the encounter. Disarmed after losing its whips, the beast was more defenseless against its formidable adversary.


    Well, now I just need to target its head, the knight reasoned, enjoying the comfort provided by his tactical superiority. An ¡°Ascending Blade¡± should be more than enough.


    He retreated with a leap to increase their separation distance. He flexed his legs and assumed a stance in which he raised his sword to head level, tilting and extending it slightly diagonally toward his opponent.


    The Ox, the ¡°bull,¡± the fencer identified this stance by the name he had known it as from his manuals and fencing classes. While two-handed swords were never his specialty, it was part of his essential training to have basic knowledge of martial arts. What is he planning to do?


    Suddenly, the knight sprinted with a powerful burst of speed, hurling himself right at the monster''s gaping jaws. Accepting the challenge, the beast roared with anger and rushed to intercept him.


    "Look!"


    "His eye!"


    The campers exclaimed in alarm, witnessing how the beast''s third eye suddenly burst and shot a scalding jet of pressurized blood with precision toward his adversary. With a graceful dodge to the right, the knight eluded it.


    The expelled fluid only managed to splatter on the ground a few meters from the fencer. His blue eyes watched as the blood disintegrated the vegetation and several inches of earth beneath it within seconds. His hair stood on end as he remembered how, during his exchange with the other beasts, he narrowly avoided being bathed in the equally corrosive blood of one he had slain, leaving a similar mark of destruction where it fell. The campers had been so engrossed in his fencing and that of the new swordsman that they had ignored these unsettling details at the moment.


    Closing the distance between them more and more, the beast and the knight headed for their imminent collision. The massive jaws opened; the fangs were eager not to fail this time and turn their opponent into grinded meat.


    The warrior''s hands gripped his sword tightly. Just as he was a few meters away from being ensnared by its mouth.


    Path of the Twin Suns, hard style, original technique: Havenfalls'' Ascending Blade.


    He moved his sword from bottom to top in a curved amethyst stroke that pierced the beast''s head, splitting it in two like soft butter. The blow roared through the air and spread in an unstoppable wave that cut the rest of the muscular mass with perfect symmetry. The two halves collapsed lifelessly to the ground, emitting fine vapors.


    The mouths of the onlookers gaped open in bewilderment, paralyzing their tongues and throats. Under the sword of that warrior, the battle had come to an end.


    He... he split that monster in two as if it were nothing¡­


    The campers were still trying to believe it, overwhelmed by fascination and fearful respect for the displayed power.


    That last attack... Released an enormous amount of nefesh in that brief moment. Its purity and control over it were outstanding... As outstanding as Jost''s¡­


    The same feelings were shared more discreetly by the masked Holy Warrior. The way that knight fought reminded him of someone he knew and admired.


    Meanwhile, the knight carefully observed the successful¡ªand quite excessive¡ªresults of his devastating technique.


    Indeed, it was more than enough... Overkill, perhaps, he concluded calmly. It seems this was the only Ashaim around here.


    He shook his sword slightly, letting the remaining blood drip off the blade before sheathing it gently. Having been exposed to the air for a considerable time until then, the toxicity of the blood had dissipated and had no corrosive effect on what it touched.


    The knight turned around, eager to explore his surroundings.


    "Heavens¡­"


    The corpses of the other beasts that had been annihilated before his arrival immediately caught his eye. They were disintegrating rapidly from the inside, taking the form of an orange, gelatinous substance that seeped into the ground.


    There were more, many more, but someone took the trouble to eliminate them... And it seems it''s been a while since they did, he judged, noting that their decomposition gave him a precise idea of how recent the event was. He turned his head, surveying part of the camp and the crowd of campers gathered several meters away, holding torches.


    So, I''m in a camp. Couldn''t be a worse place for Ashaim beasts to show up, but I don''t see any signs of destruction, and everyone seems to be fine... It seems to be calm. These people look that young corsair, and Sheida... Hm?


    He locked eyes with someone in the crowd, someone whose face appeared just as he thought of him.


    He''s... Is he looking at me? Sheida perceived, filled with intrigue and confusion. Why has he been doing it for so long?... Does he know me from somewhere?... Wait! Could it be him?


    Just as the knight was about to greet him, he felt footsteps approach and stop beside him.


    "I have to say, that was a magnificent display," the author of the graceful movements said, his voice soft but firm, tinged with elegance and courtesy.


    The knight turned toward the source, facing the masked swordsman. He had sheathed his rapier and regarded him with his exposed, discerning celestial blue eyes.


    He must be that Holy Warrior, the one behind the electric nefesh that drew me here... the knight quickly surmised, observing him with the same solemnity with which he was being observed. "Thank thee."


    "That voice¡­"


    Sheida managed to faintly hear it from where he was standing. He slowly began connecting the dots.


    "In mine travels through these lands, I hath heard that certain ''beasts'' were causing terror upon the outskirts of this fair city. I deemed it fitting to inquire and take action thereupon," the knight continued addressing the masked swordsman. He paused briefly and shifted his gaze to what remained of the beasts'' bodies, now transformed into an indistinguishable amorphous mass from their original appearance. ¡°Were thou, mayhaps, the one who hath slain these Ashaim and safeguarded this encampment before my coming? ¡±


    The masked swordsman nodded slightly.


    "Yes. Fortunately, I was able to intercept and neutralize them here before they could cause a disaster."


    He averted his gaze.


    But unfortunately, I couldn''t prevent them from taking some lives with them, he reproached himself internally, remembering the foolish soldiers who had ended up brutally massacred.


    "I must also say I''m impressed that thou didst defeat so many on thine own," Mavros told the swordsman, pulling him out of his reverie. "I came specifically drawn by thy nefesh, thinking thou mightest need aid, but it seems I was mistaken¡­"


    "Mavros?!"


    Sheida''s eyes widened; he had finished connecting the dots. Although his armor was no longer jet black and lacked his violet cape, his voice was unmistakably that of the knight he had encountered during his brief confinement in the dungeons of Cirencre.


    "Thou hast wrought a mighty deed," Mavros continued cordially praising the swordsman. "Might I be graced with the knowledge of thy name?"


    His pupils, black dots floating in his celestial lakes, dilated slightly. These and other subtle gestures in his body language didn''t escape the perceptive eyes of the wandering knight, piquing his curiosity.


    "I apologize for my rudeness," the fencer said. He extended his right hand, inviting a handshake. Mavros accepted the invitation.


    "Mar... Macario, Macario Villaral, pleased to meet you," the swordsman identified himself as soon as their palms touched.


    Macario... Macario?


    Instead of continuing the introductory ritual by sharing his own identification, Mavros remained silent, absorbed and focused on something odd that had unsettled him; something that didn''t add up. Something he had already sensed even before that initial contact.


    "Thou art wounded," he said, somewhat alarmed, noticing the long, recent, untreated cut on the right side of his body. "We must see to this injury without delay and swath it in bindings forthwith. I do possess an  within this encampment; perchance they may procure for us the necessary provisions."


    "NO!" the masked Holy Warrior adamantly denied, releasing his hand, his tone suddenly shifting to agitation. "It''s nothing serious!" he insisted, calming his agitation a bit. "I don''t need help with it!"


    What happened to him? Why did he react like this out of nowhere? Mavros wondered in total confusion. After all, he had been very polite. There was nothing to justify this.


    "Serious or not... prithee allow us to lend thee aid," Mavros insisted. "It is the least that I and these folk shouldst undertake to display our thankfulness for thy toils. They all do owe their lives to thee."


    The fencer closed his eyes in impatience, shaking his head from side to side in a new, silent denial.


    "They are...?"


    "...arguing?"


    From their prudent distance, the crowd tried to understand what was happening.


    "Verily, art thou truly certain thou dost not wish for aid?" Mavros asked the agitated fencer one last time.


    "No! Didn''t you hear me?!" He reiterated, exasperated, opening his furrowed eyes towards him again. Instead of satisfying the knight, this response only continued to fill the well of his intrigue. Motivated by it, he examined the area of the wound more closely.


    "Huh?"


    He understood everything upon seeing the smooth, hairless appearance of his skin and the minimal part of the edge of a curved contour. A contour covered and pressed by layers of fabric to give it a flat appearance that it naturally lacked.


    His voice, his hands, even his figure... By Maskirio! How didn''t I realize it before?


    The revelation engulfed him in the deepest embarrassment. Embarrassment that led him to make a big mistake in his choice of words.


    "Macario... Be that not a somewhat uncommon name for a Lady of thy stature?"


    That innocent yet impertinent question ignited a flurry of nerves within the masked swordsman, or should we say, swordswoman.


    You idiot! The right hand of "Macario" crackled with small discharges of electricity. In an angry outburst, she hurled it toward the knight''s helmet.


    "Uh...?!"


    Before he could react, the back of her hand delivered a stunning slap that sent him face down to the ground. His sudden revelation had just landed him in an unexpected predicament.

 C3-4: Identify Yourself! The Wager of the Masked Warriors

    "Oooaaaah..." Mavros let out a weak groan, sprawled on the ground with his body dazed.


    He hit him!


    What''s happening?


    Is there going to be¡­?


    ¡­another fight?


    When will this madness end?!


    The campers thought in silence, their minds overflowing with astonishment at the relentless sequence of surreal events. They didn''t seem to want to stop in that modest¡ªyet seemingly peaceful at first¡ªspace they had chosen for their camp.


    Mavros! Sheida shouted with concern from the depths of his mind, speechless from the shock. He could never have imagined a legendary ¡°Abiyr¡± falling in such an embarrassing manner.


    At the same time, the fencer who claimed to be named "Macario" looked over her shoulder at the crowd with great unease.


    Did they hear? ¡°He¡± dreaded the idea that they might have learned the important secret the knight had discovered, and to make matters worse, blurted out loud. However, her concern soon shifted to the knight himself, as he saw that he wasn''t getting up after the slap. She hurried over and stopped by his side to examine him.


    This isn''t the first slap I''ve received from a woman, but holy heavens! None were as terrible as this one, Mavros reminisced, still affected by the blow. Some of his happiest and saddest memories flashed before his eyes. She even added a touch of her nefesh to it. If it weren''t for my electricity-resistant armor, the reprimand would have been much worse. What''s this ''Lady Macario'' problem with me?


    To the relief of the fencer with the contradicting masculine name, the knight began to slowly rise, using his arms for support.


    "Aaah... aaay..." he groaned, touching his helmeted head. "That hurt... Why did thou hit me?"


    Why did I hit you, you idiot? For a moment, the swordsman''s blood boiled with the desire to assault him again due to the ignorance and naivety displayed by his comments. But her strong and professional self-control¡ªthis incident being a rare exception rather than the rule¡ªextinguished the fire and prevailed over her heated emotions.


    "Huh?"


    Mavros watched as she unsheathed her rapier and with a single motion extended its tip mere inches from his crotch.


    "Listen," she told him with an authority that frightened him. "You will follow every one of my instructions. Attempt any false move, and I''ll leave you like a gelded horse. Understood?"


    Oh crap. Mavros started to worry much more about his safety¡ªand virility¡ªthan when he was fighting the great Ashaim beast.


    "Understood," he nodded, timidly acknowledging the orders and the disturbing warning from the one who was subduing him.


    "Good," ''Macario'' replied, calmer now that her captive seemed to grasp his situation. "Raise your arms. Turn around." Mavros quickly obeyed. The tip of her rapier grazed his breastplate. "Walk."


    As if in a trance, the Ayarian campers watched as the one they still regarded as a mere ''fencer'' led the knight docilely into the depths of the forest.


    "Mavros!"


    Terrified by what he saw, Sheida rushed to the aid of the wandering knight. But several of his campmates blocked his path. Two of them grabbed his arms, halting him in his tracks.


    "He is Mavros! That Abiyr I told you about!" Sheida explained. "The one who defeated the Sahiron yesterday!"


    "The Abiyr?... Are you sure it''s him?" his father asked, incredulous. "His armor isn''t black as it should be."


    "I know, and I have no idea why it''s gray now," Sheida replied. "But it''s him! I recognize his voice!" he reaffirmed. "We must go help him! That Holy Warrior must have discovered his identity and intends to kill him!"


    His listeners parted their lips, sharing and understanding the fear his assumption inspired.


    "Unfortunately, there''s nothing we can do," Sheida''s father pronounced with resignation. "If we try to interfere in the affairs of those two, we could be seriously hurt, even killed. We were too blessed that they came and saved us from those Ashaim demons to challenge Senshan''s will now..." He argued. Although there was a deeper reason for his denial. As much as they wanted the ''Abiyr'' to live, he was in debt to the fencer. He couldn''t raise his hand against ¡°him¡±. "We can only hope he''ll manage to survive. After all, he''s an Abiyr, even the best Holy Warriors had to join forces to have a chance against them. I doubt that warrior will succeed in killing him on his own," he said, once again showing his wisdom. He glanced around the camp during a brief pause. "I bet no one wants to spend the night here after this madness. It''s best we stay at an inn in the city until tomorrow," he suggested. Some showed slight grimaces of displeasure. Such a decision meant they would have to spend money they wished they could save. "I know it''ll pinch our pockets a bit, but it''s much better than risking the pain of a mortal wound."


    The others reluctantly nodded, recognizing that his words were not lacking in truth. In a few minutes, they would finish packing their things and hastily leave.


    "Mavros¡­"


    Sheida didn''t take his eyes off where he had seen him leave with his captor. His wish to see him in action had come true, but not in the way¡ªand with the ending¡ªhe would have wanted.


    ***


    Inside the luxurious residence of the Lord Mayor of Hezaran, Luciara leaned her back and head against one of the many walls in the main hall. With her arms bound behind her back, she gazed at the floor in a posture that embodied the reflection and anxiety silently gnawing at her from within.


    My mother... has been acting very strange. She couldn''t stop thinking about her mother''s unusual coldness and the few words she had spoken during lunch, which had just ended a few minutes ago.


    I''m just a bit uneasy about this situation with the beasts... and your escort''s intentions.


    Even someone like him shouldn''t underestimate what might roam the woods.


    Those phrases kept reappearing no matter how hard she tried to ignore them, like heads of a hydra multiplying when cut by a sword''s blade. Besides that and the traditional pre-meal prayers, her mother hadn''t said anything more during and after lunch. Quite unusual for someone who, despite requiring long periods of solitude for her work, was quite talkative with her family and friends in her leisure time.


    She and the others know something they don''t want to tell me. Something very serious... Maybe Mavros won''t have it as easy as I thought... Maybe he could be really in danger.


    Her hands clenched tightly.


    Why? Why does everyone treat me like a child? her conscience protested at such helplessness. Being underestimated and given special treatment despite all her displays of self-sufficiency irritated her greatly.


    She said she would go back to working on her sculpture. Not to look for her until she comes out of her studio, she remembered the last thing her mother had said after lunch.


    She stepped away from the wall, raising her gaze with determination.


    But I don''t care, she nodded a couple of times. Yes, I''ll go see her right now. Until she''s honest with me, I won''t let her touch that marble.


    ***


    Coerced by his captor''s sword, Mavros continued walking, venturing deeper into the forest. The only companions of the two were now the multitudes of trees stretching in all directions, and the occasional tones of the blowing wind and the song of some birds.


    I must keep my composure, the knight told himself. He had never imagined he would get into such a mess. Despite being accustomed to dealing with danger frequently, he couldn''t help but feel genuine fear. I''ve already made an unintentional mistake; it''s my fault that all of this is happening. Now I must think twice about my next words and actions... If she were a man like me, I''d be calmer, I''d know how to handle it, but there''s nothing more terrifying than the unpredictable nature of a lady who knows how to defend herself.


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    Suddenly, he heard her stop in her tracks.


    "Halt," she ordered.


    Mavros complied. The fencer inspected her surroundings with a critical eye.


    "This place will do," she judged. The last remnants of her unease evaporated after that confirmation. "Turn around."


    Mavros turned to face her. The fencer lowered the point of her sword.


    "You can lower your arms."


    "Ah?" The wandering knight blinked a couple of times. He thought he had misheard her new instruction.


    "I repeat, you can lower your arms," she reaffirmed.


    Thank goodness... At least it seems like she''s much more relaxed now, Mavros noted with relief as he released his limbs. Since they had left the camp, ''Macario'' had become more composed. Her voice no longer sounded altered in the slightest, and, without losing her firmness and strength, her natural femininity shone through, which she had previously tried to conceal with forced masculinity.


    "Look, I apologize for hitting you," she offered sincere and serious apologies to the knight, much to his surprise. "I''m ashamed to have acted so unprofessionally. Someone like me should never have done that, but you completely caught me off guard when you discovered my disguise. I thought all those commoners were also going to find it out because of you¡­"


    Huh?... So, she was more concerned about what they might think than anything else? That revelation caught the knight''s attention. He could relate to those concerns.


    "And that brings me to the first question I want you to answer," the masked figure continued. "How did you figure it out? How did you know I wasn''t a man?"


    Mavros remained silent for a few brief moments.


    "In truth, from the outset, I hath perceived a peculiar essence within thee. Aye, a most curious ''artificial'' aura, words do fail me to aptly describe," he said, directing his gaze with particular emphasis towards the area of her wound. "Yet it was this revelation that didst indeed validate mine apprehensions."


    The fencer lowered her gaze to the cut.


    Damn it! The skin around her eyes reddened. She stifled a choked cry with a gulp as she realized what her male counterpart meant. Curse that Ashaim!


    Although only a small, well-concealed edge of her right breast had been exposed to the outside world, that didn''t make the detail any less uncomfortable. She cautiously covered it with her left hand.


    "Alright! I get it now!" she snapped at Mavros, making it clear that she didn''t find it amusing at all, even though it wasn''t his fault. To make matters worse, she had nothing but her left hand to cover the cutout at that moment. "Why are you still looking?" she asked, her irritation evident. "Do you want to die?"


    "Ah!"


    That final threat made him abruptly return his gaze to her blue eyes.


    "Thine... Thy name is not ''Macario,'' doth it?" Mavros ventured to inquire.


    The fencer shook her head.


    "There''s no point in pretending with you anymore," she said. "No, of course not. Nor is my real surname Villaral."


    "So... Why dost thou trouble thyself with that feigned guise?" the knight replied with a new round of questions, unable to contain his curiosity. "Who art thou?"


    The masked woman''s brow furrowed slightly.


    "Firstly, that''s none of your business. I have no obligation to tell you," she clarified sharply. "As for the second question... I could ask you the same thing because, now that I think about it, you never introduced yourself. What is your name? Which Holy House do you serve?" She countered with her own inquiries. "Depending on your answers, I might consider you worthy of my trust and reveal my true identity."


    "My, my name is¡­"


    Mavros''s tongue stumbled when he was about to utter his name.


    Wait... She''s a warrior of the Holy House of the Royal Rose, he realized, noticing the rose embroidered on her worn jacket. It''s highly likely she''s heard about what happened in Cirencre yesterday. If I tell her my knight''s name, she might figure out who I am and decide to stop me, or worse, try to kill me, he reasoned, facing the dilemma of what to say after considering these disadvantages. I can no longer use my Mathias of Mandygnog persona, and any other improvisation runs a high risk of being exposed as a charade... What can I do?


    Seconds passed, and the fencer began to grow impatient due to his prolonged silence.


    "And?" she urged. "Your name is...?"


    "I doth lament to impart upon thee that I must abstain from revealing mine own identity. I wouldst cherish to do so, but the mandates of mine own quest doth hinder me," Mavros finally replied.


    What?! The masked figure raised her right eyebrow in irritation. The last thing she had expected was to hear such a response, whose vague excuse only fueled suspicion. "So, you can''t identify yourself due to a ''mission''? What ''mission''?"


    The knight glanced around.


    "I can''t reveal that to thee either; all its particulars art forbidden," he rebuffed. "I hath the right to deny. How could I consider one who just lied to me and didst admit it, worthy of my trust?"


    He swallowed hard.


    If I say I don''t belong to any Holy House, she won''t believe me because theoretically, all those skilled with nefesh are trained by them. But if I claim to belong to one, she''ll ask for a ''password'' to prove it. It''s a common practice among Holy Warriors who don''t know each other beforehand and find themselves in special circumstances like this, he recapped, aware of why he was doing what he was doing. The effort he put into maintaining his composure and appearing convincing far exceeded that of the strength and agility he displayed in combat. Amina once told me the passwords of the Holy House of Magnolia, but I can''t remember them well right now. At least with these excuses, I''m running less risk of appearing like a complete fraud.


    A similar tension to Mavros''s gripped the fencer, who was now more exasperated and distrustful due to these new words, yet couldn''t deny that they could be justified.


    "I don''t understand what you''re trying to accomplish. I don''t buy these excuses you just told me. I hope I''m wrong, and you''re not pulling my leg like I suspect you are," she said with unflinching honesty. "Either way, what matters now is that we both have our reasons for not wanting to cooperate."


    She turned her gaze away, contemplating the endless rows of trees, her thoughts deepening.


    "There''s only one foolproof way I can think of to settle this. A fair and honorable way for both parties."


    She turned her gaze back to the mysterious knight.


    "A wager," she announced with an eerie calmness.


    "Eh?"


    A suggestion that was completely unpredictable for Mavros.


    "A... wager?" he thought aloud, expressing his astonishment.


    The masked figure nodded a couple of times by way of confirmation.


    "Yes, a wager. And that wager will be..." She withdrew her left hand from her wound and assumed a fencing stance, brandishing her sword in the direction of his neck. "...a duel between the two of us."


    A... a duel?! Between us?!... Is she serious?


    This new detail shook Mavros like an earthquake. His irises gleamed like pure amethysts.


    "If you manage to defeat me, I will tell you everything you want to know about me," the fencer continued to explain. "But if you lose, you will be the one who has to do it with me, and I won''t tolerate any convoluted excuses as an answer... Is that clear?"


    The knight looked at her with utmost seriousness, pondering her audacious proposal.


    "I prithee pardon me, but I cannotst raise mine hand ''gainst a fair lady such as thee, especially if she be wounded. My code doth forbid it."


    Another one spouting such nonsense. The fencer was by no means deterred by this well-worn comment she was accustomed to hearing from time to time. It was one of the many reasons, though not the most important one, why she favored her "Macario" disguise in certain situations.


    "I already told you it''s nothing serious. It doesn''t even need to be treated with bandages because it''s already healed," she assured him.


    It''s true! It''s already healed! To his surprise, Mavros could see that the wound had closed. Apart from the dried blood around it, there was no sign of infection or any other health risk.


    "And in case you haven''t grasped it yet, allow me to illustrate another reason why I brought you here, far from the camp and prying eyes," the fencer continued. "If it came to a point where I was forced to fight you, I wanted to spare you the embarrassment of being humiliated in public."


    INAN?! Mavros suppressed a startle at the subtle and confident provocation from someone who was determined to be his opponent.


    "You don''t hesitate to face an abomination like the Ashaim, but when it comes to testing your skills against a woman... Are you afraid of losing to me? Is that what concerns you the most? Such cowardice and insecurity are unworthy of a man who dares to wear the armor of a knight," the fencer concluded, launching new verbal daggers aimed at his pride.


    The composure she displayed gradually stripped her rival of any reservations he initially had.


    "Thou dost appear excessively confident, and I cannot deny that the evidence doth favor thy claim," Mavros drew the metallic staff from his back, brandishing it with both hands. "Very well, my code doth permit an exception to such a rule. I shall engage in thy game."


    Suddenly, the masked figure brought the tip of her rapier within inches of his throat. Once again, Mavros felt momentarily more intimidated than with any other opponent.


    "Please, don''t be foolish, don''t see this as a ''game.'' Look at it for what it is: a duel," she cautioned him politely. "I may be a lady, but I am also a warrior who will defend her honor, just as you. If you forget that, if you hold back due to any foolish prejudice you may harbor, I will make sure you regret it."


    Heavens... She''s really serious, Mavros thought.


    A smile crept beneath the knight''s helmet, and he felt an indescribable cocktail of emotions coursing through his veins. On one hand, he still harbored reluctance to fight a woman. But on the other, he was overwhelmed by the excitement of facing what promised to be his best opponent in quite some time. The enthusiasm she had instilled in him with her presence and determination had thoroughly convinced him of that.


    Even if she''s a woman... I have to best her! If I don''t, this could become the end of my journey, he motivated himself. And, to be honest, I would love to get to know the face behind that mask.


    A duel in which his identity and his own fate depended on the outcome was about to begin.

 C3-5: Twin Suns! The Clash of Two Sibling Styles

    Steady and hurried footsteps approached the open entrance of a room.


    "Mother," Luciara called out loudly and cautiously as she crossed its threshold, "We need to..."


    The young woman came to an abrupt halt.


    "Hm?!"


    Apart from the majestic marble sculpture, nearly completed, a toolbox beside it, and the sunlight bathing both from the stained glass ceiling, there were no signs of anything or anyone else within the room.


    "Mother?" Luciara called again, puzzled, as she traversed it, inspecting every corner meticulously.


    Menuha didn''t respond. The fact that she wasn''t there became evident as Luciara finished her exploration.


    I don''t get it... She told me she''d be spending the afternoon here! she thought, trying to calm herself and find a logical explanation for her mysterious disappearance. I would have noticed if she had left at any point, but I never heard a thing.


    The corridor connecting to the room was only accessible from the mansion''s main hall, where Luciara had been before deciding to look for her mother. That''s why she was so certain of her last assumption, which only increased her concern.


    Where could she have gone?... Did I get so lost in thought that she left, and I didn''t even notice? she wondered. After all, she had been so engrossed that she hadn''t paid much attention to her surroundings.


    But even so... It''s too strange for her to have done it so suddenly, and without even telling me, the last detail stuck in her mind. I''m going to ask the servants. Maybe one of them has seen her.


    ***


    Hidden amidst the foliage of the deep forest, two contenders brandished their weapons, face to face, barely separated by a few paces. Without taking their eyes off each other, the wandering knight and the masked fencer prepared for their agreed-upon duel.


    Both slightly inclined their weapons forward, a long metal staff and a rapier respectively, until their tips touched.


    "So... You''re not going to fight with your sword?" the fencer asked, curious as to why her opponent had chosen to challenge her with his secondary weapon.


    "No," Mavros confirmed, "If I were to engage in combat with mine sword, I could slay thee. Thou lackest the safeguard that adorneth me. Furthermore, I harbor no ill will towards thee. Mine sole desire is to employ the force essential to best thee, and forsooth, mine staff doth prove the most fitting weapon. I bear no wish to harm the beautiful face that doth surely lie beneath yon mask."


    The masked one raised an eyebrow lightly. "How ''chivalrous,''" she replied in a sardonic and sarcastic tone. "If you think I''m at a disadvantage because I''m without armor, you''re sorely mistaken, and I''m going to prove it. Although it''s not my goal to kill you either, don''t count on me avoiding hurting you. Perhaps you''ll soon reconsider wielding your sword."


    "In sooth, we shall see. So far, all thou hast demonstrated to me is thy boasting. It doth linger in uncertainty whether I am correct and thou art but a prattler, " said the knight, mimicking the subtle and provocative spirit of her speech. His lips stretched into a confident and amused smile, relishing this elegant wordplay showdown.


    "I never claim something I can''t back up with actions. I''m sorry that reality won''t meet your delusional expectations," the fencer said, tilting her sword a bit more against the staff. Her opponent''s remark convinced her that they were wasting too much time on trivialities. "Enough talk. Let''s begin!"


    Mavros nodded, equally eager to begin the long-anticipated duel. Their eyes locked in a brief and intense moment of silence. Almost simultaneously, they raised and separated their weapons abruptly, emitting a metallic screech as they brushed against each other. With this act, they marked the beginning of the competition.


    "Ah!"


    Immediately, before he could even think about his next moves, Mavros was assaulted by a barrage of slashes and thrusts from his opponent.


    Maskirio! He exclaimed inwardly as he was overwhelmed. Although he managed to intercept and parry them with his staff, he was putting in more effort than he had expected. The sound of metal clashing echoed through the forest like thunder in a storm. Her attacks are not only incredibly fast and agile but also quite strong, he evaluated. Slowly, the fencer closed the distance with him, forcing him to retreat. Her mastery of fencing is exceptional! Whoever she is, her rank and level within her House must be much higher than someone like Ser Janpelan!


    With a powerful lunge, the fencer extended the tip of her sword toward his helm. Mavros sensed it coming and sidestepped to evade it. The masked woman regained her stance before the knight had a chance to counterattack and delivered a sideways strike towards his thighs, but he managed to dodge it with a short hop backward.


    Separated by a couple of meters, both took the opportunity to rest and regain their energy. They both panted slightly without taking their eyes off each other and letting their guard down.


    He has a very solid defense, I''ll give him that, the fencer judged. Her own expectations of her opponent were being exceeded. But how long does he intend to keep this up?


    Some of her attacks have a certain pattern, the knight analyzed. He had memorized her sequences of strikes as he blocked them. With the right moves, I can unbalance her and break her guard.


    The fencer resumed her offensive, launching rapid and consecutive attacks as before. Amidst her combinations, Mavros recognized a thrust she was about to execute.


    I''ve got you! It was the move he had been waiting for. He spun his staff to intercept her right arm as she extended it to strike with the tip of her sword.


    You fell for it!


    The move had been a trap.


    Unable to do anything to defend himself, the knight watched as in a sudden feint, his opponent bent her arm and turned what seemed like a thrust into a diagonal slash aimed at his neck. Left unprotected as his staff spun in the wrong direction, the blade struck him directly in the trachea.


    "Cough, cough!"


    Mavros staggered back a few steps. The pieces of his helm prevented the cut from reaching his skin, but the force of the impact was enough to choke and daze him. After he stopped coughing and regained his senses, he held his breath. He found the tip of the rapier halted in front of his face.


    However, instead of seizing this moment of vulnerability to finish him off, his opponent withdrew her weapon.


    "Thank you very much. You''re quite generous," she told him.


    "Thank you very much?" The knight muttered, confused by this ironic gratitude.


    "For giving me the victory," the masked one clarified. "If you wanted to surrender, you could have informed me beforehand and saved yourself all this trouble."


    Mavros furrowed his brow. "Wait! What art thou talking about? When did I say I wanted to surrender?" he questioned, slightly annoyed by the words she had put in his mouth. "I''m not going to bestow upon thee the victory. We''re not finished yet!"


    The masked fencer fixed him with an equally sharp look.


    "Then attack, damn it!" she protested, venting her frustration at his tedious behavior. "I challenged you to a duel, thinking you''d fight like a knight, but it seems I''m practicing with a squire. If you''re only going to defend, you might as well give up already!"


    "Oh, that''s it," Mavros said, amused by her spontaneity. "Very well, if thou dost so desire, I shall presently assail thee. My intent was never to defend endlessly; rather, I did grant thee the indulgence of thy innate privilege to take the first step," he paused briefly as he adjusted his staff. "Thou art familiar with the adage, ''ladies first,'' I presume?"


    The lady''s face wrinkled in mild irritation. If there was something that annoyed her, it was that kind of exaggerated condescension. She adjusted her guard, opening the palm of her left hand hidden behind her back, keeping it ready to use at just the right moment.


    Mavros tightened his grip on the staff.


    Here I come!


    "Hm?!"


    He vanished in a fleeting movement, lunging towards her. When she saw him again, he vertically swung the lower end of his staff towards her body.


    Now!


    Following its path precisely, the masked fencer played her ace to stop him.


    But what the..? The metal clashed against electrical discharges that repelled it. Confused, the knight attempted to strike a couple more times, only to be pushed even farther backward this time. Breaking his guard, the fencer landed a few precise blows to his abdomen until he straightened himself up. Mavros distanced himself from her to evade her sword.


    Enjoying a few seconds of calm, he took a moment to appreciate the reason for the failure of his attack.


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    I see now. She created a ''shield'' with her electric nefesh in her left hand. It was the best way he could describe it. She held it in front of her body, with her sword at her right side, ready for any opportunity to strike with its tip or blade.


    Why isn''t he stunned? the warrior wondered with concealed bewilderment. The current was supposed to have easily traveled through his armor and staff, paralyzing him. But beyond the signs of pain from the slashes and thrusts she had delivered, he appeared unharmed.


    This perplexity was seized upon by the knight to rethink his tactics.


    It''s a rather ingenious use of that type of nefesh. A perfect barrier against almost any weapon, he complimented her for her "shield" trick. He furrowed his brow in concentration. But I know a technique to neutralize it.


    He moved his staff in fluid, smooth, and elegant strokes, as if he were writing letters in the air. The fencer was surprised to see a spectral, smoky amethyst light emanating from its tip.


    What... What is he planning to do? she wondered, beginning to feel uneasy. What is that pure nefesh he''s gathering?


    Suddenly, he halted this surreal sequence, bringing nearly half of his staff just behind his right hip.


    Path of the Twin Suns, hard style, ancestral technique: Wave of the Wrathful Palm .


    In one swift motion followed by a powerful spin, he executed a diagonal sweep with his staff. It struck her shield, releasing an immense amount of energy from his amethyst nefesh at the moment of impact.


    WHAT?!


    Stunned, the fencer watched as the electric charges of her shield vanished like flames extinguished by a hurricane wind. Her body shook, and she stumbled back several steps, absorbing the remaining energy from the colossal blow her shield had failed to nullify. A residual shockwave ruffled her clothing and hair, nearly dislodging her mask.


    How...? How does he know a technique like that?! Not only did he easily dispel my shield, but it felt like he struck my entire body from the inside! she pondered, intimidated for the first time. It seems I seriously underestimated him!


    Exerting great effort, she managed to avoid falling and regain her balance. She breathed heavily, trying to regain her composure. Composure that the knight was not willing to allow her to regain, as he then launched another similar sweep.


    I never thought I would have to use it against someone like him, but I have no other choice. Desperate, she took the necessary steps to defend against the blow with her sword, arching it in front of her head.


    Mavros noticed how a clear and luminous halo emanated from her blade, azure like the iris of her eyes. Light flowed like threads of water along the edges of the sharp metal. Although he sensed imminent danger as soon as he saw this nefesh, different from the electric one she had shown him earlier, it was already too late to abort his attack.


    Path of the Twin Suns, soft style, ancient technique: Reflection of the Fluid Mirror.


    Instead of attempting to stop it, the fencer moved and tilted her sword so that the staff slid along its blade and the energy circulating on its edges.


    HOW?!


    In addition to feeling that his attack had been completely redirected, the wandering knight spun uncontrollably, unable to stop, dominated by a opposing force from his own weapon. His arms trembled from flesh to bone. The overload of his nerves involuntarily made him toss his staff upward, which landed in the branches of a nearby fir tree.


    What... What the hell was that? the knight wondered, deeply shaken. He was still trying to regain control of his trembling and aching arms. The fear had shifted sides. It''s... It''s as if she returned all the energy I had gathered for that strike... If I had put a bit more force... His terror increased as he visualized how his arms would have snapped like old branches in that alternative scenario. It''s just like the legendary ''soft style'' of the Twin Suns. The sibling style of the ''hard'' style so often mentioned in the ''Way'', but unlike the former, it''s never taught in the book... The sibling style that, according to its author, I can only learn in its land of origin! The style that, when merged with its sibling, results in the perfection of the Way! The reason I traveled here!


    He opened his eyes wide, believing he had arrived at a new revelation.


    Could she... Could she be the bridge to my ''master''?


    His rival approached him, cornering him against the trunk of a tree, with the tip of her sword aimed at his neck.


    "You fought well, but it''s over," she sentenced coldly. "You''ve lost."


    Mavros froze, trying to think about what he would do next.


    There''s nothing I desire more than to ask her about my ''master,'' or even have her teach me something of the style, he thought, controlling his excitement. But if there''s one thing I''ve realized, it''s that she''s proud. I won''t get anything by kneeling and begging like a beggar. I have to win this duel to be in a worthy position to do so, he reasoned, feeling more determined than ever. Even though she disarmed me, I can still win!


    "Now, answer," the fencer ordered. "Who are you? What is your Holy House?"


    The knight remained silent. He cast a brief glance upward. A sly smile crept across his lips hidden by his helm''s pieces.


    "Did you forget our wager?" the masked one asked. She furrowed her brow, impatient and tense due to his suspicious silence and indifference. "Or do you not care about soiling your honor and intend to ignore it?"


    Mavros turned his gaze back to her, focusing his eyes wide on a particular area.


    "By the heavens above! It opened more!" He pointed to the cut on her jacket. "Now thou art laid bare!"


    "Ah!" Alarmed and embarrassed by the warning, she lowered her gaze to check.


    The knight chuckled silently. He had believed his deception.


    Staff, come to me!


    The staff shook the branches from where it had been resting before soaring through the air toward him. Sensing its proximity amidst the confusion, the masked fencer sidestepped to evade the projectile. The weapon reached the knight''s hands without issue. Without wasting a second, he thrust it into the solar plexus of his still disoriented opponent.


    "AGH!" She let out a muffled groan; the blow was precise and vigorous. It robbed her of breath as she was propelled into a cluster of bushes where she finally landed. Her body was hidden beneath the lush vegetation. Only her sword was visible, protruding among the lower branches.


    Yes! It worked! Mavros celebrated the success of his cunning maneuver, gazing at the spot where his opponent had fallen.


    However, as time passed, his euphoria turned into growing anxiety. The fencer didn''t get up. Her sword remained sticking out of the bushes without changing its position in the slightest.


    "H-hark¡­"


    He walked slowly towards her, approaching to check her condition.


    Why isn''t she moving? Did I go too far with that attack... Did I¡­? His hair stood on end at the mere suggestion of that possibility. He would never forgive himself if it turned out to be true. Despite the terror that numbed his muscles, he forced himself to continue.


    "Art thou...? Art thou well" he asked with difficulty once he stood in front of the undergrowth where she should be.


    Upon closer examination, he noticed something unusual that had escaped him before. He bent down to examine the sword lying on the ground.


    Just as he was about to reach out to it, something caught and immobilized him by his neck, causing him to release his staff. Despite his attempts to free himself, the suffocating pressure prevented it.


    "Did you think you were the only one who knew how to use dirty tricks?"


    Mavros felt a chill run down his spine as he heard that voice speak into his right ear. He had become a victim of the masked fencer''s own deception, who had applied a firm hold to the back of his neck with both arms. She had stealthily slipped out of the bushes, intentionally leaving her sword behind to distract him.


    "You''ve pleasantly surprised me," she said with incredible calmness. "I didn''t expect a knight like you to have such tactical flexibility. Most take ''honor in combat'' far too seriously and distort it into an insult to common sense. If you had struck a more vulnerable point than my abdomen, you would have been the victor. Your only mistake was holding back."


    No... I can''t do anything... For a woman... her strength is extraordinary.


    Helpless, the knight''s awareness grew hazy due to the lack of air. In this state, he was unable to concentrate to heat his armor or perform any other nefesh maneuver that could force her to release him. The summoning and manipulation of the nefesh depended largely on a person''s breath and mental control. The grip of that Holy Warrior was even tighter than the one of the infamous Zujae nim rhabla.


    "You have no escape now; acknowledge your defeat," the masked fencer declared. "I won''t release you until you do it."


    I was... so close, Mavros lamented, closing his eyes in resignation to his fate. At least I had the honor of falling in battle to such an outstanding warrior, to someone who has received the knowledge of my ''master.'' Though she could kill me for it, she deserves to know me.


    It seemed that everything had been decided, but suddenly, they were both dazzled by a bright light. They stopped struggling and turned their gaze towards it.


    What is this¡­


    ...light?


    The knight and the fencer wondered simultaneously, squinting their eyes as they tried to identify its source.


    It has...


    ...a nefesh!


    Both of them gasped as they realized it.


    "A confrontation between Holy Warriors... How childish and unnecessary."


    A higher authority had just arrived to rectify their reckless disorder.

 C3-6: General Or! The Body and Spirit that Move Beyond the Horizon

    "A confrontation between Holy Warriors... How childish and unnecessary."


    Those words, calm but with noticeable strength, quelled the agitated spirits of Mavros and the fencer. Their disapproval embarrassed them like children caught in mischief. But more than their voice, what left them speechless was the dazzling light emanating from her author, barely distinguishable as a radiant silhouette like the sun. Its white rays fell upon them like celestial rain.


    It''s you..., Mavros didn''t take long to identify her by her voice. Stricken by justified uncertainty, he wasn''t sure whether to feel relieved or concerned. I don''t know how and why you''re here, but I hope it is to save me from this.


    The newcomer gradually dimmed the intensity of the light, revealing her true appearance.


    "Whatever the reason, I can''t stand idly by when it involves one of my apprentices," she said.


    Mavros exhaled and closed his eyes in relief upon hearing her clear intentions. Thank you, my Lady, you''ve saved my life.


    She was a woman, regal and slender, with ash-blond hair, long down her back, tied in a ponytail. She wore an open-legged white dress and a brown scarf around her neck. A silver metal mask with intricate feminine features concealed her true face, revealing only her emerald eyes. Her chest, hands, and limbs were adorned with protective pieces of the same material.


    I knew she was more than just a sculptor. Mavros smiled with satisfaction as his suspicions were confirmed.


    Cold sweat dripped from the fencer''s forehead, impressed and awed by her presence.


    "Are you... Are you General Or?" she asked.


    Her appearance perfectly matched the portrait of the famous agent of the Order of Lebias, the intelligence forces of the long-gone Kingdom of Lebias; the ancient nation of that region. It had dissolved decades ago during the nefeshic wars, which she had studied so much in her history classes. Its main military and political remnants had ended up being absorbed by the Holy House of Lis, whose prince had been engaged to their princess, one of the unfortunate victims of the conflict. He had since become the sovereign of Grianz, his homeland, and the capital territories of Lebias, inherited through the bond with the family of his deceased fianc¨¦e. The Lord of the Holy House of Lis: King Renardin.


    General Or? Mavros wondered, somewhat confused, looking at the silver-masked woman whose real name he knew. Could it be some special title or code name she holds?


    Indifferent to the knight, the "general" silently judged the masked woman with celestial eyes. This was the real danger lurking in these woods. He was very fortunate that I was here to come to his aid.


    "Or" opened the palm of her right hand and turned it upward, closing the middle and ring fingers. She brought all the fingers of her left hand together by their tips and placed it a few inches over her right hand. The onlookers raised their eyebrows as they saw beams of light projecting from the tips of both hands, uniting to form a pyramid.


    That has to be..., Mavros tried to decipher the meaning of this elaborate gesture she was performing. Seeing it reminded him of other similar ones he had witnessed in the past, yet it was quite different. A ¡°passphrase¡±, perhaps?


    The swordswoman walked toward her and gave a short bow. Then, she extended her left hand, generating several intermittent electrical discharges that seemed to follow an orderly rhythm.


    Yes, it can''t be anything else. They are exchanging passphrases, Mavros thought, observing the flashes of electricity from the swordswoman, accompanied by brief pauses of varying duration. They are even more ingenious than the ones Amina taught me; they''re using nefesh! It seems that the higher the ranks, the more complex and personalized they become.


    After a short interval, she withdrew her hand, having finished displaying her sequence. The general signaled her approval. Then, the fencer brought her left hand behind her head to remove her cloth mask. Her face was finally revealed.


    I would have thought you were an angel had I not fought you, Mavros thought, captivated by her youthful features of deceptive innocence and delicacy, among which some unusual ones stood out, like her almond-shaped slanted eyes and her hair: straight, short, and flowing to her neck, sharing the same celestial color as her irises. Her nose was small and sculpted, her mouth small but with full lips. Overall, smooth and perfectly proportioned lines on the oval canvas of her face.


    The graceful young woman raised her right hand to her forehead in a military salute, to which the "general" responded.


    "General," she said loudly and firmly while maintaining the salute. "Marisar Monteros, commander of the Holy House of the Royal Rose, salutes you."


    Commander... She must be as young as me, and her rank already surpasses that of Ser Janpelan! Mavros realized in astonishment. The veteran warrior had told him he was a captain. The rank of commander was next in the hierarchy of the Holy Houses. That she held such a position at such a young age was another unmistakable sign of her talent. His eyes widened even further when he noticed another striking detail. Wait... she said her name was ''Marisar Monteros''... ''Monteros''?


    Or nodded slightly, satisfied with her introduction. She and the commander proceeded to lower their arms to conclude the salute.


    "May I ask why the heiress of the House of the Royal Rose is undercover in these lands?" The General inquired.


    The heiress of the House of the Royal Rose..., Mavros recalled one of the characters from the monument he had seen the day before in Cirencre. The character whose statue was accidentally destroyed in the midst of his misunderstanding with the city''s authorities. The leader and friend of Ser Janpelan, about whom the latter had spoken a bit during their conversation the previous night. She''s the daughter of Santario Monteros!


    Commander Marisar prepared to explain herself to her superior. In contrast to her confident and dominant attitude towards the knight, she appeared more restrained, even a bit insecure, in the presence of that figure.


    "I''m traveling through the viceroyalties. I had planned to visit Hezaran and spend the day there before continuing on to the capital, but I heard about several incidents in the farms on its outskirts. I immediately suspected that Ashaim abominations might be behind them, so I set out to investigate," she recounted. Her face took on a somber expression. "Unfortunately, I soon discovered that I was right... I found some mutilated soldiers in the forest. I arrived too late to prevent it."


    "Mutilated soldiers...," Or lowered her gaze, regretting hearing such information. She raised her gaze again after a few seconds. "Where did you find them?"


    "About a mile from a clearing, not far from here," she replied. "The Ashaim had moved there, drawn by a camp that some civilians had set up. Thanks to Maskirio, I intercepted them and¡­"


    She fell silent as Or signaled her to stop by opening her right hand.


    "Please, there''s no need to tell me that part, Commander. I could see everything that happened from then on," she clarified.


    Did she see¡­


    ¡°Everything¡±?


    Mavros and Commander Marisar wondered simultaneously, equally puzzled by that statement. At no point did they detect another source of nefesh apart from their own, inside and outside the camp.


    Ah... Of course. However, Marisar soon understood what she was referring to. Unlike the wandering knight, she was well-informed about her abilities.


    "I appreciate what you''ve done to save those civilians," Or continued, addressing Marisar. "But for now, I''m only interested in knowing your reasons for traveling undercover."


    "I''m not doing this for something like a mission or a secret operation for my House, if that''s what you suspect... I''m sorry if the use of my disguise suggested that, but it''s understandable," the commander said, showing some guilt for arousing her suspicion. "I''m simply going to visit one of my recent graduates from the Royal University of Iowon. He''s going to participate in the Eh-Nam Tournament during the Maskirian Week."


    Right! Maskirian Week starts the day after tomorrow! Mavros exclaimed internally. As a devout believer, he felt a bit embarrassed for forgetting it, considering it was one of the dates commemorating some of the most significant events in his religion and the history of Mater, his world. Eh-Nam... one of the greatest heroes of the Holy Rebellion... I think I once read something about that tournament held in his honor... It takes place every year in the capital city of Netzach around these dates¡­


    "And I''ve been wearing this disguise of a simple Holy Warrior because it''s my first time in these domains. I wanted to move through them without attracting unwanted attention," Marisar continued explaining herself. While she didn''t lie with this excuse, she omitted a deeper and more personal part of her reasons. "I''m sure you can understand, General."


    The general remained silent, watching her with a coldness that even unsettled Mavros. The commander suppressed her nerves, which threatened to freeze her blood. She feared that her superior''s perception had been so acute that she could see through her dishonesty, which held no ill intentions but was a lack of sincerity in the end.


    "Very well. I see no problem," Or finally replied, dispelling the built-up tension. "Speaking of students... I apologize for the trouble my own ¡°apprentice¡± caused you."


    Apprentice?


    Once again, their listeners were bewildered. Although she had mentioned "apprentices" before, they had been so distracted by her entrance that they hadn''t paid attention.


    I don''t know why it occurred to you to invent that I''m your ¡°apprentice,¡± whatever that may mean, Mavros thought, feeling somewhat uncomfortable with the idea since he had barely known her. But I have no choice but to play along.


    "Apprentice?" Marisar blinked a couple of times. She gave a brief glance at the knight before returning her gaze. "Is he your apprentice, General?"


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    "Yes," she confirmed. "His agent name is Pernigeriano."


    Perni-what? Mavros furrowed his brow. Couldn''t you come up with a less ugly name, my Lady?


    "I found him a few years ago, and he''s been under my tutelage ever since," the general continued, explaining to the commander. "Although he never attended university, his natural talent with nefesh was outstanding, and he hasn''t stopped improving. He''s one of the most promising agents of the new Order."


    I knew it! He''s an agent of the Order of Lebias. Marisar looked back at the knight, this time with sympathy. ¡°Don''t worry, he didn''t cause me any trouble," she said, addressing the general once more. "You must also blame me. Both of us refused to reveal our identities, so we decided to resolve that misunderstanding through a duel. Allow me to congratulate you on how well you''ve trained him; during our encounter, he exceeded all my expectations. He managed to entertain me, and he came very close to defeating me. As you said, he''s a true promise."


    Well... they''re both speaking so highly of me, Mavros thought, putting his hands on his waist and smiling with vanity at their mutual and formal praises. ¡°Outstanding talent," "A true promise"... you don''t have to make me feel so flattered, my dear ladies.


    In his enchantment, he was unaware of the stern look the general shot his way.


    ¡°I''m surprised that his impertinence has amused you, Commander,¡± she said in a disagreeing tone, focusing her pupils on her. ¡°As you may have noticed, although Agent Pernigeriano is prodigious in numerous skills, he can also be incredibly inept in others.¡±


    INAN? The knight almost spat at that radical change in evaluation.


    "As a warrior of the Order who should maintain his anonymity, he should have at least taken the initiative to introduce himself to you with his agent name and passphrase. He has no excuse for having overlooked that very basic convention within our organization, and I will make sure he receives an appropriate punishment for his disrespect," the general explained.


    A punishment? Is she serious? Mavros curled his lips in fear.


    "You''re right, General," Marisar nodded. "He deserves to be punished for his lack of common sense."


    What? You too?!" Mavros looked at her in astonishment.


    "If you don''t mind me asking..." The commander spoke to the general again. "Why are you and Agent Pernigeriano here?"


    She asked, aware of the risk of annoying her with her curiosity but willing to accept her reprimand. After all, her intrigue was justified. As an intelligence force, the Order of Lebias typically worked in the discretion of the shadows. Its members rarely exposed themselves in such a manner, even to Holy Warriors.


    ¡°Our presence in this forest was merely a result of coincidence. This Ashaim outbreak was unexpected and forced us to deviate from our original plans to participate in its eradication," Or responded with complete calm. To Marisar¡¯s relief, she didn''t seem bothered. "But in essence, I and the other agents of the Order have been busy with security preparations for the events of the Maskirian Week. Although the threat of Sulfnats and their terrorists is always looming, their risk of attack grows substantially during these dates," she said, taking a brief pause. "That''s all I can tell you, Commander. If you happen to see or hear anything suspicious in Netzach or on your way there, do not hesitate to alert the authorities. Your reports will certainly reach our ears, and we will act accordingly."


    "Understood, don''t doubt that I will if it comes to that," Marisar said. She looked to the sides before returning her gaze to her superior. "It seems that the Ashaim I and your apprentice eliminated were the only ones, but I think a final reconnaissance of the forest should be done for extra caution."


    "That also seems most appropriate. We and other agents in this city will take care of it," the general agreed. "In the meantime, go to Hezaran as soon as possible and deliver a report of what has happened to the mayor. Inform him about me and Agent Pernigeriano. He will feel much more at ease knowing that the Order of Lebias is also working to resolve this situation."


    "I will," Marisar said, offering a military salute. "It has been a great honor for me to meet you in person, General. You have been one of my greatest inspirations in my career." She finished the salute, turned toward a specific direction, and continued, "With no time to waste, I will follow your instructions."


    The young woman once again wrapped and tied the black cloth around her face to conceal it. She walked past the knight toward her rapier. She picked it up and sheathed it.


    "By the way, General," she said to her. She remembered something she wanted to inquire about before leaving. "Forgive me if I''m being nosy... but how severe will the punishment be for Agent Pernigeriano? Are you going to suspend him for the whole week?"


    "No," the general denied. "His offense is not severe enough to remove him from his duties. He will receive a brief but firm punishment," she confirmed. "Why do you want to know, Commander?"


    "It''s just that I thought...," she briefly looked away, unsure if it was the right time to say it, "but it''s just a silly idea, really. It''s nothing important that''s worthy of your attention."


    "Tell me," her superior ordered, crossing her arms. "I''ll tell you whether it''s a ''silly'' idea or not."


    "Well...," Marisar gathered the courage to tell her, "I just thought it would be interesting if your apprentice participated in the Eh-Nam Tournament."


    She wants... me to participate in the Eh-Nam Tournament, Mavros felt intrigued by this reason. Why?


    "The tournament will be an attractive target for terrorist attacks. Besides, passing off your apprentice as a contestant would be a way to secretly monitor him. He could teach one or more things to the other competitors, especially to some like my former student, who are in urgent need of an ego check."


    "Mmm..." Or stroked her chin with her left hand in a thoughtful posture. After pondering it for a moment, she replied, "I will consider it." She said, "It''s not a bad idea at all; on the contrary. I don''t understand why you thought it was silly, Commander."


    "Thank you, General," Marisar said with a slight bow. "As it was something... unconventional, I didn''t know how you would react..." she apologized. She straightened her body in the direction of the city. "I must be going now. I wish you success with your preparations."


    After those final words of farewell, she began to run. Mavros and General Or watched her leave countless trees behind until she became a distant point that disappeared among them.


    The knight picked up his staff from the ground and sheathed it. Then, he timidly approached the woman with the silver mask. Her emerald ovals fixated on him.


    ¡°Lady Menuha, Thou sa¡­¡±


    Before he could finish, she interrupted him with a fist to the pit of his stomach.


    ¡°COUGH!¡± Mavros coughed, hunching over and clutching his stomach, trying to catch his breath after the blow.


    ¡°I told you that you''d receive a brief but firm punishment,¡± the general said with intimidating impassivity. ¡°As long as I wear this mask, you must address me by my rank or agent name. If you use my civilian name again, I won''t hit you, I''ll pierce you. Is that clear, ''Agent Pernigeriano''?¡±


    ¡°I''m sorry, ''General,'' I shall transgress no more,¡± Mavros apologized meekly, still overwhelmed by the intensity of the blow. He knew he was in no condition to protest against the aggression. ¡°But how... How didst thou find me? How didst thou arrive with such haste from the mansion?¡±


    ¡°Thanks to two nefeshic abilities: remote vision, instant transmission,¡± Or summarized. ¡°With the first, I can obtain sensory impressions from distant places and targets in real-time. I easily found you and Commander Marisar through your nefesh releases,¡± she explained. ¡°From there, I accurately determined your location and used transmission to move instantly to you. With this technique, I can travel instantly to any point within a three-league radius.¡±


    ¡°I see¡­¡± Mavros said, impressed by this repertoire, which he was sure was only a small part of a larger one. ¡°But then, why didst thou not step forth sooner, if thou were capable? Why didst thou not forestall our combat?¡±


    ¡°Because I wanted to assess your level. A duel with a Holy Warrior of Commander Marisar''s caliber was a perfect opportunity,¡± she replied. ¡°Janpelan was right. You have nothing to envy from the elite Holy Warriors. You were defeated only because you underestimated your opponent. I hope you''ve learned not to rush into battle without knowing what awaits you. If it weren''t for me, the commander would have discovered your deception, and you might have lost your life because of it.¡±


    ¡°I... I know, that''s why I owe thee, General,¡± the knight told her. ¡°I still find it hard to believe how persuasive thy tale hath been. I even began to deem myself ''Agent Pernigeriano'' for a moment.¡±


    ¡°The art of improvisation is fundamental for an agent of the Order of Lebias. Information and cunning are our best weapons,¡± she said. ¡°Consider this my way of thanking you for saving my husband yesterday, so we''re even,¡± she paused briefly, inspecting the surroundings. ¡°We should return to the mansion as soon as possible. I told everyone I would be busy in my study... but I wouldn''t be surprised if Luciara dared to invade my privacy this time.¡±


    ¡°Thou mean... Might she have already realized that thou art not there?¡±


    Or nodded.


    ¡°Exactly. My daughter isn''t naive; she noticed that something was amiss, and the first person she''ll demand answers from is me,¡± she reaffirmed. ¡°But there''s nothing to worry about; I prepared for a scenario like this. I''ll take you near the mansion''s path. ''Lady Menuha'' and the others will be waiting for you inside.¡±


    "Art thou to convey me?... Canst thou employ that ''instant transmission'' upon me?"


    The general held the knight''s left arm with her right hand.


    ¡°Besides myself, I can transport up to two people at the same time,¡± she confirmed. ¡°All I need to do it is to hold onto you. So don''t let go, ''Agent Pernigeriano.''¡±


    "Verily... verily," he agreed, somewhat anxious as it was his first time experiencing such an exotic technique. "But I beseech thee... couldst thou cease thy address of me as ''Agent Pernigeriano''?"


    The general''s lips curled into a malicious smile as she sensed the wanderer''s displeasure.


    ¡°I''m very sorry, but that will be your new name until you leave Hezaran,¡± she rejected. ¡°We need Lord Galeras to know you by that new identity to justify the lies you told him,¡± she argued. ¡°Besides, you deserve a cacophonous and dull name like that for the trouble you''re causing me.¡±


    I guess I have no choice¡­ Mavros sighed in resignation. After all, it was a small price to pay for the enormous favors she was doing for him.


    "Verily... I am prepared," he declared to her. "We may move whenever thou art ready, General."


    Just after saying that, an intense white light emanated from her, covering her from head to toe.


    It''s identical to the one she had when she appeared to us, the knight noticed, watching as the light enveloped his own body in the same way. Its flashes merged into a sphere that, in a dazzling blink, disappeared completely from that part of the forest like a burst bubble.


    Once again, the knight had emerged unscathed from an unforeseen danger in an equally unexpected way.

 C3-7: Balenion! A Bath of Relaxation and Meditation

    "Excuse me," Luciara said to a servant who was dusting a canvas and some ornaments with a feather duster. He paused his task and turned towards her to attend to her.


    "Can I assist you with something, Lady Luciara?" he asked.


    "Have you by chance seen my mother?" she said, with visible distress. "I need to speak with her."


    "Your mother? Honestly, no, Lady Menuha hasn''t passed by here," he said, shaking his head. "But shouldn''t she be working on that new piece the Lord Mayor commissioned?"


    "She''s not!" Luciara contradicted him. Her confusion and bewilderment were turning into desperation. "I just stopped by her workshop, and she''s not there. I''ve asked Enqueri and some of your fellow servants, and none of them have any idea where she is."


    The servant raised his eyebrows. It was quite unusual for that regular guest to deviate from her routine.


    "How strange," he said, lowering his head, looking at the floor thoughtfully before refocusing on the young woman. "Have you looked in other parts of the mansion?"


    "Yes," Luciara told him in haste. "But so far, we haven''t found anything." She averted her gaze, furrowing her brow in frustration. "This makes no sense... Where could she have gone without anyone noticing?"


    Both of them heard footsteps approaching. Luciara turned around to see who it was. All her unease vanished as soon as she recognized the face.


    "Mother!" she exclaimed, walking briskly toward her.


    "Luciara, what''s the matter?" Menuha said calmly. "I was informed that you wanted to speak with me urgently."


    "Where were you?" her daughter asked, agitated. "I''ve been looking for you everywhere. Weren''t you supposed to work on that sculpture all afternoon?"


    "Oh... So you stopped by my studio and got alarmed when you didn''t see me, didn''t you?" Menuha gave a slight smile with closed lips. "I decided to take a detour and have a quick cold bath in the balenion before returning to sculpt."


    The young woman half-opened her mouth; she was taken aback. Of all the places in the mansion, it never occurred to her that her mother might have gone to the balenion. It was a type of bath with pools of cold and hot water found in the residences of wealthy nobles, and in some public complexes for the enjoyment of commoners throughout various cities in Najta and major Elvirean realms.


    "You took a bath in the balenion? At this hour?... And with cold water?" she inquired, looking at her mother with justified incredulity. Usually, the custom was to bathe in the evening with hot water, especially in a temperate climate like that of the forest.


    Menuha nodded. "I enjoy taking a cold bath from time to time. I know it''s a bit hard to imagine with this cool air, but sometimes it helps clear my mind more than hot water," she explained. "I don''t see why it surprises you, dear. Sometimes, I take them at our own home too."


    She''s right... Luciara thought, recalling this eccentricity that her mother occasionally practiced. The entrance to the balenion is right to the left of the corridor leading to her ''studio,'' and since she bathed in the cold pool, she didn''t need to summon any servants to prepare the hot water. That''s why no one saw her or knew she was bathing.


    After tying up the loose ends in her mind, she returned her gaze to her mother.


    "No wonder... and here I was worrying," she said, seeing no reason to doubt her mother''s story. She felt a sense of embarrassment within for having feared that something might have happened. The fact that her mother''s hair and part of her skin appeared damp reinforced the validity of her account. "Yes, I was looking for you to talk," she confirmed. She gave a brief glance to the servant over her shoulder. "Alone."


    Her mother''s expression matched her daughter''s seriousness in that moment.


    "Very well. The way you''re asking, it must be something important," she agreed. "Let''s go to my workshop."


    Luciara nodded and addressed the servant she had just consulted.


    "Thank you," she said.


    The man made a brief bow in response to the young woman''s courteous farewell, and she proceeded to follow her mother up the stairs. Just as the two descended the last steps, they noticed the mansion''s doors opening to admit someone within its walls.


    "Ma... Ser Mathias!"


    Filled with immense relief, Luciara hurried away from her mother to greet him.


    "Lady Luciara," Mavros greeted her cheerfully.


    "How did it go?" She examined him from head to toe to check his condition. "Did you manage to hunt down those beasts?"


    The knight glanced around a bit at his surroundings before facing her and giving her a response.


    It seems that Lord Galeras has not arrived... I''ll take advantage of my last minutes as ¡°Segr Mathias¡±... he thought, realizing that apart from a few servants, there was no one else around. Very soon, I''ll have no choice but to be called by that infamous name.


    ¡°It went tr¨¨s ben. Ze danger ''as been eliminated, Mavros said to Luciara. "I barely managed to hunt one beast; a Holy Warrior beat me to ze rest."


    "A Holy Warrior beat you to it?" The young woman arched her eyebrows, immediately drawn in by this unexpected mention.


    "Ser Mathias," Menuha interjected before her daughter could inquire further, positioning herself to Luciara''s right to join the conversation. "It''s a relief to see you back and with such good news," she said. "My daughter and I were very concerned for your safety."


    "I truly appreciate eet, mah Laydees," he responded, executing a small and elegant bow with his left arm extended like a fan. "Fortunately, I was able to return safely and successfully complete my mission."


    There were a few seconds of silence following this brief exchange.


    "You must be hungry, Ser," Menuha said, breaking the ice that had settled. "The servants saved plenty of leftovers for you and the Lord Mayor. Just let them know, and they''ll heat it up and take it to the dining room."


    "Yes, I am quite famished! I was just zinking about zat. Mersa," Mavros replied. He had been feeling the effects of not eating for hours. He turned in the direction of the dining room. "With your permission."


    "Wait..." Luciara stopped him, seeing that he was about to leave. "Can I accompany you? I want to hear all about that hunt."


    "Of course, you can," Mavros told her, seeking approval in his mother''s eyes. "Do you have any objections, Lady Menuha?"


    It seems like this was the ¡°important matter¡± you wanted to discuss with me, she thought with irony as she observed her daughter. She had known in advance. The undivided attention the young lady was giving to the wandering knight said it all without words. "No, why would I?" she finally said to Mavros, giving her approval. "I''ll be working. Unless it''s an emergency, I¡¯ll appreciate if you both don''t come looking for me until I leave my workshop... See you later."


    She turned her back to them and walked away with measured steps. For a moment, Menuha watched Mavros over her shoulder with a vigilant expression.


    Hm? Luciara did notice this, unlike the distracted knight. Despite not being her true target, she felt the edge of Menuha''s scrutiny, making her feel uneasy. Why did she look at him like that?


    "Well," Mavros said, bringing the young woman back to the present, "let''s head to ze dining room. I''m truly starving¡­"


    ***


    "To be reheated, it was excellent. It''s a shame I missed it freshly made," Mavros judged, sitting in one of the dining room chairs of the mansion, before proceeding to devour the last remnants on his plate. His only companion, Luciara, was notably quiet, sitting across from him and contemplating the table in a thoughtful posture. Since they were alone, they spoke with ease.


    "Ashaims... Now I understand the secrecy of Galeras and his men," the girl thought out loud, breaking the silence. The knight had just recounted much of what happened during his ¡°mission¡± over the course of their meal. "That holy warrior..." She turned her gaze to him. "Did you say his name was Macario Villaral?"


    "Yes, that was his name," Mavros confirmed, after swallowing a bite.


    "That name and family mean nothing to me," Luciara remarked. She averted her gaze to the table. "My father knows several Holy Warriors from the House of the Royal Rose, and I''ve never heard of any Villaral. I suppose he''s a young, recently graduated warrior, but he must be quite skilled to have taken down so many Ashaim of that kind on his own..." she concluded, making eye contact with the knight. "I wouldn''t be surprised if his name becomes famous in a few years."


    "Neither would I." A smile on the knight''s lips was hinted at by the raised piece of his helmet. Respecting Marisar¡¯s desire to maintain a low profile by using her disguise, he decided to keep the true identity of the ''Holy Warrior'' hidden from Luciara and thus omitted the details of the duel he had with the Commander and what happened at the end.


    "Although outbreaks of Ashaim occur from time to time in Najta like everywhere else, this one was much stronger than usual," Luciara commented, intrigued by this unusual occurrence. "Normally, they don''t become more than nuisances, like corrupt rats that even common folk can protect themselves from. This was much more than that... I don''t remember hearing anything like this around here since the days of the Nefeshic Wars. It might even have killed armed soldiers with ease."


    In fact, if it did... Mavros regretted recalling the report that Commander Marisar had given to his savior, General Or. Since it was something he didn''t see as necessary - and didn''t like to mention - he decided to add it as another item on the list of details he omitted.


    "Mavros?" Luciara called him, surprised to see his lips forming a line of melancholy. "What''s going on? Are you okay?"


    Noticing that he had unintentionally triggered her concern, the knight quickly regained his composure.


    "I just remembered something, it''s nothing," he said, taking a few seconds to regroup before refocusing on their conversation. "Even I am surprised. I didn''t expect to encounter such powerful Ashaims in these lands. Thanks to Maskirio, we were able to destroy them before they caused more trouble."


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    "It''s thanks to you and this ''Macario'' that we no longer have to worry about terrifying screams or worse things on the paths to Hezaran," Luciara joked. However, she paused for a moment to regain her seriousness. "Maybe it''s just my idea, but even though my father has always been very transparent with my mother about his Holy Warrior affairs, I have the feeling that she knows you better than he could have told her."


    "Really? Why?" Mavros feigned surprise and ignorance. Luciara rested her arms on the table and laid her head on them.


    "And it''s not just that. She told me some things when you left that make me think she somehow already knew what was happening outside...," she said. She shifted her gaze to one of the dining room windows, lost in thought. "To be honest, sometimes I feel like I don''t know her completely, and I''m her daughter. I have this hunch that she has ¡®secrets¡¯ she hides from me."


    Lady Menuha, or rather, ¡°General Or,¡± knows her daughter well. Although somewhat green due to her youth and as impulsive as her father, she''s not naive... Mavros acknowledged as he took the last bite from his plate with a fork. Ser Janpelan was right: if there''s something she inherited from her wife, it''s her perception and intuition, and her talent for subtle arts¡­


    "I... I''m sorry. Please don''t take everything I just said too seriously. It''s all nonsense," the young woman apologized, looking at the knight, nervous about her disclosure of these personal thoughts.


    "I don''t think it''s nonsense; perhaps you''re not far from the truth, Luciara," Mavros said, calm and with a warm smile. He took a sip from his wine glass. "Because you said it yourself: you''re her daughter. You know her better than I and anyone else."


    A small smile stretched across Luciara''s lips, comforted by the knight''s response. Despite the short time they had spent together, she was increasingly at ease in his company. From his lips, she always heard the words she needed to hear depending on the occasion.


    "By the way... I almost forgot to tell you," Mavros said, adopting a more solemn tone. "I had to change my identity. I won''t be a lowly Grianzan knight anymore. When Lord Galeras arrives, he''ll probably seek me out and ask to speak privately. Before you wonder why, it''s because I''m going to assume the identity of an agent of the Order of Lebias."


    "An agent? Of the Order of Lebias?" Luciara looked at him, perplexed not only because she didn''t understand the reason for such a sudden and drastic change, but also because she found it curious that he chose to affiliate with that famous organization in a region he was just getting to know.


    "Yes," Mavros reiterated. The sound of firm, approaching footsteps indicated that he couldn''t explain it at that moment. He lowered the raised portion of his helmet to conceal his mouth. "I''ll explain later. All I ask of you for now is not to make fun of my new nam¡­"


    "Good afternoon," the owner of the footsteps greeted them cordially, coming to a stop a few meters from them.


    As they turned, they were met with the imposing figure of the Lord Mayor.


    "I hope the magret de canard was to your enjoyment, ''Ser Mathias,''" he said with a slight bow, then shifted his gaze and offered his corresponding nod to Luciara. "Lady Luciara, please excuse the intrusion, but I need you to leave me alone for a moment with your escort, if you would be so kind."


    "Su, sure," she agreed, somewhat impressed by the knight''s fulfilled prediction. She rose from her chair and moved away from the two, crossing the dining room entrance threshold. Galeras took his seat, and seeing that the young woman was no longer in sight, he prepared to speak with the knight.


    "Not even in my wildest dreams did I think I would host a warrior from the Order of Lebias," he said. ¡°I am honored, Agent Pernigeriano.¡±


    Agent Per... Pernigeriano? Luciara managed to eavesdrop on the conversation from a corner of the dining room entrance, where she skillfully concealed herself. Her astonishment at the wandering knight''s new name was on the verge of turning into laughter, which she stifled with her right hand.


    "I''ve just returned from the city, and you were the first person I wanted to see," Galeras continued, in very high spirits. "I received a report from a Holy Warrior who has been hunting the beasts since this morning. He told me that he and an agent from the Order of Lebias he encountered on the way took care of killing them. Shortly after, General Or herself appeared to confirm it and assure me that she would soon send other agents to inspect the forest and ensure its safety."


    General Or?... Luciara thought, absorbed. Just like Commander Marisar, she was familiar with the character and admired her, as did many other aspiring women hoping to become Holy Warriors. General Or is here, and she helped him?!


    "Now I understand your behavior and everything you did before leaving my residence. I apologize for being so foolish and rude to you in my ignorance, Agent Pernigeriano."


    "I wouldst have had the same reaction as thee, Lord Mayor, " Mavros replied, using his signature knightly speech. "And prithee, simply address me as Agent."


    "You and that Holy Warrior have been a godsend in the midst of this chaos," Galeras said. He shifted his gaze, looking at the table with concern. "First that corsair attack in Cirencre yesterday, then those rumors of the Abiyrs'' reappearance, and now this violent Ashaim outbreak in my dominion, with human casualties to mourn... I don''t like to be superstitious, but this string of misfortunes is ill-omened. I''m sure in the Order you must be more concerned than I am."


    Just as I suspected. What happened yesterday is spreading quickly beyond Cirencre, Mavros thought, furrowing his brow. I''m glad I didn''t reveal my knight''s name.


    "Anyway," Galeras continued, "I just wanted to thank you for everything you and the Order have done to save my community from a greater tragedy. If you wish for anything as a reward, feel free to ask."


    "Thou art most gracious, Lord Galeras," Mavros said. "But verily, there''s no need to bestow upon me aught. All I wish is to find respite and repose for the remainder of this day."


    "Mmm¡­"


    The Lord Mayor stroked his mustache in a thoughtful posture. Despite the knight''s position, he didn''t intend to let his favors go unpaid. His last clarification gave him a good idea.


    "So, you wish to rest and relax," he said, returning the gaze with a cheerful smile. "How about I have a hot bath prepared for you in the balenion, Agent?"


    "A balenion?" Mavros asked, clearly intrigued. In his homeland, he had encountered a few in some large cities. "Hath this abode a balenion?"


    "Yes," Galeras nodded with pride. "It''s smaller than a public one, but it has all the amenities and the added benefit of privacy. You only need to wait for a little less than an hour, and you can enjoy your hot water pool for as long as you''d like."


    "I wouldst love to partake in that bath. Pray, have it readied with haste." the knight accepted enthusiastically. "Such a respite is precisely what mine body and soul do yearn for."


    ***


    Light wisps of rising vapor hovered over the water of a circular pool, enveloping it in a surreal atmosphere. The pool was carved and suspended on a platform of sculpted stone, accessed by broad steps. Daylight from the transparent stained glass of a domed roof streamed in, casting the eerie, amorphous silhouettes of the mist, exposing one that stood out, well-defined with dark and yellow-ochre strokes: that of a young and naked man with his back turned. Half of his body, strong and majestic like that of a tiger, was submerged in the warm water, with his arms resting on the edge of the pool adjacent to the steps. His loose, straight hair, tinged with black and sapphire, flowed down his neck, with some strands brushing his shoulders. His clothing and pieces of armor lay in neat order on the first steps of the staircase.


    Ashaim, the Order of Lebias..., Sheida... he thought, recapping everything noteworthy that had been captured by his senses that afternoon. The clarity of his thoughts was perfect, thanks to the unbeatable relaxation provided by the environment.


    Among his memories, one kept overshadowing the others.


    Commander Marisar Monteros... He visualized her face in intricate detail, mulling over and reasoning with solemn depth about certain features. Alongside Amina, she''s not only one of the few women who''s made me eat dirt... She''s also the first woman I''ve met with these traits. He realized it. From the beginning, he had been drawn and intrigued by her unusual yet aesthetic features, like the strange sky-blue color of her hair and her almond-shaped, slanted eyes. Although undoubtedly human, she has some things that are so... ¡°tarburian¡±.


    This conclusion filled him with excitement. It had been an unparalleled encounter in his life.


    To top it off, she knows the soft style of the Path of the Twin Suns. She''s been trained in the Way... How can this be possible? Why do the daughter of the Lord of the House of the Holy Rose have so much in common with me? Perhaps... our pasts are somehow connected?


    He furrowed his brow, frustrated by having no evidence to support these speculations. Only one option came to mind to find out.


    One thing''s for sure: somehow, I need to find an excuse to see her again. I have to ask her what she knows about my ¡°master¡± and get to the bottom of this... I have to attend the Eh-Nam Tournament. I might find her there, he decided, gazing at the ceiling with determination.


    But suddenly¡­


    "HM?!"


    He splashed water as he sprang to his feet, alert. His keen hearing picked up a disturbance in what had been absolute silence, faint but finally perceptible.


    What the devil?! The knight''s usual composure shattered into pieces. I locked that door!


    With his best effort to remain discreet, someone else had just entered the balenion.


    Maskirio, this is so awkward... Luciara couldn''t stop thinking, the keys to the door trembling in her right hand. She was paralyzed in the hallway leading to the hot pool. She doubted whether it was worth proceeding.


    But what are you saying, Luciara? This is the best, maybe the only chance you might have to solve this mystery! Are you going to throw away all the effort of obtaining that damned key just because you''re embarrassed to see him without clothes? Her capricious conscience reproached her indecision, forcing her not to turn back. With cautious tiptoe steps, she advanced carefully toward the entrance to the pool.


    Meanwhile, Mavros clenched his hands into agitated fists. Regardless of who it was, he found this intrusion into his personal space far from amusing.


    Armor! Come to me!


    As if pulled by fishing lines, the pieces of his armor instantly flew to their respective positions, encasing his entire body from head to toe.


    It would be the height of the ludicrous if, in addition to sleeping, he also bathes in that cursed armor, Luciara told herself, just inches from sneaking a peek at him.


    When she caught sight of him standing in the pool with his armor on¡­


    WHAT?! Her stealth was shattered by an uncontrollable start that left her exposed. "No..." Luciara murmured, her mouth half-open and trembling, unsure whether to laugh or cry. "I can''t believe this... This can''t be real¡­"


    "HEAVENS, LUCIARA!"


    Silenced by his enraged shout, she watched as the man whose privacy had been violated leaped out of the pool to land a few meters from her.


    "Do... Do you really bathe in that armor too?" The young woman had the courage to ask in the midst of her terror, even as the man who had been a gentle mentor just hours ago had become the embodiment of fury.


    Mavros dug his fingers into his palms, nearly scratching the metal of his gloves, attempting to vent his anger as best he could before responding.


    "Of course not!" he vehemently denied. "The door was locked! How did you get in?!" he yelled. He soon understood when he noticed the key in her hand. The flames of anger he thought he had extinguished were reignited. "DON''T YOU HAVE A BIT OF SHAME, YOU BRAT?!"


    BRAT?!


    Luciara frowned, losing her patience with the knight''s exaggerated boorishness. More than being insulted, she felt attacked by his harshness and bluntness. For the first time, he had told her exactly what she hated hearing the most.


    "Luciara!"


    "Ah?!"


    Someone had shouted at them in a tone of disgust, and it wasn''t Mavros. Both she and the knight turned toward the source equally horrified.


    "Mother!"


    "My Lady!"


    Menuha stood before them with her arms crossed, in the middle of the pool entrance threshold. It was clear that she was taking no sides. Her stern face conveyed an irritation that made no distinction.


    There would be many words to be shared between them in the impending night.

 C3-8: Have This! The Gift from an Honest Merchant

    Rolling along the pavement under the morning light, a curros drove through the hilly streets of the city of Hezaran. Through the vehicle''s windows, its two passengers observed the characteristic brick blocks of houses and buildings in the settlement. Since they got on - and long before that - they had exchanged few words. They sat in silence, pretending to ignore each other''s presence.


    One of them decided to break the icy silence, turning her head to direct a gaze at the other.


    "When we reach the Netzach station, you''ll go your own way," she reminded him, with coldness.


    Mavros continued to gaze out at the passing scenery or pretended to. Luciara frowned slightly, feeling his deliberate indifference.


    "Are you listening?" she asked, a hint of irritation in her voice.


    The knight finally shifted his gaze toward her.


    "I know. I haven''t forgotten what we agreed with your mother," he replied with similar dryness but maintaining his usual composure. "There''s no need to remind me."


    Following their embarrassing incident in Lord Galeras'' balenion at the residence the day before, Menuha had a private discussion with each of them. Based on their comments, she reached a conclusion that was accepted by both without objection: their time traveling together had to come to an end.


    "Hump!" Luciara shot a disapproving glance at the knight, crossing her arms.


    It is definitely the best choice, Mavros thought, fully convinced he was doing the right thing. He observed her for a few seconds before turning his gaze back to the window, reflecting on the private conversation he had with her mother.


    Why does he change completely as soon as someone tries to delve into his identity? Why is he still so upset after a silly antic like that? Luciara wondered deep within herself.


    In fact, it was the knight who had first proposed to her mother that they part ways after the awkward incident. And Luciara, driven by the heat of the moment, agreed. Although her sour expression was far from suggesting it, she had begun to regret it that morning. Mavros''s unwavering decision and his lack of willingness to change his mind only frustrated her more.


    Why am I the one who has to ''apologize'' to him? He should be the one apologizing first for how rude he was to me! If he were even remotely normal, I would never have thought of such an outrageous act. He had the audacity to call me a ''brat'' to my face when he has to wear that ridiculous armor even to bathe. Oh, what an ''adult''! The champion of maturity! She said to herself, relying on her youthful pride to justify and keep her equally childish resentment alive.


    Suddenly, the curros began to brake until it came to a stop in front of the entrance to a broad building. Its facade was a small clock tower with a couple of columns in front of its doors, elevated and framed in an arched shape.


    The chauffeur was the first to open the door and disembark, followed by the passengers, who followed suit to retrieve their belongings from the rear compartments.


    ***


    So, this is what these stations look like, Mavros thought, admiring the facilities they had seen a few minutes earlier, both he and the one who would soon cease to be his guide. Just like the exterior, the interiors were equally spacious, with a high ceiling.


    Several seats were arranged in a couple of spacious and opposite corners. Groups of people occupied some of them with varying amounts of luggage, from small bags to loaded backpacks like the one Luciara was carrying.


    "If you want, I can carry your belongings," Mavros offered, aware of her discomfort. "I can do that for you before we part ways."


    The platinum-haired young woman shot him a sharp look.


    "Didn''t you say I had to go through this kind of trials to become a Holy Warrior? Why didn''t you say the same thing yesterday during that damn hike?" she asked with disdain, furrowing her brow. "Don''t come to me now with ''chivalry.''"


    She''s definitely working hard to stay upset, the knight thought first after her resolute response, remaining unruffled as he understood how she felt. He averted his gaze, focusing on his surroundings. Ironically, even though the distance is greater, this journey will be much shorter than yesterday''s, he recapped the information he had been given up to that point. We''re going to use a ''sobbah'' to get to Netzach in less than two hours... I''ve read a bit about those machines before. They''re similar to the ''curros,'' but much larger, more powerful, and they''re ''bound'' to the ''rails'' of their tracks. This will be my first time riding one of them.


    Luciara paused in front of a wall-mounted clock, with the name ''Netzach'' written in stylized letters above it.


    It should be arriving any moment now, the young woman assessed, realizing that it was around five minutes away. While she and the knight remained engrossed in the sign, some people approached and stopped a few meters behind them.


    "Mavros?" A familiar voice called his name.


    He and Luciara turned to face the speaker.


    "Sheida!" Mavros greeted him warmly, walking over to where the young man was standing.


    Sheida had a large backpack on his back and was accompanied by two adults with similar luggage. All three of them were dressed in their distinctive leather vests, shirts, brightly colored pants, and pointed shoes.


    "It''s great to see you!" the knight said to the young musician in the same relaxed and regular speech he used with him in the dungeons. "I didn''t think we''d meet again."


    "Uh?"


    Perplexed, Luciara remained attentive to the sudden conversation that had just started.


    Is that little boy among the campers he rescued yesterday? she wondered. The knight had mentioned the Ayarian camp. But still... Why did Mavros greet him with such familiarity? Does he know him from before that?


    Sheida broke into a wide smile.


    "I didn''t think I¡¯d see you either! You have no idea how relieved we are to know you''re alive!" he exclaimed to the knight, brimming with happiness to confirm that the concern that had troubled him since the previous day had not materialized. "We thought that Holy Warrior was going to kill you!"


    Darn it! Mavros clenched his teeth, uneasy about the leakage of that information he had tried to keep secret. He cast a quick glance at Luciara. Her raised eyebrows signaled that she had heard it perfectly, just as he had feared.


    Wait a second.. Did he say a Holy Warrior tried to kill him?... she thought. He didn''t tell me anything about that... Wasn''t this Macario supposed to help him with the Ashaim?


    "Sheida, please lower your voice!" one of the adult men in his group reprimanded him, sensing the knight''s discomfort.


    "I... I''m sorry, Baba," the young man apologized, touching his neck from behind, aware that his scolding was justified.


    Ba¡­?


    ¡­ba?


    Mavros and Luciara were equally intrigued by the mention of that word. Even without knowing the language of origin, they could easily guess its meaning. The man in question stepped closer to address them.


    "Please forgive my son''s indiscretion, Ser," he apologized. "I understand better than anyone how delicate your situation is."


    ¡°Don''t worry. This place is safe," the knight replied as his amethyst eyes scanned the newcomer from head to toe, surprised by the contrast with his son. Unlike Sheida, he was a much taller and bulkier man. His face was round, with circumspect amber eyes, a broad nose, and thick mustaches like a feline''s. He opened and extended his right hand to Mavros, uniting it with his in a firm handshake.


    "Ayman," he introduced himself. He briefly looked at Sheida. "You already know my son." He shifted his gaze to his other companion. "He is Jabir, my partner and friend."


    Jabir approached to pay his respects with a handshake and a slight bow. He was slimmer than Ayman. His beard was just as full but lacked mustaches.


    Bored with the adults'' monotonous introduction ritual, Sheida turned his head to another point in the waiting room.


    "Ah!" He startled as he spotted her.


    Luciara of Salamandera? he said to himself, blinking a couple of times to confirm that she was indeed there. She was wearing a blue long-sleeved blouse and a knee-length black skirt. She''s... as beautiful as ever. It''s the first time I''ve seen her up this close, he thought, gazing at her, his heart racing and his hair standing on end. Why is she here? ... Oh!


    Luciara turned toward his direction.


    Shyly looking away, Sheida was forced to break that hypnotic trance. He refocused his attention on the wandering knight, who continued to converse with Ayman and his friend.


    Is Mavros... traveling with her? the boy wondered with great curiosity.


    Love this story? Find the genuine version on the author''s preferred platform and support their work!


    "My son hasn''t stopped talking about you. We had a hard time believing it until we saw you yesterday," Ayman told him. "Without your intervention and that of the masked fencer, we wouldn''t be here. Both of you were a blessing from Sensham, and we are eternally grateful."


    Suddenly, a horn blared throughout the waiting room, repeating at least a couple of times. Everyone rose from their seats and began to form a line to go through an open and spacious access that led to the outside.


    "That''s our ''sobbah,''" Ayman informed the knight, preparing with his son and associates to join the line. The horn announced the arrival of the transport. "It''s a pity, but we have to say goodbye. It was a pleasure to meet you, Ser."


    "Are you taking the ''sobbah'' to Netzach?" Mavros asked. "Well, then we''ll be travel companions, because that''s my destination as well."


    Luciara furrowed her brow, crossed her arms, and began to tap her right foot impatiently on the ground, growing frustrated with the complete indifference he had shown her during the conversation.


    ¡°My destination¡±... she mentally mimicked him, Why are you talking as if I''m not going to board, you imbecile? You couldn''t get on that ''sobbah'' without me.


    A distant and steady sound, typical of machinery in action, began to be heard, growing louder and more noticeable as it drew closer.


    "That''s right! You told me you were going to Netzach!" Sheida said to Mavros, excited about what that implied. "How about you sit with us?"


    The machine arrived at the station, partially revealing itself through the entrance as it came to a stop. It was a train: an immense, streamlined metal worm, composed of several sections linked together by couplings. People moved more quickly to begin boarding.


    "Sure, why not?" Mavros accepted Sheida''s offer to travel together. He turned to Luciara. "Don''t you mind, Luciara?"


    She took several steps, leaving them behind.


    "Do as you please," she retorted, looking back at him resentfully before joining the line.


    Well...


    Mavros and the other men were left speechless as they watched her move forward, all equally touched by that short but sharp verbal lash.


    "Isn''t she... Ser Janpelan''s daughter? The captain of the Cirence garrison," Jabir said, taking a little longer than Sheida to identify her. He looked at the knight in amazement. "Are you traveling with her, Ser?"


    Ayman and Sheida fixed their eyes on Mavros with similar interest.


    "I was," he corrected. "Until today, I served as her ''escort.''"


    They all raised their eyebrows.


    "You were her escort?" Sheida exclaimed, astonished and excited by such a statement. Hearing it was like one of his heroes living out one of his most intimate and far-fetched dreams. "What happened between you two? She seems very angry with you."


    "It''s a long story," he excused himself with some reluctance. The last thing he wanted was to narrate it.


    Ayman noticed how the line of travelers was beginning to thin out as its last remaining members boarded the train.


    "Let''s go. We''ll continue talking in the ''sobbah,''" he told everyone. "If we don''t hurry, we''ll miss it."


    ***


    "Hahaha!" The three Ayarians burst into laughter, entertained by the story Mavros had just told them. The four of them occupied a group of adjacent seats inside the vast moving train. It had been a little over an hour since it had departed from Hezaran.


    "Why wouldn''t he have hit you?" Jabir said, beginning to stifle his laughter. "If I were that Macario, I would''ve punched you too."


    "I couldn''t help it... I mean, with everything he said about her, I thought she must be beautiful," the knight replied, following the flow of his fabricated story.


    To explain the commander''s aggressive reaction they had witnessed at the camp, he invented that, under his alias of Macario, he had mentioned to him in their conversation that he was going to get married soon. As part of his lie, the knight claimed that, in a bold jest, he repeatedly asked the warrior for the address of his fianc¨¦e to see who could marry her first.


    "But as you could see, he was quite ''jealous''... He completely lost it," Mavros continued, jokingly. He told them that''s why she slapped him and dragged him into the depths of the forest to find out if he was a ¡°secret lover¡± of his girlfriend. "It took me quite a while to convince him that it was all a joke."


    "I imagine that after that experience, you''ll never toy with the heart of a man in love again, Ser," Ayman quipped.


    "That''s right. At least not with that of a Holy Warrior."


    "Hahaha!" The three listeners laughed again.


    Thank goodness... I didn''t think they''d believe so easily the string of nonsense I came up with on the spot, Mavros thought, relieved to have achieved the desired effect. He turned his head to the window of his seat, adopting a meditative posture. This machine moves like the wind, just as I read in the Code. I''m not surprised we''ll reach Netzach today.


    Valleys and forests passed before their eyes in the blink of an eye. He saw the window as a constantly changing canvas.


    "By the way, Mavros..." Sheida called him in a low voice, causing him to shift his attention to him. "You haven''t told us what happened with Luciara..." He made his interest in knowing more clear. The knight gave him and the others a brief summary of his experiences with the Salamandera family since the day before. "If she helped you so much, why is she so angry with you?"


    Mavros fell silent, shifting his gaze to focus on the girl, who was watching him attentively from her seat, two rows behind the others.


    For a moment, I mistook you for your mother... he thought, somewhat intimidated by her watchful eyes.


    "Mavros?" Sheida called him again, confused by his introspection.


    "Let''s just say..." the knight began to answer, meeting his gaze. "We had some ''differences''... That''s all I can tell you."


    The young man opened his mouth slightly, impressed by the seriousness with which he said it. Then, he closed it, along with his eyes, mimicking his solemnity.


    "I feel you..."


    He placed the palm of his right hand on his knee, nodding a couple of times.


    "I don''t blame you. I feel your pain, Mavros, I feel it deeply..."


    "Oh?"


    Mavros looked at him, perplexed, seeing how he held onto him while maintaining his solemn demeanor.


    "She''s famous for her complicated nature. Many tried before you, and their success was just as fleeting... She always kicked them to the curb. I even heard once that she set one guy''s rear end on fire. That''s why I''m content to admire her from afar. If someone like you and those Elvirean nobles couldn''t win her over, how could a poor Ayarian artist like me?"


    "Sheida...?" The knight smiled nervously. His cheeks flushed slightly at the insinuations. "Where are you going with this?"


    "What else?" Sheida replied, opening his eyes wide. "She enchanted your heart just like she did with mine. You tried to conquer her."


    "INAN?!" Mavros exclaimed. His shout was so loud that it startled several passengers in nearby seats. "What kind of scoundrel do you take me for? How could you come up with such foolishness? I''ve never had any such intentions!" He scolded, quickly regaining his composure as he noticed the unwanted attention. "I decided to part ways with her for very different reasons."


    "Oh, really?" Sheida crossed his arms with a mischievous smile. "So, what were those ''reasons''?"


    Should I tell him a bit? Mavros wondered. He didn''t like that the young man had these fantasies in his head. "As I told you all before... I''d rather not mention them." In the end, he decided not to. The incident and its subsequent arguments had been so uncomfortable for him that he preferred to try to bury them in the depths of his memories as soon as possible.


    Sheida released his arms. "Alright, alright, I won''t press further," Sheida said, closing his lips with a friendly expression. "But I want you to be clear that I''m not a jealous lunatic like that Macario."


    His father and Jabir smiled, entertained by the brief argument between him and the knight. The former rummaged a bit in his backpack at his feet and pulled out a particular object.


    "Ser Mavros," he called while extending the object, catching his attention. "Please, have this."


    "Hm?" It was a gold chain with a small pendant made of the same material, shaped like a wheel with several spokes radiating from its center.


    "Beautiful," Mavros said, examining it in awe. That wheel was none other than one of the symbols of Maskirio, the primary hero and prophet of his religion. "Is this yours?"


    "No," Ayman replied, shaking his head.


    "Then, why do you carry it with you?"


    Ayman looked him in the eyes with great seriousness. "I''m not sure if you¡¯ll understand, Ser, but we follow a different faith." He explained curtly, diverting his gaze for a brief pause. It was a topic he didn''t like to discuss much with foreigners due to past experiences. "In addition to music, my caravan has been dedicated to the sale and crafting of handicrafts for generations. Since this region has centuries of Maskirian tradition, we often trade in items with its symbolism."


    "I see," Mavros said, bringing his left hand to his chin. "You are merchants and artisans."


    Ayman nodded, feeling more at ease as he noticed that the knight didn''t seem in the least bit displeased by this confession.


    "The Maskirian Week is one of the best times of the year for us. Among all the cities in these lands, Netzach has the most vibrant commercial life. My people and I plan to stay there for a few days this year and sell as much as we can during the festivities."


    "Forgive me for asking, but couldn''t you have problems with their authorities?" Mavros said with genuine concern. "Sheida told me they are quite unjust towards you. If they detained him in Cirencre just for playing music in public, I can''t imagine what might happen to you there."


    "My son brought upon himself what happened in Cirencre. He''s well aware of their rules, and we''ve warned him several times not to play there without obtaining a license, but he ignored us," Ayman reprimanded Sheida with his gaze. The young man smiled nervously. "However, he was not lying when he told you about Netzach becoming an impossible place to live. Its ruler since the end of the Nefeshic Wars, King Renardin of Grianz, despises our people and has carried out numerous expulsions and mass detentions over the years. All under the excuse of combating the terrorists from the Sulfnats, the Kingdoms of Ayaria."


    "Many of our families have been living in Netzach since its centuries of peace, so accusing us of being Sulfnat agents is absurd. Nonetheless, we paid the price anyway," added Jabir.


    There was a brief pause, and the three Ayarians lowered their gaze to the floor.


    "Some even died, tortured in the dungeons, despite being completely innocent," Ayman said in a solemn tone.


    "I... I don''t know what to say; it''s much worse than I imagined," Mavros said, understanding how difficult it must have been for them. He swallowed before continuing. "But... why aren''t you worried about running such great risks now? In a time like this, the city''s security should be on high alert."


    "Because we''ve obtained trade permits to move freely within the city during this week," Ayman replied, raising his head again. He smiled with closed lips. "Even King Renardin and his vassals are obligated to respect them as members of the League of Viceroyalties. Thanks to these permits, we can visit our old home for a few days without worrying about their abuses."


    "That''s good," Mavros said, as pleased as Ayman to hear it. "At least the other kingdoms have been more considerate towards you."


    Ayman furrowed his brow slightly, returning to his usual seriousness. "Yes, all things considered, I can say they have."


    The train began to gradually slow down. Numerous houses and farms became visible on the horizon from the windows.


    "We''re almost there," Ayman announced, looking out the window from their group of seats.


    "How do you know?" Mavros asked. During the journey, the train had made occasional stops in other cities with similar outskirts, so it was a reasonable question.


    "Because I recognize the outskirts of the capital," the merchant replied. "They haven''t changed much in nineteen years."


    Nineteen years... Those words carried a weight that didn''t go unnoticed by Mavros. The weight of the time that this man, his family, and many others had been forced to live in exile because of an unjust king.


    "Oh!" He remembered the chain Ayman had given him, which he had held in his hands until now. "Take this; I almost forgot to return it to you."


    "No, no," Ayman shook his head, smiling kindly. "You don''t have to return it. I gave it to you as a gift."


    "A gift?" Mavros gazed at it for a few seconds, having difficulty accepting it. "But you could make a decent amount of money by selling it¡­"


    "I have several similar ones, so I don''t mind giving one for free to someone who deserves it," Ayman assured him. "See it as my token of gratitude, not only to you, but also to one of your warriors who saved me and my family during the massacre in Netzach. In fact, your armor resembles his quite a bit, Ser."


    Do I resemble the warrior who saved them? That Abiyr mentioned by Sheida in the dungeons? That comment, while quite vague, intrigued Mavros. Now, not only did his armor make him mistaken for an Abiyr, the dark knights of the Nefeshic Wars, turned into a feared and despised legend by the Kingdoms of Elvira and the Sulfnats of Ayaria, but at least one person had compared him to a specific one.


    "I''ll accept this gift with pleasure. Thank you very much, sir Ayman," the knight told the merchant, genuinely pleased. "If you don''t mind, could you tell me more about that massacre and the warrior who rescued you?"


    Ayman would grant that request during the few minutes left before the train''s arrival at the capital station. Unfortunately, they were unaware that the countdown to an unpleasant surprise awaiting them at its gates had already begun.

 C4-1: Extortion! Blatant Corruption at the Capitals Doorstep

    The sobbah came to a stop, reaching a platform at the Netzach station. Seconds later, its doors slid open, allowing its numerous passengers to disembark in an orderly fashion. Among them were Mavros and his fellow travelers: the Ayarian merchants Jabir, Ayman, and his son Sheida. They all walked without stopping towards the exit, propelled by the relentless flow of people.


    "...and after single-handedly dispatching those soldiers and Ashaim demons, we went to thank him. The Abiyr was very courteous and helped us find a safe haven. Just as we did, and he was about to leave us, my father asked for his name. After telling us, he bid farewell and quickly departed. We never heard from him again." Ayman finished narrating the story of their savior.


    "He told you his name..." Mavros said, lowering his gaze thoughtfully before raising it again. "Do you happen to remember what it was?"


    Ayman nodded gently.


    "Shehor," he replied. "His name was Shehor."


    ¡°Shehor...¡± Mavros murmured, delving deep into his thoughts. It''s the first time I''ve heard it... Nevertheless, it feels familiar. He touched the pendant on the chain that the merchant had just given him. He had decided to wear it around his neck from that moment on. From the way it sounds, it''s most likely Tarburian... just like apparently all the Abiyrs were. That Abiyr might be my ¡°master.¡±


    The facilities of the Netzach station, the capital city of Najta, caught his attention. Its vast spaces were teeming with people coming and going through different gates and corridors. Its high, vaulted, and transparent glass ceilings were remarkable, and the walls and floors were made of a hard, perfectly smooth material.


    If the architecture of this station is this spectacular, the rest of the city must be even more so, he thought, quite pleased with his first impression of the metropolis. But then, the knight realized something that made him forget his enthusiasm.


    Wait... I haven''t seen Luciara since we disembarked.


    Slightly alarmed, he scanned the surroundings with his eyes and glanced over his left shoulder.


    There you are.


    He spotted her just a few meters away in the crowd, quickening her pace to catch up with him and stand by his side. With nothing to worry about, he heaved a relieved sigh.


    "Why are you following me?" Mavros asked, observing how she kept pace with him. "From here on, we''re parting ways for good. We''ll both finally be free to ''do as we please''."


    The young woman turned toward the knight, her gaze sharp and keen as an eagle''s. She didn''t find the sarcasm in his last comment amusing at all.


    "Are you an idiot?" she scolded. "If we encounter a guard post at the exit, you could get into trouble if I don''t vouch for you and present you as my ''escort.'' Have you forgotten that I had to do the same thing in Hezaran to get you into the station?"


    It''s true. Mavros fell silent, lowering his head as he averted his gaze.


    As Luciara said, it was necessary for her to continue accompanying him for a little while longer to deal with that inconvenience. Being armed and clad in full body armor aroused justified suspicion among the guards. Except for them and other special cases like Holy Warriors, mercenaries, and accredited bodyguards, carrying such conspicuous weaponry was strictly prohibited in most public spaces.


    "This will be the last time I help you," Luciara warned the knight. "Once we''re out of here, you''ll have to fend for yourself."


    "I''m well aware of that," the knight replied, showing no sign of distress about the impending future she foretold. "It wouldn''t be the first time I''ve had to make my own way."


    After this nonchalant response, the young woman turned away from him with a sharp twist of her lips, her irritation evident.


    While they walked, Sheida had been following their brief conversation with curiosity.


    Mavros is as annoyed as she is, the young man observed. What on Senshan happened between them that they can''t stand each other? Why wouldn''t he tell me? He must have had a failed romance. It can''t be anything else.


    As he turned his head back to the front, he saw the large exit doors guarded by several soldiers, wearing open face helmets resembling wide-brimmed hats.


    His smile vanished instantly.


    Grianzan soldiers¡­


    They were dressed in bulky, blue cotton jackets with black lines in square patterns. Their limbs were protected by small metal pieces connected by chains. Black pants covered their legs, and brown boots adorned their feet. Some carried halberds, while others wielded hand axes. Small shields, red with a blue diagonal stripe in the center, were fastened to their backs. The shields were rectangular at the top but curvilinear and pointed at the bottom.


    Like Sheida, Ayman and Jabir became alert, scanning their surroundings repeatedly. They noticed how several people began to quietly grow uneasy due to their presence, which was expected in this city. The distrust toward Ayarians there far exceeded that of any other region in the land.


    They''ll stop us any moment now, Ayman sensed, remaining vigilant as they approached the exit, where they could see the guards.


    Three helmetless guards, who stood out from the rest, spotted them. They exchanged a few words and then separated from the wall against which they were leaning to approach Ayman and block his path. With raised hand gestures, the three guards compelled the merchants to stop. Among them was a young and good-looking woman with loose black hair that reached her neck and a pair of tall, well-built men, slightly older than her, with short, tousled blonde hair. The identical appearance of the twins reinforced their siblinghood. These three warriors wore more elaborate and light pieces of protection compared to the other soldiers.


    ¡°Halt,¡± the woman commanded imperatively, speaking with a distinct foreign accent. She was at the forefront of the group, with the twins covering her back.


    Hm? Mavros and Luciara were drawn to her voice and proceeded to observe the scene from a prudent distance.


    Those armors...


    Are they Holy Warriors?


    Both of them wondered. The detailed reliefs on their light armor suggested so. Prominent among them were the rooster holding a double-edged axe with its right leg, emblazoned on their breastplates, and the fleur-de-lis on their pauldrons. Familiar with them, Luciara recognized them as the symbols of the Holy House of Lis, the Order of Holy Warriors originating from the Elvirean kingdom of Grianz.


    The guard and her two "bodyguards" stopped a few meters in front of Ayman and his companions.


    "What are you doing here? Why are you in Netzach?" she interrogated, making no effort to hide her antipathy. She and the twins gripped the handles of their sheathed axes with their strong hands, ready to wield them if necessary.


    "We are artisans," Ayman responded calmly, not letting her attitude intimidate him. "We have permits from the League of Viceroyalties to trade our art in the Maskirian Week markets."


    "Artisans?... With permits from ze League for ze Maskirian Week?" the young woman repeated in a low voice, rubbing her chin in a skeptical posture, which she soon abandoned. "Ha! You''ll regret it eef you''re trying to fool us." She extended her left hand, making a demanding gesture. "Come on. Show nous your papiers."


    The Ayarians unslung their backpacks and placed them on the ground. Each of them reached into one of the pockets to retrieve small books with leather covers. Sheida and Jabir handed theirs to Ayman, who then approached the guards.


    "Here you go, they''re all in order."


    The guard and her companions proceeded to open and examine the books carefully. For a few brief moments, they cast furtive glances at their owners. To their surprise, despite their efforts to scrutinize, they found nothing wrong with them.


    "Step aside," one of the twins ordered.


    "We weel inspect your luggage," added his brother.


    Reluctantly, all three obeyed the instruction.


    The three guards advanced and bent down slightly to open the backpacks and rummage through them. After extracting clothing and other items of little value, their pupils gleamed, stimulated by the beauty of the jewelry and crafts they had just discovered at the bottom. Most of them were wheels, figurines, and emblems with three pentagons together¡ªthe symbols of Maskirio, "The Closest to the Heavens."This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source.


    "It''s¡­"


    "Beautiful."


    The twins were captivated by what they saw.


    "Where did you get zis? It''s of excellent quality," the woman asked, still marveling at a ring in the palm of her hand.


    "All our merchandise is crafted in our workshops... I''m glad you like it," Ayman said.


    Cold sweat poured from his forehead and the foreheads of his companions. The fact that these guards wouldn''t stop touching and admiring the fruits of their labor made them extremely uncomfortable.


    The woman signaled to the twins. They joined her and spoke quietly in a language the Ayarians didn''t understand. While Luciara had a decent command of the language, the distance prevented her from hearing clearly what they were saying.


    Only Mavros, with his keen hearing, could capture and perfectly decipher the words they uttered.


    I hope they''re just joking with each other¡­ he thought, frowning in displeasure.


    The three guards nodded, concluding their brief discussion. They fixed serious and grim stares on the merchant.


    "You''re lying!" the woman exclaimed loudly, pointing at Ayman accusingly.


    He and all his companions were startled.


    Curious about the commotion, several soldiers and passersby turned toward their position. The bolder ones ventured closer to get a better view of what was happening.


    "Do you take us for fools?" the woman spat at the Ayarians. "It''s clear zat zese jewels are stolen!"


    They raised their eyebrows, dismayed by such a grave accusation.


    "Could it be true?" Luciara murmured, perplexed by what she was hearing.


    "Of course not," Mavros denied firmly, trying to suppress his anger as he kept a close eye on the guards'' maneuver. He knew well what the three of them had plotted in secret.


    One of the twins held up a necklace at head height. "Zese jewels are from ze bank those pirates looted in Cirencre."


    "Ui," his brother supported. "Not only do zey murder our soldiers and citizens, but zey also ''ave ze audacity to steal and come to resell what belongs to us in our territories."


    Increasingly infuriated by their false claims, the merchants curled their lips, overwhelmed by indignation and shame. They could feel the murmurs and contemptuous glances from the onlookers, most of whom sided with the guards.


    "We are not criminals!" Ayman protested, vehemently rejecting the slander against them. "Did you not read the permits? All our merchandise is duly certified!"


    "Your permits..." the woman said, with a sardonic smile. She gathered and held the papers of the three men with her left hand. "And what guarantees do we ''ave that zey''re not a fraud? Your deceptions ''ave become tr¨¨s sophisticated. You can say all you want, but it''s absurd zat ze League authorities ''ave granted zese privileges to ze likes of you."


    ¡°The ¡®likes of you¡¯?!"


    ¡°You bitch!¡±


    That derogatory term infuriated Jabir and Sheida, who advanced with tense muscles toward her. Ayman anticipated what they intended to do and stopped them just in time, blocking their way with his arms.


    "Calm down!" he ordered.


    Reluctantly, the two regained their composure. As tempting as it was, they became aware that giving in to their impulses would be a mistake.


    Meanwhile, the guards smiled, savoring the discord they had sown.


    "We should detain and lock you in a dungeon, ze only place you should be; but we''re in a good mood today, so we''ll be ''compassionate,''" the woman said. "We''ll only confiscate zese jewels. You can return to zee wretched hovel from whence you came."


    The Ayarian clenched their fists, struggling not to explode with frustration.


    This is not a legal seizure. It''s nothing more than a blatant extortion, Luciara judged, observing the guards'' behavior with great repulsion.


    Even part of the audience that had initially supported the Holy Warriors silenced their praises, beginning to feel uncomfortable with the questionable turn of events.


    Mavros remained quiet, calm as water. His armor concealed the fierce storm brewing within him. He watched as the guard closed the fingers of her right hand, except for her index finger. From its tip, a small blue flame emerged, no larger than a candle''s, which she brought within inches of their companions'' documents.


    "What''s ze matter? Won''t you accept our ''deal''?" she asked, as they refused to relinquish their belongings. She smiled maliciously, bringing the flame even closer to their vulnerable paperwork. "Do you want your freedom to turn to ashes?"


    "Zat¡¯s ze way to go, Docemin!"


    "Show them who''s in charge!"


    The twins backed her with laughter, proud of the escalation of their performance.


    That blue flame... This lunatic knows advanced pyromancy! Luciara realized when she discerned the nature of her fire, leaving her stunned.


    For Mavros, that had been the final straw.


    Enough.


    After those unbearable minutes, he finally decided to take action.


    Huh?


    Ma¡­


    Mavros?


    Astonished, the Ayarians watched as he stepped between them and the Holy Warriors who were harassing them.


    Docemin, the guard, raised her left eyebrow, confused by his intervention. Mavros stared at her, less than two meters away, in a still and imposing posture. With his left hand, he partially lifted the lower part of his helmet, revealing his mouth.


    "What do you want? Can''t you see we''re busy?" Docemin scolded, but the knight remained silent, not moving from his spot. His lips stretched into a straight and forced smile, characteristic of someone experiencing vicarious embarrassment.


    Suddenly, his lips parted, emitting a dry, brief sound.


    The audience gasped in amazement. The knight had just spit a fast shot at the woman''s right eye.


    "AAH!" She screamed, touching her eye in disgust as she felt an unpleasant irritation. Mavros closed his helmet again.


    "Esp¨¦s de miserabla!" The twins brandished their axes and rushed to the defense of their accomplice. They tried to strike the knight, but he moved to the side, drawing his staff. The guards turned and attacked him again, but the knight defended himself and successfully blocked their axes. After a brief struggle, he pushed them, making them step back a few paces.


    Taken by surprise by his strength and skill, the two guards paused their offensive.


    "What''s your problem, bastard?"


    "Do you want us to kill you?"


    They yelled at him.


    The knight was not affected in the least by their aggression.


    "Votre pagrtenaigr jat de la chans de etren femme," Mavros told them, speaking in Grianzan, their language. "Sinon, yogr¨¦ cass¨¦ son visach au sol."


    What?!


    The Holy Warriors were left stunned, not only because he revealed that he knew their native language but also because of what he had just said.


    Your friend is lucky to be a woman¡­ Otherwise, I would have shattered her face on the ground! It was the closest translation Luciara could extract, a translation that left her as stunned as the other Grianzan speakers in the audience. It was the first time she had heard Mavros express himself with such violence.


    "I shall speaketh it in the Common Tongue, for I wisht it to be crystal clear," Mavros continued, assuming his knightly persona, wishing his words to reach all witnesses. "These merchants art completely innocent. The three of thee art the sole ones here who have proven to be malefactors; thou art unworthy of the attire thou dost bear. I shall not allow thee to continueth abusing these folk with thy cynicism."


    "Oh..." Docemin murmured, turning back after wiping off the spit she had received. "I understand now," she said, gazing at the golden necklace around the knight''s neck, identical to several she had taken from the Ayarian backpacks. "You''re friends wiz zese wretches... How can a knight from our realms like you sympathize wiz Ayarian scum? Aren''t you ashamed?"


    "Who are you?!" demanded the twins.


    Mavros remained silent for a brief moment.


    "I''m but a wandering sword," he finally replied. "And I beg thy pardon, but I shall not squander my moments elucidating notions to filthy creatures unable to grasp them. Hearing thee attempting to mimic the tongue of man is embarrassing enough to bring a blush to my cheeks. "


    Everyone was left dumbfounded by these verbal jabs, especially Docemin, who felt momentarily cut by their sharpness. When she came to her senses, she became agitated and threw the documents on the ground.


    ¡°FIST DE PUIT!¡±, she yelled at Mavros in Grianzan. Her two hands covered in angry blue flames, ready to incinerate him instead of the paper.


    "Attends, Docemin."


    Before she could attack him, her two companions asked her to stop and intervened.


    "Permete nou de geg¨¦ cet idiot."


    They unhooked their shields from their backs to use them as secondary weapons. They raised their guards, ready to resume the fight.


    "Thou both shalt engage me in combat, aye, a wondrous turn of fate," Mavros said. "As deserving of stern retribution as she may be, my Code discourages violence against women."


    Confused, everyone watched as the knight sheathed his staff. Then, he unslung it from his back and let it drop to the ground. Soon, the sword followed. He had disarmed himself completely.


    "Furthermore, mine Code demandeth that I always partake in a duel under the most fair of circumstances. In this instance, even mine staff is an extravagance against adversaries of such meager value. Mine arms and legs shall suffice abundantly." He looked at both of them from the ground up. He adopted an unusual combat stance with open hands and fingers held together firmly. "Should ye, by any chance, possess full suits of armor at thy disposal, thou would be wise to retrieve them forthwith. For thou shalt require them to endure, and I harbor no objection to a brief delay."


    "Is he challenging both of them to a barehanded fight?"


    "What''s with that ridiculous pose?"


    "Where did this buffoon come from?"


    Such comments and similar ones began to spread among the astonished crowd. Allowing the effect of temporary bewilderment to dissipate, the arrogance returned to the expressions of Docemin and the blond twins.


    "Are you really going to challenge us unarmed?" one of the twins asked, smiling with mocking disbelief.


    "Yes," Mavros nodded firmly. "Thou canst both assail me at the same time, wielding thy battle-axes. The distinction between executing it or abstaining from it shall prove but trifling."


    This new entry into the long list of provocations launched at them turned their upward, self-assured smirks into impatient downward ones. Both brothers looked at each other and nodded. They didn''t need to exchange words to convey their verdict.


    "Whatever you wish, insolent cretin. My brother and I weel grant you your ''fair beating''," one of the twins acting as the spokesperson said. "Consider yourself lucky if all your bones aren''t broken when we''re done wiz you. Let''s see if you''ll be just as cocky when you rot in ze darkness of prison."


    "Verily, a grandiloquent display of words. It overflows with musings," Mavros replied with irony. As he had mentioned earlier, the pretentiousness of their speech and attitude embarrassed him to the point of making him blush. ¡°Yet, I''d counsel thee to cease thy prattle and procure worthy arms. I am eager to witness if thou shalt translate thy ''poetry'' into combat."


    "Poetry in combat... Zat¡¯s our specialty. Very soon, you''ll feel it coursing through your body. Maybe even reaching your heart, but in a way beyond mere imagination," the other twin affirmed, smiling wickedly. He turned to a couple of soldiers nearby. "¨¦coute! Allez ¨¤ l¡¯arsenal et apportez des armures de plats!"


    "Ui, Ser!" The soldiers nodded fearfully and hurried to carry out his command.


    Not so far from them, another soldier had been following the incident.


    This... This is not good... This is madness. He thought, horrified at the scene that was about to unfold.


    Taking advantage of the distraction caused by the twins and the daring wandering knight who challenged them, he turned his back and left the station with quick but stealthy steps. Once he had distanced himself enough, he started running urgently.


    I have to inform ¡°Man at Axes¡± about this! He''s the most suitable to put an end to this disorder!

 C4-2: Gabran and Olivrin! The Sons of a Family with Ties to Power

    Just before the scandal that was about to occur at the grand Netzach station, the day began for one of the many families residing in the capital city. The plants in their modest yet well-tended garden greeted the morning sun. Just beyond it, their home stood tall: a two-story house with cream-colored brick walls and ochre frames surrounding its windows and front door. It was architecturally elegant but devoid of ostentation.


    In one of the windows on the second floor, there was a personal room. Guided by the natural light and a wall mirror before him, a young man dressed and prepared to go out.


    This will be the first day, he reminded himself, somewhat anxious, as he partially buttoned up a black tailored jacket over a white, fine shirt. He wore long, smooth trousers and leather loafers on his feet, both equally as elegant and dark as his upper garment.


    It still feels like a dream that I was chosen, he thought, gazing at his reflection in the glass. He displayed a mix of rather unusual features within the region: skin as tan as an Ayarian, but with a softer and lighter tone reminiscent of a latte. His hair was short, curly, and jet-black. His youthful features were quite handsome and Apollonian, befitting a distinguished heart-throb, and among them, his brown eyes stood out: nearly as dark as the night but as lively as midday.


    Suddenly, he turned his head to the side. Someone had tapped his bedroom door a couple of times and then gently turned the knob to enter. It was a boy of at least twelve years old. His fair complexion,  light chestnut eyes and short hair contrasted with the darker tones of the man. He wore more casual but equally well-tailored clothes. A wooden wand was sheathed in a holster on the left side of his waist.


    The man turned toward him, offering a warm smile. The boy looked up at him with a hint of curiosity.


    "Are you going out, brother?" he asked.


    "Yes, I''ll be out almost all day," he confirmed, "I forgot to tell you at breakfast."


    Just as I expected, thought the boy. His lips curved into a cheerful smile, mirroring his brother''s. "Really? Can I come with you?"


    The gallant young man crossed his arms, trying to put on a serious expression.


    "Have you finished all your weekly chores, Enri Olivrin?" he inquired. "I''ve seen you quite distracted with your ''magic tricks''."


    "Yes, yes, yes," the boy replied, nodding repeatedly. "I finished them just yesterday; I have nothing else to do. That''s why I''m asking. I don''t want to spend the whole day bored here."


    His older brother''s false mask of impassivity crumbled after that response, revealing his genuine, smiling face.


    "Alright, then, you can come along," he agreed. He bent down a little and playfully tousled the boy''s head. Both of them equally enjoyed their time together. "But only for a little while because I have to attend to some ''adult matters'' afterward. Agreed?"


    "Agreed," the boy nodded, pleased with the approval.


    "Very well."


    The young man released his brother''s head and straightened up.


    "By the way," he said, "Has our mother not woken up yet?"


    "No, she must still be ''down for the count''," the boy replied with a playful tone.


    Down for the count... The word made the young man smile again. Even though he knew what it meant, it never ceased to amuse him. "Olivrin..." His smile turned mischievous. "Are you thinking what I''m thinking?"


    "Of course," the boy replied, adopting a similar expression.


    They both exited and walked down a corridor until they stopped in front of a particular door, which they quietly opened. Behind it, their mother lay on the matrimonial bed in her bedroom, bathed in dim light. Although she was asleep, her body exhibited an image far from the usual serenity one might imagine. She was lying face down with her limbs flexed in rather disparate positions, pushing the sheets away. Her slightly parted lips touched the pillow. Her posture resembled someone who had been knocked down by a swift blow, rather than a person in peaceful slumber, as humorously described by her younger son.


    The two brothers covered their mouths, suppressing their laughter. On tiptoes, they approached the room''s window, whose thick, closed double curtains made it seem as if dawn were perpetual. Each of them took hold of their respective edges.


    "Good morning!" they exclaimed as they simultaneously pulled the curtains open. Light flooded the room like the surging currents of a flood.


    "Aaah..." Their mother sighed in annoyance, squirming slightly as she felt the warmth of the sun on her closed eyelids. Their mischief had achieved its goal.


    "Foul imp! Wicked Ashaim! Depart that body as Maskirio and the virtuous spirits of the heavens command you!" The elder brother exclaimed amidst Olivrin¡¯s laughter, making theatrical gestures akin to a priest officiating an exorcism.


    "Don''t tease me, Gabran... Today is Soladi," his mother protested, addressing him by his name in a low and disheartened voice, shielding herself from the window''s light with her sheets and pillows. Soladi was the last day of the week in the Maskirian calendar; the day of worship and rest.


    "But it''s past nine already, Mom," Olivrin said.


    "It''s inappropriate for such an illustrious eminence as yourself to intend to stay in bed all morning," Gabran continued with irreverent formality.


    Touched by their comments, she turned to face them. Her sleepwear covered nearly all her fair, rosy skin. Her round face, though somewhat dulled by age and the absence of makeup, displayed keen and pleasing features. Notable among them were her upturned nose and her large emerald eyes, matching her straight, disheveled hair that fell on either side to her short shoulders.


    "This ''illustrious eminence'' was working like a Bunta slave until the early hours of the morning. You two can''t say the same. If anyone in Netzach deserves a late morning rest, it''s me," she complained. "Besides, when the hell have you ever gone without anything just because I like to sleep in?"


    As her children stifled their laughter at her grumpy reproaches, she moved to touch the floor with her feet. She proceeded to get up and stretch somewhat clumsily due to the remnants of sleepiness. Her figure was slender, and her height remarkably short; even Olivrin was already taller than her by a few inches. Gabran, the elder one, towered over her by at least two heads.


    "Thanks to you, I''ve lost the desire to go back to sleep. Well done, pair of buffoons," she said sarcastically in a calmer tone. She observed their attire. "And what''s with those outfits? Are you going somewhere?"


    "We''re going for a little walk around the city," Gabran replied. "Do you want to come with us?"


    "Nah," she shook her head. "No need to look in the mirror to know I look like a mess. I don''t want to keep you waiting, and there are a few things I want to take care of... like lunch." She paused briefly, shifting her gaze to each of them. "Today is the only day we can all get together to have a meal, and I''m not going to let it pass by." She smiled with her lips closed. "What would you like?... How about ''Four Colors''?"Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.


    She asked. ¡°Four Colors¡± was the name for the typical regional dish, whose origins and history traced back to the founding of the long-gone Kingdom of Lebias.


    "Yes!"


    "Please!"


    Both of her sons agreed in hushed voices, visibly enthusiastic. It was one of their favorite dishes, and she was particularly skilled at making it.


    "Perfect. See you after noon. If you happen to run into your father, let him know about the menu," she said, pleased with their approval. "Well, what are you waiting for? Weren''t you going out?"


    The brothers began to walk. Before leaving, they bid her farewell with brief hugs and kisses on her cheeks.


    "Blessing!" Olivrin and Gabran said respectively before crossing the door.


    "May the heavens bless you," she told them with a warm smile just before they left, following the common parting "protocol" in Lebias'' culture.


    When they were gone, she lowered her gaze.


    Bunta slave... she thought, recalling that infamous historical figure she had mentioned in her outburst.


    Her smile faded, and she ran her right hand across her forehead in a sign of regret. As inconspicuous as her comment might have been to her sons, the inadvertent impertinence of her jest made her feel ashamed.


    I shouldn''t have played around with that¡­


    ***


    It had been about half an hour since the brothers left their home. They walked through one of the streets of the capital, weaving through crowds of people. The streets were so wide that they seemed custom-made for giants. Rectangular buildings dominated both sides, with walls of various colors that were remarkably smooth and uniform, as if carved from giant single blocks of stone instead of being constructed from rows of bricks. Some of them were as tall as small hills, with roofs ranging from entirely flat to extravagant shapes resembling sharp nails. But more than their imposing size and strength, they inspired respect due to their centuries of age, marked by commemorative plaques. The fact that they still stood intact was a testament to the prodigious engineering of their builders.


    "When do you graduate, brother?" Olivrin asked Gabran. The two discussed various topics as they strolled.


    "Next month," he replied. "Unless Mugnatir manages to conquer the city by some twist of fate, I''ll finally become a graduate of the University of Netzach."


    "Bachelor''s degree in Common Arts with a Specialization in Theatrical Arts, was that it?" his brother asked, making an effort to correctly cite the full name of his degree. He glanced away for a couple of seconds. "Sometimes I don''t understand why you chose to study something so basic. You could be so much more than just a theater artist."


    "Because theater is what I''m most passionate about, I think that''s clear," Gabran replied in a jovial tone, unaffected by his brother''s subtle and ironic disapproval. "You know me; I''ve never been chasing power or prestige. Although I could have tried to become a warrior like our father or an engineer like our mother, those occupations simply don''t interest me enough to be my life''s purpose." He returned his gaze ahead, with a rather contemplative expression. "I''ve told you this so many times, but it''s a mistake to underestimate art, Olivrin. Science and the military are very important, but art is the wellspring of inspiration from which they and all of humanity draw; it''s what truly sets us apart from beasts and adds color to our existence."


    "Whatever you say," Olivrin replied, pretending not to have paid much attention to his words. "In a few years, when I become the world''s greatest wizard, you''ll regret not having studied Nefeshic arts like I did."


    The boy fixed his gaze in the same direction as Gabran, where they could see an imposing structure rising above the entire city on the horizon. Its base consisted of large interlinked spheres connected by thick tubes, jutting out of the ground at slanted angles. They all converged into a central sphere within the cluster, adorned with rhombus-shaped glass windows, sparkling like diamonds. A straight, vertical column extended from the highest point of the sphere, ascending several meters, and culminating in a narrow spire, sharp as a needle, brushing the skies. The perfection and surreal beauty of the artwork were so profound that even the natives of the capital often forgot their origins, mistaking it for a sculpture crafted by the very hands of the ruler of the universe.


    The Royal Palace of Netzach, Gabran identified it in his thoughts. It had existed since before the legendary times of the Holy Rebellion and had served as the seat of the Kingdom of Lebias after its foundation. Following its fall, it was occupied by the current ruler of the city, King Renardin of Grianz.


    Returning their attention and gaze forward, Gabran and his younger brother found themselves entering a vast, open rectangular plaza. Statues of famous figures from the past lined the length of the square, sheltered beneath pyramid-roofed structures supported by columns. At the far end of the place, white marble steps led to a platform of the same material. In its center lay a smooth, oval blue gem, embedded as if marking the point of an imaginary dais. The platform aligned perfectly with the Royal Palace, its majestic image standing right behind it.


    "The White Forum" was the name of the plaza, well-known to both the brothers and the city''s inhabitants, as one of its most iconic locations. It served as a regular meeting and leisure spot for all its citizens. The millennia-old history that emanated from the harmony of its exquisite art gave it an indescribable magnetism. Even at this early hour, it was already occupied by a fairly large number of people.


    Gabran and Olivrin walked toward the platform. Gabran paused on his way, stopping a few meters from one of the numerous sculptures.


    "Gabran?" Olivrin called, puzzled by the seconds he was taking to gaze at it with great solemnity.


    Among all the sculptures in the square, this was the one that had attracted him most since childhood. At first glance, it wasn''t anything particularly unusual, as it was one of the most beautiful and recent works in the plaza. However, there was something about it that touched the depths of the young man''s heart. Something very few could feel, something he himself couldn''t fully comprehend.


    Suddenly, the sound of several trumpets playing a melody reverberated throughout, bringing him back to the present. Like him, his younger brother and the other visitors turned their heads to look for the source of the music.


    "This is a royal broadcast from the Ministry of Communications of the Kingdom of Grianz. His Majesty the King will make important announcements shortly. Please gather around your nearest ¡®spectru proeictarus¡¯. We demand your utmost attention," declared a male voice that resounded in the square as clearly as the preceding trumpets. Its origin was impossible to pinpoint; it seemed to come from everywhere. A sophisticated technological system installed in the square and other parts of the city allowed for this remarkable effect.


    A ''royal broadcast''... Gabran and Olivrin thought with reluctance. It wasn''t the first time they''d witnessed one, and they knew well what to expect. Both were hesitant to join the majority in the crowd who, without resistance, obeyed the order and began to gather in front of the platform.


    "The ''imminent'' invasion by the ''heretic empires of the desert,'' military exercises, patriotic slogans, and the latest popular sayings," Gabran listed, summarizing the common contents of the king''s speeches during times like these. "He''ll prattle on with the same nonsense as always, and nothing will happen in the end..." He let out a small sigh. "What a nuisance. Such a beautiful morning, and he had to ruin it."


    "What should we do?" Olivrin asked. "Should we leave?"


    Gabran shook his head. "No, it''s going to be tough to find a place where we can''t hear him anyway," he said, a smirk appearing on his lips. He turned, facing away from the platform, and looked back over his right shoulder at Olivrin. "I have a better idea. Follow me."


    Encouraged by the intrigue of Gabran''s plan, Olivrin followed him as they distanced themselves from the platform.


    Meanwhile, at the foot of the "spectru proeictarus," the oval gem in the middle of the platform, a spectral figure suddenly appeared. Apart from its hazy sky-blue color, the figure had no other color to show but clearly depicted the appearance of a mature man, with shoulder-length hair combed to both sides. A square-faced man with a thick and well-groomed beard, wearing a three-pointed crown on his head, shaped like a fleur-de-lis. His tall, herculean body was covered by ornate armor, with an elegant cape draped behind his back. His image would have been more than fitting for a future statue in the square, were it not for one uncomfortable detail that slightly detracted from his aura of power: his right arm, or what was left of it. He had lost half of it to the enemy in one of the many battles he fought in his youth. What was once a nimble forearm was now nothing more than an unsightly stump that he tried to conceal with a rigid, metallic prosthesis; a pretty but useless decoration that only reinforced the bitter nostalgia for what once existed in its place.


    That man was King Renardin, commonly referred to as the "one-armed king" in popular speech. He ruled over the Elvirean Kingdom of Grianz and the capital territories of what was once the prosperous Kingdom of Lebias. He was a foreign nobleman with blood ties to the region who had earned the right to the throne after the death of its previous dynasty, whose princess had been his fianc¨¦e. A ruler who had won the admiration of his subjects with his charismatic and strong personality.


    Nevertheless, this popularity came at a high price. Inside and outside the borders of his domains, a large number of detractors were betting on his downfall.

 C4-3: This Rooster Will Show Them His Talons! The Important News of King Renardin

    The eyes of the crowd turned towards the projection of their king. With an imposing demeanor, he faced his people. He gave the convincing illusion of watching over each of his subjects, despite not being physically present among them.


    After turning his head briefly from side to side, the king straightened it forward and began to move his lips.


    "Hello, dear compatriots of our sister lands, Lebias and Grianz," he said, with a deep and eloquent voice that matched his imposing appearance. "Here I stand, from the Royal Palace of Netzach, as always, assuming my responsibility as the protector of the people of this magnificent city and the legacy of the Dragar dynasty. At this hour of the morning, I have chosen to address you with important news for the entire capital."


    The king paused for a well-timed breath, during which a figure entered the White Forum, approaching the platform.


    It is...


    Princess Madalin!


    Everyone recognized her, accompanied by four escorts from the Order of Lebias, clad in their characteristic lightweight armor and silver masks. The crowd parted to make way for them, offering slight and silent bows, which the noblewoman acknowledged with brief gestures. Instead of a long, elegant gown one might expect for her stature, she wore a white vest over a skirt made of strips of red leather, as deep as crimson wine, reinforced with small metal pieces. A short, wide-bladed sword was sheathed on her left hip. These garments clung well to her curvaceous figure, with pronounced hips and bust. Her limbs displayed well-defined and trained muscles, adorned with accessories like bracelets on her arms and sandals, with leather strips similar to those on her skirt laced around her legs. Her face was a blend of contrasting features. Some were delicate, like her cheekbones and shiny, straight brown hair; others were more rugged, such as her mouth, wide nose, and large round brown eyes - features inherited from her father, which, by the region''s standards, worked against her natural beauty.


    As the only daughter of the brief union between the current king and the last princess of the Dragar dynasty, the people often referred to her as the new princess, but in practice, it was merely a decorative title. She never showed much interest in court affairs and formalities, displaying instead a clear inclination towards intellectual and military matters, which led her to become a Holy Warrior and earn her position as a lieutenant in the city guard.


    Princess Madalin took her place at the forefront of the crowd, eagerly awaiting her father, King Renardin''s next words.


    "First and foremost, I congratulate my people, the people of Eh-Nam, who have been proactive, working diligently on the preparations for the Maskirian Week, just like myself and all the devout followers of the Closest to the Heavens." He paused briefly. "During these sacred times, it is my duty to remind the people of Lebias of the importance of being cautious, of keeping one eye open, for danger lurks in the form of the Sulfnats, the heretical empires of the desert," King Renardin continued. "Empires of evil that, unfortunately, have grown stronger over the years under the yoke of the demon Elkan Diklah, or ''Mugnatir,'' as he calls himself; the greatest traitor to have ever tarnished the honor of this noble homeland since the mangy wolf of Zeev, who, by the divine justice of Maskirio, shall forever burn in the flames of hell."


    Mugnatir... Madalin whispered his name in her thoughts, furrowing her brow. Her vehement disgust for that infamous character had been instilled in her by her father, along with many other qualities.


    "Ladies and gentlemen, I regret to inform you that on the eve of these days of celebration and tribute to our heroic ancestors, ''Mugnatir'' and his scoundrels once again provoke our people with their treachery. We have confirmed the rumors that have recently reached us from the Niespalian provinces: heretical pirates managed to dock in Cirencre and plunder the city''s bank."


    "So, is it true that they sacked Cirencre?"


    "Absurd!"


    A significant portion of the crowd murmured with mixed opinions. Cirencre was well-known for the defenses of its port. It was unthinkable that simple pirates could have breached them.


    "Using a captured grianzan ship, they deceived its defenses and ravaged them in a cowardly act of betrayal; a shameless maneuver that could only have been orchestrated by that dark devil," the king explained. "But that''s not all; just before the pirate attack, an Abiyr was sighted in the city. As you hear, the Tarburian Black Knights, the offspring of the cursed legacy of the Immortal Union, who caused so much tragedy to this homeland with their conspiracies in the Nefeshic Wars, have reappeared."


    The Abiyrs...?!


    They''ve reappeared?!


    Once again, the crowd, including the princess, was caught off guard. Some of the older spectators, who had witnessed the war firsthand and its most terrifying event¡ªthe massacre of Netzach¡ªpaled for a moment at the mere mention of the mysterious knights.


    "Although the city authorities arrested him, the Abiyr managed to escape from their dungeons in the midst of the chaos brought by the heretics, and since then, his whereabouts is unknown. I have received news that yesterday, just one day after the pirate attack, a severe Ashaim outbreak occurred in the city of Hezaran, a few leagues from Cirencre. Sadly, four of their soldiers fell victim to it before it could be successfully eradicated. May God and Maskirio welcome them into the heavens," he said, with solemn tone and gestures, holding a few seconds of silence before resuming his speech. "I ask you, my people, does this chain of terrible events not seem too coincidental? I have no doubt that this Abiyr is connected to them. After decades of disappearance and having signed a hypocritical peace with our world, the Tarburians are conspiring again to conquer it. They are once again joining forces with the heretical empires of the desert, whose dignity is so meager that they seem to have forgotten the backstabbing they received from the Tarburians more than twenty years ago."


    The Tarburians...


    They want to return to conquer us?!


    The king''s assertions continued to bewilder his listeners.


    "And everything points to the fact that they are willing to execute their vile plans sooner rather than later. We have reports that the Sulfnats are mobilizing armies near our borders and Nefeshic crystal mines. And after the successful attack on Cirencre, we cannot rule out the possibility that they may attempt to invade it with their fleets, or any of the other coastal cities in our Najta. In the face of such a challenge, I have ordered their reinforcement and the preparation of their defenses. Let us hope that the presence of our glorious Maskirian armies will be enough to deter them and send them running with their tails between their legs, as they have always done. But before the phantom menace of the Abiyr from Cirencre, we must be more vigilant than ever.


    On the projection, a hand appeared at the side, handing the king a poster depicting a detailed drawing of a fully-armored knight with a cape and a sword.


    "That is why we will display this ¡®wanted¡¯ poster throughout the city," the king said, holding the poster in front of him. "This drawing is the most accurate portrait we have of the Abiyr based on the descriptions of his witnesses. If you happen to see him, do not hesitate to alert our forces."


    More than one spectator widened their eyes in astonishment. Even in the harmless form of a poster, the image of an Abiyr was as terrifying as their mere presence, still vivid in the memories of the war. After displaying the portrait for a brief moment, the same hand that had appeared to hand it to the king returned to retrieve it. With courtesy, the king nodded and gave it to its owner, who proceeded to withdraw it.


    "People of Lebias, despite these unsettling tidings, we must remain steadfast, as unyielding as steel, as we have been for all these years. If the enemy believes that our morale will falter because of their misdeeds, if they think they can prevent us from celebrating our traditions, they are mistaken! We will not grant them that victory! We will celebrate the glory of our Lord Maskirio like never before!" he declared while waving his arms in gestures that underscored his skilled oratory. "Netzach does not yield! The people of Eh-Nam command respect! If the heretical empires and the Abiyrs attempt to defile our capital during these sacred times, the ''wrath of heaven'' awaits them!"If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    He raised his left arm, clenched his fist.


    "This rooster will show them his talons!"


    The energy and conviction in the king''s words earned him several cheers from the crowd.


    Pleased by these reactions, the princess smiled quietly.


    But¡­


    "Hm?"


    Her smile faded as quickly as it had appeared. An equally sizable portion of the citizens turned their backs to the platform and walked away from it with total indifference, joining another crowd at a specific point in the square. The princess could hear repeated and prolonged laughter coming from that direction.


    "Celebrate, my dear people, but with your eyes wide open. Prepared men and women are worth twice as much¡­"


    While her father concluded his speech, the princess turned around and walked alongside her escorts to investigate what was happening in that corner that had aroused her suspicion. It was just behind the central statue of the square, the statue of the city''s hero: Eh-Nam, the largest in their repertoire. The number of onlookers and spectators laughing around it continued to grow.


    As she crossed the statue and peered through the crowd, the princess discovered the reason for the commotion.


    "My dear people! The heretical empires of the desert are invading us once again! They want to steal our precious crystals!"


    Said an actor right in front of the statue, gesturing and moving his arms in an almost perfect imitation of their king.


    Gabran! The princess furrowed her brow in irritation. She identified him immediately; they and their families had known each other for several years. The young man and his younger brother, who was enjoying his antics in the front row, had not yet noticed her arrival.


    "Mugnatir has returned to kill me, and he''s even got the Abiyrs to do his dirty work this time!" Gabran exclaimed, continuing his parody. "But don''t worry! A rooster that doesn''t crow is no rooster! Forget about our allies. I, your magnificent protector, will finally lead my glorious armies into the desert to punish that dark devil with my iron fist... from the privileged view of the throne in the Royal Palace."


    Several laughs erupted among his listeners. Laughter that quickly fell silent when they noticed the presence of Her Highness, who was not at all amused by the spectacle.


    "Only I can safeguard the secrets of the Temple of Kajoak! No matter how much I want to throw myself into the desert to take his head with my axe, I cannot abandon my ''duties'', ladies and gentlemen!" Gabran didn''t stop. He brandished an imaginary sword in his left arm and positioned his body to the side in a pose identical to that of the hero in the statue behind him. "It''s my fate as the avatar of Eh-Nam in this era!"


    "Pssst... Gabran!" Olivrin whispered to alert him to the danger.


    Gabran turned his head forward, finding himself face to face with her. It was already too late to slip away.


    "Ouch!" He groaned in pain as her fingers squeezed and tugged on his right ear as if he were a misbehaving child.


    "I warned you!" The princess scolded him, applying more force to her tug. After dragging him a bit, she let go and gave him a small push towards the statue''s wall. "And you continue with the same audacity every Soladi!"


    Olivrin and the others watched in fear as the princess delivered several punches to Gabran¡¯s chest and abdomen. He had no choice but to hunch over to shield himself with his arms as he was cornered.


    "This is your punishment for insulting His Majesty!" She reaffirmed her anger with new blows.


    Taking advantage of a brief opening, Gabran sidestepped and escaped her onslaught.


    "Eh-Nam, Maskirio! Please come and save me! I have the Empress of the Scarlet Star on top of me!" He playfully implored the statue of the hero and the heavens, causing fresh laughter among the onlookers, which further infuriated his assailant.


    The "Empress" he alluded to was the legendary leader of the Immortal Union. The tyrannical Tarburian from the sacred records who, wielding the most terrifying weapon ever conceived, the Ashaim essence, oppressed and slaughtered millions until Maskirio and his allies overthrew her and put her to death during the Holy Rebellion, freeing humanity from her clutches. Nearly a thousand years after her fall, her family emblem, an eight-pointed star as scarlet as blood, continued to be a symbol of terror and darkness.


    The princess gripped the hilt of her sword, drew it, and brought its point closer to Gabran, silencing the laughter in an instant.


    "You can mock him as much as you want, but His Majesty is a hero of the Nefeshic Wars; the heavens have witnessed his courage," she asserted with seriousness, not lowering her sword. "You are but a jester who can''t even match his shadow."


    She sheathed her sword, still staring intently at the actor, who hadn''t lost his composure or his smile for a moment, despite having the edge of her weapon inches from his neck.


    "Ooooh." The crowd murmured in astonishment. Her Highness had wounded the artist without the need for her blade.


    "How have you not learned anything from my mentors?" Princess Madalin reproached Gabran before turning around to join her escorts and quickly leave the scene.


    "Gabran!" his younger brother said with a hint of concern, rushing over to check on him, just like some other spectators. "Are you okay?"


    Gabran looked at him and patted his right shoulder while nodding reassuringly.


    "Don''t worry, I''m fine," he affirmed. He shifted his gaze toward the princess, a silhouette gradually becoming more distant and difficult to distinguish amidst her escorts and the rest of the crowd in the square. He grinned mischievously. "Wait for me here."


    Before Olivrin and his other followers could respond, Gabran released his shoulder and hurriedly ran towards the princess.


    "Your Highness!"


    He soon managed to catch up.


    "Wait, wait, wait!" he told her repeatedly, attempting to halt her progress as he stood in her way. Her escorts covered her and reached for their weapons, but with a gesture, the princess stopped them and indicated that it wasn''t necessary. They stepped aside to allow her to face Gabran.


    "Move, or I will do it myself," the princess warned him sternly, approaching him. She turned her head in both directions, making sure there were no curious onlookers too close to the two of them. "How long are you going to keep up with these foolish antics, Gabran?" she scolded him in a low voice but in a less hostile tone. "If any other member of the guard had seen you in my place, they wouldn''t have hit you; they would have dragged you to the barracks."


    "And I would have deserved it," Gabran replied, trying to calm her with open palms. "I''m sorry. I admit I went too far this time... a bit too far. I shouldn''t have told those lies. Your father is a war hero; he''s anything but a coward," he said.


    "His Majesty," the princess corrected him in a more moderate tone. Although her annoyance hadn''t entirely dissipated, his apologies and change in attitude had greatly eased it.


    Gabran surveyed his surroundings before looking at her again.


    "Look," he pointed with his hand at the people still gathered around the statue of Eh-Nam. "It seems like more people were watching me today than listening to His Majesty," he said with playful arrogance. "Think about it. If all these people, who are just looking forward to celebrating the Maskirian Week after working hard and honestly, were to ignore His Majesty''s ''extremely important'' news¡­"


    Taking advantage of the princess''s distraction with his eloquent words, Gabran made his move. To the astonished gaze of the escorts, the actor discreetly slid his right hand and gently touched that of Her Highness.


    "Does it really matter if those news come from someone else?" he continued. "Even a ''jester'' like me?" He flashed a smile. "With a ruby gleam, your lips have cast their spell. Your Royal Highness, in my captivation I dwell. Here''s the key to my heart, a treasure so rare. For you and only you, this love I declare." He recited smoothly, causing his recipient to blush.


    The nuances of his verses did not go unnoticed by the indignant escorts, who reached for the hilts of their weapons. If he dared to escalate those suggestive advances, it could become a serious offense both to the royal title and the military rank of their boss, punishable by lethal force.


    "His Majesty once recounted in one of his speeches that with these verses, he conquered Her Highness Nitzam; may the heavens keep her forever in their glory," Gabran clarified to the princess with sobriety, skillfully defusing the wrath of her escorts. He furrowed his brow slightly and lowered his gaze, remaining in respectful and solemn silence before speaking again, as he had just mentioned the princess''s late mother. "His Majesty has quite an imagination, I can''t deny that either. It''s a shame he doesn¡¯t use more his gift with words for the arts, but today even I was surprised. ''The Abiyr of Cirencre''..." he pronounced with laughter, returning to his mocking tone. "Finally, a new sinister villain to justify his military campaigns! It seems he''s realizing that ''Mugnatir'' and the ''heretical empires of the desert'' were more burnt out than firewood in a fireplace."


    The princess rolled her eyes in exasperation. Those comments had broken the brief enchantment the actor had cast upon her.


    "Do you think it''s funny? Do you see me laughing?" she chided him. "If after all these years, you still think his enemies are inventions to stir up the realm, your stupidity is beyond remedy."


    "Perhaps I''m wrong. You might be right, and I could be a poor fool, but then, why don''t you let go of my hand?"


    "Ah!" Princess Madalin gasped in surprise.


    The young actor hadn''t lied: her right hand had indeed responded to his previous touch on reflex, holding onto his firmly. Without further delay, she withdrew her hand in an instant, praying that no one nearby had noticed.


    "On Ifradi, at dusk, at the Ezrar Hayim theater," Gabran invited her, moving a few inches away from her as he prepared to bid her farewell. "I will dedicate my performance to you. I''ll see you there, Your Highness."


    A few seconds passed. With a touch of melancholy, the princess averted her gaze to the side.


    "Even if I were to accept your invitation, His Majesty would not approve," she said cautiously, avoiding locking her eyes with his.


    "And?" Gabran inquired with a smirk, undeterred by such an excuse. "If he tries to get between us, I''ll personally go to the Royal Palace and talk some sense into him."


    As they continued to converse, someone had approached with firm and steady steps toward the two of them. As soon as they spotted him, the princess''s escorts and the passing citizens paid their due respects.


    "Your Highness knows better than anyone that I''m not afraid of His Majesty," Gabran continued boasting, ignoring the presence of the newcomer, just like the princess.


    At that very moment, he decided to join in.


    "You say you''re not afraid of me, boy? Take this opportunity to prove it here."

 C4-4: Man At Axes! General Chatel Chatel

    "You say you''re not afraid of me, boy? Take this opportunity to prove it here."


    Gabran''s and Princess Madalin''s skins turned white as they felt that powerful voice enter their ears like an icy gust of wind.


    This is ridiculous... He just finished that speech!


    But how?! Even using the nearest Tarburian mirror, it''s impossible for my father to have arrived in such a short time from the palace.


    They thought in bewilderment, their faces looking stunned.


    Could it be...


    Was he listening to us from the beginning, and we didn''t even realize it?!


    Gabran swallowed hard, Madalin clenched her teeth; their agitated minds couldn''t alleviate the tension. The two slowly turned their heads toward the owner of the voice, trying in vain to delay the inevitable. Each had their own reasons to fear having been spied upon by him during that conversation.


    However...


    "AH?!"


    They jumped as soon as they could make out who it was.


    "Father?!" Gabran exclaimed, blinking a few times to make sure it was him and not King Renardin, as he had sworn.


    "General!" The princess followed suit, performing a nervous military salute, as was appropriate when addressing her superior and one of her most esteemed "mentors."


    He was a man of medium height, with warm white skin and a strong build. He wore an uniform consisting of a long blue jacket with intricate yellow embroideries, blue trousers and black boots. A longsword was sheathed on the left side of his body, and a metallic insignia hung on the side of his heart, signifying his distinction as a general of the Kingdom of Grianz.


    "Why do you look at me as if I were an Ashaim?" he asked them with a stern tone. "Do you really think His Majesty has time to come down and watch over you?" He broke his seriousness, smiling mischievously. On rare occasions, he could display his particular ability to mimic the voice of his king. "Heeheehe!" He chuckled, leaving his son and the princess even more astonished.


    They couldn''t take their eyes off his rugged and ungraceful face, reminiscent of a warhound: with bushy eyebrows, small brown eyes, and a prominent flat nose, but complemented by a stylishly trimmed beard and mustache that enhanced his virility. His black hair was combed back and neatly tied. Despite being a bit dazed because this man, normally sober and strict as his position required, had played this prank on them, the two young ones breathed a sigh of relief. They were well aware that, had it been His Majesty himself, he would¡¯ve been far from amused upon seeing them together.


    "Dad!" Olivrin called out, running toward him to greet him. He had been watching everything that had transpired from the corner where his brother had left him.


    "General, or Ser Chatel Chatel," his father corrected him, returning his greeting nonetheless with a small smile and gently patting his head. He looked at Gabran, furrowing his brow ever so slightly. "No ''father'' or ''dad.'' Remember that even though you are my children, it''s proper to address me by my titles or last name in public."


    Both of them lowered their heads, feeling slightly ashamed by the gentle but firm scolding. Gabran approached him somewhat timidly.


    "Why are you out here, da¡­ General Chatel Chatel?" he asked with curiosity, using his rank alongside his last name, as some of his subordinates often did. It wasn''t very common for him to be out of his quarters so early. He usually worked, even on Soladis, either training troops or handling paperwork in his office.


    "Has something happened, General?" the princess added, equally intrigued. General Chatel Chatel shifted his gaze to her.


    "His Majesty has instructed the guard to post ¡®wanted¡¯ posters in the city''s main districts," he explained.


    "Wanted posters?" the princess asked, quickly understanding what he was referring to. "The ones for that Abiyr spotted in Cirencre?"


    The General nodded.


    Then, is it true? Isn''t it just Renardin¡¯s propaganda? Gabran thought, raising his eyebrows. He began to doubt his skepticism as he noticed his father taking this task seriously.


    While the king was impulsive and theatrical, his father was quite the opposite. They had been friends since childhood, and the General had always been his closest and most honest advisor. Regardless of his authority, Chatel Chatel did not hesitate to openly question or criticize a royal order if he disagreed with it. More than once, such frankness had tested their long-standing friendship.


    "Your Highness," the General addressed the princess. "I''ve dispatched some troops to the old quarter to post several of those posters. I want you to head there immediately to oversee their work. When you''re done, return to the barracks to await further instructions."


    "Yes, General!" Madalin agreed, saluting militarily for the second time before turning and briskly walking away with her escorts.


    Gabran watched her go, noticing how she briefly glanced at him for a moment before continuing on her way to her assigned destination.


    "What have you been up to, gentlemen? How has your morning been?" The general asked both him and Olivrin, causing the actor to snap back to attention and turn to him.


    Gabran furrowed his brow slightly. He hasn''t lectured me, yet. He''ll do that when we''re alone, he supposed, finding it somewhat uncomfortable but understandable how his father had steered the conversation towards mundane matters. "Well¡­ We were just taking a stroll, as usual."


    "Taking a stroll," the general repeated his son''s words, with thinly veiled incredulity. "Are you planning to do anything else, or are you heading back home?"


    "As a matter of fact," Gabran paused, glancing at a clock tower rising in the west. Its numbers and hands, blue-tinged like a comet on a screen as dark as the nighttime sky, indicated that it was a little past ten in the morning. It''s a good time, he judged. He looked back at his father to finish what he was going to say. "I was going to meet up with my theater group at the university. We''re going to rehearse ''The Great Revival.''"


    "''The Great Revival''?" Confused, Olivrin inquired. Gabran had never mentioned such a play to him.


    "Yes," the actor confirmed. "It''s an original play... we started preparing together a few days ago," he clarified. "I''m sorry, Olivrin, but you can''t come with me this time."


    "Huh? Why not?" His younger brother asked, even more puzzled. Usually, Gabran would invite him to most of his rehearsals.


    "It''s just that..." He briefly glanced at his father before refocusing on Olivrin, adopting a rather serious expression. "It''s a ¡®romantic¡¯ play. Of the ¡®hardcore¡¯ kind."


    Olivrin turned away with a displeased grimace.


    "Ugh, romance... So those were the ''adult matters¡¯ you were talking about at home," he said, lacking any enthusiasm. "I''ll pass on accompanying you. I''ve had enough for today watching your cheesy flirting with the princess."


    "Olivrin!" Gabran scolded him, flustered. Although he was sure his father already knew, he didn''t like the fact that his younger brother had mentioned it out loud.


    Olivrin himself chuckled, covering his mouth when he saw his older brother''s flushed cheeks.A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.


    Gabran stepped back a bit and turned his head to both sides, checking his surroundings. "Well, I must be off. See you at lunch!" He bid farewell, turning around and walking briskly to exit the square.


    "The Great Revival¡±.. What a strange name for a romantic play, Olivrin mused internally, unable to ignore that name. Not only did it not resemble the titles of his brother''s previous works, but he had a feeling that it held a special meaning beyond a simple love story.


    "Olivrin," his father called out. "Do you have plans for today like your brother?"


    Olivrin turned toward him, snapping out of his reverie.


    "Uh, no. I''m going back home. I think I''ll practice some magic tricks I''ve been learning."


    ¡°Urmpf¡­¡± The general grunted. He could tolerate his son''s interest in Nefeshic arts, but he didn''t quite like it because of the trouble it often caused due to his inexperience. "Alright, but do it in the courtyard, away from any windows. Don''t even think about making a mess like the one in the living room again," he ordered. "And I hope you''re not neglecting your school duties. Have you finished that poem you had to submit tomorrow?"


    "Yes, I finished it yesterday. Your advice helped me a lot," he assured confidently. Chatel Chatel and Gabran, both lovers of poetry, had given him several suggestions. He turned around, ready to leave, and glanced back over his shoulder. "I''ll show it to you at lunch!"


    The boy sprinted back home.


    "Take care!" the general called out in farewell. His son''s energy and vivacity brought a proud smile to his face, but it soon turned into an expression of seriousness.


    "The Great Revival..." the general thought as he watched Olivrin disappear. The name has piqued his curiosity... I''ll have to make sure he doesn''t follow us.


    ***


    The Abiyr of Cirencre...


    What had initially been considered as just another laughable product of King Renardin''s paranoia, had now become a matter of genuine interest and concern for Gabran. The young man watched as several soldiers posted ¡°wanted¡± posters on the walls and street poles he passed by, surrounded by numerous and magnificent government buildings. ¡°Curros¡± carriages of the Army occasionally circulated, following the route that led to the city''s barracks, located near the Royal Palace.


    I wonder what could have convinced my father that this isn''t just one of Renardin''s inventions, Gabran thought to himself as he frequently glanced at the sinister portraits of the dark knight, hoping to discover the truth soon.


    Although he was heading to his university, he wasn''t going to a rehearsal with his theater group as he had announced in the White Forum.


    Suddenly, someone emerged from an intersection he had just crossed, joining him.


    "You were supposed to ''rehearse'' with me this afternoon," the person commented.


    Gabran recognized him by his voice. They had met less than an hour ago.


    "I understand if you''re eager, but it''s not good to rush things either. Netzach wasn''t built in a day. Are you really ready?" the individual continued, his eyes fixed on Gabran.


    "I am," Gabran replied with confidence. The man who had approached him was his father, General Chatel Chatel. "I want to run some preliminary tests before we practice. Are you going to be busy all day with those posters?"


    "No, I should be done before noon. If nothing comes up after lunch, we can go together," he replied. He furrowed his brow slightly. "Whatever you do, always follow the director''s instructions. The environment is well-controlled, but don''t get too creative without mastering the basics."


    "I know this isn''t a theater play. I''ll be cautious," Gabran assured him, maintaining great composure. When he was alone with his father, he behaved as the man he was.


    The General averted his gaze and stroked his beard, smiling for a few seconds before continuing the conversation.


    "I wish you had that same attitude outside of this role," he said. "Do you think I haven''t heard that you''ve been in the White Forum performing buffoonish imitations of His Majesty?"


    "I figured you already knew. It was impossible to go unnoticed," Gabran responded, without evasion, not appearing unsettled by the accusation. "If you were already aware, why haven''t you or His Majesty punished me?"


    "Because it doesn''t bother me at all. On the contrary, I believe His Majesty occasionally needs to be taken down from the high horse he loves to ride, and humor is a harmless way to do it. He obviously won''t like it, but he has a commitment to uphold the constitution of this city while he assumes its leadership," the General explained. He furrowed his brow slightly in a disapproving gesture. "However, I found out today that you went a bit too far. You can criticize Renardin, but always with intelligence and truth, not with foolish lies."


    Gabran lowered his head, ashamed.


    "I know... That was wrong, and I promise I won''t do it again," he assured with the same honesty he had shown to the princess.


    "Good, at least you''re aware of your mistake," the general said, satisfied with his response. "But tell me, Gabran, have you been impersonating His Majesty because you want to entertain the citizens? Or is it because you''re only interested in catching someone''s attention in particular?"


    Those tricky questions made the young actor come to a halt. He faced his father resolutely. He was not one to shy away from his decisions.


    "That''s right, I haven''t done it solely for the sake of art," he admitted. "I''m trying to reconnect with Her Highness."


    "URMPF!" Chatel Chatel roared without opening his mouth, greatly displeased by that reckless confession. "I thought we had already moved past this. When are you going to get off your own high horse, Gabran?"


    Gabran sighed in exasperation. He was expecting now a lecture about the excuses for why he was forbidden from dating the princess, such as her special titles and the king''s disapproval. Excuses that he had always found contrived and, therefore, disrespected without remorse.


    "General, is this supposed Abiyr of Cirencre real?" Gabran questioned. "Why are you going along with His Majesty? Don''t you think he''s making a fool of himself with all these posters he''s ordering to be put up?"


    The General let out a small huff. His son''s attempt to change the subject to avoid the discussion was as clear as water from a crystal-clear well.


    "We also considered it a hoax when the first rumors arrived, including His Majesty," he recounted. "But then the Order of Lebias and the captain of the guard of Cirencre confirmed it to us."


    "The ¡®captain of Cirencre¡¯?" Gabran raised his eyebrows, recalling something that piqued his interest. "My aunt Menuha''s husband?"


    "Yes, Ser Janpelan of Salamandera," the General affirmed. "He confronted the Abiyr. The most reliable portrait we have of its appearance is based on his direct testimony."


    "Ah? Did he come to the city to tell the story?" Gabran inquired; his father nodded. The young man furrowed his brow, beginning to feel genuine unease about the looming threat of the dark knight. "If Ser Salamandera has left his post to bring that report in person, then His Majesty is right to be concerned... Who would have thought Netzach could indeed be in real danger this year."


    "Exactly," the general said. "As you can see, that''s why I''m taking appropriate action; and for the same reason, you shouldn''t take ''The Great Revival'' lightly."


    While their discussion continued, a peculiar vehicle approached them from the beginning of the street. It was a steel cheetah mounted by a soldier, running on one front wheel and one rear wheel instead of athletic legs.


    "Now that you know,¡± the General said, preparing to lecture his son about his unacceptable behavior, ¡°let''s get back to discussing the matter of Her Highn¡­"


    "Man At axes!"


    The soldier on the cheetah exclaimed with excitement, abruptly braking to the side of both of them.


    Man At Axes?! As if it were an insult, Chatel Chatel turned just as violently toward him. "What did you say?" he said, calm but with palpable annoyance, making the soldier quickly realize his blunder.


    The king had given and popularized that nickname from a war anecdote that immortalized him, but the General detested it for how ridiculous it sounded. The fact that this legend created several false ideas about his figure, such as the misconception that he favored axes as primary weapons when he actually preferred swords, didn''t do him any favors either.


    "Ge... General Chatel Chatel," the soldier corrected amidst some panting, with a submissive military salute without dismounting from the cheetah. Even before the reprimand, he was already quite agitated. "I''m sorry to disturb you, but you need to come with me to the Ahmal station immediately."


    "Hm?" Chatel Chatel raised an eyebrow. "What''s going on?"


    "General, a brawl is about to break out at the gates of the station."


    "A brawl at the gates of the Ahmal station?" The General''s confusion deepened upon hearing these new details. "Why? Who''s involved?"


    "The Lieutenants Cotores and Sublieutenant Batrand," the soldier clarified. "All three of them inspected some Ayarian merchants who just arrived in the city. Apparently, they had permits to participate in the Maskirian Week markets, but Batrand and the Cotores twins claimed that the permits were fake, and the goods they brought were stolen from the Cirencre bank. When they tried to confiscate them, a knight accompanying the merchants came to their defense and challenged them to a duel."


    I saw something like this coming. Those idiots never deserved to be officers of the kingdom, the General thought. The three had been his students just a few years ago. Although their attitude was never worthy of his admiration, he had no choice but to promote them due to their good grades and, above all, the influence of their families. "So, these geniuses made baseless accusations and accepted to duel in plain sight of everyone, with no respect for civil order... True professionals indeed. Heeheehe!" Chatel Chatel concluded, laughing sarcastically. He stopped his laughter and looked at the messenger soldier with complete seriousness. "Thank you for coming to inform me. Let''s not delay any longer. Take me there to put an end to this nonsense."


    "Yes, General!" The soldier nodded.


    The General leaped onto the wheeled cheetah''s back and sat behind his rider.


    "Gabran!" he exclaimed, just as the soldier was starting to turn the cheetah to roll toward the station. "Good luck at the rehearsal!"


    After that farewell, the cheetah accelerated until it disappeared around the corner of the street.


    Gabran couldn''t take his dark eyes off it.


    A brawl at Ahmal station? A knight challenging three Holy Warriors of the Kingdom of Grianz? The actor couldn''t stop wondering.


    He was as impressed as his father by that extraordinary report. In all the years he had lived in Netzach, he had never heard anything like it.


    ''The Great Revival¡± will be in the afternoon as we originally planned after all.


    His desire to advance the rehearsal had been replaced by the urge to investigate what was happening at one of the main doors of the capital city.

 C4-5: Tell me when thou art ready! A merciless brawl (Part 1)

    Crowds flowed through the interiors of the Ahmal station like raging rivers. Despite taking different paths, people converged and paused in the same place near the station''s doors.


    "Let''s go!" With great enthusiasm, people of all ages urged their companions to hurry up and join the growing audience. The news of the event about to begin had spread like wildfire, attracting several eager onlookers. Luckily, they joined just in time the circle that had been formed around the protagonists.


    "What''s happening?"


    "There''s going to be a duel. A knight has challenged some Holy Warriors from Grianz to a bare-handed fight."


    "The scoundrel prevented them from confiscating stolen jewels from some Ayarian thieves."


    "Yes! And he even spat in one of the warriors¡¯ faces! A woman''s face!"


    The crowd of travelers murmured, informing newcomers of the situation.


    "What? He spat at a Holy Warrior?!"


    "What knight defends Ayarian criminals?!"


    "Where are those bastards?"


    They asked in dismay.


    Immediately, several hands pointed them out. They were on the perimeter of the circle.


    Damn...


    This could get us into serious trouble.


    The Ayarian merchants Jabir and Ayman realized with distress, glimpsing the looks of disdain that people cast upon them like rotten tomatoes. They were used to not being received with much sympathy, even in provinces where their presence was tolerated, but on that unfortunate day, the rejection was overwhelming.


    Sheida, on the other hand, paid no heed to the crowd, focusing solely on someone in particular.


    If you were able to cleave that Ashaim in two, these Grianzan assholes should be a joke for you. Please, give them what they deserve, Mavros. The young man pleaded in his thoughts, watching as the wandering knight stood near one of the edges of the circle, several meters away from his soon-to-be opponents: the twin Holy Warriors. The two identical brothers had been waiting for minutes for the armor they had ordered their subordinates to bring.


    "The armory isn''t that far... Why are they taking so long?" Complained one of the twins in their native tongue, with his head bowed and arms crossed in impatience.


    Meanwhile, his brother was engrossed in observing the knight.


    Path of the Twin Suns, ancestral ''taka'': Initiation into the Twelve Forms. Mavros thought to himself, beginning something specific.


    "Look, Cyprain!" the twin exclaimed to his brother, pointing at the knight with mocking laughter.


    "Hahahaha!"


    A good portion of the audience joined in his response.


    For no apparent reason, the knight had flexed his legs and performed a sequence of smooth, relaxed movements, like those of a brush, with his arms and open hands. It was a strange choreography with which he seemed to paint a subtle hand-to-hand combat against invisible opponents.


    "Is he playing by himself?"


    "Did that idiot get drunk?!"


    Some wondered aloud as they continued to mock this unfamiliar ritual.


    Mavros, what on Mater is this? Not far from the Ayarian merchants, Luciara watched him in astonishment. She turned her head from side to side, noticing with discomfort that the laughter didn''t stop. How can you make a fool of yourself in these circumstances? She thought, disgusted. She didn''t like how he was giving the public more reasons to make him their clown with this eccentricity, which she also couldn''t comprehend.


    It seems even the citizens are not on my side. This is not just fear like in Cirencre, it''s genuine hatred. Mavros perceived, not pausing or losing his composure. He closed his eyes, further abstracting himself from the constant noise of mockery and insults. In his experience, the unpleasant feeling of being in a place where he received nothing but contempt could be as harmful an enemy as a physical one. Very well. Just as I imagined, this is a good opportunity to train my body and spirit. I have to win this duel relying solely on the most basic techniques of the Path of the Twin Suns. I will only use Nefesh as a last resort. He decided, mustering the courage to put himself to the test. Even after years of effort in honing his character, he still felt that controlling his emotions in such unwelcoming environments was his greatest challenge. With a restless mind, even a contest where he had all the advantages presented the risk of turning against him.


    As Mavros continued his picturesque movements, Cyprain¡¯s brother kept laughing at the knight.


    However, Cyprain failed to share the same enthusiasm of his twin, managing only a weak smile. Rather than amusing him, the knight''s strange behavior made him uneasy.


    Someone within the circle approached the two of them.


    "Why don''t you just go in and mess him up? You don''t need to put on full armor," she said in their language, drawing their attention. It was their friend and fellow warrior, Sublieutenant Docemin Batrand. "You two could crush that jerk with your eyes closed," she reiterated, smiling maliciously as she observed Mavros, who continued his phantom combat. "Just look at that... The knight''s costume is way too big for him."


    "I told Cyprain the same thing, Docemin," the twin responded with the same arrogance, "but he insisted on waiting for the armor he ordered. You know how he is ¡ªalways so high-and-mighty."


    Cyprain gave both of them a stern look, silencing them. As the minutes passed, his sense of humor evaporated.


    "Hm?"


    Suddenly, the sound of heavy, hurried footsteps made him turn his head, and he found the soldiers he had been waiting for.


    "Lieutenants¡­"


    "We have your armors here," they informed him, panting with exhaustion, carrying heavy sacks behind their backs.


    Cyprain took a step forward.


    "It''s about time!" he vented his frustration at them. "Why did it take you so long? Get these on us right away!"


    "Yes, Ser!" Both of them nodded fearfully, lowering the sacks and extracting the armor pieces to fit them onto the twins'' bodies.


    "Cyprain, what''s going on with you?" his twin asked with a mix of irritation and concern.


    Docemin positioned herself to Cyprain''s right.


    "Renel is right," she said, supporting his brother. "You''ve been acting very strange for a while now."


    They were both equally puzzled by the unusual anxiety he had shown since he ordered their armor to be fetched. Cyprain frowned, fixing the same stern eyes on them as he had moments ago.


    "There''s something that''s bothering me," he confessed. "I thought that guy was just an idiot in the heat of the moment," he said, looking directly at Docemin, "but I can''t stop recalling what he did when we went to defend you after he spat on you."


    "What he did?"


    "What do you mean?"


    Docemin and Renel asked, their expressions somewhat bewildered upon hearing this statement.


    Meanwhile, the soldiers who were dressing them only had their breastplates and helmets left to adjust.


    "Have you already forgotten?" Cyprain reproached them with seriousness. "He easily intercepted our axe blows with that staff he was carrying. No matter how much force the two of us exerted, he was able to overcome it and fend us off."


    To his disappointment, instead of understanding and sharing his concern, his friends only made irreverent faces after hearing this account.


    "And?" his twin replied. "That was just dumb luck, and we didn''t even attack him with everything we had."


    "You''re overthinking it, Cyprain," Docemin added. "Besides, that moron is so full of himself that he even challenged you without the staff. He''s wasted any tiny chance he had to measure up to you."


    The soldiers proceeded to carefully place helmets on the twins, similar to Mavros''s but with striking metal crests instead of straight horns, and a single wide eye slit instead of two. Then, they handed them their shields and hand axes before stepping back. The twins were now ready to begin the combat.This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.


    Confident, Docemin bid farewell to both of them with a wink and took a spot within the audience.


    Renel stepped forward, walking toward the wandering knight, who continued his peculiar practice without interruption. The Grianzan Holy Warrior stopped a few meters away from him.


    "Are you going to come and fight us, buffoon?" he asked loudly and arrogantly in the Common Tongue with his distinctive accent. "Or do you prefer to entertain zee audience all day wiz zese lame antics"


    The knight didn''t pause his choreography in the slightest. His opponent''s taunts had failed to disturb him.


    "Just tell me when thou art ready," he replied calmly, without looking at him, focused on a series of strikes he was practicing.


    "Are you blind?! We''re ready, you fool!" he informed him, clashing his shield with his axe a couple of times in noisy clangs. "Come to zee center and let''s get zis started!"


    Several onlookers broke into cheers and applause at the twin''s challenge, excited to finally witness what they had been waiting for. Mavros paused his practice and straightened up to move with calm steps toward the center of the circle.


    As he did so, groups of teenagers and young adults crossed the circumference to get as close as possible to the action.


    "I can''t wait to see the Cotores twins destroy this freak!"


    "Finalists of the Eh-Nam Tournament against an unarmed dumbass, dude. I feel a bit sorry for him, but he asked for it; the beating he''ll get will be beyond this world."


    They commented with laughter. They were citizens of Netzach, so they were well acquainted with the Holy Warriors.


    When he noticed them, Cyprain hurriedly moved toward them.


    "What the hell are you doing so close to zee arena?! Move away!" he shouted, making them jump back in surprise. "If you get hurt because you''re in the middle, we won''t be responsible!"


    After that final warning, he rejoined his brother Renel to wait for Mavros, who was just a few steps away from reaching his position in the center of the improvised "arena."


    "Go, twins!"


    "Wipe the floor with that idiot!"


    Most of the spectators continued to cheer them on. Only a few expectant and silent faces in the crowd sided with the knight.


    With her pupils fixed on him, Luciara interlaced her fingers. "You better know what you''re doing," she whispered with forced composure. Although she was a witness of his skill when she saw him fight against her father, his strange behavior and the constraints he was subjecting himself to in this duel raised her reasonable doubts.


    "Do you know him? I think I''ve seen him accompanying you,¡± someone questioned her to her left.


    When Luciara turned to find out who it was, she found Sublieutenant Docemin. The young woman frowned, bothered by the intentions she sensed behind her question.


    "Yes," Luciara replied with firm honesty, not allowing herself to be intimidated by the officer. "He''s my... escort. Why?"


    "Your escort..." the Sublieutenant said, returning her gaze to the arena and letting out some short, mocking laughs before continuing. "I don''t know, and I don''t really care who you are and what business you have with zat jerk... but he''s bitten off more zan he can chew," she asserted in a condescending tone, her eyes shining with the image of the twins. "He''s leagues below my comrades. Zey were among the top of zeir class. Zey came very close to winning zee Eh-Nam Tournament last year¡­"


    Alright, I get it, you''re crazy about them. You don''t have to give me a speech about their ''achievements'' to rub it in my face, imbecile, Luciara thought, rolling her eyes in boredom as she listened.


    "Very few in zis city can boast of rivaling them," Docemin concluded, referring to her friends. "If I were you, I''d start looking for a new escort from now on because, pretty soon, he won''t be able to protect you ever again."


    A few seconds passed.


    "We''ll see," Luciara finally responded with indifference.


    Meanwhile, Mavros finally took his position in the arena, raising his arms and adopting the same eccentric combat stance he had used in his choreography.


    Maintaining the seriousness that his friends had failed to soothe, Cyprain directed the eye slit of his visor towards his twin.


    "You and Docemin can joke all you want, but we shouldn''t get too complacent. I''m sure this wretch is more than he appears," he reaffirmed in a low voice, almost whispering so that their opponent couldn''t hear them well. "All these antics could be a trick to make us underestimate him and let our guard down. Let''s allow him to take the initiative; we should take our time to study him and coordinate our movements."


    "Tricks? Letting him take the initiative to ''study him''? Please, Cyprain, you talk as if he were Mugnatir himself. You''re taking your paranoia too far," Renel mocked him. "If people are going to see ''tricks'' now, it''ll be the ones we use to beat him in no time."


    Damn it. Frustrated by his refusal to listen, Cyprain averted his gaze with bitterness, clashing his shield with his axe as a way to vent.


    "Come on!"


    "Fight!"


    The crowd demanded with gestures and exclamations.


    Just as impatient as the crowd, Renel lunged forward to attack the knight with his axe held high. The duel had begun, and there was no turning back now. Cyprain reluctantly realized that it was already too late to reason with his brother.


    Mavros kept his guard intact, tracking his opponent''s advance. When Renel had him in range and swung his axe violently to strike, the wandering knight spun himself at just the right moment to evade it. Somewhat astonished by this maneuver that caused his attack to miss, Renel quickly turned around to avoid leaving his back exposed and launched agile strikes with his axe and shield, all of which the wandering knight effortlessly dodged. The noise of the crowd faded like flames being extinguished by strong gusts of wind. This battle wouldn''t last mere seconds as many had predicted.


    He doesn''t even try to block them; he can anticipate and perfectly evade every one of my brother''s attacks, Cyprain observed, regretting how his worst fears were crystallizing. True to his strategy, he chose to take advantage of the situation to observe and analyze his opponent before deciding the best moment to assist his twin.


    "Ne vou reten¨¦ p¨¢, Renel! Dechire l¨¦!" Docemin shouted to Renel.


    ¡®Don''t hold back, Renel! Tear him apart!¡¯ Luciara understood those words spoken in Grianzan, and their tone indicated irritation and confusion due to the unexpected complications the twins were facing in dominating the encounter.


    Renel became desperate as he saw that, no matter how hard he tried, none of his blows even came close to touching his opponent.


    Why can''t I land a hit?


    In his frustration, he neglected his guard even more while attacking, allowing Mavros to find an opening to deliver a strong slap to the right side of his face.


    "Renel!"


    Cyprain and Docemin stifled a gasp as they saw their comrade stagger to the side after that blow, which his helmet barely withstood. However, he quickly regained his composure and returned to the fight.


    "Renel, utilis¨¦ le croch¨¦!" Cyprain exclaimed in Grianzan repeatedly.


    Mavros could hear him well. Le croch¨¦... ¡°The hook¡±, he translated in his thoughts, keeping a close eye on his opponent''s new offensive. I think I''ve read about it in one of the monastery''s books. It was the name of a technique.


    Following his brother''s suggestion, Renel swung his axe sideways towards Mavros''s helmet, but the wandering knight evaded by leaning backward. Then, relying on the downward momentum of his avoided attack, the Grianzan warrior suddenly looped his weapon towards one of Mavros''s legs. The axe''s head aimed to catch the limb like a hook around its calf and bring him down.


    The hook.


    Attentive to the feint from the beginning, Mavros anticipated and easily evaded it by lifting his endangered leg before the axe could reach it. Renel then launched sequences of strikes with both weapons once more, which the knight dodged with total ease. Noticing how Renel exposed and neglected his legs in his attacks, Mavros kicked his shins, throwing him off balance. The Grianzan warrior narrowly avoided being knocked down.


    Confident, the knight allowed himself to take a few casual steps around his still dazed opponent. Any trace of mockery or skepticism from the audience had disappeared, replaced by solemn silence.


    Sheida, the only one who had been confident of his victory from the outset, maintained a wide, unerasable smile. He was enjoying a justice he had only believed possible in his wildest fantasies.


    Then, Renel regained his balance.


    You¡­ you damn son of a bitch! he thought, his eyes burning with hatred at what he was already feeling as an humiliation.


    The Holy Warrior lunged at the knight with a thirst for blood.


    "Cyprain! Qu¨¦ es que tu f¨¦ la b¨¢?! Aid l¨¦!" Docemin shouted with agitation.


    Those in the crowd familiar with Grianzan language immediately understood that it was a plea for Cyprain to come to his twin''s aid.


    Docemin is right, Renel is losing control. Cyprain agreed, watching as Mavros turned his back, completely engrossed in his brother; the perfect opportunity to intervene had presented itself. I have to do something now!


    Meanwhile, Renel got within inches of the knight, ready to strike. Mavros sharpened his gaze, capturing even the tiniest details in his opponent''s body positions and limbs during this brief interval. Details that allowed him to predict Renel next moves and prepare a powerful response. With his right hand, he deflected a charge from the Grianzan warrior''s shield, and with his left arm, he intercepted a sideways swing aimed at him with the axe. After achieving this simultaneous block, he launched a front kick towards Renel¡¯s unprotected abdomen, pushing him back a few meters.


    I''ll end this!


    At the precise moment he was kicking his brother, Cyprain shot forward himself like an arrow to strike Mavros from behind with all his strength, confident that he would catch him totally defenseless.


    However...


    What?! Just when he thought he would succeed, the knight launched a backward kick with his other leg without even turning to look at him, repelling him with the same force he had just used against his twin. It was a reaction born of a powerful blend of senses and instincts.


    In pain, both twins clutched their breastplates, struggling to catch their lost breath and stay on their feet. Astonishment overcame the impressed audience, finding it difficult to digest what was happening.


    He could respond to my attack without even looking at me, all while dealing with my brother at the same time... Cyprain thought in bewilderment as he recovered. Who is this bastard?


    The pensive twin raised his head. His eyes widened.


    RENEL, NO!


    With horror, he and Docemin watched as their friend lunged again with the desperation of a wounded beast. He raised and swung his axe towards Mavros'' head like an eagle''s claws in a dive, furious claws that were deflected by the knight''s left arm. With his right arm thrown like a battering ram, he executed an elbow strike to the jaw of the Grianzan warrior. Renel fell to the ground instantly.


    "RENEL!" Cyprain and Docemin shouted in dismay.


    Seconds passed, and he didn''t get up. The crowd remained in silent disbelief. The wide-open mouths of many and ear-to-ear smiles of others said more than any words could express.


    ¡°Ce, ce ne p¨¢ ri¨¦l¡­¡± The Sublieutenant murmured nervously, interspersing it with terrified giggles. She was overwhelmed by a profound sense of shock.


    At her side, Luciara observed her with a wicked grin. Discreetly, she passed her left hand behind the Sublieutenant''s neck, who was too absorbed in her fallen comrade to notice what had just been done to her.


    "Hm?" Shortly after, she detected a burnt smell, accompanied by a sensation of heat behind her neck.


    "My Lady!"


    "Your hair!"


    Several people around her pointed in alarm. When she looked at it¡­


    MY HAIR IS ON FIRE! She realized in terror, seeing how the tips of her hair were engulfed in flames.


    Covering her mouth to contain her laughter, Luciara amused herself by watching her frantically patting them with both hands in an attempt to put out the flames.


    Attracted by the small commotion, Mavros observed the scene from the arena.


    That girl has an innate knack for mischief, he sighed, observing Luciara with mixed feelings. On one hand, her immature whims embarrassed and irritated him greatly, but on the other, they evoked a nostalgia that made him admire them. She has a lot to learn if she wants to follow in her parents'' footsteps.


    In contrast, Cyprain was completely unaware of his friend''s hair troubles, unable to take his eyes off his brother.


    Is...? Is he...? He wondered, tormented by continuous shivers.


    The knight turned and coldly observed Renel¡¯s motionless body. Then, he addressed Cyprain, who was still standing:


    "I have just rendered him unconscious. I aim to impart thee a lesson; thou shalt not grasp it if thou art deceased," he informed Cyprain, with unsettling impassiveness. He furrowed his brow. "I shall grant thee a minute to bear him from this arena. I desire him not obstructing our path. Once thy task is complete, we shall resume."

 C4-5: Tell me when thou art ready! A merciless brawl (Part 2)

    "This way, General!" The soldier urgently directed General Chatel Chatel towards the gates of the Ahmal station. They both had to make an effort to weave through a crowd too distracted by the ongoing event.


    Finally, they slowed down when they found what they were looking for.


    "Oh no¡­" The soldier lamented, gazing alongside his superior at two warriors facing off within an improvised arena, surrounded by spectators.


    They''ve done it. If those idiots wanted to create a scandal, they''ve succeeded marvelously, the General judged with disgust, immediately identifying one of the twin lieutenants in the arena.


    Another familiar face appeared in his field of vision and distracted him.


    Docemin? he thought with astonishment and confusion, as he spotted the Sublieutenant among the crowd, tossing her hair, the tips of which emitted small flames. Was she so foolish that she burned herself with her own pyromantic art by accident?


    As he turned towards the arena, he spotted something that piqued his interest even more: a fallen warrior among the other two who still stood inside.


    That''s... the knight who challenged them? he initially supposed upon noticing the full-body armor, but quickly corrected himself upon closer inspection. No, it''s one of the Cotores twins!


    He blinked a couple of times, making sure he wasn''t imagining things. Of all the scenes he had imagined encountering upon arriving at the station, this had been the most unlikely. As much as he despised his former students, he recognized their skills, and the fact that one of them had fallen in action to a total stranger was quite unexpected.


    "I have just rendered him unconscious. I aim to impart thee a lesson; thou shalt not grasp it if thou art deceased," someone said to the remaining twin in a firm and impassive tone.


    "Hmm?" The General turned his head towards the source of the unfamiliar voice. So, it''s him, he thought upon seeing Mavros for the first time. He admired his armor in detail; the unique design details and the craftsmanship of its forging fascinated him. The resolute and gallant manner in which the wandering knight faced his adversary made him look worthy of wearing such equipment.


    "I shall grant thee a minute to bear him from this arena. I desire him not obstructing our path. Once thy task is complete, we shall resume." Mavros instructed Cyprain,


    The twin could verify that the knight hadn''t lied as he saw Renel beginning to show signs of life. Escaping the dread that had overcome him when he believed him dead, he turned towards some nearby soldiers.


    "Vo¨²! Pren¨¦ mon fr¨¦gre a la infigrmegrie!" he exclaimed in Grianzan, ordering them to take his brother away, whose weak neck and limb movements betrayed his severe daze. They nodded quickly in silence and moved towards him. They then crouched down and interlocked their arms beneath his body to create an improvised stretcher with which they lifted the warrior.


    Meanwhile, Docemin continued to watch what was happening, having just extinguished the flames that had afflicted her hair.


    Thank goodness... she sighed with relief, seeing her unconscious friend being removed without complications. She looked at the knight with deep resentment, but now accompanied by genuine and respectful fear. Cyprain was right; we should have listened to him. Who is that bastard? He must be a Holy Warrior like us, she supposed. A sudden glance at the charred remnants of her hair in her palms was enough to divert her thoughts to the mystery of its combustion. She pursed her lips as she unsuccessfully searched for clues in her surroundings. I don''t understand... How could this crap happen to me? I haven''t seen anyone or anything with fire nearby.


    With nothing else to worry about, Cyprain turned his attention back to Mavros.


    The wandering knight assumed his eccentric combat stance. "The minute hath already passed," he informed. ¡°Surrender thyself and thy companion; offer thy apologies to these men whom thou hast unjustly sought to harm," he commanded. "If thou dost not, prepare thyself to be the next to fall."


    The Holy Warrior frowned, preparing his weapons in response.


    "Who... Who do you zink you are to give us orders?" he demanded with heightened urgency, pointing at him with his axe. "Who are you? Which Holy House do you represent?"


    Mavros reacted with rough nonchalance while maintaining his position. "None," he said to the twin after a while. ¡°I did already proclaim unto thee and thy comrades: I am naught but a wandering sword.


    Cyprain''s helmet perfectly concealed his tense muscles and bulging veins in response to that unsatisfactory answer. He''s mocking me. He''s not satisfied with humiliating my brother, he thought, restraining his impulses. His blood boiled with anger, but he wasn''t willing to mimic the same impulsiveness that had led his twin to a swift defeat.


    The twin raised and tilted his axe slightly behind his neck while using his other arm to place his shield in front of his chest.


    "I won''t surrender. We have nothing to apologize for to zat petty scum you defend. Zey have no right to be here after all ze misdeeds zey¡¯ve committed in zese lands," he asserted sternly, holding his stance.


    The misdeeds they''ve committed in these lands? Mavros raised an eyebrow, intrigued by those words from the twin that, for the first time, seemed to go beyond the superficial malice he and his group had displayed up until then.


    "Come on, prick!" Cyprain continued, pulling the wandering knight out of his contemplation. "If you''re so sure you''ll bring me down like my brother, come closer and try it!"


    The Holy Warrior revived the anticipation of the crowd with his energetic challenge.


    "Mavros, shut his mouth," Sheida muttered. He smiled with delight as he visualized the Liutenant biting the dust within seconds in his imagination, just as it had happened to his twin.


    He just saw him beat the living daylights out of his brother, and he still insists on challenging him. Is he that dimwitted? Luciara wondered.


    Her bewilderment was shared by many in the crowd who had initially been confident in the twins'' comfortable victory. What they had witnessed so far had been enough to change their minds. To them, the knight was already the clear favorite.


    However, the young woman wasn''t entirely satisfied with that assumption. Her intuition warned her that something was amiss.


    Or...? She turned her head and found Docemin, enthralled with her fellow warrior. The fact that her hateful and arrogant smile had returned reinforced her suspicions. ...could it be¡­?


    The resumption of the duel was imminent. General Chatel Chatel watched the arena closely.


    "General, aren''t you going to stop them?" the soldier accompanying him asked, anxious about the eerie silence of his inaction.


    To his surprise, Chatel Chatel merely shook his head.


    "No... Not yet. It would be inappropriate right now. We must wait," he affirmed resolutely, never taking his eyes off both combatants.


    As professional as he tried to sound, Chatel Chatel knew better than anyone that it was a flimsy excuse. If he wanted to, he could have exerted his authority immediately to end such a brawl, but in these exceptional circumstances, his curiosity overruled his sense of law enforcement. Before taking any action, he wanted to have at least a small sample of the martial arts of this strange individual; the wandering knight who had managed to defeat one of his former students.Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.


    If he won''t come looking for the fight, then I''ll have to bring it to him, Mavros thought. In contrast to his impulsive brother, Cyprain awaited him with no intention of abandoning his defensive stance.


    Unable to find any other way out of this forced stalemate, the knight accepted the challenge. He moved toward the Holy Warrior with swift strides and, once in range, launched several punches. Those punches missed; the Holy Warrior either dodged them or blocked them with his shield. In the midst of this exchange, he intercepted and caught one of Mavros¡¯s arms with his axe like a hook. Fortunately, the wandering knight managed to break free in time from the unbalancing hold and escaped from his opponent''s grasp by jumping backward.


    His defense is quite good. He''s responding well to my techniques, he acknowledged, regaining his composure after the brief scare.


    "What''s ze matter? Are you surprised?" the Holy Warrior taunted, delighted to have forced his previously unstoppable opponent to retreat. "I''ve learned all your moves. You practiced zem in your ''dances'' before coming to face us. Zey were exactly ze same ones you used to defeat my brother."


    What? Could he see through the true nature of my ''taka''? Mavros paled a bit at his assertions. He hadn''t believed that his rival would have such keen observational skills to decipher a ''taka''¡ªthe name of the choreography he had prepared for the duel¡ªwithout prior knowledge of it. He was realizing how different the two twins were as warriors.


    Cyprain has always been the more tactical and calculating one. There''s a reason why he made it to the semi-finals of the tournament last year while Renel was eliminated in the quarter finals, Docemin recalled with pride as she watched him. Now I understand why he wasn''t helping Renel. I rushed to think he had chickened out, she continued, shifting her gaze towards Mavros with a wicked smile. This poor fool has run out of luck.


    The faces of the Ayarian merchants and Luciara reflected their concern for the predicament of their traveling companion.


    Mavros¡­ They called his name in silence, fearing the worst might happen.


    However, the knight regained his composure quickly. The prospect of a more challenging test boosted his morale rather than the opposite.


    "Verily, it doth grieve me that thy brother did not heed thy counsel," he replied to Cyprain, surprising him with a couple of consecutive front kicks that the Holy Warrior could barely intercept with his shield, but not without being pushed back a few steps by their force. "He shouldst have confronted me as a Holy Warrior from the outset, as thou dost," Mavros continued. "Not as a lowly beast whose sole ''talent'' is to instill dread in commoners."


    A lowly beast?! It was impossible for Cyprain not to take offense at these insults to his identical twin. He went on the offensive with several combinations of axe and shield strikes, which, however, didn''t open up his guard as much and were more unpredictable than Renel''s. Mavros avoided and blocked several of them, attempting to respond with powerful counterattacks like the one he had used to defeat his brother, but the skilled Holy Warrior managed to anticipate and deflect them.


    They''re...


    At a standstill!


    The audience concluded, marveling as the simultaneous attacks of both rivals were intercepted in frenetic clashes, with neither able to gain the upper hand. They were two open books reading each other.


    Sparks fly as the wills of men clash with unyielding might. In a fleeting blink, their souls'' flames shine their brightest light. recited General Chatel Chatel in his thoughts, his inspiration on full display. He appreciated the beauty of both contenders'' techniques. Their power and precision stimulated both his martial vein and his more artistic and subtle sensibilities. He''s making Cyprain sweat. Who... Who is this ''knight''? His intrigue about the outlander only grew. His fighting style is very unusual, just like that design of his helmet. It''s not the first time I''ve seen them...


    Suddenly, both Mavros and Cyprain put an end to their intense but fruitless offensive with front kicks that pushed them apart. They both panted slightly, recovering their energy. They never lost sight of each other.


    Damn, that was close. I did just what he wanted, Cyprain self-criticized, aware of his recklessness in abandoning his defensive strategy. I have to ignore his provocations. I''ll frustrate him, defend myself until he starts to tire and make mistakes. There''s nothing he can catch me off guard with anymore. He decided and reinforced his stance when he noticed the knight changing his slightly.


    He wasn''t exaggerating when he claimed he''d learned all the moves from my ¡±taka,¡± Mavros acknowledged. The most basic techniques of the Path of the Twin Suns won''t work against him anymore. But...


    Cyprain watched as Mavros closed in on him with a swift lunge and threw a punch at his face. The Holy Warrior reacted accordingly by raising his shield to protect his head and successfully parried it.


    He''s not ready for the rest.


    "Ugh!" Cyprain groaned in bewilderment. At the same time he parried that punch aimed at his face, the knight launched another equally powerful one at his unprotected abdomen with his other arm, which was enough to break the formidable guard he had maintained up until then.


    Seizing the opportunity created, Mavros assailed him with a rain of chained punches that pushed him back a couple of meters. The Holy Warrior managed to recover and stopped the remaining fists by covering himself with his shield, while with his other hand, he tried to counterattack with his axe in a lateral swing. Mavros avoided it by crouching and moving to the side. With an agile sweep, he took his opponent''s exposed leg and made him crash hard into the ground. Despite his daze, the Holy Warrior tried to get up quickly, but Mavros, using the remaining momentum from his sweep, jumped and performed an acrobatic somersault in the air.


    "Cyprain!" Docemin exclaimed, terrified.


    The knight landed with both legs on Cyprain''s body like a heavy rock, causing him to cough forcefully as his armor made a violent impact with the ground. His eyes widened in agony, leaving him on the brink of unconsciousness.


    Using him as a springboard, Mavros jumped and moved a couple of meters away, turning to face the Holy Warrior with his guard up.


    However, Cyprain didn''t get up.


    "He..."


    "¡­ won."


    The astonished crowd was still struggling to comprehend what had just happened. A significant portion of them had regained their faith in the twins'' victory after Cyprain''s promising start. Some couldn''t close their open mouths, others exchanged shrugs, and some even brought their hands to their heads in disbelief.


    "Tr¨¨s ben," Chatel Chatel thought aloud in his native language, more than delighted.


    A few others smiled, revealing their teeth, like Sheida. Even his father Ayman and his partner Jabir, who had remained on edge until then, allowed themselves to express their joy with closed lips.


    Even without Nefesh, his mastery in combat is so excellent that it becomes unsettling, Ayman thought, recalling several scenes from the past as he watched Mavros. He''s just like Shehor.


    On the other hand, Luciara watched him in quiet contemplation. She wasn''t really as surprised by his victory as the others, but it provided her with a satisfaction she could only suppress with the bitter memory of their recent and uncomfortable mishap.


    Seeing that his opponent had already given all he could offer, Mavros abandoned his stance and turned his back, proceeding to leave the arena with calm steps.


    "Cyprain!"


    Meanwhile, Docemin rushed past him. She anxiously moved to assist her fallen comrade.


    "Cyprain!" she said again, crouching down to support him. "Est que tu v¨¢ ben?" she asked in an agitated Grianzan, receiving no response. She urgently turned to several nearby soldiers. "Qu¨¦ fait vo¨²?! Aide mo¨¢ a l¨¦ deplac¨¦!" she shouted at them.


    They nodded timidly, ready to follow her command to help carry him.


    But¡­


    "What?"


    She and the rest of the spectators jumped in alarm, holding their breath. Suddenly, the Holy Warrior whom everyone had deemed out of the fight, like his twin, had gotten on his knees. His shoulders heaved as he breathed heavily.


    Perceiving his awakening with his ears, Mavros turned toward him. The knight shivered as he met the warrior''s eyes, filled with a dark determination that far surpassed that of his brother.


    "Cyprain!" Docemin called out to him, hoping to finally get his attention, but he completely ignored her, absorbed in the root of his distress.


    Driven by his basest instincts, he cast aside the few scruples he had. He was willing to break a fundamental rule of the Holy Warriors that not even the impetuous Renel had dared to disrespect.


    He raised his axe above his head. Whirling gusts of hurricane-like air swirled around the weapon.


    "It''s..."


    "Nefesh!"


    Fear spread among the spectators as they recognized the nature of this phenomenon, giving them good reason to worry for their lives. Many of them began to flee in disarray.


    Using eolic arts in a place like this, Mavros frowned, displeased by the undesirable extremes to which Cyprain was taking this confrontation. That wretch has lost his mind; he no longer cares about the people he is meant to protect. It''s what I wanted to avoid the most, but I''ll have to use Nefesh to prevent collateral damage. He concluded, determined to unleash the rest of his contained talents and put an end to this dispute once and for all.


    The unhinged twin raised his axe, poised to execute a devastating attack on the knight.


    Just as he was about to strike...


    "Ah!" He felt an overwhelming pressure grip his wrist and stop him dead in his tracks.


    The whirlwinds of wind dissipated instantly. Stripped of all his strength, he was forced to release the weapon.


    "Enough.¡± General Chatel Chatel whispered into his ear. Whispers that thundered in his mind like a deafening roar.

 C4-6: Stay at Our Home! An Unexpected Family Reunion

    Cyprain couldn''t move a muscle. He was seized by shivers induced by the voice that had just whispered inches from his ear: the voice of the individual who, with a simple gesture, had just quelled his most violent inner demons.


    Enough. His short but emphatic command continued to reverberate in his thoughts.


    ¡°Look!¡±


    ¡°It''s Man At Axes!¡±


    The crowd murmured in perplexity, pointing at the legendary Holy Warrior whose presence Cyprain had ignored until his intervention.


    ¡°Urmpf.¡± He emitted a faint growl, tense at the number of people using that nickname he detested. I''ll never understand how that idiocy of Renardin caught on so much¡­ He thought, wishing that his author and best friend, the very king of his realm, had never conceived it.


    Several soldiers from the crowd entered the arena and lined up in front of him.


    ¡°General!¡± They greeted him with a vigorous military salute.


    Mavros was dazzled by what was happening.


    General? He wondered. He shifted his gaze in different directions. Do... do they call him ''Ser ¡®Man At Axes¡¯''? Just like the General, the wandering knight couldn''t help but catch that nickname being pronounced by those present. His perceptive nature made him even more curious about the identity behind it.


    Chatel Chatel¡­ Jabir, Ayman, and his son Sheida recognized him, with faces reflecting a bittersweet reception. Directly and indirectly, they had crossed paths with his figure in the past.


    ''Man At Axes''?... What... what is my uncle doing here? Luciara wondered, quite intrigued. He was her uncle-in-law, but despite the ties he had with her family, years had passed without seeing him in person. His physical appearance hadn''t changed much since then.


    Accompanying the soldiers who maintained their salute, Docemin did her best to disguise her distress. She knew her superior wasn''t there to congratulate them. The Subliutenant barely managed to keep her pale hands from trembling as she noticed the General''s stern eyes settling on her before moving on to inspect the other troops in formation. Satisfied with their order, Chatel Chatel nodded lightly at them, indicating that they could lower their hands. Then, he released Cyprain''s wrist.


    The Lieutenant swallowed hard. Although he felt a great relief from the pressure that had been exerted on him, he remained immobilized by fear. Finally, he mustered up the courage, turning around to face him.


    He inclined his body forward in a gesture of submission.


    "General¡­" He said with embarrassment and lifted the visor of his helmet in a military salute, following the same protocol as the others.


    Just as he had done with them, Chatel Chatel signaled that he could finish it with a gesture. He gently removed his helmet, and after doing so...


    SMACK!


    Docemin and the rest of the soldiers held their breath. The General had just delivered a resounding slap.


    Stunned and intimidated, Cyprain merely lowered his head without uttering a single word.


    Chatel Chatel straightened up toward the Ayarian merchants. He walked towards them, passing by Mavros. "Are you the merchants whose goods were confiscated?" he questioned, coming to a halt a few steps away.


    The three nodded in silence.


    "Your permits, please."


    They proceeded to take them from their luggage to hand them over. The General collected each of their permits and examined them rigorously.


    Ayman Riaz, Jabir Mustafed... I remember these names, Chatel Chatel noted as he read them on their identifications. He cast a brief but suspicious glance at both of them. These men weren''t always wandering merchants.


    In the end, and despite this discovery, the General returned their papers without objections.


    "All three are valid," he informed them solemnly. "Now, show me your merchandise."


    With the same reluctance they had shown when demanded by his subordinates, each one opened their backpacks to show him the products they carried.


    They''re all ordinary jewels and crafts, Chatel Chatel confirmed upon examining them, which made him chuckle under his breath. Banks only keep coins. Even for inventing lies, those three have no subtlety.


    The Ayarians furrowed their brows. What''s so amusing? They wondered, wary of his laughter.


    But soon, the General stopped and regained his seriousness.


    "Everything is in order, thank you for your cooperation," he informed them. "I regret that you had to endure this embarrassment. I will take immediate action."


    They sighed with that verdict, but none held illusions about that last promise.


    "Thank you..." Ayman replied with a forced tone, denoting his reluctance to accept his help.


    Having verified what he wanted, Chatel Chatel turned quickly and left them.


    This ¡°Man At Axes¡± is a Grianzan Holy Warrior like those three, Mavros thought, watching the stern officer pass by him once again. The colors and motifs of his uniform made it more than evident. But despite his appearance, he speaks the Common Tongue fluently, and his attitude befits his position... What a difference.


    The General returned to his subordinates.


    "Sublieutenant Docemin Batrand, Lieutenant Cyprain Cotores," he called the two, still using the Common Tongue once more. He wanted everyone, Grianzan or not, to understand what he would say next. "Come here."


    Both obeyed without a word, stopping at a spot pointed by him.


    "You are detained for the crimes of false accusation, extortion, disturbance of civil order, and misuse of Nefeshic Arts," Chatel Chatel announced loudly. He turned to a group of soldiers. "Lock them up in the dungeons of this station."


    Stunned, Docemin and Cyprain watched as the soldiers who were once under their command cornered them to carry out the General''s order.


    "Neu pe pa¨² nou f¨¢ s¨¢!"


    "General!"


    Both pleaded in their language, in a desperate attempt to make him reconsider.


    But it was futile; they couldn''t disturb him.


    "Be patient. I''ll make sure you have your court-martial sooner rather than later," the General responded as they were escorted away.


    Some soldiers tried to grab and force them, but both refused, pushing them aside roughly, resigning themselves to walk toward their confinement willingly. When they were far enough, they threw fleeting but venomous glances over their shoulders at their superior, venting all their resentment for their punishment.


    "Lieutenant Renel Cotores is also under arrest," Chatel Chatel told other soldiers who were now free. "Keep an eye on him in the infirmary. As soon as he has recovered, reunite him with his cellmates," he ordered. He looked at the remaining subordinates who still needed instructions. "The rest of you, return to your usual guard duties."


    Everyone complied, bidding farewell with a short military salute before heading to their assigned destinations.


    I''ll think of a way to reward him, the General promised himself, watching the soldier who had informed him of the situation leaving with the infirmary group.


    However, his smiling lips soon closed into a serious expression.


    But I have to be cautious. If they find out he had something to do with it, those scoundrels will take it out on him. His satisfaction in enforcing the weight of the law landed abruptly as he faced the reality. Despite his significant authority in the kingdom as a veteran general and the strong case against his former students, he couldn''t claim victory just yet.This narrative has been purloined without the author''s approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.


    Chatel Chatel turned around, facing Mavros. The image of the wandering knight staring at him made him momentarily set aside his concerns. Eager to get to know him since he observed him in battle, he approached to engage him.


    He''s going to interrogate him. The Ayarian merchants and Luciara quickly deduced his intentions, arousing their suspicion.


    The young woman discreetly moved closer to the two.


    "Until recently, those officers were my students," the General told the knight. "Even their time at the university didn''t prevent them from tarnishing the reputation of the Holy Warriors with these disastrous acts. My apologies for having to deal with their recklessness."


    Mavros shook his head. "¡¯No matter how hard thou try to fill it, a jug with holes shall ever empty its contents,¡¯" he recited. "I know thee not well, Ser, but I would venture to suggest that the blame lies more in the attitude of thy former apprentices than in their training."


    Those eloquent words made the General smile. Given the knight''s calm and natural delivery, he sensed that he had no idea of who he was talking to, but Chatel Chatel was far from displeased by his ignorance.


    "To be honest, when I heard about what was happening here, I thought you were just as irresponsible as they were. But I was wrong; you knew perfectly well what you were doing. Just for that, you won''t be joining them in the dungeons," the General said. It was a veiled warning about the knight¡¯s daring actions, which skirted the edges of the law the officer was supposed to uphold.


    Chatel Chatel extended his right hand, open in a friendly gesture. Mavros gladly accepted his handshake.


    "Ser Chatel Chatel."


    "Ser Mavros of Havenfalls."


    Suddenly, Mavros let go of the handshake somewhat awkwardly.


    Damn. His blood ran cold as he realized the mistake he had just made.


    "I beg your pardon?" The General asked, raising an eyebrow.


    Luciara positioned herself beside the knight, redirecting Chatel Chatel''s attention toward her.


    "Ser Marlon of Amberfalls," she said, "correcting" Mavros. She made a slight bow to the general before continuing, "He is my escort."


    "Oh¡­" The general muttered. He fell silent; the girl''s face seemed very familiar, but try as he might, he couldn''t identify her. The last time he had seen her, she had been a child.


    Suddenly, he and the others turned, alerted by a series of strong and hurried steps approaching them. The author, a young man, quickly made his appearance, stopping among the remaining onlookers. He turned his head from side to side, surveying the surroundings.


    What a shame, it''s already over.


    He clicked his tongue, a bit disappointed at arriving too late, finding no trace of the action he had so eagerly anticipated.


    His eyes met the general''s.


    "P¨¦r!" the young man exclaimed in Grianzan upon spotting him. He rushed over. "General Chatel Chatel!" He quickly corrected his mistake, saving himself from one of the General¡¯s rebukes.


    "Gabran? Why are you here?" The General asked in the same language and accent, more puzzled than angry at his presence. "Shouldn''t you be still ''rehearsing''?"


    "I decided to leave the ''rehearsal'' for the afternoon, as we originally agreed. I couldn''t resist the urge to come investigate the commotion," Gabran replied with a playful smile that soon twisted into a curve of slight disappointment. "But it seems I came in vain. If you''re here, it means you''ve already got it under control... Uh?"


    The actor fell silent, spotting the knight, who was attentive to the conversation between father and son.


    A knight? Gabran wondered, admiring his bearing and armor just as his father had the first time he saw him. He doesn''t look like a Holy Warrior from the House of Lis. Then¡­ He blinked in disbelief. He struggled to convince himself that this character was here with them, not lying in a hospital bed after a humiliating beating. Impossible! Is this the one that soldier was talking about?


    However, his perplexity grew even larger as he looked at his companion. Absorbed, he gazed at Luciara for a few seconds.


    "Cou... Cousin?"


    "Huh?" The young woman was startled by the familial term he used, in a Common Tongue as proficient as his father''s.


    ¡®Cousin¡¯? Confused, Mavros alternated his gaze between the two.


    Luciara and they are family? Sheida wondered, just like his father and his friend. The three Ayarians stayed close, as intrigued to find out as the knight.


    Luciara delved a bit into her memories. Everything made sense.


    "Gabran?" She replied, as astonished as he was. Both were impressed by how much they had grown since the last time they had met.


    Chatel Chatel approached Luciara.


    "So much time..." He made a small bow. "You are not a child anymore, Lady Luciara." Although this unexpected reunion had been as unforeseen for him as for his son, his stern exterior and formality better concealed his surprise at seeing her again.


    What do I do now?


    Luciara smiled at them shyly, unsure of how to react. They were family, but for reasons beyond her control, they had become more distant to her than many acquaintances. For that reason, she had never planned to visit them during her stay in Netzach, even though she knew they lived in the city.


    Gabran dared to break the ice. He approached to give her a short but warm hug, which she reciprocated with some stiffness. Upon letting go, Gabran looked at her intently.


    "How, how have you been?" He asked, mimicking his father''s refined way of speaking.


    "I¡¯m good..." She replied.


    Gabran gave her a cheerful smile, understanding her cousin''s insecurity. He wanted to make her feel at ease.


    "Are you on holidays? Did you come for the Maskirian Week festivities?" He asked, looking at her luggage.


    "No, no." Luciara denied, somewhat embarrassed. Except for the Eh-Nam Tournament, she had never had much interest in their events and festivals. She wasn''t a very devout believer. "I came to take the admission exams at the University of Netzach."


    The admission exams were presented on Tarredi, the second day of the week in the Maskirian calendar. After the festivities, they were the main reason why young people like her visited the city in those dates.


    "Really? Do you want to go to the University?" Gabran asked, with a sparkle in his eyes. He knew firsthand the challenge of being admitted to the University of Netzach, even for its less demanding degrees.


    "What degree do you want to study?" Chatel Chatel followed, sharing his interest.


    "Bachelor''s in Nefeshic Martial Arts."


    Both men raised their eyebrows. Nefeshic degrees were not accessible to most of the population, but the degree in martial arts, essential to become a Holy Warrior, admitted the fewest students due to its rigorous physical and mental tests. Like her, many prepared throughout adolescence to pass them.


    "I see you haven''t changed your mind. Since you were little, you knew what you wanted." Gabran said. His past encounters with her could be counted on one hand, but if there was something about them that left an indelible mark on his memory, it was her passion for magic.


    "Where will you stay while you take the exams?" the General asked. "Have you already booked a place?"


    "Ah?... No, I don''t know yet," Luciara replied, a bit disoriented by the question. "I was thinking of looking for an inn near the university."


    Chatel Chatel projected a friendly expression, in line with the proposal he was about to make:


    "You don''t have to look for an inn. You can stay at our home."


    Luciara slightly opened her mouth, taken aback by this unexpected invitation.


    "Th... thank you, but it''s not necessary, really," she politely rejected. "I have enough money to pay for my own accommodation."


    The General was not dissuaded by that predictable excuse.


    "This is the peak season. Inns inflate their prices," he argued. "Besides, with all the travelers who have been arriving since yesterday, it will be hard for you to find vacancy."


    "Yes! You run the risk of ending up in some dodgy place!" added Gabran, supporting his father. "It''s better for you to stay with us. Our house is yours, Luciara."


    Luciara diverted her gaze and lowered it a bit, invaded by melancholy. "I doubt that my aunt would feel the same. I don''t want to inconvenience her," she said.


    Inconvenience...? Mavros wondered.


    ... to her aunt? Even the Ayarians, for whom the General was not entirely likable, were puzzled by the girl''s reasons for rejecting their offer.


    The faces of Gabran and Chatel Chatel became as serene as a sunset. Grasping the root of her reservations., they immediately understood what Luciara meant.


    "My wife would never confuse her relationship with your mother with the feelings she has for you," the General clarified. Between his wife and her sister, Menuha of Salamandera, there were deep, unhealed wounds. "She will be as delighted as we are to have you as our guest."


    "Especially Olivrin," added Gabran, regaining his cheerful expressiveness. "Since that time you showed us your ''tricks,'' you''ve inspired him to become ''the greatest wizard in the realm.''"


    "My cousin Olivrin?" Luciara asked with enthusiasm. Gabran nodded. "Does he like Nefeshic arts now?"


    "He''s obsessed," the actor joked. "There isn''t a day he doesn''t practice with his wand."


    Imagining her other cousin experimenting with beginner spells, just as she used to do at his age, brought a genuine smile to the young woman''s face.


    "So... What do you think, Lady Luciara?" Chatel Chatel asked. "Have you changed your mind?"


    The girl nodded. They had dispelled any doubts she had.


    "Alright. I''ll stay with you."


    Her uncle and cousin were pleased with that confirmation, as well as Mavros, who watched her with relief.


    The knight turned his neck, looking at the Ayarian merchants. They were waiting for him.


    Here we part. He returned his gaze to Luciara and her relatives.


    "I''m leaving," he informed them with a small and respectful bow. He looked at the General. "It hath been an honor to cross paths with thee, Ser Chatel Chatel. I can depart with the assurance that Lady Luciara is in capable hands."


    "Are you leaving?" the General asked, confused by his sudden farewell. "Aren''t you her escort?"


    "I was," Mavros clarified. "Our pact concludes at this very juncture, upon reaching Netzach"


    "¡¯Our pact concludes at this very juncture, upon reaching Netzach.¡¯" Luciara''s conscience mimicked his archaic words, bitter at how he finalized his irreversible decision to leave her.


    "I see," said Chatel Chatel. He stroked his beard. "But what if you accompany her a little longer? I invite you to have lunch with us."


    Not again¡­


    While he appreciated the General''s kindness, Mavros was not too enthusiastic about his proposal. What he initially planned as a solitary and personal journey was turning into one social gathering after another since he got involved with the Salamandera family. He didn''t dislike them; on the contrary, but he felt they were hindering him more than he wanted. They were becoming an obstacle, pulling him away from his true objectives.


    And to add to that, there was his desire to leave Luciara behind.


    "Thank you, Ser, but I doth regret I cannot accept," he said. "I have¡­ matters of import to attend unto."


    "Matters to attend unto?" the General inquired. "Where?"


    "Well..." He suddenly fell silent. His superficial knowledge of the city made it difficult to improvise. "Near the tournament arena¡­"


    "The Eh-Nam Coliseum," the General clarified. That was the only tournament arena in the city. "Do you know how to get there?" he asked, sensing his hesitation.


    Mavros fell silent once again. Frustrated for not finding a good lie to answer, he averted his gaze.


    "No," he admitted. "It''s my first time in the city¡­"


    "I can take you to the Coliseum," the General assured him. "But after drinking a glass of fine wine in my home, as you well deserve. Please, allow me to insist; I swear you won''t be disappointed."


    As much as he tried to refuse like Luciara, the knight couldn''t help but be persuaded by his hospitality. His curiosity to know more about this important character and his family, in addition to his ties with his former "prot¨¦g¨¦e," ultimately convinced him.


    "Very well¡­", Mavros said.


    Chatel Chatel celebrated; he had achieved his goal. He would take advantage of the opportunity to delve into one of the key pieces of a strategic game, then unsuspected even for his sharp intellect.


    A master plan whose final preparations were being completed at an accelerated pace.

 C5-1: Lady Jan! The Whispering Voice to the Throne of Grianz

    Straight lines stretched beyond the horizon, describing an intricate labyrinth with structures sprouting from the ground, as sublime as they were varied. An endless canvas whose wonders challenged the perfection of nature: the very divine creation. That painting was the capital city of Netzach as seen from the heavens, a privilege reserved exclusively for the birds and the ruler of the metropolis: King Renardin of Grianz.


    The crystal windows of the Royal Palace gifted him that beautiful perspective, which, nonetheless, was not enough to fill him with joy. He wore a somber expression that he only allowed himself to adopt in solitude; the only confidante to whom he revealed his vulnerability. The king sat on his throne, perched on a high platform surrounded by stairs on both sides, reinforcing his majestic aura.


    At his feet lay a wide circular space, with a mosaic depicting a white emblem in the center of its violet floor. Renardin lowered his gaze, observing that grand symbol with nostalgia. It portrayed in profile a robust creature surrounded by two laurel branches: a sort of armored beast with a large, flattened head wielding a horn, protruding above its snout like that of a rhinoceros. A round tuft of hair hanging from its forehead added a small touch of humor to an appearance that was otherwise fearsome.


    Beneath that creature, a short name was written in cursive letters.


    Lebias. The king read it in meditative silence. It was the name of the kingdom that had occupied this celestial palace for generations before his arrival. Despite the fact that, in essence, Lebias had ceased to exist, and Renardin ruled these lands in the name of his powerful motherland, Grianz, the monarch had left these and other vestiges untouched as a reminder of the roots of this place, which had become his second home since his youth.


    I have worked day and night to defend your legacy, the legacy of the Dragar dynasty. But I remain stuck, unable to restore your former glory.


    He was oppressed by a bitter helplessness that extended to his left hand, clenched into a tense fist. For a moment, he had the illusory sensation that his right hand was doing the same, but he only had to glance to where it should be to come back to his senses: he had lost it along with his forearm years ago. His eyes moved to his prosthetic arm, resting on his lap. The shiny finish of its metal and the beauty of its reliefs did not extinguish the disdain he felt for it. It was exceedingly uncomfortable to wear; he only forced himself to do so in public because the humiliation of exposing his pathetic stump to his subjects outweighed the inconvenience.


    ELKAN! CURSED BE YOU! He shouted inwardly, delivering a spiteful blow with his only fist to the left armrest of the throne. You have destroyed everything I love! You have seized our riches to hand them over to the heretics of the desert... But you will not set foot in the city you betrayed again! The king swore, draining all the hatred he felt for his greatest enemy. For him, the source of his greatest misfortunes. No matter how vile your cursed Nefesh has become, or how many puny heretics you have gathered under your command. You will never surpass the defenses of Najta. I still have Elvira and the Order of Lebias by my side, but you insist on challenging Renardin, provoking the sister homelands of Lebias and Grianz!


    The king turned his gaze back to the city. His brow furrowed even more.


    What is your plan, you puny Bunta? What does that damned ''Abiyr'' have to do with you? How do you intend to attack me this time, ''Mugnatir''?


    He tilted his head. In addition to the concern about this new threat, which he had not anticipated even in his worst scenarios, he had another older, but equally present concern.


    Half of Elvira... I only have the secure support of half of Elvira¡­


    This honest reminder increased his tension.


    Although all the Holy Houses of Elvira were bound by alliance on paper, it was quite fragile in practice, almost fiction. Divisions and low-profile rivalries had emerged over the years. Just as he had allies, Renardin had powerful opponents on the continent, and that angered him. If there was one thing he could not tolerate, it was his authority being questioned, both inside and outside his domains.


    Suddenly, he felt the end of his armrest vibrate slightly, bringing him back to the present. The king moved his hand and pressed a small plate beneath an oval gem of transparent crystal.


    "Your Majesty!" a voice emanated from small apertures between the gem and the plate of the armrest. "I apologize for interrupting your moment of reflection, but Lady Jan is here and wishes to speak with you," explained one of the palace servants. "She says it''s urgent."


    "Lady Jan?" the king responded, surprised. Lady Jan, his Minister of the Interior, must have a good reason to want to meet with such urgency. "Let her come up to see me. I''ll attend to her immediately."


    "Understood," the servant complied, cutting off the communication.


    The king returned to complete silence, carefully adjusting his prosthetic arm as he awaited his visitor with mounting anticipation. Then, he could hear the door to the throne room open and close beneath him; Lady Jan had just entered.


    With calm and measured steps, the Minister advanced to the center of the room and turned around, lifting her gaze to meet the king''s.


    "Your Majesty," the lady said, her voice deep but feminine, reflecting her character, as she curtsied to the king.


    "Good morning, my Lady." Renardin greeted her with cheerful gestures. He observed carefully as she began to ascend the stairs on the left side of the throne, immersed in a justified delight that had dispelled all his displeasures. She was a mature woman with fair skin, long black hair, brown eyes, and thin lips, charming like those of a feline. Her luxurious long dress, dark red with black floral motifs, accentuated her curvaceous figure.


    "You look stunning today," His Majesty praised.


    "I could say the same about you, my king," Jan replied, finishing her ascent, reciprocating his flirtation. "Your speech this morning was wonderful."


    With a slight blush on his cheeks, the king flashed a wide smile.


    "If I couldn''t lift the spirits of my people to the highest, I wouldn''t be worthy of being their rooster," the monarch responded, highly flattered. There was nothing that pleased him more than receiving compliments. However, he soon adopted a more serious demeanor. "But you haven''t sought to see me at this hour merely to ''boost my morale,'' have you?" he asked, bringing his hand to his beard in a thoughtful pose. "Tell me, have any issues arisen?"


    "No, everything is going perfectly," Jan denied, stopping to his right. She ran her hands along the backrest of the throne, lowering them to play with the king''s hair. "The military preparations are almost complete," the minister continued. "All the Houses have confirmed that they will send reinforcements, including Magnolia and Kornblume."Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there.


    "Magnolia and her lapdog Kornblume answering our call... It must be a miracle," the king said in a disdainful sarcasm. After Mugnatir, those two Houses were his other major political antagonists. "The ''Blessed'' better not spring any surprises on us. Even that damned father of his would have had the common sense to back us in the face of a high risk of Tarburian invasion."


    With a graceful turn, Jan straightened in front of the king, occupying his entire field of vision.


    "The Tarburian interference, precisely, that''s what I wanted to talk to you about, Your Majesty," she announced, adopting his same circumspection. "I have serious suspicions about what has happened in the Niespalian holdings. Significant doubts about what we''ve been told about that Abiyr appearing in Cirencre."


    Renardin blinked, puzzled by his advisor''s skepticism, recurring since the day the first reports arrived.


    "Are you still unconvinced? ... But Ser Janpelan of Salamandera came to confirm the rumors personally," he said. "As terrible as it may be, there is no doubt that it is real. The Tarburians are conspiring again; it seems the League will finally have a genuine excuse to unite again."


    "What I question is not the existence of this Abiyr or the likelihood of a Tarburian invasion, Your Majesty," she clarified. "The source of my doubts is precisely the Niespalian captain. I believe... he is hiding something from you."


    Perplexed, the king arched his eyebrows, taking a moment to collect himself.


    "Why, why do you have these thoughts?¡±


    The Minister took a few steps around him, never breaking eye contact with the monarch, who continued to follow her gaze.


    "Think about it. Doesn''t the ''arrest'' and ''escape'' of the Abiyr seem odd to you? How could he have gone completely unnoticed through the Niespalian territories since then?" she argued. She halted her steps to the left of the throne, touching her king''s hand gently as she brought her lips close to his ear. "As formidable and cunning as he may be, it''s impossible that he suddenly became invisible to the authorities overnight. Someone must have helped him hide."


    Renardin turned sharply toward her. Although Jan was his closest court advisor, he was not at all pleased with what she had just suggested.


    "I''ve known Ser Janpelan since the Nefeshic Wars. I wouldn''t say we''re friends, but I''ve shared enough with him to know he''s a trustworthy man," he reminded his Minister, increasingly at odds with her insinuations. "Why do you distrust him, a Holy Warrior from an allied kingdom?"


    A short but tense calm settled between them. Lady Jan turned her face toward the large windows of the room. The canvas of the capital city was the stimulus she needed to organize her thoughts.


    "Ser Janpelan told us that the Abiyr escaped from their dungeons while they were attacked, and since then, they never heard from him again. But very different versions circulate in inns and taverns," the lady explained. She returned her gaze to the king. "They claim that the Abiyr went to save the Niespalians from the corsairs. Some even dare to say that he remained in the city after the battle ended. Some claim to have seen him protected by Niespalian soldiers, soldiers led by their captain¡­"


    "Wait, wait," Renardin extended and opened his hand as a signal to stop. "Are you trying to say that, according to them, the Abiyr and Ser Janpelan became friends by the grace of Maskirio?... Hahaha!" The king erupted into loud laughter. Such tales sounded so ludicrous to him that they helped alleviate the displeasure caused by the serious accusations they implied. "Surely they also saw them out for drinks! Singing troubadour songs together!..." he exclaimed with playful irony, finishing his laughter. "You said it, my Lady, they''re just drunken tales with no rhyme or reason. I don''t understand why you''re giving them so much importance."


    "Most likely, they are just that, I agree, but it wouldn''t hurt to investigate," Jan replied. "You have always listened to the voice of the people; that''s what sets you apart from the other leaders of the League. Are you going to ignore it now just because it sounds absurd?"


    Those words prompted the king to respond with a cutting and disapproving silence. He was not receptive to such comments that questioned the symbol he was convinced he was for his kingdom.


    "I know you don''t like to hear criticism, but my job is to advise you on potential threats," the Minister continued, interpreting his thoughts accurately. "Ser Janpelan may have been one of your comrades in arms, but that doesn''t change the fact that he''s married to a Diklah. She could be manipulating him for some purpose."


    "As much as she is a Diklah, I remind you that his wife helped us regain the loyalty of the Order of Lebias and defeat the Mining Guild''s coup," the king rebutted, still on the defensive. "Without her, I might not still be sitting here."


    "But can you say the same about the rest of his family?" the minister replied, determined to persuade him. "After all these years, they still mock you. Even that insolent theater actor, their new ''adoption,'' is determined to follow tradition. It seems they weren''t satisfied with taming just that beast of Mugnatir."


    Those infamous mentions were a slap in the face for the king, who averted his gaze. His lips twisted into a grotesque grimace as he vividly recalled the faces of the Diklahs: one of the oldest and most influential clans in the region. The clan that raised his nemesis. The one that had adopted a Bunta, a member of the minority race inhabiting the "heretic empires of the desert," as one of their own. He cared little for their long history of suffering and slavery at the hands of the majority Ayarians. Since Mugnatir reunified the Sulfnats and became the first Khalsuf, the first supreme leader of Bunta blood in history, they all became the same scum to him.


    Lady Jan smiled slyly as she observed His Majesty immersed in his murky resentments. She was achieving what she intended.


    "It is true that General Or defended your divine right to the throne of Netzach when you needed it most, but remember, opinions can change," she said as she moved to sit on his lap, once again capturing his full attention. "It''s no secret that in recent years she has become more distant from our government. At best, it could be a simple and harmless dissatisfaction with your administration; at worst, she might be seriously considering conspiring against you, just as the rest of her clan did during the Mining Guild coup," she suggested. "That''s why you must order an investigation into her and all her closest associates to ensure as soon as possible. Nothing should be left untouched."


    Intoxicated by desire, the monarch held the lady''s right hip with his only hand, pulling her to merge her body with his.


    "You''re absolutely right," he agreed, smiling at her with a mischievous sensuality that she reciprocated. The two brought their lips close, about to merge them in a passionate kiss; another page in their long clandestine affair.


    However...


    "Ah?!"


    They both separated in mutual startle. Both had just heard someone else enter the room unannounced, closing the door hastily.


    As they recovered from the shock, they both lowered their gazes to identify the intruder. It was a man dressed from head to toe in a suit of fine white fabric, as delicate as silk. The fabric was covered by protective pieces of shining silver at vulnerable points on his limbs and chest. His mouth and nose were hidden by a mask of the same material, attached to a helmet with a curved and pointed top. The mask exposed only part of his deep-set brown eyes, mysterious like the rest of his appearance.


    The masked figure executed a silent bow to the king, who was too dismayed by his untimely visit to respond to the greeting.


    "Renardin. Your Majesty," he said with a firm yet calm voice, correcting his protocol lapse just in time. Even in private and among trusted individuals, his king demanded to be addressed by his titles. "I bring you a report. An arrest has just taken place at the Ahmal station."


    That simple clarification only served to further inflame the ruler''s temper. He expected that his "moment of reflection" had been disrupted for something much more exceptional.


    "An arrest? Are you an idiot?" he lashed out, forgetting all his manners. "Have you only come to tell me some trivial crap like that, Zeham?!"


    The harshness of his complaints did not faze "Zeham," who showed no sign of submission.


    "If it were trivial, I wouldn''t be foolish enough to be forced to disturb you, Your Majesty," assured the masked man, maintaining a calm composure, indicative of infinite patience. He briefly shifted his gaze between the monarch and the Minister. His mask concealed well his repulsion at the scene. He didn''t need to be a general of the Order of Lebias to deduce what kind of act he had interrupted. "And indeed, it concerns you, Lady Batrand."


    Jan furrowed her brow lightly; the masked man had just addressed her by her marital surname. She was equally annoyed by the unwanted presence of the visitor and his attitude, but at the same time, she felt genuine curiosity about the news he had reserved for them.


    "Sublieutenant Docemin Batrand of the Grianzan army, your daughter," he finally conveyed, emphasizing visually on Lady Jan before returning it to the king, "has just been arrested at the Ahmal station along with Lieutenants Cyprain and Renel Cotores, sons of your general Maxilan Cotores, on charges of false accusation, extortion, disturbance of civil order, and improper use of nefeshic arts. General Chatel Chatel has personally ordered their confinement in the station dungeons, awaiting their court-martial."

 C5-2: This time nothing will stop me! The Prelude to the Desert Conspiracy

    Luciara of Salamandera and Ser Mavros of Havenfalls¡ªunder the new identity of Ser Marlon of Amberfalls¡ªwere guided by General Chatel Chatel and his son Gabran. The four of them exited together through the gates of the Ahmal station.


    Immediately, the wandering knight was overwhelmed by the grandeur of Netzach''s architecture, palpable at every corner. Countless monumental towers could be seen from their location, ascending with ambition. Even from there, its Royal Palace stood out, dwarfing all others.


    ¡®The city that touches the skies,¡¯ he recited inwardly, enchanted with each new work he observed during the journey amidst crowds of perpetually moving pedestrians. That nickname is not just a metaphor...


    Chatel Chatel looked down at him with smiling lips. He identified with his reaction¡ªit was the same one he had in his youth when visiting the city for the first time.


    ¡°Indescribable, isn''t it?¡± he said, not stopping his stride. ¡°Everyone feels small the first time they visit Netzach. Not even the capitals of the great realms of Elvira can match its splendor.¡±


    ¡°It''s a unique gem in the world¡± Gabran added, with the pride of someone who was raised there. ¡°An untouched testament to the legendary times of the Holy Rebellion.¡±


    Mavros nodded in approval, quickly becoming absorbed again in the surrounding engineering. His designs and geometries, simple yet with a pervasive harmony, were a feast for his eyes.


    ¡®An untouched testament to the Holy Rebellion¡¯... Yes, it sure is. Mavros reflected solemnly. The general''s words sparked the strongest reason behind his interest in the city. It''s the only Tarburian city in this world that survived its war. Despite being rebuilt as a surrender gift to humanity, it supposedly still bears marks of the fierce battle Maskirio fought within its walls...


    The knight turned to the side, noticing the Ayarian merchants, the men who had been his companions until then, waving their goodbyes as they departed to take separate paths. Mavros returned the gesture with equal enthusiasm. Although he had bid them farewell shortly after accepting the General''s invitation, he was already beginning to miss them, especially Sheida, the boy who made his brief stay behind bars more bearable. He was aware that fate would hardly be as generous as to bring them together again.


    Meanwhile, Luciara remained attentive to the journey. She knew the city well, so she could envision the itinerary her uncle had planned, but she couldn''t quite recall the direction of their final destination.


    ¡°Ser Chatel Chatel, where was your home?¡± she inquired.


    ¡°In the Minye Mesho district. We''ll take Yatuv''s hashlit to get there.¡± He replied calmly. ¡°And you can call me uncle, or Charlen if you prefer.¡±


    Uncle Charlen?! Gabran opened his mouth in bewilderment. For a moment, he thought he had misheard. ¡°What happened to the golden rule of ¡®only address me by my titles or last name in public¡¯?¡± he teased his father irreverently. ¡°Aren¡¯t you going to impose it on Luciara like you do on me and Olivrin, ¡®Daddy Charlen¡¯?¡±


    ¡°Urmpf.¡± General Charlen Chatel Chatel grunted weakly, pretending to be annoyed. ¡°As a family guest, your cousin is a special exception.¡±


    Just because she''s a ''family guest''... Yeah, right. Not convinced at all, the young man shook his head amid playful gestures.


    As serious as his father might be, it was undeniable that, like many men, he had a more indulgent side for fair ladies like his cousin. Gabran exchanged smiles with her before fixing his always cheerful face ahead.


    He''s still the same Gabran I knew, Luciara judged, continuing to regard him with sympathy. And he''s become even more handsome than he already was.


    However, her delight was fleeting. She lowered her head, lips forming a slight curve of insecurity.


    I wonder if Aunt Dana will be equally happy to see me..., she pondered. As much as they both assured me it won''t be a problem, I can''t fully trust it. There must be a reason why both families have been isolated for so many years. What happened between her and my mother that they can''t even meet? To this day, I haven''t been able to uncover it; she has always avoided the topic.


    Returning to the present, she realized they were approaching the "hashlit" stop her uncle had mentioned, the next vehicle they would use for their short journey. It was quite simple, consisting of a rectangular platform in the middle of the street, with a roof and a transparent glass wall that had open-air seating.


    The group joined the other people waiting peacefully. The presence of the General and the knight left few indifferent, although most maintained a prudent distance.


    ¡°The next ¡®hashlit¡¯ will arrive soon,¡± informed the general, glancing at a board with a dark screen clock and clock hands shaped like bluish halos, with the destination name: Royal Palace, beneath it.


    ¡°Forgive mine unknowing, but what is a hashlit?¡± Mavros asked, disoriented since he heard that word for the first time. Although he considered himself well-versed in such contraptions, unusual in his place of origin, he didn''t recall ever reading about this particular one. He noticed straight and parallel grooves carved into the ground beside the platform, which gave him the impression of rails. ¡°Is it some kind of ¡®sobbah¡¯?¡± he inquired.


    ¡°Exactly,¡± the general confirmed.


    ¡°It''s essentially a ¡®sobbah¡¯, but much smaller¡±, Gabran affirmed. ¡°You''ll see it soon.¡±


    "?Hm?"


    The knight''s attention shifted to a pair of soldiers busy a few meters away, fixing what appeared to be a couple of posters on wall panels. The knight approached them, curiosity ablaze. Just as he reached their position, the soldiers left after finishing their task, allowing him to see the posters.


    INAN?! He nearly fell backward. They were wanted posters in the Common Tongue and Grianzan about a knight with sinister black armor, like a moonless night; his prominent bull-like horns on the helmet and his long narrow-bladed saber being his most distinctive features.


    The knight read silently the text around the portrait:


    "WANTED DEAD OR ALIVE


    ¡°Malcoros Shaolyalls ¡ª 100 gold coin reward.


    ¡°Spotted on Friday, April 26, 1099, in the capital city of Cirencre in the Niespalian Viceroyalty of Najta. Author of an attack on a Niespalian garrison and its captain, Ser Janpelan de Salamandera. Despite being defeated and arrested by them, he managed to escape their dungeons shortly after. Suspected to be the perpetrator behind the Ashaim outbreak in the city of Hezaran the following day. His actions may be part of a new Tarburian conspiracy to invade Najta, so there is a high probability he remains in these lands. If seen or if you know his whereabouts, report immediately to the nearest authorities and receive a reward of 100 gold coins for his successful capture. For your safety, avoid any direct contact with him at all costs.


    ¡°...


    "Extremely dangerous. If seen or if you know his whereabouts, avoid any direct contact for your safety. Report it to the nearest authorities with the utmost urgency, and you will be rewarded with 100 gold coins.¡±


    The final paragraph was written with larger letters highlighted with darker ink: a summary for lazy readers without the incentive to read the full case of the fugitive.


    That sword and armor don''t resemble mine at all. Even my knight''s name isn''t correct. This is a mess... How can this profile be so inaccurate? The wandering knight criticized, more disgusted by that than the fact that his story was now known there, officially making him an enemy of justice.


    He felt someone standing beside him and, turning his head, found Luciara. Just like him, the announcement left her stunned.


    ¡°The Abiyr of Cirencre.¡± They heard the General''s voice behind them, prompting them to turn around. He and Gabran joined the two. ¡°We thought it was the invention of some troubadour desperate for attention, but just yesterday your father came to confirm everything in person, ¡± Chatel Chatel explained, looking at Luciara. ¡°Before you arrived this morning, His Majesty Renardin publicly ordered his search and capture.¡±


    I knew it. Only he could have invented these inaccuracies to help you blend in even more, Luciara thought, giving the knight a brief and sharp glance. Then, she returned her eyes forward, suppressing her urge to smile. Her relief turned into unease as she delved into the implications of those actions. I hope you know what you''re doing, Father. If they find out you''ve lied, you''ll get into big trouble. Because of that, you could be charged with treason.


    ¡°Were you in Cirencre when it happened, Luciara?¡±


    Gabran''s question snapped her out of her small reverie.


    ¡°When the Abiyr appeared? Yes... Yes, I was there,¡± she replied, momentarily silenced by nerves as she pondered her next responses. ¡°I didn''t see anything, but the word spread quickly. She lowered her gaze after that lie, wearing a face of mild distress, a feeling wavering between falseness and genuineness. ¡°Then those corsairs attacked us. It was a terrifying day¡­¡±


    The General and his son remained silent, wearing an understanding expression.


    ¡°It had to be,¡± Chatel Chatel finally replied, ¡°Your father was very brave. Even the greatest generals of the Holy Houses would think twice before challenging an Abiyr in single combat. He not only dared to do it, but defeated him.¡± He looked away for a moment, tilting his head in a gesture of disappointment. ¡°It''s a shame the Abiyr took advantage of the corsairs'' looting to escape arrest, but that misfortune was beyond Ser Janpelan¡¯s control, and in any case, he exemplarily fulfilled his duty to repel the sackers.¡± He paused briefly. ¡°You should be very proud of him. I''m sure he''ll be rewarded with a promotion.¡±


    Luciara nodded in silence, forcing a smile of approval. She admired her father despite their family disagreements, but deep down, she wished she could correct her uncle and boast the truth: she was the one who truly "defeated" the fake "Abiyr." Also, she couldn''t deny that the true hero of the battle against the corsairs had been him: her false bodyguard.


    ¡°By the way¡­¡± Gabran addressed Mavros. ¡°How come..?¡±


    A constant sound interrupted his question. Turning in its direction, they saw a machine approaching, crawling along the adjacent rails.


    The hashlit. Mavros recognized it. He understood the reason for the vague description he received from his hosts.


    Indeed, it was a cylindrical, streamlined surface train like the sobbah, but much shorter and narrower; it would barely have the capacity for around 100 people at best during a peak hour.


    The hashlit honked a couple of times before smoothly stopping next to the platform at the stop. Its doors opened, letting several passengers disembark.


    ¡°Let''s go.¡± The General signaled to his companions, joining the crowd that proceeded to board the vehicle.


    ***


    ¡°Not only did the two of them fight against you at the same time, and you defeated them, but you also did it barehanded...¡±


    Gabran recapped the brawl story at the Ahmal station, which the knight shared after the actor insisted on hearing it from him and his father. They and the others were seated together, occupying a row of side seats on the moving train. It had been about ten minutes since they boarded at the stop.


    ¡°What a shame I arrived too late to see it,¡± the young man said, genuinely admiring the warrior he had just met. ¡°I never thought someone would give those three idiots what they deserved. You must be quite skilled, Ser Marlon!¡±


    ¡°Ah?¡± Mavros looked intrigued. ¡°Art thou acquainted with them?¡±


    ¡°Of course,¡± Gabran affirmed. ¡°Those identical twins are the sons of General Maxilan Cotores from the Holy House of Lis, and the girl with them is the daughter of Jan Batrand, the Interior Minister of the kingdom of Grianz.A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.


    Is that prick the daughter of the Minister of the Interior? Luciara, who until then hadn''t paid much attention to the conversation, turned abruptly towards them, just as interested as the knight in hearing more.


    ¡°All three are more or less "popular" around here. I saw them several times when they were studying at the University of Netzach. Last year, one of the twins made it to the semifinals of the Eh Nam tournament... Cyprain, if I''m not mistaken,¡± Gabran continued narrating. ¡°As you noticed, what they have in talent for Nefeshic martial arts, they lack in decency, just like their parents. They''ve always boasted of their dubiously earned status to do as they please, of course, trampling over anyone they fancy.¡±


    Mavros frowned.


    ¡°Dubiously earned?¡± He inquired. What he witnessed at the station was enough to give him an infamous image of the three, but the claims of Chatel Chatel¡¯s son convinced him that the way he dealt with them was right.


    ¡°Their parents have gotten where they are due to an... ¡®overflowing devotion¡¯ to His Majesty, more than anything else¡­¡± Gabran explained ironically, inspecting his surroundings before turning to the knight with the same seriousness. ¡°They''re corrupt to the core. I won''t lie to you. I''m a little worried about what they might do when they find out their children have been arrested.¡±


    Though he refrained from participating, his father hadn''t missed a second of the conversation since it began.


    Gabran has good reasons to be concerned. Dealing with those rats, especially that witch, is going to be a headache, but I couldn''t let this go unpunished, he thought, contemplating the floor, reflecting on it with crossed arms. He raised his gaze, shifting it towards the knight and Luciara. That''s why it''s crucial that they stay with me; that way, I can protect them better. Fortunately, he has given me a trump card in case I have to save him from their reprisals.


    The train began to decelerate gently, indicating its arrival at a new stop that was beginning to come into view. The general proceeded to stand up; Gabran followed shortly after.


    ¡°This is our stop,¡± Chatel Chatel informed his guests, still seated. It wasn''t the first stop they passed during the journey. ¡°We get off here.¡±


    Luciara and Mavros proceeded to leave their seats to accompany them. As soon as the hashlit stopped, its doors opened, letting them out without further delay. Like a gallery of oil paintings, beautiful buildings of various styles and lush gardens spread around them as they walked through the streets of Minye Mensho, the residential sector where the general''s home was located. They entered a commercial street, with open shops for groceries, clothing, and other common items.


    Suddenly, they heard what seemed to be an argument among the crowd nearby.


    "Hm?"


    Chatel Chatel stopped and turned his neck towards its origin, catching a familiar sight that Gabran had already noticed: a trio of men armed with axes and sheathed short swords, surrounding a merchant in his open-air shop. All three wore blue bandanas on their foreheads and a ribbon of the same color on their right arms, with an emblem of a regal white helmet surrounded by laurel leaves: the profile of Eh Nam, the city''s greatest hero. Although their rough and casual clothing ruled out any affiliation with a security force, they stood authoritatively in front of the man they were addressing.


    ¡®Rings.¡¯ Chatel Chatel frowned. He knew what they were and the stories of incidents they often caused.


    Mavros and Luciara turned in the same direction their hosts were watching, understanding their sudden tension. The General and the knight remained alert, hands near the hilts of their weapons, waiting for the slightest sign of a false move from the men to stand up and act.


    ¡°You better not get smart next time,¡± one of the Rings said to the merchant in a haughty attitude as the latter handed them some coins.


    ¡°If you skip the protection tax and disrespect the ¡®fair prices¡¯ again, you know what will happen to you. Puny snake,¡± threatened another.


    The merchant had no choice but to nod submissively as he also handed them bags of food. Satisfied with their intimidation, the three armed individuals took their loot and left the premises. They disappeared around the corner of a nearby street.


    Seeing that the danger had dissipated, Chatel Chatel withdrew his hand from his sword. Mavros followed suit shortly after.


    ¡°Let''s go.¡± The General said, signaling to his companions that they could continue.


    The group remained in an uncomfortable silence.


    ¡°Who were those men adorned with azure bandanas?¡± asked Mavros as they moved, breaking the ice. ¡°They appeared of dubious intent.¡±


    ¡°Not only do they appear, they are,¡± Gabran replied, visibly upset by what they had witnessed. ¡°You''ve just met the fearless ¡®Rings of Eh-Nam,¡¯ one of His Majesty Renardin''s brilliant ideas. ¡®Guardians of the people for the people,¡¯ if they can be called that and not petty thugs licensed by the Grianzan state,¡± he explained. "¡¯Sons of Eh-Nam for a fairer and safer Netzach,¡¯" he pronounced, mocking the voice and gestures of his king.


    Once he made sure the men were no longer nearby, Chatel Chatel joined the conversation.


    ¡°They are the ¡®brilliant idea¡¯ of Minister Batrand. His Majesty only approved it,¡± he corrected his son. He knew the story of their origin better than anyone. ¡°They answer directly to her and her collaborators. Those three were busy harassing that merchant, so I doubt they were following us. In fact, I don''t even think they saw us, but we must be very careful from now on,¡± he assured, addressing his guests. ¡°She might use them to spy on you.¡±


    Both visitors shuddered at this new signal that something was definitely not right; not only with that city, but with the kingdom to which it belonged.


    Is that Minister so immoral as to employ thugs?


    This could be more serious than I thought...


    The faces of the young aspiring Holy Warrior and the wandering knight turned grave, unable to be enchanted by the surrounding beauty. They found it hard to recognize it, but Gabran and the General''s revelations were filling them with uncertainty. Especially Luciara. She had heard rumors in the past about the questionable authorities of the city, but never imagined that she would ever confirm them and, moreover, run the risk of being harmed by their misdeeds.


    ¡°By thy pardon, Ser Chatel Chatel, if those ''Rings'' be deemed disgraceful, why didst thou not halt their course?¡± Mavros inquired.


    ¡°Because I couldn''t this time,¡± he replied, shaking his head in contained frustration. ¡°As I told you, the Rings are recognized by His Majesty, and those three were just enforcing his ¡®fair pricing¡¯ law; a law of dubious effectiveness and foundations, but a law nonetheless. They weren''t doing anything illegal.¡±


    Chatel Chatel struggled to improvise a false sense of security. The discomfort of his guests was becoming increasingly evident. He didn''t want to keep burdening them with the murky political affairs of his kingdom. He had to do something about it.


    ¡°Please, don''t be distressed. While you are under our roof, no one in this city will lay a finger on you,¡± he reassured them both. He looked at Mavros. ¡°The Batrands and Cotores are the ones who should be worried about their crimes, not you for having the courage to thwart them, Ser Marlon. I will make sure they face the consequences.¡±


    Shortly after saying that, he stopped at the gate of a particular house, with ornamental spikes shaped like the fleur-de-lis. Behind it was a small but well-kept garden: the green carpet crossed by a path leading to two stories of neat cream-colored bricks, arched ochre windows, and a gable roof of the same shade. A simple but charming example of traditional Elvirean architecture.


    ¡°We have arrived,¡± Chatel Chatel announced. He took a key from the jacket of his uniform and inserted it into a lock on the gate, which he turned to open and push its door, allowing him and the others to enter the path of the courtyard.


    They stopped in the middle, drawn by someone else who was there, so absorbed in what he was doing that he had not been disturbed by their arrival.


    It was his second son: Olivrin. Standing still with his feet on the grass, he pointed his wand at a rock, calculating with absolute concentration the sequence of a spell he was about to practice.


    Eolic Art: Invisible Ha...


    ¡°Olivrin!¡±


    Hearing his older brother call him made his progress vanish in an instant.


    "Gabran?" Taken by surprise, Olivrin turned quickly, finding Gabran immediately.


    ¡°You''ve been practicing away from the windows as I told you,¡± added his father. He smiled with closed lips. ¡°Very well. You didn''t forget this time.¡±


    The boy quickly went to them.


    ¡°Dad? Gabran?¡± he said, disoriented, alternating his gaze between the two. He had not expected to see them again so soon. ¡°Why did you come back so early? It must barely¡­¡± His questions changed completely when he noticed his companions behind them.


    Luciara attracted more of his attention, even more than the wandering knight. Like his father and brother, her face was familiar from the first moment, but it was hard for him to recognize her.


    ¡°Cousin...?¡± he said, locking eyes with her, reflecting as much curiosity as his. ¡°Is it... Is it you?¡±


    She nodded warmly. Without hesitation, the boy gave her a tight hug, which she reciprocated with equal enthusiasm.


    ¡°How have you been, Olivrin?¡± She asked when they let go.


    ¡°Great! And you, Luciara?¡± Olivrin answered. Immediately, he made a clumsy bow, as if correcting a serious mistake. ¡°Sorry. I meant, and you, Lady Luciara.¡±


    Luciara chuckled at his forced but innocent gesture of chivalry, a product of his nerves. ¡°Relax. Many years have passed, but we are still family. We don''t have to worry about following those formalities to the letter,¡± she clarified kindly.


    The two men smiled, pleased with the young woman''s attitude.


    Olivrin remained still, head down. He was paralyzed by the emotion of having one of his greatest childhood inspirations before him again.


    ¡°And... why have you come to visit us, cousin?¡± he asked shyly, raising his gaze after a short silence. ¡°I thought... that we would never see you and my uncles again...¡±


    The illusion of having overcome the reluctance for that visit collapsed in her after those words.


    ¡°Honestly, I doubted it too¡­¡± she murmured, avoiding Olivrin''s eyes.


    After all those years, she could tell that he hadn''t forgotten the last meeting both families had had, with an outcome that was far from pleasant. The boy touched his neck, regretting having asked the question. Not knowing what to say to move past this uncomfortable moment, he became distracted by someone he had overlooked until then: Mavros. With cautious steps, he approached the wandering knight, examining him carefully from head to toe.


    The knight extended his right hand in a gesture of friendship.


    ¡°Olivrin, this is Ser Marlon of Amberfalls, Luciara¡¯s escort.¡± His father introduced him.


    A bit hesitant, Olivrin accepted his handshake.


    ¡°Greetings to thee, Olivrin,¡± the knight said as their palms touched.


    ¡°His escort?¡± Olivrin asked his family, unable to take his amazed eyes off him.


    ¡°That''s right, and he''s not your average bodyguard,¡± Gabran said, enthusiastic to share his story, which he found more fascinating than the knight''s appearance itself. He shifted his gaze towards their home. ¡°We''ll tell you now. We need to let our mother know we have visitors.¡±


    The General led the way, moving towards the door of the house. He stopped a few steps from it, drawn by wisps of smoke coming out of one of its open windows.


    Four Colors. Its delightful fragrance was soon caught by his nose, which perfectly identified its origin: the spices from one of the local dishes of the region. His wife''s best culinary specialty.


    ¡°What are you standing there for?¡± he said to the group, looking at them over his shoulder with a radiant face. If anything was certain, it was that they would enjoy a lunch that touched the skies, just like that city. ¡°Let''s go in.¡±


    ***


    A trio of letters were held by hands, their complexion smoked like the strongest coffee. Seated on his sandstone throne, the owner flipped through them one by one with great readiness.


    He read in silence each one of them:


    ¡°The third fleet from Moruk is already in Likitia, ready to converge with the first. We will set sail from the port at sunrise.


    ¡°The tenth and seventh infantry divisions of Basiyah, the Bunta Legion, and all units of the Rerpia Beast Legion have answered your call without fail. We will march at dawn under my command.


    ¡°Our assets will finish reporting today. As soon as you execute the operation, they will be at your disposal. For now, we haven''t received any more signs from the Abiyr, but the few clues we have suggest it headed to Netzach, which would be ideal for us. We will continue investigating.¡±


    After finishing his review, he set them aside without letting go.


    "Baharen and Rayishar will mobilize between today and tomorrow. Our ''partners'' are dressing Netzach up to welcome us. Everything is going as I have planned," he announced to his viewers in the room, with an arrogant smile that betrayed his full confidence. Those guests were Ramilah, Ruk, and Babol, three of his five Sahirons, his best warriors and generals, standing firm before his throne awaiting his next words. The next words of Mugnatir, the Khalsuf of the Sulfnats, the supreme leader of the confederation of realms in the vast Ayaria desert.


    Ramilah took a step forward.


    "The plan is promising, but I have to say, I have doubts about some of your decisions, Mugnatir," the woman expressed, "Ibad has proven to be a competent marine captain, but he lacks the experience to lead an entire fleet, let alone two. And Rayishar, as much as he is the most veteran among us, is not someone you can trust to hand those divisions to. You still have time to replace them today with more suitable officers."


    Mugnatir stretched his smile a bit, not letting himself be disturbed by these questions, which nevertheless were reasonable.


    "Exactly, Ramilah, I did it on purpose. I want to test them, see what each of the two is capable of," he explained. He placed the letters on one of the armrests. "Anyway, their roles are the most secondary. Their performance will have minimal impact on the rest of the operation. Mine, ours, is what really matters." He made a small pause. He frowned. "I understand your concern with Rayishar, but I am keeping a close eye on him, that''s why I sent the Bunta Legion with him. If he tries any foolishness that could compromise us, they will take care of putting him in his place... with their spears stirring his entrails."


    As powerful as his already formidable voice was, it was not enough to satisfy everyone.


    Babol was the next to step forward.


    "And what about our ''partners''?" he lashed out. "Can we be sure they won''t betray us? This ''help'' could be more of a perfect trap."


    Mugnatir rose from his throne, confronting him with authority.


    "All of them want to see Renardin and his allies bite the dust as much as we do. If anything, they have proven since they contacted us that their actions back up their words."


    Ruk joined his comrades.


    "But do you really believe you can also count on your old ¡®masters¡¯?" he challenged. "What if they change their minds and decide to save Renardin''s ass once again? Just like that whore Or did when you were about to kill him in the Nefeshic Wars... and when the infidels themselves tried to overthrow him later... Why don''t we just eliminate them now to make sure they won''t give us any trouble?"


    Accursed fool!


    The red dot of Mugnatir''s artificial eye flashed intensely. It wasn''t just the sly comments of his subordinate that angered him, but the distant memories and concerns they unearthed.


    Ruk would regret using that tone. Like a lamb caught with an invisible lasso, Mugnatir pulled him towards him without any physical contact with astonishing ease, making only a sharp gesture with his right hand.


    "They will cooperate; they will have to, or they will regret it. But Or will be the only exception. I will kill her myself, whether she surrenders or not." Mugnatir assured Ruk, inches from his face.


    The subordinate struggled not to look intimidated by this small display of his master''s powers, which he moderated to contain his desire to lift him by the neck and thus drain his anger more quickly.


    After calming down a bit, Mugnatir stepped away from him to address the others.


    "I didn''t summon you just to waste time with trivialities you should have anticipated. You are here to train," he informed. "I no longer have anything to fear from our enemies with my new ''mitelos'' and ''witashlas,'' but I still cannot be everywhere like Senshan. Baharen and Rayishar may enjoy that luxury, but neither you nor I can afford a margin of error."


    The three nodded in unison. They might disagree with Mugnatir''s eccentricities, but they took equally seriously the great challenge they would have to overcome together; their shared dream: the takeover of Netzach.


    Mugnatir took the lead. Before leading them to their training grounds, he stopped at the table in the room, admiring the clear sky on the horizon through its large windows. His determination ascended to them like another ray of light.


    Renardin, this time nothing will stop me. Not even the Order of Lebias.

 C5-3: Take Me to the Royal Palace! His Majestys Urgent Summons

    A woman held a ladle firmly, slowly stirring the contents of a pot. Its steam rose like a ghostly silhouette.


    It''s ready. She assesed the stew beneath her with her sense of smell: a thick mass of purple beans simmering in their own broth. She turned her head, observing two similar pots placed on a wooden counter, one with white rice and the other with a red meat stew respectively, both emitting equally delightful aromas.


    Covering her hands with a cloth, she lifted the container by its handles to detach it from the iron burners of her stove and placed it next to the others. The woman wiped a few droplets from her forehead with her cloth before resting her hands on her waist, pleased with the result. She finally completed the most laborious part of the dish she had been preparing all morning.


    Glancing at the burners, still glowing red from the residual heat of a source hidden behind the rustic bricks of the stove, she began to plan her next tasks.


    Now, all that''s left is...


    KNOCK KNOCK


    A couple of small knocks on her home''s door distracted her from her chores. Someone opened it, moving with calm steps to stand behind her.


    "Four Colors." She could hear him saying behind her.


    Charlen? By his voice, she didn''t need to turn around to realize it was her husband.


    "Exquisite, as always." He continued, praising her culinary talent.


    As she turned, she was met with his understated but warm smile, his most characteristic display of affection.


    "And what about you? Did ''His Majesty'' wake up in a good mood today and give you the day off?" she asked somewhat ironically. Although she was happy to have him at home, his unusual presence at this hour intrigued her equally. "I swore you''d arrive much later, given how occupied you''ve been with the preparations for the Maskirian Week¡­ and what has happened since Ventodi." She moved closer to him, adopting a more serious expression. "Tell me, has more information arrived? Does ''she'' know anything more about it?"


    She interrupted her words as she noticed how her children, Gabran and Olivrin, appeared and joined their father, followed almost immediately by a couple of companions.


    "Mother. We have visitors." Gabran announced, introducing Luciara and Mavros with noticeable enthusiasm.


    The young girl''s eyes met her aunt''s. The gleam of Dana¡¯s emerald irises, as vivid as her mother''s, made Luciara quickly avert her gaze with slight embarrassment.


    Although she lacked that distinctive trait of her family, the Diklah, she took much less time than her children and husband to identify the young girl as a member of the same clan. With her mouth slightly open, still convincing herself she wasn''t dreaming, she moved with slow steps until she stood in front of her niece.


    For a few seconds, she silently regarded her like a solemn sculpture.


    "Luciara!" Finally, her aunt caught her with a strong, warm hug, the surprise preventing her from returning it. "Heavens! How much you''ve grown, girl!" she exclaimed, having to raise her hand a bit to her forehead to measure her height. "And how beautiful you''ve become!"


    Luciara simply gave her a nervous smile, still struggling to assimilate her jovial character, which remained just as she remembered.


    Of all things, you had to inherit that from ''her'' too¡­ Her aunt managed to conceal an inevitable envy, comparing their contrasting figures with a smiling expression as artificial and unsettling as a porcelain doll''s.


    Is this woman Luciara''s aunt? Lady Menuha''s sister?¡­ Mavros wondered for a moment, appreciating her with understandable bewilderment. Her childlike appearance, emphasized by her short stature and slender build, paled in comparison to the majestic and more mature Lady Menuha. However, her delicate features, the ashy blond tone of her hair, and the magnetic emerald eyes she shared with her, immediately dispelled any doubts about their relationship.


    "Ser Marlon." The General''s voice brought him back to reality. He touched him gently on the shoulder and nudged him a bit toward his wife. "Allow me to introduce my wife, Lady Dana."


    The knight made a slight bow. The petite lady extended her arm, inviting him to a handshake, which he promptly reciprocated.


    "Ser Marlon of Ha, Amberfalls. Pleased to make thy acquaintance."


    After sharing his full "name," they separated, but Dana did not take her eyes off him. She appeared as captivated as the rest of her family by the sublime appearance of his armor.


    She raised her eyebrows a bit, noticing subtleties that had escaped the others.


    That slight gleam, that shade of gray... It''s painted with dinachrome¡­ Although she never specialized in it as much as her sister, she also knew Ramij well, the nefeshic art of touching up and restoring materials, preserved by their clan for generations. The appearance of an object that had been treated with dinachrome, its secret substance capable of changing color when stimulated with Nefesh, was unmistakable. It was a service that was only offered in exchange for a hefty sum of money unless the client was a family member or someone of utmost trust.


    In that case, the last option seemed the most plausible to her. A mere client wouldn''t accompany a Diklah to such an intimate gathering.


    "Luciara, who is this knight?" she turned to her, unable to contain her curiosity. "A friend? ¡­ Your beau?"


    Both she and the knight were startled by the question, which couldn''t be more uncomfortable for both of them after their recent arguments.


    First Menuha, then Sheida, and now her too? Mavros thought, increasingly exasperated by the frequency of that insinuation¡ªone of the many topics of conversation he had with the mother of his ''prot¨¦g¨¦e'' after the surreal altercation of the previous night. Why is everyone getting these absurd ''ideas'' now?


    "No, no, no," Gabran clarified to his mother with laughter, to their relief. "Ser Marlon is just her escort." He observed them over his shoulder with a mischievous face. "Or... am I wrong, and there''s something more you haven''t told us?"


    "NO!" They denied in unison, with such emphasis that only amused him and the others even more.


    Dana took advantage of the brief distraction to check her pots.


    There''s enough food for everyone. She judged, reassured that she wouldn''t be caught off guard by the unexpected visit.


    She turned around to rejoin the others.


    "You must be starting to get hungry, but you won''t have to wait long because I''m almost done with lunch," she said. She turned to her husband and children. "Charlen, please take them to the table and set their places."


    The General complied, instructing his children and guests to follow him with a gesture. Dana returned to her kitchen tasks.


    What''s going on? Why, after so many years, does Luciara suddenly appear here? She wondered, letting her conflicting emotions flow in solitude. Seeing her niece again was bittersweet. She was far from angry about the visit, on the contrary, but she couldn''t help but feel somewhat uneasy. It''s as if those incidents are pulling me back to ''her'' by force.Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.


    Mavros and Luciara were led by the General and his sons, who took them to a living room with a large rectangular table. Chatel Chatel pulled out a couple of chairs, indicating them courteously. Both sat down. Next, they watched as their hosts headed towards some cabinets, pulling out various items. Gabran and Olivrin returned with plates, glasses, and utensils for each place, as well as a small bowl of nuts. Chatel Chatel brought a bottle of wine, which he placed on the table.


    "¡¯Le Art du Du Clar,¡¯ ¡®The Art of Du Clar,¡¯ recited the general, alluding to the wine''s name as he prepared to carefully uncork it with the help of a corkscrew. "According to folklore, the first wine ever known, created by the hermit Du Clar during the Age of Empires, before the Holy Rebellion itself. Whether those stories are true or not, its name has been synonymous with good wine in Grianz since time immemorial." He narrated, with a cool yet inspired fervor that captivated his listeners. In that bottle, his love for the history and legends of old were blended with his love for fermented grape juice: his greatest guilty pleasure.


    As he successfully removed the cork, Olivrin flashed a mischievous smile. He had just had one of his many ideas.


    Just as his father was about to pour the drink into the guests'' glasses¡­


    "Dad, wait!" he exclaimed, touching him on the elbow.


    "Uh?" Perplexed, he stopped and turned toward Olivrin. "Olivrin?"


    "Please, could you let me pour the Du Clar in your place?... I think I can add a bit of ''magic'' to the occasion."


    "You want to serve the Du Clar?" Chatel Chatel raised his eyebrows for a moment, not understanding his son''s interest in taking on a task that usually seemed so irrelevant to him.


    One moment... Did he mention ''magic''? However, he then displayed great displeasure as he deciphered his true intentions. "Fine... but if you want it so much, you''ll do it with your hands, as it should be," he said, handing him the bottle. "I don''t want any ''magic.''"


    "I''m just going to use an ''Invisible Hand,'' like the ones Luciara used to show us during dinners," Olivrin defended himself, refusing to be discouraged by his father''s evident disapproval. "It''s going to be perfect, just like hers, I promise."


    The General wrinkled his face like a raisin in response.


    "Dad!" The young man insisted, not willing to give up.


    "Relax, father. You can''t deny that Olivrin has improved quite a bit since the last... ''accidents,''" Gabran said, coming to the defense of his younger brother. "Something as basic as an ''Invisible Hand'' is a piece of cake for him." He turned to the guests. "Luciara, Ser Marlon, you wouldn''t mind if my brother gives you a little demonstration, would you?"


    They both shook their heads playfully.


    "Not at all," Luciara said. "I''d love to see how good his ''Invisible Hand'' is."


    Gabran turned to his father. "As you can see, even the guests are against you," he said, shrugging mockingly.


    The General placed the bottle on the table and stepped back from it reluctantly. He wanted to stop his younger son''s wishes at all costs, but he also didn''t want to antagonize in this cheerful atmosphere unnecessarily.


    "Very well, you have my permission for your ''demonstration,''" he announced to Olivrin, crossing his arms. "Don''t make me regret it."


    "Thank you!"


    The young man brimmed with excitement at that approval. He pulled out his wand and approached the guests.


    "Please, stand up. You''ll be able to see it better that way." He politely asked them. Both complied, circling the table with Gabran and the General. Olivrin took a strategic position and aimed his wand at the bottle.


    "Ladies and gentlemen, witness the miracle of the ''Invisible Hand.''" he began with an exaggerated theatricality that even embarrassed his older brother.


    Chatel Chatel approached Luciara and Mavros.


    "You''re too close; you should stand back more, like us," he advised them."The last time Olivrin tried an ''Invisible Hand'' on the table, we all ended up with the dinner scattered on our clothes."


    "Calm down, calm down!" The boy immediately sought to silence his father''s persistent pessimism. "The ''Invisible Hand'' will lift the bottle and pour the wine into the glasses with the grace of a maiden."


    "Urmpf," grunted the General. "We''ll see. The real ''miracle'' will be if it does it without the clumsiness of a drunkard."


    The audience couldn''t help but let out a few small laughs at such a retort, but Olivrin ignored them. He aimed his wand at the bottle again, this time with total concentration. Multicolored pigments intertwined in his thoughts, constructing celestial designs that, together, resulted in the necessary sequence to materialize his spell. A faint light flickered at the tip of the tool as a sign of his success.


    Invisible hand! Serve the Du Clar!


    The onlookers fell silent; the bottle obeyed the command.


    Surrounded by a layer of fluid air that enveloped it, it began to levitate gradually, rising a few inches above the table. Just as the precocious wizard had promised, he proceeded to pour the reddish wine into each glass through delicate tilts, following the careful movements of his hand.


    His control of the Nefesh is quite advanced for his age. I''ve heard that many enter university without even knowing how to execute an ''Invisible Hand,'' let alone with such finesse, judged Luciara, delighted, feeling identified with that vocation she also had at his age for nefeshic arts. It''s clear that he takes it as much more than just a simple trick.


    As he poured the last glass, the bottle returned to its original position, gracefully maintaining its float.


    "TA-DA!" Olivrin raised his free arm in celebration. He stole the applause of the onlookers for a well-deserved moment of glory.


    At last, he got it right... Maskirio took pity on us today. Even his father couldn''t help but join the others, sighing more out of relief than pride.


    However...


    "AH?!"


    A sudden and intense white glow burst into the room, dazzling everyone amid a muffled explosion.


    Olivrin was one of its victims. That mere interval when he lost his connection with the bottle was enough to unleash the disaster: the Du Clar spun out of control. It spilled its contents until it collided with an obstacle.


    The first thing everyone encountered upon regaining their vision was the spilled wine, as well as the nearly empty bottle at his father''s feet. To his horror, the general noticed how his once impeccable officer''s uniform had been dirtied with large splashes of the liquor.


    "Olivrin!" he shouted, shaking his fist in anger. His uniform was as sacred as his Du Clars, and now both were ruined.


    "Oh..." Olivrin curved his lips fearfully but soon turned to the rest of his audience, with no intention of wanting to suspend his performance. "To make amends for this little accident, my next trick will be..."


    "THE ONLY ''TRICK'' I WANT TO SEE NOW IS YOU DISAPPEARING!" The General lunged to silence him with new outbursts, leaving his guests perplexed.


    "Hahahaha!" Gabran burst into loud laughter. He was accustomed to these kinds of tantrums from his father. Despite their intensity, they were harmless.


    A little uncomfortable with the scene, Luciara averted her gaze.


    ¡°Hm?¡± In doing so, she distinguished a man in the room who wasn''t there before.


    He advanced toward them with slow but confident steps.


    "Please, forgive my abrupt entrance." he briefly knelt in apology as he made them aware of his presence.


    That armor...


    Is he an agent of the Order of Lebias?


    Luciara and Mavros speculated as they appreciated his exotic attire: white fabric with silver protective pieces. The metallic mask that concealed his face, except for his mysterious brown eyes, was its most striking component.


    Chatel Chatel and his sons approached him, suspicious. The strange white glow that had blinded them now made sense.


    "Zeham!" A voice called him from behind.


    It was Lady Dana. The Nefesh mark emitted by an agent of the Order when using instant transmission would never go unnoticed by her. Feeling it¡ªalong with her husband''s furious voice¡ªwas enough to pull her away from the kitchen.


    "How many times have I told you not to enter my house like this?!" she protested. The agent had never been to her liking for multiple reasons. "Is it so hard for you to knock on the door?!"


    "I''m sorry, Dana," said the agent, with a calmness unaffected by the lady''s hostile attitude."But the urgency justifies me doing it this way."


    Urgency?


    Such mention sparked everyone''s intrigue.


    "What ''urgency''?" Chatel Chatel questioned, eager to get to the point. Though he had dealt with him for years, he didn''t enjoy his company much either.


    "Charlen, Renardin has given me orders to find you and bring you immediately to him," he informed him. "He has summoned you to discuss your actions in the Ahmal station incident."


    The Ahmal station incident? Dana shot a look at her husband, demanding explanations.


    The Grianzan General released a small exhale. "So you''ve already informed him. I expected this would happen," he responded to the agent, ready to go out and defend his decisions. "Say no more. Take me to the Royal Palace."


    The agent seemed to ignore the general. He stared fixedly at Mavros.


    "You are that knight..." he said, adopting a more formal tone. "By orders of His Majesty, the king, I also have to bring you into his presence. He wants you to answer for your actions," he announced. He furrowed his brow a little. "Come closer. If you refuse, I am authorized to arrest you."


    Despite that warning, Mavros stood firm next to Chatel Chatel, thus fulfilling his demands.


    "I shall not offer resistance," he simply stated, showing no signs of insecurity.


    "Thank you for your cooperation," Zeham nodded, relieved not to be obliged to use force in such an inappropriate place. He looked at Chatel Chatel, especially at the sorry state of his uniform. "Charlen, I can give you five minutes to change your clothes. You wouldn''t want to present yourself like that to..."


    "I don''t care!" the General rejected him, extremely impatient. "Take us to Renardin now!"


    "As you wish¡­" Zeham held both of them by their arms. Soon, their bodies bathed in a white light, and they vanished from the room, with a flash as blinding as the one the agent emitted upon his arrival.


    Everyone was left speechless by the unusual events, uneasy about the uncertain fate of the summoned ones.


    Renardin wants that knight to answer for ''his actions''?... What does Charlen have to do with all this?


    Dana wondered. She cast wary eyes on her niece.


    Who is your escort, Luciara? What has he done?

 C5-4: The Fifth Path of Atonement! The Bittersweet Ticket to the Grand Tournament

    You were not satisfied with committing those follies alone; you had to outdo yourself by inviting that idiot for a drink.


    King Renardin of Grianz tapped the ground repeatedly with his right foot while sitting on his throne. He still couldn''t believe that Zeham''s report could outrage him even more than the untimely intrusion into his privacy.


    What were you thinking, Charlen?


    He clenched his only hand into a fist, struggling to contain his anger with every second he waited to confront his old friend.


    A fleeting glow spread from below. As its brilliance dissipated, the king could distinguish Zeham and the two men he had ordered him to find standing before the platform of his throne.


    "Your Majesty," the agent said, "here they are."


    "I can tell," the king said to Zeham, not hiding his bad mood. "Dismissed, Zeham."


    The general of the Order of Lebias complied, nodding slightly. He moved away from the mentioned individuals, observing them one last time over his shoulder before leaving them alone in the hall.


    What¡¯s up with his uniform? This was the king''s first thought upon noticing the abundant wine stains on Chatel Chatel''s clothes. Does he even have the nerve to bring it dirty?


    "Renardin." Chatel Chatel locked eyes with the king. His face reflected an equally great displeasure.


    This man is Renardin... the King of Grianz and Netzach. Although he couldn''t have the same feelings towards him as his Grianzan counterpart, Mavros was captivated by the image of the monarch on his throne. Undoubtedly, he exuded power... perhaps exaggerated in his opinion.


    His... His right arm!


    That detail didn''t escape his dilated pupils. Even from that distance, he could perceive what it truly was.


    "Where is Minister Batrand?" Chatel Chatel challenged, daring to break the wall of silence that had come between them. "She''s the one who asked you to summon me, right?"


    "Where else?" the king responded with equal force, but in Grianzan, his mother tongue. "What makes you think I needed her request to undo your colossal folly?"


    The General and the knight furrowed their brows.


    "Undo?" Charlen lashed out. "You haven''t...?!"


    "Of course I have! I''ve canceled your arrest order! Have you gone mad, Charlen?!" The king silenced him, shouting louder. "I''ve tolerated your disagreements with my cabinet all these years, but today you''ve sunk too low..." He touched his forehead, turning his head in disappointment. "Arresting Lady Jan¡¯s and Ser Maxilan¡¯s sons without any justification; worthy warriors of the homeland..."


    Without any justification?! ''Worthy warriors of the homeland''?! Chatel Chatel was about to vehemently refute such claims.


    But Mavros beat him to it:


    "Verily, I know not what tidings thy agents hath conveyed unto thee, Thy Majesty, but thou were not present. Thou art grievously mistaken in proclaiming the arrest as unjust." He spoke in their shared language, with a solid yet calm determination that astonished the General.


    And also King Renardin.


    "You..."


    The king pointed at him accusingly.


    "So, you are this ''knight''..." He gave a scornful smile. "I see you''re very proud to have sabotaged my Holy Warriors."


    "Those Holy Warriors did abuse their power," contended Mavros. "They didst humiliate and attempt to extort merchants in the open gaze of all. Mine code didst compel me to halt such ignoble conduct."


    "Your ''code''?"


    The king struck his armrest.


    "You piece of a moron! Who are you to mock the laws of Grianz, of Netzach?" he reprimanded, shifting his gaze between him and the General. "Those ''merchants'' you defended are desert heretics, puny scum you''ve allowed in! Thanks to both of you, they roam now free in the city!"


    "Whether they are Ayarians or not, those merchants'' papers were in order, and they had authentic trade permits from the League of Viceroyalties," Chatel Chatel replied, switching to Grianzan, knowing now that his protege also understood it. "There was no reason to deny them entry. The accusations made against them by Sublieutenant Batrand and Lieutenants Cotores were shameful, utterly false. Knowing this, do you still want to defend them? Do you not care that they violate the laws of the League with impunity, laws you swore to uphold?" This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.


    Chatel Chatel pointed his right index finger like a dagger.


    "The only ones mocking the law are you and your ministers, Renardin!"


    Charlen, you¡­ Stung by those remarks, the king''s lips twisted into a grotesque grimace that revealed his teeth, grinding as he struggled to find a fitting response.


    But ultimately, he decided to unleash his anger with short, cynical laughter.


    "Why should I bother to adhere to those laws to the letter when our enemies trample on them?" he questioned. "The mere fact that scum managed to get those permits at this time is too suspicious. Docemin and the Cotores twins were right! Not letting them set foot in Netzach was the only right choice!" he asserted. He fixed his eyes on the wandering knight. "And if you insist on turning this into a legality contest, it''s undeniable that this fool committed the serious offense of raising his hand against a kingdom official unprovoked, even if it was to prevent a supposed ''injustice.''" He returned his gaze to his general. "Charlen, your incompetence is worthy of total degradation, but because of who you are, I''ll grant you a chance of redemption." He pointed at Mavros. "Arrest him immediately and then do the same with those heretic merchants."


    It''s useless¡­ The General lowered his head, shaking it in disappointment. His friend''s impulsiveness and pride were greater than he had anticipated.


    Is he seriously considering it? Mavros wondered, fearing it as seconds passed, but he remained silent. I have no right to protest to him, he admitted, closing his eyes in resignation. Because of me, I''ve implicated him and his family. I don''t regret giving those wretches what they deserved, but if there are consequences, I am the only one who should suffer them.


    "So, Charlen? Will you do it or not?" the king called, starting to lose patience. "Don''t force me to send you to the dungeons as well..."


    The General raised his gaze again, fixing it on the king.


    "I will investigate those merchants," he announced. "I already had plans to do so even before you ordered me."


    No¡­ Mavros lamented. His fears were beginning to materialize.


    "But you won''t be able to arrest and order a trial for this knight."


    Both Mavros and Renardin raised their eyebrows.


    "Why?" Renardin questioned, starting to get irritated again.


    "He, Ser Marlon of Amberfalls, has come from afar to register as an independent competitor in the Eh-Nam Tournament."


    Eh-Nam Tournament?! The knight turned to him, even more astonished to hear him bring up that topic.


    "An independent competitor?" the king asked, genuinely curious, observing Mavros. ¡°Is that true?¡±


    "Yes, verily, it is so," he nodded a couple of times, somewhat awkwardly. "In truth, that''s mine chief cause for venturing unto Netzach..."


    Renardin burst into laughter.


    "Please! I can¡¯t believe your arrogance! Don''t make me laugh!" he retorted. "Independent competitors in the Tournament can be counted on the fingers for a good reason: they are either pretentious fools or low-life desperate criminals. Cannon fodder for the new generations of Holy Warriors!"


    However, the king¡¯s enthusiasm gradually faded as he understood what his friend was implying.


    "That''s it," Chatel Chatel said. "Every subject guilty of a crime that doesn''t involve rape or murder has the right to request, as penance, an independent slot in the nearest martial arts tournament to the scene of the crime. It''s the Fifth Path of Atonement of the Blinitaka, the Sacred Word." He shifted his gaze towards Mavros, with utmost solemnity. "Ser Marlon, do you dare to exercise it?"


    Mavros was about to nod but...


    Every ''guilty subject''¡­ He hesitated for a moment. Although the opportunity to secure his coveted ticket to the tournament had just presented itself, it also meant acknowledging that he had indeed committed a crime and must be judged for it, something he certainly couldn''t agree with.


    "Yes," he finally said. After all, there didn''t seem to be a better option. He addressed the king. "I remain steadfast in my willingness to partake in the tournament, regardless of the prevailing circumstances."


    This isn¡¯t a joke? The king opened his mouth slightly, not sure what to think.


    It was the most delirious and surreal thing he had seen and heard in years, but nevertheless, the "guilty party" was determined, oblivious to what he was getting into.


    An ''independent'' with little sense and a criminal at the same time. Not every year do we see something like this in the Eh-Nam Tournament. He grinned from ear to ear. Despite the somewhat absurd nature of the punishment, he saw more pros than cons in this proposal.


    "Congratulations. an independent slot will be granted to you in the Eh-Nam Tournament, Ser Marlon," the king announced. "The trial will no longer be in the courts, but in the arena. Your fate will now be in the hands of Eh-Nam and our Lord Maskirio." He looked at the General. "Charlen, you will be responsible for guarding him until the day of his participation. Do not fail me again."


    ***


    In the reception of a quiet inn, a lanky man in formal attire adjusted his round glasses, sitting at his polished wooden desk. He read and flipped through what seemed to be an account book, adding new entries and annotations with his quill.


    Suddenly, he heard the doors of the establishment open. Ready to attend to potential guests, he rose from the desk to appear at the counter.


    "Good morning." He greeted one of them, whom he identified as the leader of their group. "Welcome to the Vallinton of Netzach, travelers," the receptionist warmly welcomed him and his companions, regardless of their unusual faces for the area. "How may I assist you?"


    "We want a room for the entire Maskirian Week."


    The receptionist searched a bit in the labeled slots of his key cabinet.


    "You''ve arrived just in time, I have one room left that suits your needs," he announced. "I''ll leave it at one hundred and ten griancs per night."


    With their prolonged silence, the customers expressed their lack of conviction.


    "That''s beyond the very heavens. Can you offer us something closer to the ground?" their leader replied, starting the bargaining ritual. "Forty-four."


    The bespectacled receptionist furrowed his brow slightly.


    "We''re not a charity, but today I''ll make an exception for you," he responded. "Ninety, no more, no less."


    "If you''re touching the empire of the stars, why not descend all the way?" the customer countered. "Eighty-eight."


    We''ve been waiting for you. An approving gesture appeared on the receptionist''s face. He retrieved a key from the cabinet and handed it over.


    88. That number was inscribed on a small keychain accompanying it.


    Instead of money, the customer gave something else in return: a small scroll. The receptionist discreetly unrolled it and deciphered its hidden message.


    Its first line was enough to summarize it:


    "The Abiyr has reappeared."