《A Knight's Will》


 PROLOGUE - The Decrepit Courtyard

    In a simple courtyard, a young boy was practicing his swings on a wooden post and each time he swung out, the tranquil atmosphere set by the empty and ill-maintained courtyard would disperse as a thump sounded out whenever his wooden sword smacked against the post.


    The wooden sword had numerous notches and grazes; it was jagged to a state that it was now unwieldy and impractical to use. It was very worn down that it would make one wonder on why he was using it still but to the boy, the wooden sword was all he had. He looked weak but his grip on his sword was firm.


    His stance and posture were completely unrefined, with each swing leaving him unbalanced and unstable, and most times would cause him to stagger forcing him to regain his footing. By then, he would resume his stance and strike at the post again with all the strength he had. In this empty courtyard, he silently continued to practice his swings.


    Ever since that day, he had done this routine countless times in order to come closer in fulfilling his dream, no matter how small the progress was. He was weak and devoid of talent --he knew that himself. With how he was, it seemed impossible in becoming what he wanted to be but he persevered still ¨Choping that through sheer willpower and repeated training, he would succeed. Like a scholar engrossed in his studies, he focused intently in perfecting his swings ¨Cbelieving that all would not be for naught.


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    When dusk came, he was splayed beside the wooden post, heaving and gasping for air and in his hand was the wooden sword being grasped tightly. His training for the day had finally ended and on his face was a soft smile.


    ¡°Tomorrow is the day--¡± he spoke to himself as he stood up, ¡°--when I will be one step closer to my dream.¡± His body was hurting all over from the exhaustion, and when he tried to prop himself up, he lost balance from the unexpected pain and fell. But before he could mull over the simple lost, he immediately stood back up with a soft shout as if to spite the minor setback that it could be overcome.


    With the sword as a makeshift crutch, he stood up. ¡°I won¡¯t let all the effort I did be in vain,¡± he said as he hobbled slowly to the exit of the courtyard. ¡°Tomorrow, I will pass the Order¡¯s exam,¡± he spoke to boost his confidence. ¡°By then, I will prove that all of them were wrong!¡± Excited and anxious, he trod the unpaved path back, with his figure exuding a lonely but unyielding will. It was a slow and painful trek, but each step brought him closer to town.

 CHAPTER 1 - The Convoy

    The town of Krol was a prosperous and fairly peaceful town. With its geographical position at one of the borders of the Kingdom, it relied on the traffic that passed through to flourish. Because of that, it gradually developed into a trading hub that saw countless convoys of wares and merchandise ¨Cboth local and exotic¡ªpass through its wide gates.


    Within its stone walls, which were built to deter unruly beasts and men alike, was a cacophony of sounds. While ungraceful and grating to the ears, it was considered the norm for the people of Krol; after all, it was the sound of trade. The people here almost lived their entire lives in a sea of noise.


    When the sun was at its peak, the people at the main gate immediately went silent and stood to the side, with expressions of respect and awe on their faces as they saw a unique convoy passing through.


    It was a convoy comprising a single empty carriage, large enough to be able to seat ten.


    Accompanying it were four figures in full-armor riding war horses of the finest breed. Each was equipped with a myriad of things, such as swords and shields, or a gigantic bow with arrows the thickness of a steel pole, or a staff that gleamed with a metallic sheen and glowed a soft red through the cracked patterns underneath. It was an awe-inspiring sight for the people at the main gate and some who were not native to the town were surprised at the sudden arrival of this convoy. Other than the small size, and clearly better equipment, the convoy was not unlike the usual mercenaries resting in town.


    But the town was not estranged to men like these ¨Cmen who were meant for battle, after all, the town was a hub of trade; the town even had its own Adventurer¡¯s Guild. All sorts had passed through its gates, and some looked even more powerful and menacing than the convoy at hand.


    Then, what made the people of Krol acted in this manner towards the figures in full-armor? It was because of a certain crest on their breastplates. It was a crest of an artistic eagle plastered across the plate, with three seals positioned at the cardinal directions excluding north, invoking an image that the eagle was held up by the three seals.


    After awhile, the convoy went beyond the area of the main gate with ease but the solemn silence was still retained by the people at the gate until a minute had clearly passed. By then, the hubbub peculiar to a trading center returned now tinged with a hint of excitement and awe. The sound of trade that day was more ungraceful and grating than before.


    At the convoy, not soon after passing through the crowd at the main gate, the man with the peculiar staff hastened the speed of his horse forward and immediately slowed down to a similar pace of the carriage as soon as he neared it. Glancing at the figure who seemed more remarkable and well-equipped than the others --with a playful grin, he mused, ¡°Justicar. How many do you think would pass in this town?¡±


    ¡°It should be sufficient enough for the Order,¡± the man referred to as Justicar, replied. ¡°But the chances of this town filling the yearly quota should be slim. After all, the area around here ¨Ceven though, it¡¯s not that far from the border¡ª is surprisingly peaceful,¡± he spoke as he looked at a group of children playing in a corner of the street. ¡°There¡¯s not enough reason for the people of this town to be inclined for battles.¡± With a wry smile, he turned to the man who asked him, ¡°I¡¯d be more surprised if any of the kids here actually possess even one of the qualities of the Creed,¡± and tapped one of the seals on his breastplate as emphasis.


    ¡°I agree.¡± A woman with hair akin to fire, who had her helmet in her hands, chimed in as a response as she approached the two. On her back was a greatbow and a quiver of thick arrows.


    ¡°While I don¡¯t doubt that there are kids who¡¯ve been trained in some of the schools here just to join the Order... I¡¯m certain on how peaceful it is, that not one of them would possess a semblance to our Creed,¡± she spoke indifferently as she glanced around curiously.


    ¡°Then we shall train them, Astra,¡± another man whom was missing his left arm, sharply responded. It was a man with an oddly shaped sword on his side that shimmered in an ominous light from the runes etched on its sheath. ¡°Not all in the Order were raised like you, Astra ¨Craised in the Outlands of the Nether, you were. There¡¯s nothing wrong with living a peaceful life,¡± he said in a melancholic voice. ¡°It¡¯s best we all remember that the Order fights for the Kingdom¡¯s


    peace. And what we have here now is the fruits of our Order¡¯s labor.¡±


    This book is hosted on another platform. Read the official version and support the author''s work.The woman¡¯s indifference quickly turned to regret. ¡°I¡¯m sorry, Morr,¡± she hastily replied. ¡°I didn¡¯t mean it like that,¡± she continued as she gestured an apology per custom of the Outlands.


    Looking at Astra, Morr felt a bit guilty. ¡°Never mind. I was just a bit agitated that towns like these still exist in the Kingdom,¡± Morr replied, sounding apologetic for the outburst. After a pause and a cough, he said, ¡°My emotions took hold of me for a moment there.¡± And with a stiff and embarrassed smile, ¡°It seems I¡¯m the one lacking in the Creed, and not the kids we speak of,¡± he spoke in derision.


    The atmosphere soon stagnated and started to turn dreary but it was immediately broken by a hearty laugh of the man with the peculiar staff. ¡°Nonsense, Morr. You¡¯re the most adherent to the Creed among all of us! Human emotions, by nature, are just hard to control. Even the First King had his own fair share of outbursts!¡± With another laugh, he patted Morr on the back which was followed by a muffled sound of gushing wind but contrary to his slim build when compared to the others, his pat had such strength that it almost made Morr keel over from his horse. The horse, bearing the entire weight of a man in full-armor on a single side, immediately lost its footing and neighed but to its respect as a warhorse, it managed to stand its ground though barely.


    After calming himself and the horse, Morr, as if by instinct, threw an annoyed glare to the man with the staff. ¡°You Artificers really need to stop showing off your quasi-magics. Sooner or later, an accident will occur because of you eccentric lot.¡±


    Throwing his free hand up while waving the staff, he responded with a grin, ¡°Sorry!¡± Afterwards, the glow from his gauntlets dispersed and streaks of steam billowed out from a cavity on the back of his hands. With a mechanical whine, the cavity closed and the gauntlet returned to its normal state.


    Having expressed his somewhat halfhearted apology, he casually grabbed hold onto the reins of his horse and moved his gaze towards their destination. ¡°But really, Morr. If a trainee needed to learn about the Creed, among us four, you would be the most suitable as a teacher,¡± he said solemnly and the others nodded at his words. Then, he took a deep breath. ¡°Even now, I won¡¯t pry on what made you adamantly live your life for the Order, but you have my respect as a fellow Knight for such a reason. After a year of fighting as fellow Knights, I have come to realize that regardless of what our past lives were... It won¡¯t mean anything on the field. The ones we could rely on the other hand, are the actual brothers and sisters that we¡¯ve fought with for a long time.


    ¡°And from you, I¡¯ve understood that a Knight who is truly adamant in following the Creed to the very end are the ones who would gladly sacrificed themselves for the others ¨CI¡¯ve understood since then, that strength is not all that matters. Therefore, regardless of how you started off, be proud of who you are right now. It won¡¯t do you no good, Morr, to be chained by your past.¡± He patted Morr once more, this time softly. ¡°You have done more than enough for the Order and our squad... But knowing you, it won¡¯t just end there,¡± he ended with a wry smile.


    ¡°Like the Knights before us, it¡¯s now our turn to scout for new ones we could call brothers and sisters. So, it¡¯s better to use that stubborn nature for the new ones. Teacher Morr... I like the sound of that,¡± he laughed as he paced his horse to a canter.


    Morr didn¡¯t know how to respond. It was all too sudden but he could clearly feel and see on how trusted he was by the others --a far cry to how things were since they were a team.


    A year had passed since they became a team, and at the time, he felt unease if he could function properly as a member. It wasn¡¯t unnatural for him to think in that way ¨Cafter all, he was considered one of the weakest in the Order at that time. He was essentially deadweight for any of the squads who took him. But he knew now, that all the things he did ever since were not in vain. He was glad that they accepted him for who he was and had the patience to bear with his weak self at the time. It was not a perfect start, but they survived as a squad for an entire year.


    He tried to express his thanks, but before he could do so, they had unwittingly arrived at their destination. In view was an imposing arch gate, and beyond were buildings of assorted heights in prim states. With a helpless sigh but an expression of slight satisfaction, he remarked, ¡°We¡¯re finally here.¡±

 CHAPTER 2 - The Selection

    The Academy of Krol occupied the center of the town. It was considered as one of its largest establishment. It spanned multiple buildings with each fulfilling a purpose unique to its own ¨Csuch as the School, an enormous place where knowledge of all sorts were taught at, or the Mess Hall, a wide area dedicated to serving food, or the Dormitory, a place for the people of the Academy to stay.


    It was dominantly a place of learning, and in order to ¡®fully accommodate and provide the quality its citizens deserved¡¯ as declared by the First King, the Kingdom took on the brunt of the cost of establishing Academies across the Kingdom and was followed by a rule that by the age of ten, ¡®the fees for attending the Academy will be exempted for four years.¡¯  It was an undertaking that took the First King years to complete. Since then, the Kingdom ¨Cwhile the cost was atrociously high in maintaining the many Academies-- had advanced tremendously on all fronts. To the Kingdom, even disregarding their reverence for the First King, it was a cost that they were willing to pay.


    But the Academy possessed another purpose other than for a place to learn ¨Cit was a purpose that started from a tradition that stemmed during the Founding.


    The Founding was when the Kingdom had just established itself from the ruins brought upon by the War of the Nether ¨Ca war that sundered the lands and carried Death upon the Great Continent. After the War, what followed was not the expected peace, but an Era of Strife.


    The Era of Strife was riddled with the ruins of ancient Kingdoms and Empires caused by the War and because of their fall, the Great Continent was ushered into a desperate time of depravity and disorder. Resources were lacking and places hospitable for life grew fewer as the Corruption spread.


    By then, the First King, whom had the mission of protecting his people, was faced with a glaring problem as the Era of Strife progressed on. The number of capable men he could muster to defend his rule withered as they fought and died in battle. The Kingdom which was just recently established, was already on the verge of crumbling down from the lack of manpower. The few men he was left with were incapable of defending its borders from the marauders who seek to deprive them from their lands. A grim time that forced the Kingdom to its last leg.


    The Kingdom was eventually pushed back to a measly piece of land ¨Cit was the Kingdom¡¯s first true lost but a stroke of fortune had befallen upon them for the land they were left with had a small mountain at the back. It proved to be an easily defendable position for the First King, and defeated the sieges of the marauders one after another. Afterwards, under his lead, the Kingdom bid its time as it recovered its strength.


    Learning from the events that almost fell the Kingdom, the First King requested his people to train all of their offsprings in the art of war, regardless of aspirations. By then, when the Professional Army proved to be lacking ¨Cthe Kingdom would muster battle-ready men from among its citizens. It eventually became a tradition that made all of the people in the Kingdom a warrior in their own right and to continue this tradition, the Academies willingly established a system that would train its students even further than what the First King asked for. The Academies then became places where knowledge could be learned... and places for warriors to be bred.


    And from among these freshly-bred warriors, the most suitable would be weeded out by the Order to join its ranks. Every year, Knights from the Order would be sent out to scout for potential prospects from the Academies, and bring them back for the Order to train.


    This was the day of the year when the Order held its Exams and it was usually held at the centerpiece of almost all Academies in the Kingdom ¨Cthe Arena.


    *


    After going through the necessary process of meeting with the officials of the Academy of Krol, and confirming that preparations were made ¨CMorr¡¯s squad, along with some instructors of the Academy, made way for the Arena. What greeted them was an enormous courtyard that overshadowed the other buildings of the Academy in terms of size.


    The courtyard, as of the moment, was filled with scores of people who were seated on large platforms overlooking the stage in the center; some had the intention in watching on how the Selection would play out as if fueled by their desire of abating their curiosity, while others were here just for simple entertainment and the main highlight was precisely the group of students on the center stage.


    The students were aligned perfectly, as if the entire procedure was drilled and beaten into them since their first day in the Academy. While the Academy didn¡¯t regulate standard clothing for the students to wear... they were wearing clothes of the finest grade they could afford. It produced a certain finesse that impressed the Justicar of Morr¡¯s squad, as he curtly remarked, ¡°Impressive.¡± In turn, the instructors that were with them, beamed with smiles. But blocked by the other students, the Justicar did not noticed the one that seemed out of place as he was wearing clothing completely far from the refined and expensive ones of the others. It was a student carrying a jagged wooden sword.


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    Morr¡¯s squad and the instructors, with a relaxed pace, headed for the stage. Noticing that the Order¡¯s Knights had arrived, the noise that plagued the platforms instantly quieted down. It was a silence born from respect and envy.


    Morr and the others situated themselves to the sides while the Justicar stood on the center of the stage. Glancing lazily around the Arena, and taking note of the students in front of him, he motioned to speak. ¡±Greetings, everyone,¡± he spoke loudly with confidence, as if he was unbothered that all the attention in the Arena was centered on him but while he spoke in a way representing a higher authority, his voice lacked the vitality. In other words, he seemed uninterested but not with ill-intent.


    He continued with his hands clasped behind his back, ¡°Today is the auspicious day when the Order would conduct its yearly Selection across the Kingdom. And I have been honored to be picked among the many Knights to oversee the Academy of Krol,¡± he turned to the students standing in rows beside him. ¡°As like the past Selections that were held in this Academy, the Selection today will be held in a tournament-styled format but unlike the Selections before, as the Knight overseeing today, I have deemed that losing will not necessarily mean you have lost the chance of joining the Order. Conversely, winning will not correlate to your suitability in becoming a trainee of the Order,¡± he ended, and in turn, some of the students twitched in response.


    Their faces betrayed their doubts, as if they were confused and were not content. It was not a surprise, considering the students were precisely trained to fight. After all, their entire lives spent in the Academy was determined on how much battles they had fought and victories they had won. It went beyond their expectations of what the Selection would be.


    ¡°Do not misunderstand. This is not a contest, but a demonstration of your skills,¡± the Justicar noting that the students were not exactly willing, spoke to quell their doubts.


    Not soon afterwards, a student whom looked the most imposing among them, voiced his dissent, ¡°Lord Justicar, forgive my impoliteness, but may I have the right to ask?¡±


    The Justicar, unperturbed but somehow amused had waved it off and said, ¡°I don¡¯t mind,¡± and motioned the burly student to continue.


    ¡°If Lord Justicar says so, then I absolutely have no right to complain... But won¡¯t this mean that our efforts in training ourselves with the intent to win would be disregarded as a criteria?¡± the student, contrary to his imposing build, asked affluently.


    ¡°How you interpret my words will be up to you,¡± the Justicar replied with a relaxed smile. ¡°I can only say that strength can be shown in many ways ¨Cnot just through the application of force and your body¡¯s strength. The Selection seeks not worthy warriors, but warriors possessing the bearing of a Knight. Martial aptitude, while respected in great heights in the Order, is not the quality the Order desires the most.¡±


    The burly student stood dazed. He took a single step forward and opened his mouth, but no words had come out.  He stood like that for a second at most, and embarrassed to continue any further he slightly bowed as a gesture of respect, and went back in line with the other students. In truth, he wanted to ask on what quality the Order did desire, but he would not dare to waste the Justicar or anyone¡¯s time on an important day but he thought to himself that if he was selected as a worthy candidate, he would shed all pretense and ask by then.


    The Justicar nodded as if he knew what the youth was thinking, and proceeded to speak once more, ¡°Each student will fight at least once. The matches will only last for fifteen minutes at most. Weapons are to be allowed, but to kill is strictly prohibited. Remember that this is an examination to determine if you are worthy to be a Knight ¨Cnot a warrior of the highest caliber. Fight by whatever means necessary, but never dishonor nor disrespect your enemy!¡± What came as a response was a chorus of affirmative shouts. ¡°In five minutes, the Selection will begin! Make your preparations, and may the First King guide you.¡± The Justicar saluted the candidates and strode off to his squad and the instructors. When he got there, he was amicably received by everyone other than Morr whom was gazing far.


    It made the Justicar puzzled, especially if he thought back on how Morr would always be the first one to greet him and even more so if the man in question was the most unyielding when it came to expressing respect. Strange, the Justicar thought. Someone must have caught his attention. But no matter, I¡¯d find out by the day. He smiled as he was greeted by the others, and waited until the start of the Selection.

 CHAPTER 3 - Spirit and Mana-weaving

    The Order¡¯s Selection, or more widely known as the Exams, had no strict definition on how it should be conducted, just as long that it was capable of determining one¡¯s potential in being a Knight. That was why that across the many Academies in the Kingdom, each Selection that was held could be vastly different from the others.


    The contents of the Selection were entirely dependent on the Knight overseeing it: It could be a manner of test involving your aptitude in battle, or a battle of wits where you were tasked to outsmart your opponents. But most of the time, the contents were set up in a way that followed the general state of where the Academy was.


    An Academy that was built close by the borders where raids and banditry was fraught, could be tested through their ability in holding out against an attack. Or an Academy situated near a forest could be tasked in hunting mutated beasts from its depths. In the case of the Academy of Krol, where it was a relatively peaceful place, it was deemed that a simple demonstration of their skills would suffice. In the end, it depended on the whims of the overseeing Knight.


    ...And in some cases, under the whims of some eccentric Knights, the Selections they took hold were almost impossible to accomplish.


    *


    Five minutes had passed, and the Selection was underway. The stage was completely empty other than two students facing each other. On one side was a student that was relatively lean and looked agile, while in comparison, on the other was a student that had a stocky build but not as well-built as the burly student that had asked before. Both of them apparently knew each other judging from their soft expressions. Having done their preparations, they stood to their respective sides waiting for the match to start.


    The Justicar, from the side, shouted, ¡°Stance!¡± And in response, the two students on stage moved accordingly. The lean student braced himself with a single sword perpendicular to the ground in hand, with his muscles relaxed ¨Cit was a stance that relied more on the ability to adapt rather than raw power. On the other hand, the bulky student opted for a stance not too unlike that of a warrior as he held a broadsword and a kite shield in both his hands. They were determined to win the match even if it did not truly guarantee a spot in the Selection; it was because of their pride as warriors. They did not glare at each other but gazed with clear intent that neither of them would lose. It had the atmosphere of a friendly bout, but it did not hinder the fiery will of competition. When the tension was at its highest point,


    The Justicar glanced at the two, and bellowed, ¡°Commence!¡±


    Unexpectedly, the lean student was the one who took the initiative as he charged in with clear determination in his eyes. As he did so, he chanted words that only he could hear ¨Che was preparing for a spell; it was a result of willing the mana in the vicinity to your bidding, or tersely known as weaving. By then, strange things were abound as embers materialized one after another out of nowhere behind him. They looked like faries that swayed with the wind and moved about, and were following closely behind the lean student. Trailing after him like they were being led.


    As he was a few strides away from the bulky student, he suddenly shouted, ¡°This is the last match, Dirk!¡± The embers suddenly coagulated into a small sphere of blazing flame ¨Cthe size of a human head. Tongues of flame spat out from its surface, as if it was searching for something to scorch; it was like the sphere was restless.


    As the intensity of the whips of flame grew, the lean student was one step away from Dirk, and spoke, ¡°Let¡¯s see who will win this time!¡± With a thunderous roar belying his appearance, he struck out the sword in his hand, clashing with Dirk¡¯s kite shield. Simultaneously, the ball of flame accompanied the lean man¡¯s blow as it sharply fell from above him. With no lag time, a sword and a ball of flame crashed against Dirk¡¯s kite shield!


    The ball of flame exploded out as whips once more lashed out and left scorched marks across anything it hit even the ground. A burnt smell wafted in the Arena hinted with a bit of cooked flesh. The flames clearly did not discriminate against anything in its path but surprisingly, the lean man was left untouched even as violent whips of flame streaked throughout the Arena.


    Around his person was a hazy gleam, like there was a translucent film protecting him; it was a spell he casted in advance. The flames danced across the film comparable to a blade trying to cut through but what came from the flames¡¯ useless effort was wisps of air retaliating back. It was a spectacular scene that awed the people on the platforms, and even made the Artificer in Morr¡¯s squad softly comment, ¡°What amazing control.¡±


    The combined force of the strike from the sword and fireball blew Dirk away as he skidded across the Arena¡¯s surface but even then, his stance never broke ¨Clike a lofty statue that had only been pushed.


    Dirk¡¯s kite shield was charred black, and was on the verge of breaking down; a few more hits was all it could take from now on. Some parts of his clothing were black too, and some places were ripped apart from the blast, grimly showing the swollen-red skin below but even with all that, he stood gallantly from the aftermath. With lively eyes and a grin, he spoke, ¡°You never let up, huh, Cev?¡±


    ¡°Well, this is an important day, after all.¡± Cev casually retorted with a smile and a shrug.


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    ¡°Even if it was not... You would still do the same.¡±


    ¡°I guess.¡± Cev scratched his head with an embarrassed smile.


    What came back was a sigh. ¡°I can never beat you in magic, Cev.¡± Dirk paused with his expression turning solemn, and made changes to his stance. ¡°But even if it was you, there¡¯s still some downtime until the next one!¡± He rushed towards Cev with the shield fixedly placed in front. His broadsword primed, ready to strike. And with every step bearing his heavy frame, it echoed out in the Arena like thunder. He looked impossible to stop, and the blackened shield only made him more terrifying to the common man.


    Cev in face with the terror, looked composed. After all, ever since his time in the Academy, he had already fought numerous battles against Dirk. In other words, he was terribly familiar on who Dirk was. Unlike his muscleheaded appearance, Dirk was more known for his schemes. He knew that what Dirk was doing wouldn¡¯t be as simple as a lowly charge. With that as his thoughts, Cev willed more mana in the air in preparation for another spell, and took the same stance as before. He only needed to last until the spell¡¯s conditions were complete!


    Like that of a beast, Dirk roared, ¡°Here I come, Cev!¡± Accompanying his form was a murky light that shrouded him like armor. The Justicar, seeing this, was amused and impressed as he commented, ¡°Oh, The youth can use Spirit. Interesting.¡± Dirk instantly experienced a burst in speed that made him look like a blur to some people on the platforms. His speed showed no signs of slowing down --he intended to ram Cev with his shield!


    Embers started to form around Cev, and not behind him like before. It was like there was a field around him that held the embers in place but the number was insufficient still for the spell he was planning to use, and Dirk was almost in front of him. After a breath¡¯s time, what came was a kite shield that grew gradually in his view  --Dirk was upon him.


    An audible swish rang out in the Arena as Dirk bashed his shield at Cev. It missed! Cev had dodged to his right at the opportune time when his field of view was blocked by his own shield. It was an amazing display of wit. But even though he had missed, he still had a lively grin plastered on his face. His Spirit grew in intensity as the murky light turned brighter. He retracted his shield back almost instantaneously the moment he had missed and with the broadsword primed, he slammed down on his blindspot ¨Cwhere Cev supposedly was.


    To Dirk, when his Spirit glowed brighter, everything seemed to slow down. He moved faster than his surroundings, and everything around him had a speed like they were submerged in water. His senses were heightened from the increase in his Spirit. This was the scheme he regularly use against his opponents: a sudden increase in both strength and speed! A sinister scheme that abuses the pride of his opponents and it usually brought them their downfall because they had underestimated Dirk.


    ...But since his time in the Academy, he and Cev had fought numerous times.


    Dirk¡¯s broadsword slammed heavily on the Arena¡¯s surface and a small crevice appeared. He felt nothing but the sensation of numbness from hitting something solid. He had hit ground ¨Che was disappointed but not confused. He retracted his broadsword and went into the standard stance. He calmed himself and his Spirit turned murky once more. He then scanned around him for Cev¡¯s whereabouts.


    Dirk had gambled that Cev would have made an error in judgment by thinking that this would be like the many fights they had before. He wanted to trick Cev with the misconception that everything was how their fights were always was. After all, his way of fighting in their previous fights was him taking hits and only responded back when necessary and this time, when he had missed with his shield, he was hoping that Cev would take the opportunity to get a hit in... But it had failed. Instead, he took a lost as the power of his Spirit was wasted. He was now limited to a few minutes of being in this state.


    With a helpless sigh, he thought, That sly fox. Cev, as always, you¡¯re too cautious for your own good. I need to end this within the limited time I have. While I lost in that exchange, at the very least, it should have delayed his spell by some margin.


    But to his surprise, he found Cev at the very edge of the Arena. He was in a saturated field of embers. The sly fox was grinning but sweating heavily. Dirk¡¯s expression turned serious from the sight. Realizing on what Cev was planning, he cursed the sly fox in his thoughts.


    ¡°You almost got me there, Dirk!¡± Cev shouted from the far side. ¡°It was hard to resist the temptation of hitting you in the side earlier in that exchange. But I¡¯m lucky that my instincts had overcome the temptation.¡± The field grew more saturated as he spoke. ¡°It¡¯s my win, Dirk!¡± The field of embers turned into a haphazard arrow the size of a torso and shot out towards Dirk. With the arrow¡¯s speed, it was almost impossible to dodge.


    Dirk, faced with the reality of the situation, shouted back like a cornered beast, ¡°Dammit!¡± And rushed out to meet the arrow head-on. His Spirit grew in power once more --he was taking a gamble like before. ¡°All or nothing, Cev!¡± Shield first, he gloriously collided with the distorted arrow of blazing fire and what came afterwards was a muffled explosion and a puff of smoke. The smoke grew and covered the entire stage, ccompletely blocking one¡¯s view.

 CHAPTER 4 - Alvan

    The smoke started to dissipate slowly after a few breaths time. It floated until it eventually reached gaps from where it could disperse to. After awhile, it revealed the stage¡¯s state. It had received no worthwhile damage considering it was built to withstand more power than what mere students could possibly unleash but even then, some areas were still charred black. Bots of blood that had lost its luster were scattered unevenly in some parts of the stage while remnants of what should be a shield and a sword could be found wherever you look. Standing gloriously among the vestiges of this fight was a badly injured youth and beside him was a sprawled lean student whom was covered in sweat and his breathing labored.


    The badly injured youth was Dirk. He was bleeding heavily on where he had held the shield while his face was covered in soot mixed with blood which made him look horrifying, but his eyes contained a satisfied glint. He had a radiant smile as if to say that it was his win and the injuries he suffered were nothing for a person like him. With his relatively better arm, he held the hilt of his sword and directed the broken end to the sprawled youth. ¡°I won, Cev. It¡¯s my win,¡± he said in a giddy voice.


    ¡°Yeah. You did,¡± responded Cev in between breaths. ¡°That makes you fifty-five wins.¡±


    ¡°And you, fifty-four,¡± said Dirk with a smirk.


    Cev indifferently waved. ¡°Yeah, yeah. Now, get me up.¡±


    Dirk happily laughed and stretched out a hand to help Cev up. He ungraciously took the hand and stood up with Dirk¡¯s help.


    Cev was essentially fine when compared to Dirk and thus was able to stand up on his own after, albeit, unsteadily. He was only exhausted and drained, and had no worthwhile injuries. After all, he mainly fought with spells but while he was uninjured and technically free from harm when compared to Dirk ¨Cthe irony was that he lost because he depended too heavily on his spells.


    It was because he, too, risked it all on the spell he shot out. It was a spell that was a level above his own, and thus exhausted him greatly after a single use. With the line of thinking that the longer he fought, the lower his chances of winning was, he came to the conclusion that he must end the fight at all cost ¨Cespecially against a Spirit Warrior like Dirk, and even more so in a limited space. He wanted to overwhelm Dirk then and there but it was apparent that his all, was not enough. He would have won if he was able to shoot out a few more spells, but the conditions were just too unfavorable for a Spellcaster like him. In his thoughts, he decided that he would never risk his chances like that ever again. Later on, he would rather make sure that he had the upper hand, instead of relying on blind luck.


    Cev softly sighed. He had some regrets that he lost. Like any other aspiring youth, he also wanted to be part of the Kingdom¡¯s Order; a legendary place that all of them had heard about ever since they were young but when he realized the grim state Dirk was in, the regrets instantly vanished and was replaced with pride. At least with this, I would still have a chance. With a shook of his head and a dry laugh, he said, ¡°Dirk. You need to get yourself healed.¡±


    *


    It was a very surprising and unbelievable end, for the lean youth whom had no apparent injuries was the one who lost, while the one who suffered the most had won.


    The fight had ended and while short, cheers had already thundered in the Arena, expressing their sentiments and excitement. But before the two youths could enjoy their limelight, they were promptly ushered away in order to be treated by an Instructor who knew how to Heal; one was treated in his bodily injuries, while another in his mental exhaustion. The Instructor deftly treated both of them for this was not the first time any of the students were hurt in random bouts, even more so for repeated offenders like these two. Afterwards, they were sent to the sides to rest but with no guarantee on whether they had passed the Selection, they waited there anxiously.


    The Justicar taking notice of the two students who had just fought and currently resting, spoke, ¡°Those two pass. Although they have only an inkling of the Creed, their talents are more than noteworthy for the Order.¡± He glanced at the Artificer of his squad, ¡°Nodan, inform them. There¡¯s no need to let them wallow in anxiety.¡± Nodan nodded and trotted away. The Justicar having done his part, redirected his gaze back to the stage. ¡°Now, what other interesting things can these students show me. One of them should have caught Morr¡¯s attention... Who could it be?¡± he murmured with a delighted smile.


    *


    Everyone was still basking in the afterglow of the last fight. Not one of them were not swept along with the emotions that filled the Arena. With their imaginations going wild they grew more and more excited for what the next match might hold. After all, the Great Continent they lived in relied heavily on one¡¯s strength to survive ¨Cit was natural to covet and envy strength and anyone who passed would eventually rise above his peers. It was an event that the town of Krol would be proud of.


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    Now, it was time for the second fight. Silence once again permeated the Arena, as two students stood on the now-charred stage. The Knights and the Instructors stood to the sides, watching intently. The two students who had fought before, now looked at ease and unexpectedly stood with the others as if their recent bout had not sapped their strength.


    Two students on opposite sides, walked to the stage...


    But as they did, the somber atmosphere was broken before the match had even began as a cold and arrogant laugh sounded out. It was a tall and mature-looking youth with a greatsword for a weapon. His profile was pompous and overbearing, like that of a young master from a Noble Clan. ¡°Alvan! You have guts, I give you that.¡± His voice was overflowing with pride and arrogance. ¡°It seems my warning wasn¡¯t enough. But no matter, this time, I¡¯ll show to you one last time that your efforts are meaningless against a Chosen of the Gods!¡± he roared with a broad and sadistic grin.


    Alvan, an ordinary-looking youth with nothing significant to note, except the mangled wooden sword he had and a unique leather glove, ignored the tall youth¡¯s provocation and calmly walked to his respected side. But as each insult was hurled, his grip tightened more and more on the wooden sword. His expression bordering on rage; he was inwardly furious. Just you wait! he thought. I¡¯ll finally show you that talent is not everything when it comes to strength! Once reaching his destination, he stood there like a stone wall, impervious to all, patiently waiting for the match to start.


    Realizing that his insults were all in vain, the tall youth¡¯s expression twisted like he was mad. With a grunt, he hefted the greatsword just by his side and lifted it overhead. His grin disappeared and what replaced was an icy gaze that could kill. He was not amused. I am a Chosen! I won¡¯t be mocked like this! the tall youth thought and went silent.


    The atmosphere relaxed, but everyone knew that the match this time wouldn¡¯t be as simple like the one before. With how things were, it wouldn¡¯t be something honorable nor just; it won¡¯t even be fair. The gap between the two was clear as day ¨Cone had the status of a young master from a well-established family of Krol, while the other only had a wooden sword, and one that was not even properly maintained.


    Everyone was doubtful if the match would even last that long, and felt pity for the youth who was unfortunate to fight the young master. To them, it was a very steep hill for Alvan to climb ¨Ctoo steep that he might even get hurt in the process. In the end, they could do nothing but pity, for strength mattered the most in their lives.


    Some sighed at Alvan¡¯s misfortune. Judging on how he joined the Selection in the first place, they knew that Alvan, too, wanted to be part of the Order but with how things were, he would be overshadowed by the might of his opponent. It seemed cruel to offhandedly decide it like that, but when compared to the jeers Alvan regularly got from the tall youth and his troupe, he would feel happy that some sympathize with him still. From afar, a man missing a left arm had eyes glinted with nostalgia.


    The Justicar, whom frowned at some point, shouted to start the match, ¡°Stance!¡± Only Alvan had responded to the call as he went into a common stance which had the sword perpendicular to the ground. On the other hand, the tall youth had not moved and still had the greatsword overhead as if to imply that Alvan was not enough to make him move. Alvan unwittingly clenched his teeth to suppress his humiliation and rage. The Justicar, still with the dissatisfied frown, continued, ¡°Commence!¡±


    As soon as the signal of the start of the match went out, Alvan immediately dashed in and roared. His wooden sword was now covered in a hazy film, and his body glowed in a murky light that looked dimmer than Dirk¡¯s. His leather glove began to softly buzz that was almost inaudible and started accumulating mana in his surroundings at a slow speed that only the Knights and the Instructors were capable of perceiving. It gave them the impression that he had no talent in weaving mana. But he continued on, as resolute as ever.


    At this moment, he was concentrated on only one thing. He did not let any unnecessary thoughts clutter his mind. With a shout that vented his frustration alongside the filtered thoughts, he said, ¡°Xander! Today, I¡¯ll show you that you were wrong!¡±


    He looked weak, even now, but he had to be strong.


    His weapon was fragile, but his grasp should be firm.


    He was talentless, but he will find ways to compensate.


    This was the day that he would take the first step in achieving his goal.


    On this day, the path had been paved. And at every juncture, he will win, no matter the cost!

 CHAPTER 5 - His Will

    Alvan honed in on the unmoving Xander, the glowing wooden sword primed for a strike. With each step, his speed increased as if caution was thrown to the wind; he showed no signs of stopping at all, while the buzzing of his left glove rose in volume. His actions baffled everyone in the Arena ¨Che wanted to fight Xander head on!


    Xander sneered in mockery and readied his greatsword for a simple cleave. His movements were effortless like the sword in his hand had no weight at all. His Spirit grew brighter in conjunction with his preparation, completely unlike the dim light Alvan was giving off. When Alvan had finally neared, with the same sadistic grin, he struck out with his greatsword. The wind howled along as the sword cut through, affirming that it was of great weight and speed.


    As expected, the win is mine! Xander thought. With his heightened senses, he could clearly see that Alvan had no way out. And with his meager abilities, could not dodge nor block his strike. At this moment, it was clear to all, especially to him, that Alvan truly had made a grave mistake; he would certainly suffer. Knowing all of this as if it was fact, Xander proudly spoke, ¡°This is the end!¡±


    Unexpectedly, Alvan was not flustered at all, nor did he try to stop his dash. In fact, he continued on as if he considered that the greatsword was no threat to him. His confidence was truly baffling to all as each step he made --even as the greatsword neared him-- was more forceful and unyielding than before. His gaze was focused and his expression was serious, as if the humiliation and the anger he felt was nonexistent.


    Alvan¡¯s Spirit, while terribly underwhelming compared to Xander¡¯s, turned a bit brighter that only someone with amazing perception could see. His wooden sword was now only gripped by one hand and at some point, his left arm ¨Cthe one with the leather glove¡ªwas sent out to meet the oncoming greatsword, while the buzzing suddenly increased once more as if it was priming for something. Most people in the Arena gasped at his idiotic response. After all, it was obvious that with his physique and his weak Spirit, it would be truly a miracle from the First King for him to block Xander¡¯s attack!


    ...But like before, he continued forth, going against everyone¡¯s expectations.


    The leather glove whined and glowed more brightly than Alvan¡¯s own Spirit. And as Xander¡¯s strike met his left hand, he recited a simple word, ¡°Push!¡± What came was a concentrated jet of air being blasted from the center of his left palm.


    It smacked against the greatsword with power so great that it almost tore Xander¡¯s grip away. He was forcefully blocked, and the greatsword slammed behind him onto the stage ground, burrowing a few inches deep. Facing the unexpected shift in weight, he arched back and his footing was in shambles while surprise and anger loomed over his face.


    Although Alvan had blocked Xander¡¯s strike and left him in an awkward state -- he, too, had suffered from the immense recoil brought upon by the left glove, but considering he was aware beforehand of the power his left glove poses, he managed to avert most of the recoil by letting his body go limp. What happened was that with his right foot as a pivot point, he spun once by using the recoil and after spinning once, with a one-handed grip, he slammed the wooden sword down onto Xander¡¯s weakened grip. It was an ungraceful move that had no precedent but it had won him the exchange. The strike of his even drew blood as if the wooden sword had an edge.


    Xander moaned under the pain but Alvan¡¯s strike was not enough to remove his grip from the sword. He hefted ¨Cnow, with some difficulty¡ªthe greatsword and dislodged it from the ground and unhesitatingly, struck out once more in anger at Alvan. I can¡¯t be mocked like this. Not me!


    Alvan had no proper footing as he was just recovering from his attack. Again, it seemed impossible for him to escape Xander¡¯s attack. He cannot dodge nor block in time. The greatsword would reach him wherever he went, and blocking it was the action of a fool. His choices, like before, were now sealed. But this time, everyone stayed quiet, waiting if Alvan could make another miracle.


    This time, Alvan aimed his left palm towards Xander with his body positioned directly behind. He jumped and recited the same simple word, ¡°Push!¡± And another concentrated jet blasted out from the glove.


    It bore down onto Xander but it did not sent the greatsword away. He did not want to take any chances and his Spirit was at its maximum. After all, this time he was prepared even if he knew nothing of what exactly transpired before. He was arrogant, but he was not stupid enough to make the same mistake twice. And while his vision was lost from the concentrated air being buffeted against his face, he had already struck out. There is no hope for Alvan to escape this time! he thought. But, he felt nothing. His greatsword did an arc and slammed once more onto the stage¡¯s ground. He was confused and anger boiled within him. What happened!? He opened his eyes and saw that Alvan was a few meters away. His anger was at its peak.


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    Alvan, in order to escape, had jumped and used the recoil from the glove¡¯s blast. He flew in a low arc across the stage and hurriedly recovered himself from the fall. He regained his stance, with the sword perpendicular to the ground. The bright glow from his glove was now at its dimmest point, even dimmer than his own Spirit. Dammit! he thought. I need to stall for time. I just need to recover one charge. Concentrate, Alvan! Gather as much mana as you can! And the glove buzzed in response. I made him angry. This won¡¯t be easy. I risked it all but I still wasn¡¯t able to break his grip. Now, I¡¯ve lost the advantage in surprise. He would be more guarded than before... I need to use the other spell. Until then, I just need to wait.


    Alvan was sweating profusely. Although he was calm and under control, he still feared from being hit with the power Xander had but since the start of the fight, his determination had grown. He was afraid ¨Clike anyone else would be in face of of being severely hurt-- but it was not enough to damper his will for he knew now that his efforts had brought out what he wanted the most; he was now capable of fighting against the figure he never could fought with before. With this, he was satisfied on how far his efforts had went. He smiled. Of course, he was not content and would strive even further to attain greater strength but as of now, he first needed to win this match. He needed to win, in order to show that his belief that talent could be overcome was never wrong!


    Xander, seeing the undamaged state of Alvan and the smug smile, was finally unable to restrain himself and howled, ¡°Alvan! I¡¯ll kill you!¡± And lifted the greatsword threateningly. His eyes, while not bloodshot, harbored real killing-intent. He felt wronged. All those years in the Academy, he never was humiliated to this degree. He always believed that a Chosen like him would easily overwhelm any opposition in his level but he was not even able to show a portion of his talent in combat ¨Che was just being led around by a youth only a little more half his size. And worst of all, he was being beaten like a dog by the one he had ridiculed as the weakest in the Academy. His emotions were all over; he was truly furious.


    Alvan, calmly and solemnly responded, ¡°Come.¡± and took a step back.


    Xander madly charged like a beast. His Spirit followed in his fury as it glimmered in its brightest. He was mad, yes, but it was not enough to deprive him of all his reason as he moved in a way that cornered Alvan with each step he made. His greatsword, now covered in his Spirit, looked imposing as looks of amazement passed through the Arena, even the Knights. He was really going all out against a youth he arrogantly proclaimed in his mind as only a minor stepping stone. He would rather end it with all he had.


    Alvan facing Xander, took a step back as he neared. He was, after all, only trying to stall time, and every distance he could make would help greatly. His determination might be strong, but he was not a madman who would mistake it as actual strength in combat. He was the kind of person who would logically try to increase his chances of succeeding. Thus, he stepped back and glanced around him for a way to escape Xander¡¯s inevitable deadlock.


    From afar, their bout looked like a youth trying to escape from the clutches of a wild beast.


    At this time, Alvan thought to himself, I must win! A few seconds more and I would have enough mana for the spell. Just as long that I don¡¯t make any mistakes from hereon ¨Cit¡¯s my win! By then, I¡¯ll show to everyone who mocked and doubt me, that talent can be overcome. I can¡¯t ¨CI won¡¯t let anyone, especially Xander, look down on my belief! I will not falter. My Will will not falter! His glove softly buzzed and his wooden sword shimmered with his thoughts.

 CHAPTER 6 - The Day That Led Him

    It was another dreary and unforgiving day for a boy at Krol.


    Dressed in the best clothes he had, he stood there lifelessly and devoid of will while in his hands were a bundle of flowers he had picked up along the way. A week had already passed, but the sharp and aching pain he had felt at that time never weakened at all. Unmoving as if repenting for something, his gaze was locked below him.


    Every time he lay his gaze on the two engraved slabs of stone on the ground, the pain would intensify as if knives were stabbed repeatedly at his already decrepit heart. The slabs were destitute, uneven and obviously poor in quality, but it was all he could do; an incomprehensible feeling of self-pity and loss festered in his heart. Unable to finally control himself ¨Ca repeat of what happened in the days before-- tears slowly gushed out from his eyes. In a choke voice, he spoke, ¡°Dad. Mom. I¡¯m sorry...¡± He carefully halved the bundle of flowers into two, and lovingly placed a portion onto a slab of stone.


    He kneeled, and beside him was a wooden sword that looked new and shimmered in a faint light, so faint that it looked like it was dying. It was a gift from his father, hoping that the boy would grow up to be a respected Spirit Warrior like him. It was a sword covered in his father¡¯s Spirit and meant to be used as a training tool and nothing more.


    On his other side laid meticulously was an intricate leather glove, that gave off a feeling of power but just like the wooden sword, the feeling was faint. He could see traces of colorful small orbs from time to time gathering towards the glove. It was something he received from his mother when he said he wanted to be a spellcaster. It was an item that helped gather mana for the wearer, especially for ones who were incapable of perceiving mana. His mother had made it for him, even though, she was


    fully aware of her son¡¯s poor talent in mana.


    He waited there while kneeling, and held back his wailing voice, afraid that he would get scolded by his parents on the ground. He wanted to openly cry, and voice his desire of seeing his father and mother again, but he was not able to. Even with his naive and young mind, he knew that if he did so, it would be the greatest insult he could do to his parents who sacrificed themselves for him.


    He stared at the two slabs, and imagined his parents overlooking him with a smile, and spoke to him in a soft voice like always. ¡±Get up, son! There¡¯s no need to cry. I¡¯ll race you back to town. First one to get there, gets the first taste of Mom¡¯s cooking!¡± said by his boisterous father.


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    A sigh came beside his father, ¡°Dear... Can¡¯t you see our boy¡¯s tired?¡± said by his gentle


    mother.


    ¡°Pfft. My son? Tired? He¡¯s as strong as his dad!¡± his father flexed as he said so, ¡°Right, son?!¡± continued by his comical father.


    The pain in his heart eased a bit, even though his father and mother weren¡¯t really there. He was just truly glad and happy that even though they were gone, they still cared for him from beyond the Aether. He shook his head and the imaginary forms of his parents disappeared. His tears had stopped, and the turmoil from the last week started to weaken but he still waited on that very spot until sunset. Just outside the walls of Krol, waited a boy over two slabs of stone.


    Sunset came. He wiped his face with the sleeve of his shirt and stood up, though, unsteadily. The lifelessness in his eyes were nowhere to be found and what replaced it was the seed of a strong will. He looked at the grave of his parents, and spoke softly, ¡°Dad. Mom. From now on, I won¡¯t mourn for your deaths.¡± He breathed deeply, and continued, ¡°Starting today, I will respect both of your wishes: I will live the life the two of you have given me.¡± He then grabbed the wooden sword on the ground. ¡°I will become strong like Dad! I will become a renowned Spirit Warrior like him.¡± And sheathed the wooden sword to his side.


    This time, he grabbed the leather glove from the ground. ¡°I won¡¯t let Mom¡¯s work be in vain. Alongside being a powerful Spirit Warrior like Dad, I will also be as good as Mom when it comes to enchanting items!¡± He equipped the leather glove on his left hand. ¡°Tomorrow, I¡¯ll enroll for the Academy and train there. I will become strong! I won¡¯t be as weak as I was back then. That way, what happened then won¡¯t happen twice. I won¡¯t let anyone sacrifice themselves for me ever again. I¡¯ll show them that I can be stronger than anyone else!¡±


    After bowing to the graves of his parents, he walked off with power back to Krol. And when tomorrow came, he would train bitterly until he became strong, and if not, he would continue for the day after. He won¡¯t let anyone destroy his parents¡¯ legacy.

 CHAPTER 7 - The Silent Stage

    The Great Continent of Astorrah; a place of endless terrors and war --an entire world carved out from a history that had never known true peace. Here, power was a necessity, and at the same time, a luxury that only few could truly have. It was a cruel world of injustice that catered not to the weak and the craven ¨Chere, strength determined your fate.


    And in this continent rife with a history of death, the desire for strength was perpetual and ubiquitous; it was eternal, as if it was an instinctual weapon given to the Living. It was like life itself had adapted to covet strength, in order to face an unforeseen threat...


    *


    Xander enraged, had cornered Alvan into a portion of the stage. In his fury, he swept forth his greatsword in wide arcs with finesse and brutality. He showed no mercy as each strike was shot out with an intent to kill ¨Che was thoroughly mad from humiliation, completely neglecting the rule the Justicar had placed. By now, regardless if he was clear of mind, he had deemed the Order¡¯s Exam as unnecessary and of no matter to him. He did not care if he was worthy or not, but instead was fixated in venting his frustration on the one who had humiliated him. He would rather lose the chance of joining the Order, than the chance of enacting his revenge.


    Alvan avoided, albeit barely, all of the attacks that was thrown at him. He had ducked, dodged, parried, and blocked Xander¡¯s unceasing greatsword. He used everything he had other than the glove in order to buy time with his Spirit growing dimmer over the course of each exchange ¨Che grew more weary and battered each time.


    As of now, he managed to force the fight to a stalemate, but surely it won¡¯t last long. Fortunately, he needed only the time of a few exchanges more and the perfect moment for him to use his spell. Until then, he must persevere!


    Alvan blocked an overhead strike from Xander and one more notch had engraved itself onto his wooden sword while the light encompassing it flickered as if it was on the verge of dying out.


    The light was unbelievably dim, to an extent that only the user was now capable of perceiving its state. He gritted his teeth and parried the greatsword away, but before he could recover to get some distance between him and Xander, a kick had hit him below and staggered as a result. His vision blacked out from the pain but bit his lip before he passed out and blood oozed slowly from his mouth. Just from a single kick... Too weak! Alvan bitterly thought. He repositioned his gaze back and glared at his opponent.


    What came into Alvan¡¯s view was someone he needed to overcome. It was someone who was blessed by the Gods; a person who was given everything he needed to come this far. He needed to best this Chosen to assure himself that everything he did was not for naught. By now, for Alvan, the match had turned into a matter not pertaining to the Order but a match to decide his course in life. If he lost, his life and consequently, the sacrifice of his parents would be in vain.


    I must win!


    Another overhead strike came crashing down. He scrambled to the side in desperation, knowing that to block with his wooden sword in its current state would be suicide.


    Xander snorted at Alvan¡¯s response. His muscles bulged and coiled as he tightened his grip on his greatsword. Laughing coldly, his spirit brightened for a moment as he forcefully redirected his strike to a sweeping slash. A gale followed in its wake.


    Alvan whom was just regaining his foothold, suddenly felt chilly as his clothes stuck to his skin. Be it because of his lack of experience, he naively turned towards the direction of the abrupt gust of wind and what he saw was an immense blade that filled more than half of what he could see. Surprised, he grabbed the blade portion of his wooden sword with his free hand and hastily blocked. It proved effective but barely as his muscles tensed from receiving the shock of a strike that bore the weight of multiple men.


    Mitigating most of the shock, he was practically unhurt but exhausted and skidded to another corner of the stage from the rebound. His spirit wavered once more in the resulting short bout but whether it be a stroke of luck or not, he had managed to escape from being cornered and earned a moment¡¯s respite but at a cost that left him terribly weary.


    He gasped for air. Shortly after, he glanced over his wooden sword; a large portion of its blade was chipped off while the light flickered sporadically. Fury swelled up in him and glared at his opponent, but it then immediately turned into disbelief. He swiftly leaned to one side and by a hair, avoided a fatal slash. He then centered the brunt of his weight on one foot and kicked the heel of the outward foot of his opponent. He heard a grunt of pain but no more.


    ¡°Tch.¡± Realizing the futility of his kick, he strode off to circle behind his opponent and incapacitate him from there but as he did so, the feeling of power once more could be felt coursing through his glove; sufficient enough to discharge one spell. Elated, he blasted off with drive.


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    This is my chance! He¡¯s still reeling from his slash. I just need to get close. His glove whirred and held the wooden sword tightly on the other.


    But before he could circle his opponent in order to take him down, his opponent¡¯s Spirit fluctuated at the edge of his vision and as if he bypassed the restrictions of Time, Xander¡¯s figure of reeling from his failed attack was no more. Another round of gasps and people expressing their disbelief rang about.


    ¡°Impossible!¡±


    ¡°He had achieved that point at such a young age!?¡±


    In an instant, the sorry figure of Xander was replaced with him overlooking over Alvan with a cold smile, though, his Spirit, for the first time, had dimmed. Beside him was his greatsword, itching to slash him apart. His mouth parted, and in a hushed tone oozing with hate, he spoke, ¡°Die!¡± The greatsword traveled upward, slicing the air apart. He felt he had hit something hard then soft; his smile turned colder.


    Alvan¡¯s right arm was bleeding heavily. His breathing was labored as his eyes begun to lose its bright luster, but in its place was unbridled hate; a hate that far surpassed Xander whose hate only stemmed from simple humiliation. His hate, on the other hand, stemmed from the equivalent of losing a life. Right in front of him was the cut-off blade portion of his wooden sword, and in his right hand was the remaining wooden handle now tinged red from blood. His glove whirred madly like a chained beast trying to break free.


    With his greatsword as a crutch and a sadistic smile, ¡°I warned you not to come here,¡± Xander mocked. ¡°Yield before you make more of a fool of yourself,¡± he said as he hefted his greatsword and arrogantly placed it on his shoulder. On the sidelines, Nodan, the Artificer, was blocked from going to the stage by the Justicar whom was softly shaking his head. ¡°You can¡¯t battle and even if you can, you¡¯re too weak! You were never meant to be a Knight. At the very least, you could make for a fine toll guard.¡± he continued. He aimed the point of his greatsword towards his bloodied foe, ¡°Yield, weakling!¡±


    Alvan roared. His eyes, now dull, were bloodshot. He changed his grip on the wooden sword into a grip meant for holding daggers and charged forth. His glove formed into a claw as the centerpalm revolved an eerie light. His Spirit brightened, but the changes were too minuscule to make a difference.


    Seeing the unexpected retaliation, Xander wildly laughed and gripped the handle of his greatsword with two hands. ¡°Come!¡± he boasted, and shortly afterwards, slashed a wide arc intending to stop his foe¡¯s madly dash. He succeeded, but disbelief then anger flowed across his face. ¡°Why!¡ª¡°


    Alvan jumped towards him, vaulting over his slash, akin to a missile rushing forth. Because of the difference in their height, Alvan clung onto him like a ledge and his arms as platforms. From there, he was stuck in an awkward stance as his greatsword was incapable of reaching Alvan for his arms were being pushed away. He was thoroughly surprised from the sudden change of events. Silently, Alvan looked at him like a prey caught in a snare.


    The wooden handle as a makeshift dagger, Alvan stabbed Xander and wedged it deep on his right shoulder, finally sealing his attacks. He growled in pain and tried to struggle free from Alvan¡¯s hold but his foe stuck closely onto him with ease. Fear began to crept towards his heart as his thoughts wandered about, How! How! How did it come to this!


    He tried to break free but his actions only served to exhaust him further to the point that his arms began to feel numb and eventually lost hold of his greatsword. His arms laid powerless on his sides. With a heavy thud, the greatsword fell to the ground, the only noise that could be heard in the silent Arena.


    In a similar tone of voice he had used earlier, Alvan spoke clear, ¡°Die.¡± And raised his glove hand that was whirring mad directly on top of his chest. Instinctively, he could feel that his life was at stake; death was upon him. He desperately spoke, ¡°I surren¡ª¡°


    Alvan cut him off and with a terrifying visage, he softly spoke, ¡°Pull...¡± The glove suddenly went alive as it sucked in the air around it towards the centerpalm and no sooner it became clogged as his chest was being pulled inside. He screamed in pain as he could feel and hear his ribs breaking from the stress. Blood was thrown around like it was a whip being lashed out. A grinding noise reverberated in the Arena and cold sweat could be seen on some of the spectators. Drooling from the intense pain, he shouted, ¡°I give! Gi¡ªgive! I yield!¡± As the glove was on its last spurt, he howled ¡°Stooop!!¡± and passed out. The glove died out and the whirring stopped.


    Silence remained.