Hello Nuffians, I am writing an original fiction, you can also read it here. I write about 1K daily that I prefer to post in a 6-7k words weekly update. Feedback is both shamelessly encouraged and well received, if you have anything that bothers you or something you can or want to add please do. Synopsis: The War is coming. The 12 countries organize skirmishes against each other with unprecedented violence, every nation not dissimilar from a ravenous wolf waiting for the other to show a sliver of weakness. When the King of his own country is assassinated, a disobedient magician, Artyon, is forced to participate in the following civil war, joining many others in a race against time to set order in Bylmir before old enemies take advantage of the chaos. Genre: Action, Romance, Tragedy. Table of Contents Chapter 1: Buying Favors Chapter 2: "I can't reach you." - "You can't see me." - ''I can't see you."
Chapter 1: Buying Favors +++++“I wonder if simply doing what you are being ordered to is as complicated as you make it seem.” A middle aged man of sharp shaped face and cerulean blue eyes spat his words as closer as possible to a yell that could still be considered discreet, his voice, already more than enough somber, turned even grimmer. Johannes Baasch, leader of the 5th group of search and extermination was not happy, and he, for the love of all that could be considered sacred, couldn’t see a reason not to display it. For either good or bad the free rein that he was allowing to his temperament was being confined to his office. As it was simple and old-fashioned with only the basic needs tended for, a chair a desk and several bookcases, his voice was giving more life to the place than the decorations. Of course neither of the two individuals in minded the rather unsavory place. Of course, not even the convoluted cocktail of madness, stress and danger that was his job had taken him far enough in the spiral descent of insanity, or ascent, at this point he couldn’t really differentiate, to talk alone mind you. Only, since the start this had been a fairly one-sided conversation, as evidenced by the fact that the subject of his complaints still remained like a statue. As could be expected, understood and reasoned being ‘politely’ ignored just to hear his own voice projected soon enough turned tedious, never mind the fact his short fuse was a little bit close of being ignited. Less than a meter away from himself was the other only witness of his soliloquy, thanks to the sound-proofing function that the office was equipped with, if not, despite his attempts to control his tone of voice it wouldn’t be weird if the content of the exchange reached a couple of people. He was dressed in an elaborate but simple white military uniform marred with dirt, gashes and blood, over his heart, laid with golden trimmings was the insignia of a tree of which 6 thick twigs barely pierced a fruit each. The silent participant was a young man with chocolate brown hair that ended behind his head in a low ponytail. His eyes, red close to blood but even then more brilliant than the fluid, were empty and spoke volumes of many things. One, for example, the young man had killed. That much couldn’t be masqueraded or hidden behind some petty excuses. When staring to the empty pools that without doubt had seen their fair amount of tragedies one had to wonder how much took to break someone like this, no, Johannes suspected he was more bended than actually broken. Nevertheless, pity was not one of the first reactions he garnered. In his taciturn standing said man’s red eyes continued their addressing towards his superior, never shying away from contact nor reacting. No, his tall, lean but sculpted figure irradiated a stern military aura that could not be faked, such a feeling was similar to the one Johannes, ignoring his rather short stature, caused himself, it was so alike that an ignorant bystander that could easily relate them as family. But no, the wordless recipient of the middle-aged man’s criticism only maintained a strict, if not taxing (for at least one of the parties involved), boss-subordinate relationship. As Johannes’s latest question remained unaddressed, his brows tensed, the veins in his face bulged grotesquely and when he seemed just about to continue he heard for the first occasion since his ranting began a verbal answer. “Mr. Baasch, I would like to retreat to my lodgings.” Artyon remembered similar situations on his past. Reprimands, complaints and shouts, every one intended for his not so appreciated problem-resolution method. Artyon let them know what he thought of their opinions by repeating himself in his unchanged way of acting. It was clear the conflict would end if one of both parties capitulated, however, Artyon didn’t have in his mind yielding, and the other participant(s) seemed to share his disposition. Although it was naïve of him he hoped for them to adapt to his way of doing things, disregarding how egotistic and conceited could appear, he had an excellent success record, and nobody got hurt, besides him, but he could afford his own medical expenses and was responsible for his own wellbeing. According to some passing non-offensive commentaries he was told that his voice was particularly low, more as he was musing than talking. In spite of that, the previous utterly silent room projected his voice enough to reach Johannes. And he couldn’t even doubt it, seeing how red with anger his face became almost instantly. The noiseless space was as getting as tense as it could get. The face of Johannes was doubtlessly feral, set in brilliant red snarl. Each prolonged second of stillness seemed a cheering demand for blood. The room was a powder keg just waiting to explode and the diligent tickling of the clock seemed the timer for the soon to be seen disaster. For Artyon this was the first time the saw his boss so…upset? In the two months they have worked together the man demonstrated the calm and finesse of a very experienced person, he wasn’t a gossip, but even to his unconcerned ears had reached the rumors about Johannes’s reputation and his son, but he personally watched how not even the occasional and irritated grunt of ‘Soulless Bastard’ elicited that reaction, instead, the short man honed his eyes on the offender and let them know, no mind-communication magic needed, what it would be of the fool that kept going down that road before returning to his preceding activity. Sure, in some cases there were more unilateral pain and screams going instead of stabbing gazes, but as they were rumors he could only speculate. Besides that the man was dedicated to his work as it was the sunshine of his life. In fact, in more than one occasion he had invited his subordinates to lunches, dinners and inconspicuous celebrations, including Artyon. He, as many, approached him amiably curious about his previous workplace if that was the correct terms to refer to it. Not that Artyon accepted, he personally preferred to politely decline before retiring to his personal lab. Because of this, the image of Mr. Baasch showing him the greatest repertoire of expressions to the date, in the same day, it was nothing short of ‘startling’ for Artyon. His boss seemed almost ready to all but to ignore the almost comical height difference between them and strangle him. He blinked one, twice, thrice, before taking a deep breath and slowly start to improve his complexion. Johannes’s features arranged themselves in a mask of disappointment, ire and resignation. Emotions that Artyon could barely recognize if not outright baselessly presume. His eyebrows fell down and his superior and inferior lips were strained against each other. If asked he couldn’t say why, but Artyon thought that if that face had a name, it was that of a betrayed man. “Yes…certainly, you can return to your lodgings. Actually, you can stay there for a while,” Johannes scrutinized Artyon’s wounded and still bleeding body for the briefest of instants before focusing his blue eyes on his subordinate red ones “You are from this moment until further notice suspended and banned of all activities pertaining to the 5th group of search and extermination. You are to rest and recover from your injuries in your quarters. Dismissed” Said Johannes vomiting his last word coated with an odd feeling. It was weird. His blood felt more viscous and warm than usual, like dense boiling oil burning his veins from the inside out with each passing circulation. When it reunited in his chest it was as if the hot currents wished both to incinerate and strangle his heart. He could almost feel a foreign hand willing to rip apart his blood-pump from his torso. His lungs weren’t supposed to breathe like this. Nor his heart was to beat like this. ‘Rational thinking’, ‘Consequences’ were cast off in order to discard the beast’s shackles. Pain for abstinence and lust for blood held each other and sang on his ear pervading his nerves. Such a thing could only be called torture. dO It The veins of the ma-his prey, palpitated vigorously and juicy like a ripe fruit swaying in front of his eyes, he would just have to- Do iT. DoOooO IiiiIIT. Just before he could do something that would earn him a bounty or a Hunting Lock Artyon succeeded regaining his bearings by a painful zap that shook his body. His safety measure acted just in time, overlooking the fact that he almost murdered and consequently ate Johannes its effectiveness had helped his disappointing self once again; of course, he would have to see what were the specifics behind this incident. However, his boss was still alive, and it was better for both concerned individuals that he stayed that way. A suspension was grave, yes, but it didn’t spell the end of the world. He would talk to Frost, a couple of sold favors later he would be back in the business. Rather, he should take the unarranged vacations to process his latest gains. “Understood.” almost mumbled Artyon, leaving Johannes’s office with a salute and a single word. “Remove your top please.” the voice coming from a man on his right was dry and indicated how the speaker would prefer to be in another place, Artyon wasn’t precisely the most popular man on the place. The wounded magician studied his sudden form for a second and recognizing the beer blond mane as part of the healing department assented, disrobing partially so the doctor could treat his wounds. Yes, his new orders were to recover, so they probably prepared healing personal and adequate transport. A clear blue light emanating from the blond man gained his attention. Oh magic, such a familiar sight. Magic was what got him here in the first place. Artyon relaxed under the care that soothed his worn out body, allowing his treatment and the posterior escort while filtering the outer noise, keeping himself to his mind. ..... He felt exhausted. His very body was screaming for rest as he kept walking, it wasn’t that he had forgotten his injuries previously in presence of Johannes. He just ignored them, he was accustomed to pain, needless to say, pain tolerance didn’t actually reduce the amount of hurt felt, just made it easier for one to keep going. Although he could say he was better now seeing how he was treated of his former injuries that amounted to a deep cut in his right bicep, fractured collarbone and half a dozen stabs scattered across his body, that was not to say he was completely cured as that kind of instant recovery would be a borderline Miracle-level spell, instead he would be fairly well in 3 or 4 days and back to full capacity in a week. Even then, his mind wasn’t as fatigued as his body, working on his magic while resting didn’t sound like a bad idea to Artyon. It goes without saying that the dichotomy of working while resting eluded him. While unwillingly received, his ‘vacations’ were in spite of everything time he could use to do what he wanted, hence he would take as many advantages as he could of them. Some peace and quietness whilst focusing on his research on his house and personal lab was acceptable. Said house was more like a miniature brimstone castle with sturdy black gates, as any magician should have, the structure was protected by a Territory Matrix, a mystical barrier or so to speak. In the interior dark wood from the east conformed the floor combined with the grey and shady purple of most of the walls and allowing the place to give a solemn impression. Artyon wasn’t someone who greatly esteemed luxury thus he presented some complaints to Lothar, one of the main responsible of the expensive housing, when he was given the property. His objections were met with denial, seeing how it was proper given his status as the 1st head of the Gartel House. Naturally, no one could really claim to be the first head of a house without a proper spouse, the reason behind how several personages, including the previously mentioned Lothar, tried to get him a proper partner, Artyon was thankful that he could at least delay the attempts with his constant participation in the field. Several floors underground, as most of magicians constructed it too, it existed the core location for a magic user, his personal laboratory, the place where they kept their secrets and investigation. Artyon was there, the room was packed to brim like he regretted not having more space but had to go along with the limited area, it was also as messed up as if a hurricane paid a visit on daily basis. In no way was overindulgently comfortable or nice-looking, far from it, the place was set more with practicality in mind than any aesthetical purposes. Other sorcerer would have arranged the place differently. No matter what this was where they perfected their craft and spent a significant amount of their lives, instead, what Artyon wished of his lab was just a single minded aim, efficiency. ‘Time to work’ He grabbed the black case next to a close table, moved a few meters before setting it on the ground in a circle of engravings and sat inside the ring of symbols as he rested the container on his leg. This too, not unlike the one surrounding his estate, was a Territory Matrix, a type of magic array focused on setting rules and effects over a designated area, the main difference between this formation and the bigger one being that the former was focused towards energy flow improvement and the easier enactment of magic, instead of the defensive and…additional purposes of the latter. Opening the valise, he found the content unsurprising. Pinkish-red meat with several openings and a asymmetrical outline, although it had some differences respect in comparison to the human equivalent there was no doubt that the object was fairly easy to indentify, anyone who gazed at it could tell it was an organ, a heart to be specific. Maybe the horror was in the fact it wasn’t even human in the first place, a gelatinous film stuck at the stinking material like a layer of sweat, giving it the appearance of a polished albeit grotesque jewel. Artyon took the red piece with both of his hands, like a murdering sacrifice of times of yore. Had anyone else been there the ghastly picture would have chilled them to bone. Artyon was smiling with too much glee while whispers or the hallucination of them chorused in the background alternating chaotically between silence and faint murmurs. The temperature was low, but this was his house, such cold was something he was endeared to and reminded him of his childhood. The habitual smell of ink and mold and the scent of blood took each other hands and danced around his nose before invading his nostrils. Lulled to peace with the stimuli he closed his eyes and entered the recesses of his mind, sinking further in himself with iron will, not enough to enter his inner world, but to deep enough to enact magic. In the mental abyss inside of him he could feel it. THUMP. Even now, it was hard to describe it. It was not his heart, as his inexperienced self thought before. Neither did exist in a physical place. It pulsed with life and power. It was unbearably hot yet the heat radiated from it was comfortable, gentle, dare he say…like an embrace. Humans were weak. So much that it was a wonder they survived so much in this world of mighty creatures and devious gods. Magic was a power that was never meant to be wielded by human hands, in spite of that the impish fire that would accompany a Magician day until his latest day, the fire of torment and salvation, of fear and fascination, was born and baptized Blaze. The Blaze, crudely depicted, processed the ambient’s energy called Karma it a more usable one named Ash that was stored in the soul. A modest crackling followed Artyon’s efforts. He could already feel it coming, the spell in question was fairly easy to use the first time and it wasn’t particularly taxing, so despite his low serves he had barely enough Ash to actualize it. Thankfully Magic was powered using mostly the surroundings’ energy, employing the Ash as a spark to the powderkeg-like Karma. If not, he doubted he could manifest this spell, full reserves or not. “It raises a prayer of ruin for the tyrant’s fall.” Opening his eyes to inspect the heart Artyon muttered. “Rest is forgotten. Hope is forsaken.” He continued, his breathing steady as he felt his Ash spike up. “The voice is all but one.” A plain and brief flash emerged from his hands just before lancing him out against the wall in a flicker of motion. “Ghh” said wall was now caved in after the blast that left his hurt owner there. Had he bothered to notice he would have perceived his bleeding on eyes and ears, but right now, Artyon was too tired just trying to breathe normally. For a few seconds he stood mostly static excluding his gasping for air, pain saturating his nerves as Artyon regarded the latest addition to his recently growing list of failures. “I hate snakes.” fortunately, nobody could correct him on the difference between snakes and basilisks as his consciousness waned. ..... Magic development was something that couldn’t be rushed or forced, not without nasty consequences at least, so much for shortcuts, instead it grew tediously slow with day to day insight and experience, as such, results were barely visible at after a few months work. Contrary to what could be believed being a Magician was closer to the learning of any mundane craft. Encountering setbacks was something completely normal. That was regarding magic, as for Artyon, self-motivational introspection seemed like the best thing to do as he awakened in a crater bleeding. He wasn’t a supporter of licking one own wounds, but fell in it just to avoid tearing apart his hair out of sheer frustration. Since months ago his investigation advanced at a snail’s pace, the multiple fusion, redirection and amplification of thought aura through the simultaneous connection of several mediums was harder than he supposed. “I need a bath.” And so he crawled. An hour later he stood against a mirror, reflected on it was the image of a young man with brown hair and red eyes, he touched his left arm tracing the black veins like tattoos that similarly extended on his limbs with full circles appearing every once in a while as if they were confining something in the appendages. His wounds had worsened some out after yesterday’s stunt, yes, he slept 12-something hours, which was extremely rare for him as he preferred a 4 hours rest, but he could move, he just would have to be more careful the following days. Artyon dressed with black shoes, black pants, and a dark purple vest with the emblem of two knives besides the other piercing a broken fragment of a chain each etched in silver over his chest. He didn’t exactly valued luxury without a purpose so the suit felt a bit weird, the last time he put it on was in an official procedure he couldn’t escape. The outfit wasn’t his idea of comfort, especially given his wounded state but it would have to do, he was also adequately bandaged to speed up the healing process so there should be no further problems. Now he would just have to set his foot down, a very big foot. ..... The ‘Frozen Garden’ was the central institution of investigation and magic development of Bylmir. It had the appearance of a crystal dome enclosed by metallic tree-like branches. Although the city where it was located was not without its own beautiful structures it was obvious that this was the gem of the city, Atherweth. If the exterior was grand the inside was stunningly sumptuous, the opulent decorations, art pieces valued in fortunes and the ambiance was nothing short of perfect. Yet contrary to what its beautiful appearance could lead to believe the place was a fortress of absurd durability with most of the core facilities underground and with further enhanced security. In here the personages intimately related with the institution or the government had offices and labs entitled to them, of course most of researches preferred the safe haven of their personal properties, as so several individuals were more along the lines of prisoners with silk shirts and pheasant. It was on the corridors of such building that Artyon was walking with a firm pace, belying his injured condition. At his sides dozens of magician focused on their business, each with their own destination in mind but most walking less hurriedly than the red-eyed magician. “Art, what merits the fancy clothes?” An amused voice made him pause mid-stride. “It’s my habit to always be properly dressed, Miss Gallegos” He replied. There was only one person who referred to him as ‘Art’. “I find my memories a bit contradicting to your declaration.” She paused until Artyon looked at her, finding a elegantly crafted sapphire blue dress and the red mane contrasting against it. She put a finger on her chin while smiling knowingly “I think even the enemy was surprised with your look that time.” His eyebrow twitched, he remembered the incident she was alluding to, it was battle where he arrived nude, a sad byproduct of extra exertion of his magic. Her voice and face all but told of her amusement, again, that was her personality so he wasn’t surprised. The woman teasing him was Angela Gallegos, a magician who had accompanied him on many missions and one of the few he could he say he trusted. She wore a blue dress showing her generous figure while conserving modesty and in her hands long white gloves set in place amplified the feeling she had the getup for a party. Her features in full display were the cause behind continued courting and heart-break, and although her hip length scarlet red cascading down her back were part guilty her eyes shared the blame too. Her orbs were midnight black with tiny white-silver twinkles on it, like they were a piece of the night sky, which made her feel mysterious. “Perhaps.” Relented Artyon, not willing to continue down that pointless train of thought. “Not that it matters.” He added as an afterthought. “I always find adorable how your eyes crinkle when you are embarrassed.” Angela giggled. “I wonder what would others think about you and I in the same sentence lest one of us be… unclothed.” Said the smiling midnight-eyed woman. Artyon sighed, letting out an exasperated grunt. ‘Not the crazy fanatics again’. Despite the old monster she had as a mother and consequent wide berth she should have been given the beautiful magic user wasn’t lacking in numbers of pursuers. Fool who deemed obvious, given her choice of company which was limited mostly to a certain brown-headed, to duel him for the set prize of Angela, He had to try hard not to scoff at the memories. ‘Like he owned her.’ After finding his name some backed down, he wasn’t precisely a great magician but he was overly good at just a couple things, but there always remained the wizards who where feeling lucky or powerful enough. The look she was giving him told Artyon that she knew what he was remembering. Given how the starry sky of her eyes twinkled when she was amused and how they were doing that right now it wasn’t hard to guess her current emotion, orphic eyes or not. It was reminiscent of those moments when one of those brain-dead took him to the arena, she had the same eyes, Angela didn’t even need him to play bodyguard, she could bloody murder him without much trouble, but Artyon guessed he really enjoyed the fun at his expenses. “What do you want?” He dropped subtlety, shifting a careful eye to the growing mass of witnesses, that was fine too, he preferred directness. She closed the distance between them. “My place tomorrow, 11:00 am.” Angela whispered before winking, her hot breath brushing against his ear. “We also have to take a look at those injuries, don’t we?” Not even waiting for his agreement she separated and did a ladylike bow. “May you have a fine day Mr. Gartel.” Annoyance dwindled down to gratitude. So she knew. It wasn’t entirely surprising that Angela detected his injuries given how experienced she was. Unrequested help could be hassle but in this case he felt the concern was appreciated. In this world finding suddenly someone you knew was dead wasn’t shocking, and although she was more than capable herself seeing Angela well filled him with a uncertain but welcome feeling. Artyon would figure it out later if he needed to, now he had just to advance towards Lothar’s, and so he did, ignoring the mutterings of ‘Midnight Witch’ and ‘Obsidian Wolf’ he heard on his passing. If he had bothered to pay attention he would have noticed a blonde man dressed in the color of autumn leaves glaring daggers at him. ..... Stepping into the room, Artyon was greeted with the sight of a middle-aged man with neck-length green hair and amber eyes, hadn’t he be acquaintanced with him being misled to believe he was of the opposite gender because of his delicate features would have been easy. “Lothar”. Even with the immunity gained from years of contact, his young and rather feminine appearance always managed to strike him a little bit. The green haired man’s thin frame was dressed with a silver suit and a blue tie. Lothar Frost vacated the seat he was previously occupying in front of a big crystal desk walking towards him with a big feral grin. “Artyon, care for a drink boy?” Artyon moved his gaze to the right; a young man stood ramrod straight looking back at him. He had short silver hair and red eyes, while his attire consisted of silver form-fitting leather and golden armor above it. “Ollivier.” He greeted the armored man without showing his surprise. “Artyon.” In response he was acknowledged in the same way by the other red-eyed man. Lothar inspected the doubting look Artyon was giving Ollivier. “Don’t mind him, he’s too stiff for his own good. Besides I am a heavy drinker, a couple glasses won’t make me bat an eyelid.” Both Artyon and Ollivier frowned for a second before the first one nodded. “Excellent, Olli, bring me some grass honey” The Frost said with almost childish glee. ‘I almost feel being used as an excuse for drinking.’ The silver-haired man reluctantly went to a deposit a few meters away. Artyon was taken aback by the presence of one of them, thankfully it was basically the most usual company of Lothar, if not the encounter could turn rather tedious. “So…” Lothar said, receiving the bottle of emerald alcohol and serving a portion for him and handing the other cup to Artyon. Grass honey was an alcoholic beverage made mainly with the acids of an oversized frog, it was known for making the inexperienced tipsy just with the smell but that certainly didn’t seem to apply to the amber-eyed man as he downed his drink in a single gulp before resuming “You are here for nostalgia?” His eyes narrowed. “You give yourself too much importance”. The sheer simplicity of the statement would have impressed others given the importance of the green-haired man. Much like every piece of art had an artist behind it, one couldn’t forget magicians weren’t natural, as such they too had a maker of sorts. Each human had a Soul which was an energy body and functioned as the essence of life, separated from the body by uncountable dimensions and layers, using a construct called Chains, the Soul was attracted and tied to this lower plane, giving their power to the magicians the chains also served as the conduits for magical energy to enter or exit the body. Lothar Frost was a magician with 6 generations of history, a rare fact, given the massacre 142 years ago, nowadays in Bylmir most of magicians either had 3-4 generations supporting them, or were absolute behemoths with more than 10 rings, but it didn’t particularly merited respect. Instead, the fact that he was one the greatest Chainsmiths of the world, or one of the oldest wizards did the job. “Maybe.” Frost took the jab in stride, calmly countering while shrugging. The older man took a gulp of his beverage and sent an inviting gesture so Artyon did the same. The Gartel didn’t enjoy drinking, but he acknowledged it, if only for its social lubricant properties. “I came to talk.” Artyon stated with firmness. Lothar eyed Artyon and sighed. “You know…It’s funny. You never liked influence, it seems like poetic justice that one of your first uses of it is on me.” Even his political ignorance allowed him the knowledge of sending wordless messages. Today he wasn’t in his military garments going as a member of the forces, he was clothed as the 1st Head of the Gartel family. “I heard about your suspension, this move is harsh, but not unexpected coming from you.” The Chainsmith pondered loudly. “The others didn’t come out like you.” Lothar added, as if it was a comment he forgot to include before sighing wearily. “Allow me to correct you. You didn’t came to talk, to ask as a soldier lenience in your punishment. You came to declare that you will keep hunting.” He could almost feel guilty for his approach, not dissimilar from being teach how to fight with knife just to stab the same person who trained you with one. Artyon didn’t say anything. Lothar knew, so further words weren’t needed. The higher ups in the military wouldn’t like his solution that was akin to spitting on their pride, but the Chainsmith was more in the practical side of things so conserving Artyon in the field was on his best interest but if he acceded Artyon thought it would be probably more for his amusement than for the merits, that was the kind of man that the greenette was. “The Garden can’t keep you in domiciliary arrest, and I value my words enough to not waste them in a futile attempt of control.” A barely twist on his lips was Artyon’s answer, and when he thought he could go back to his house and rest Lothar raised a hand to signal him he wasn’t over. “In exchange, soon enough you will do me a favor.” Lothar added ominously, his amber eyes seeming to glow for an instant. The green haired man certainly was a personage important enough to make his declaration happen, being one of the most powerful men in Bylmir and the creator of the Wizards Series that worked as pillar of the country allowed him the privilege, so Artyon didn’t doubted if he was capable of doing as told. Although giving blank checks felt bitter and dangerous, and he didn’t exactly consider what he had with the green-haired man as trust, it was a price he was willing to pay. “It’s appropriate.” Artyon nodded, gulping the remaining contents of his vase in one swig before looking away from Lothar and in its place setting his gaze on the quiet individual. It was his mute way of saying goodbye. “That boy is a bad drinker.” Lothar said once the brown-headed wizard was out. “You felt good seeing your older brother?” Lothar asked with a side look to Ollivier. “Yes” The silver-headed magician confessed, with hints of doubt showing through his tone. “Let’s hope the boy doesn’t gets himself killed.” “With all due respect,” Ollivier all but growled, the strongest show of emotion from earlier. “He wouldn’t. Even if he doesn’t considers himself my, our brother, he is a Silver Wolf too.” “That’s right, even if he’s considered a failure he is nonetheless a wolf, he has fangs too.” “But?” Ollivier asked, sensing the unfinished line of thought of his master. “The country doesn’t want an uncontrollable rabid beast. The only reason why others haven’t further pursued this point is only because the intimidation factor. After all, even if not monstrously big a mad dog is something everyone instinctly fears” “I don’t know what fervent desire eldest brother is chasing, I ignore what could make him bear silently a stigma, endure torture he calls training, and even contracting that curse that ills him and keep moving forward in wanton abandon of his mind and body.” Ollivier kept quiet for moment before saying reluctantly, yet, the belief in his eyes spoke volumes of his feelings. “What I do know is that is not as he doesn’t acknowledge the risks, he willingly accepts them, is it with this conviction that I can say ‘this must be the shortest path to his wish’.” Suddenly, the glass filled with grass honey felt too small. The south was moving, soon enough the conflict could escalate, and in the chaos of war many things can happen. “I do understand him. It’s the only thing he has.” ..... She thought back of the encounter earlier. How he managed to limp and camouflage it as a slow, strong walk. How his body expressed what his mouth kept tight on his mind. Something was disturbing him. She felt like abusing when using her eyes but it was hard not to look or repress their powers. Sometimes she wondered if it wouldn’t be better to get Sealing Glasses, thinking to herself that after all, even if it undoubtedly sounded like a caprice of an unruly child, she didn’t ask for this, then she grimly remembered what she could have done in the past if she used her ‘Blessing’ as her grandmother called it. The Orphic Eyes of Hope, different from the other 7 types were a wildcard, not everyone would see the same with this rare set of vision, in her case she got the capability of seeing the emotions or feelings of the people. Undoubtedly, Angela was worried. Each day she saw him again he seemed more tired, older, weaker, than the previous time, that had been the pattern since a year or so. The innate defenses of a wizard didn’t allow her to gaze on his Blaze, but if she could she was sure that his soul fire would have been as dispirited as him. Even then, with each passing moment an unyielding resolve within him grew stronger, stonier, and even more inflexible than before. How could she not wonder where all that zealous devotion would lead? What grim ending what he was walking towards to? He…Didn’t want to die. She was sure, instead, he was willing to throw away his life in exchange for something. “Mom, mom!” Of course, the Witch had her own preoccupations and issues to attend. Like, for example, the little bundle of joy jumping up and down while raising her arms. “Luci” Angela smiled down to regard the voice. Lucia was a child of 6 years, dressed in a white with patterned roses sundress. She had a bluish violet morning glory in her apple red locks a few shades brighter than Angela’s. Her eyes colored in darker red, gazed at her playfully. In an instant the infant was raised in the arms of Angela, giggling like chime bells. “Mom. I am taller. I am 113 now!” Lucia declared proudly. “Oh.” Spurred by her enthusiasm, a sigh of amazement escaped Angela’s lips. “That means that soon enough I would have to retire of the kitchen.” “Of course.” Her nose pointed to the sky as she smiled. “I am going to cook better than Mom.” Angela paused and her demeanor dimmed. Lucia was set on the ground again as Angela sat with her knees in front of her chest. “I guess than means I won’t enter the kitchen again” She took a moment to sniff and cover her eyes, without Lucia knowing playful eyes peered over at her as she bawled incoherently. “No, wait!” The red eyed girl was at a loss to what to do, moving her arms confused. “Mom, wait!” “Don’t cry, mom” Lucia unsuccessfully tried to separate her mom hands. “I-I, am sorry mom. I didn’t mean it.” She had to stop her mom cries, but how? What did her mom do when she cried? She remained thoughtful for second before brightening “Shush, don’t cry mommy, I am here.” Angela barely repressed the scoff and the laugh as her daughter shushed and consoled her, patting her head like a lost child. “I need a helper. That’s why we can both stay in the kitchen.” “Do you mean it?” The amused magician asked like she physically needed the answer. Not wanting to sadden her mom again the girl responded as fast as possible. “Yes! Of course!” It was her earnest voice that finally made her explode in laugh. “F-Fooled you.” In a winding tone that she had to muster to achieve Angela confessed to Lucia. The little girl took a few seconds to assemble the puzzle in her mind before pointing her finger at Angela. “Y-Y-You!” Having difficulty to find any words to say Lucia sputtered the first thing that came to her young mind. “Crying is cheating!”
Chapter 2: "I can't reach you." - "You can't see me." - ''I can't see you." +++++ “Great.” Frank grunted, his voice thick with sarcasm. John threw him a drained glance, hesitated for a second and when he was just about to quip the retort died on his lips. The whole group was sufficiently tired with the unending battles under the charge of their particular superior officer, finding a bitter surprise on the supposed-to-be tranquil travel back to home gave the blabbermouth enough right to go all the way on the dark, and loud, descent of depression and satire. Frank was a man with among the shortest men of the troop, but no doubt the gods saw fit to give him a mouth big enough to compensate. “Just what we needed…” Frank continued his soliloquy, taking the consenting growls here and there as approval. Had Frank been in a different state of mind and he would have noticed in hurried but somber march, the resigned eyes and the spent breaths, that most of the ‘support’ he garnered was mostly based on exhaustion than actual consent. “I mean, not only we get the Demon, and by the king, who would guess the rumors were actually light-handed in comparison with the real person, we too have to weather through 5 months of a new definition of survival, but no!” Frank spewed with increased speed as if in a hysterical hurry to talk, barely taking a pause to inhale angrily. “That wasn’t enough! ‘We got to fuck the mess out of old little Frankie’.” A bellow and an imitation of a funny old man voice later left Frank fuming. “Well, good job. On my terms a FUCKING OGRE is more than enough-” “Shut up. I don’t care if you are worn out. I don’t care if you feel abandoned by your gods. I don’t care if you despair. Shut your mouth and keep your body moving.” Fortunately for John, a strong voice cut through the irate speech of the shorter man. John sent an appreciative gaze towards Percias, the giant and intimidating man that interrupted Frank. “Agh” grunted the dark-haired midget. “C’mon Ted. Are you telling me you don’t feel even a little bit displeased with this?” Frank gestured to his sides, as if physically signalizing what he was talking about. Teal eyes framed by a feral face gazed back at brown ones. It wasn’t right to judge a book by its cover, but it was fairly easy to see who would buckle first. “Fine. Fine. You win, bear-man.” The taller man didn’t seem to relinquish on the victory, just keeping his silence and doing as he roughly told to Frank a few moments ago. “Consider yourself lucky. Another man would have handed your ass to you the second you gave them a nickname like ‘Ted’.” John whispered to Frank, hitting his elbow lightly on his ribs. Frank scoffed. It wasn’t his fault, who would have thought the almost-2-meter-high man knew how to sew. The moniker was all but set when he found out the green-eyed man ‘upgrading’ a teddy bear for his daughter. Thankfully he hadn’t to rein in his mouth a lot as Percias didn’t seem to mind the name. Further speaking of him, the giant himself didn’t notice, but John caught the grateful glances the man and women in the squad were sending his way, everyone was sufficiently exhausted to waste further energies and time to wallow in self-pity and pessimism. Ted had a quiet way of leading that was amazing, even when not the first man in line in regular combat, when trouble came he was the vanguard voice, the first to advance in the unknown when the rest were doubting themselves or others, John thought that this shining manner that burned with light in their worst moments was the quality of a leader, despite the fact the silent soldier shared their rank. Peace returned to their surroundings, and amidst the cold woods the rhythmic music accompanying their fast-paced movement was that of the frigid currents and the crunching snow. But among the quiet wizards marching, one of them called for John’s attention, as his silence wasn’t the mechanical, as if keeping the mind blank in preparation for what was coming, still type that Percias helped establishing, but more of the bleak grisly variation that seemed one step away from getting his owner to start plucking his hair out of his roots. “Lughus, don’t worry, they’ll be fine, Odifiska’s militia were trained for this, and according to the messenger they sent the civilians were being evacuated successfully.” John reassured, patting the shoulders, past his blue hair, of the brooding soldier. “I don’t know John.” Lughus whispered unsure, his hands quickly paling in their clenching as if to better match the frozen ground. “I don’t mean to sound like Frank, but…An ogre? We are fifty magicians, and we are undermanned to affront that thing, I don’t even want to venture into the odds of 3 or 4 wizards against that Unreal Beast species.” Lughus gazed back at John, to see if the bearded young man understood, finding a reassuring look on his friend’s face he went on. “I just can’t help but to worry for my family.” No matter how much blood he had spill, how many horrors of war he had seen, each time he thought on his family and subconsciously superimposed their images in his memories and, Agh. He could only pray his wife and son were okay. If something, if anything occurred to them… “C’mon, no need to be so anxious. Your hometown may be a little roughed up after the ‘casual’ encounter, but I am sure all the townspeople will have it rebuilt sturdier in a month or so.” John jokingly told the older man in attempt to free him of his glum. Yes. His hometown. His chest felt a few sizes smaller when he recognized that he didn’t account the rest of the people on Odifiska on his worries. Lughus bit his lips drawing blood from them when the thought emerged. “Breath.” When Lughus regained his bearings, he noticed that John and him had fallen behind the others, the younger man encouragingly patting his back. Wordlessly, he complied, slowly sending more air to his lungs. “Thanks.” Lughus whispered when he felt he had recovered enough. Now more in control of his body and mind the older man felt how unbecoming was his wild panic. If nothing, they had a Demon of their own to test its might against the other monster. That would at least ensure the safe retreat of the population of Odifiska. “No problem.” John offhandedly assured with a wave of hands. “No, really.” The blue-headed accentuated. “Thank you.” “Move, you lovebirds!” The fiery, but ultimately authoritative voice sent them in a hurried run to catch up to the others. In instants the whole group was ramrod straight, gazing at their immediate superior, John more than anybody seemed hypnotized by her visage. The white uniform inlaid with golden threads hugging her slender form, blonde almost silver hair cascading down a ponytail. The fire on her voice enraptured him. “We are approaching to the clearing. I will now give your positions and orders.” Lanrid commanded. Of course, every man and woman, especially the men, stood at attention with her call. It was madness in the magical community to underestimate a female, even more in this troop, the rule had been firmly rooted. John himself had been witness to some of the teaching up-close and he had thoroughly engraved them on his heart. She was as strict as a governess, which soured many people fantasies about the beautiful female. Instead, for John, her valiant manner had been stealing hours from himself every single day, lost in thoughts about the blonde. Only a casual glance at her clear blue eyes would send him wondering if they were as blue as they seemed…right now, because apparently, he had been caught staring. “Soldier, do you have anything to add?” Lanrid questioned in a no-nonsense tone, one of her brow going upwards in inquiry. John fumbled with his words for a moment, and before he took too long to warrant the impatience of his superior and consequent yell he had his voice again. “No Madam.” John asserted in tad too loud but still disciplined inflection. He won a few background and scattered snickers instead, before they were drowned on their own. Lanrid nodded satisfied and John almost passed out right there when he saw what he assumed was the closer expression to a smile on his idol’s face. An undistinguishable twist on her lips. “You will be divided in 1 lesser team and 9 normal ones. Anyone who is sufficiently adept with curses is to join the lesser team…” Now back to referring to the whole contingent of magicians Lanrid listed out. Lughus was surprised, they were yet too far from Odifiska, perhaps ‘she’ had a plan to attack the beast from this distance? Unbeknown to him, a set of eyes watched him closely. ..... Erica was the only daughter and heir of the Count Richard, as a member of the nobility of Bylmir her competence in any field, either political, military o magical was natural. It was a world where, regardless of genre or age, family, compatriots and friends devoured each other. Someone’s existence, specially one in the higher spheres of power, was many times limited to the simple and repeated precept of consuming or being consumed. In other words, you couldn’t trust anybody. Even in this kind of world built on elites, Viscountness Erica Ashgate-Durham was special. Born in a family with ancient magic lineage and history, besides of being one of the houses that supported Bylmir on its foundations, it was also recognized for protecting it from the first Mirror Gates. It showed too on her features. Her purples eyes observed inexpressionedly to the front while her black raven hair flowing down her back billowed with the frigid wind. Her figure clothed in the military uniform was just like that of war princess in fairy tale, if something stood at attention on her, it was her general impression. Cold, inhuman, more like a doll in human’s clothing. In particular her orbs, strangely both dark and brilliant, made the recipients of her gaze feel like subjects about to be dissectioned. But even if in his mind he called her Erica, most people (not even her peers) didn’t refer to her by her name. This didn’t originate of simple contempt; the cause was something further beyond. Uncomplicatedly, her nicknames were more famous. ‘Demon’, for claiming over a thousand lives in a battle against twice that amount of Illisian soldiers without using magic, while commanding no more than only two hundred magicians and being barely 13 old. People said that the one the princes of the southern Illisia lost consciousness when hearing the news. ‘Patricia’, for the old story a greedy woman willing to anything who sold her emotions and soul in exchange of more riches than any country could spend. And the more known. ‘Invicta’, given by the Virketh-Croccia Empire’s wizards themselves, when they were mercilessly crushed by Erica’s smooth handling of the battlefield and her unorthodox strategies, becoming another medal in her unblemished score of only victories. Why such a young child, now woman, had to live most of her teen years hopping in between blood fests was unknown, although some disturbing rumors about the Earl was what the majority believed. Even on this moment of quiet pondering, no one understood what she was thinking, what mind-defying scenarios was her mind conjuring, what enemies was she seeing vanquished on her mind, himself included. Harold ruminated as his brown ones captured her movement atop a grey horse. Instead of what Harold guessed, she was not developing grand strategies or reviewing preview battles, she was thinking of her worst enemy. Her father. The man she loathed, the rock obstructing her way. The shameless man that had the gall to impede Erica on her crusade, trying to keep her away from the battlefield. This time, she had to do a routine and ‘cleaning’ patrol in the south-east area, the Unreal Beasts were having an increasing apparition rate over there. It also served the double purpose of an examination towards Kundra’s movements, their neighbors in that direction, who the higher-ups suspected had something to do with this abnormality. Erica and her army were heeded to Tyjod, on their travel they were supposed to pause at Odifiska, a little border town they had to do a minor detour to get to. It was necessary as they had to at least rest a day before resuming their journey. That way not only the regular soldiers, but also the officers could take care of some of their fatigue. Thinking on her higher ranked subordinates brought a face to her mind. The high and tight cheekbones of the individual made him see older than he was, he had short-trimmed light brown hair and darker brown eyes with a tint of disdain. Popular with the ladies and resented by other men, the noble magician as young as her gave the impression of an ego-centrical politician, reminding him of her father. This reminiscence made her amethyst eyes encounter brown ones gazing at hers before the individual broke the stare contest ignoring what Erica was thinking of him. Of course, when a wounded messenger reached her with news of an Ogre approaching their destination, plans had to change, and she could no longer permit herself to be lost in thoughts. Her brain called for the information about the Unreal Beast in a flash. The thick skin and magical defense of the monster merited over a hundred red-chambered magicians to kill it, their currents numbers we best suited to help evacuate the civilians and buy time while they escaped. ‘Then, we better hurry.’ Erica thought to herself calmly. ..... Anastasia didn’t think this day would get like this when she awoke this morning. And while it was obvious nobody expected disaster to strike when it did, the idea lingered on her mind with stubborn persistence as she weaved through the panicked masses of people. “Peter!” A few minutes ago, the mayor of the town informed that scouts had spotted an ogre on his way to their homes. Together with announcement was the instruction of following the mundane guards that would escort them out of the city while the magic-wielding sentinels, or Protectors, would cover the rear. Of course, although some of the people wasted their time in curses and lamentations, even they quickly joined the rest in their preparations to abandon Odifiska. She was a but mother amidst others searching for his son on the last place he was, his school. “Peter! Where are you!?” Once again, she joined the oceans of yells. Each trying to rise the highest and find a familiar face responding. It was a maelstrom of violence and anxiousness, people raging like a turbulent river. They pushed, clawed forward and ran over each other. It was chaos. The townspeople having just barely minutes to grab the most basic things required to travel were in a hurry to join the caravan towards Tyjod. But her mind wasn’t on those details right now. Each passing second in the school thinking where her Peter was made her hands even clammier and constricted her throat. “Peter!!” She kept calling his name, screaming, looking for him. But no matter what she couldn’t find him. White suddenly bordered her vision as the sounds in the tumult grew faint, like she was getting further and further away Anastasia felt her legs failing to support her own weight. Her worry transformed her stomach into lead and the urge to throw up, to vomit all the acid things that were currently sickening her, was only retained with strenuous effort from her. Questions, questions and more questions were the only thing her mind offered as her consciousness waned, inquiries that didn’t have any sense answering, but at the same time seemed only proper to do at this kind of moment. As her body fell to ground Anastasia closed her eyes and for a moment imagined his son. The son who spent his weekly allowance buying candies to the poor kids with a smile on his face and satisfaction on his caramel eyes. Her heart thumped painfully, trying to get out with each beat as it rammed violently against her chest. Her boy. The same kid who had many tears for a sickly stranger he met for the first time. Their boy. It was when the last vestiges of rationality were leaving her that she heard a voice. “Mother!” And then, she was awake of the nightmare of her own calling. ..... ‘Because he wished so.’ That wasn’t the reason why he found himself in his current employment. Who wouldn’t like being recognized? Winning more money? Having a better life? It wasn’t his choice. It never was. He too, as many others, wanted his achievements publicly acknowledged, to abandon those days being referred as ‘novice’ or Red-Chamber Magician and pass through to the next orange chamber, or perhaps, even better, if he invested enough effort, sitting proudly with the other ‘yellows’. Those foolish dreams were long behind him as he cursed and damned the naïve and young mind that dared fabricate them. Perhaps if he had worked hard since the beginning. If he didn’t were drinking and having fun when ‘he’ studied. It hurts to be left behind. The fact he started first, yet ended eating ‘his’ dust, burned him a way he couldn’t begin to describe. “Stop daydreaming. Did you pee you pants without even seeing the beast, lad?” a gruff voice paired with loud slap in the back derailed his train of thoughts. “McLarth, Dammit! Stop doing that” Yelping in pain, Kranos turned and sent a hateful glare to the owner of the lumberjack-thick hands. The offender just burst out laughing in the boisterous way only he knew how to do. “Wipe that I-just-a-plate-full-of-shit face. That’s not the way younglings should be.” McLarth cackled, his wrinkles seeming deeper with the expressed mirth. “And that’s not the way old men should be!” Kranos thought he knew better, but apparently, he couldn’t resist the comeback. After all, the veteran magician was over 60 years old, well past the age he acted, always loud and energetic. “ME!? Old? Foolishness.” The veteran gasped in mock surprise before fully showcasing the strong muscles on his body as he settled his hands on Kranos’s shoulders and looked straight ahead at his deadpan yellow eys. “I am barely older than you.” “Yeah. Sure.” Kranos relented, not wanting to give more fuel to the blonde grandfather-like man. “Don’t be getting your head full of stupid ideas. We got no time for that. We couldn’t even use ‘courier’ to ask for reinforcements. We must reunite with rest of the Protectors.” All trace of previous jest were suddenly absent on the veteran as he declared the urgency of the matter, setting Kranos on edge. And the old man was right. Not noticing how his mood improved with the arrival of the only person that made him bicker until he was breathless he nodded once to show his approval. His childhood friend was still inside the city after all. As the chain of bitter memories associated with her image came in like a tide, once again he was interrupted from a descent into dark thoughts from a source he didn’t even that was doing it. “Good. Perhaps Mary will ask your hand in marriage if you show her your dashing form.” Fuming and trying to elaborate a response to another joke of the veteran protector about the bakery girl just made him sink further in his guilt towards the poor girl. She didn’t have anything wrong, as matter of fact, Kranos didn’t deserve her love or warm attentions. But…He couldn’t just forget the little girl of his infancy, Anastasia. And god, to this day he loved her, even after she married the man who defeated him in every aspect. He could have told off McLarth. And he would have done it, if the screams that made both their spines tremble with dread didn’t had reached their superhuman senses first. Faster than anyone could see both disappeared in gust of winds and leaving craters on the grounds with their mad dash towards the source. ..... “What!?” Lughus croaked disbelieving, unaware of the cold sweat on his forehead. His voice made the others cringe, but the person facing the talker remained impassive. As if no one had had said anything from the beginning. A voice on his mind was told him that this was not joke, but his conscious thinking simply couldn’t keep it up with what his body communicated. “You can’t be serious…” Lughus whispered with a grimace. “My town…please” The blue-haired pleaded. He was willing to do anything. He could die for the mission, but not this. “Not this.” He couldn’t accept this madness. He thought he knew his leader better after 5 months, but he was wrong. That couldn’t be human, that could only be a- “Demon” Lughus murmured. Like a key, the word unlocked something inside him. That something slowly transformed the ice in his veins into fire, and contradictorily, used his fear for his family to temporally elevate him to a stage of courage. The gears on the mind Lughus turned as fast as possible, drawing a plan he would literally have to ‘wing it.’ In order to accomplish. No thoughts and his security were expended as the man with a purpose, to save his family and hometown, stepped forward, his muscles tensed and his jaw set firmly in a show of resolution. “I will not allow this.” Ignorant of wishes, a shadow crashed unto him and deprived the blue-haired from his consciousness with a hit on the back of his head and the activation of a simple spell. ..... “As you said, Lughus Lach had to be detained. Ji-Min Nang disabled him harmlessly with wave to his brain.” He informed as he tried as strongly as possible to harden his heart. She nodded. “Good, tell him and the other 2 to keep a close vigilance on Cyrtten, Logmar and Willes.” “As you say.” Harold said doubtfully. He couldn’t see a special reason why there was a need to make preparations to subdue those there specifically. Lughus he could understand, after all, it was his home the one that was in danger. Erica saw the vacillation on her right hand man, but didn’t saw fit to explain her motives. She knew every one of those men and women better that they gave her credit for. ..... Life was hell. It always was, the dilemma was wherever you realized or not. And of course, it wasn’t as f they cruel mistress didn’t adored hands-on demonstrations, thought Kranos. Dozens of creatures growled, glaring at their prey, the powerless humans and ready to taste their meat within their mouths. Between the moving flow of people and the army of the wolves-like Vargs just one thing separated them. As if to further validate his train of thought Kranos remembered how they got there in the first place. After McLarth and him ran to the commotion they found out their other two companions fighting a mass group of Vargs. The creatures were extremely similar to the common wolves, if it wasn’t for their enormously augmented characteristics, and two heads, of course. The danger they posed wasn’t because their individual power, the real punch they packed was due to their numbers and the pack mentality it accompanied them. While they hunted, a part of the group would distract the prey, while the other would swiftly ambush the unaware victim for its blind spots. The situation was made worst by the fact that they already had an Ogre hot in their tails (his steps echoing from a while ago) and the quadrupled monsters attacked the exit the townspeople were going to use to escape. Before they could arrive, the mundane soldiers couldn’t do anything but to be glorified sitting ducks against the onslaught, consequently, a fifth of the total population was lost already when the protectors got there. The wizards had to assault the monsters while reuniting the people and guards to protect them. And now, as the people advanced slowly, not too far not too close were they. Like a shield 4 men stood each in a cardinal direction, eyes firmly set on one point, forward. The line draw by their positions seemed fragile, tens of eyes set for each protector and the insides of the circular formation containing the stream of people walking forward under their cover. The air was pregnant with a heavy silence that weighed on every man’s heart. The surroundings all but erupted with the charge of every single Unreal Beast in the area. “Eldr.” From the north the atmosphere heated abnormally as it vibrated with power, less than a second later 2 scythes of roaring fires spat forth from a giant sword hitting a pair of misfortune Vargs. “Hmm… I like more medium meat, but I guess I will have to settle with ‘overcooked’ this time.” Kranos smiled as he pivoted a twohanded sword bigger than him. The rest of the pack howled with anger as they moved faster than any normal human could see. Their stampede the ground cracked as their images disappeared surrounding the human that made the mistake of attacking them. Intelligence normally favored was discarded in pro of rushing tactics and dominating with numbers. Not that the method wasn’t effective mused the magician, sending more Ash to the sword and activating another rune etched in the blade to decapitate a pouncing wolf about to shred his right arm. ‘Ten more to go.’ His weapon had 4 active runes on it, by engraving them on the object he saved quite a bit of Ash from his reserves at the time of employing those specific spells, the ease of use was even more enhanced by the fact that Runic magic was fairly simple. All the types of magic were considered at least in some form or aspect a kind of language. The magic left from the forefathers was special in the sense that while others systems required complex rules to their rituals runes just asked for precise input. Kranos settled his weight as one Varg lunged at him. A well-timed slap sent it crashing away. Quickly bringing his weapon closer the yellow-eyed protector split in two another wolf, gushing a fountain a blood. The swing left him wide open for third beast that rushed for his shoulder. Now over-extended and with third set of fangs coming for his shoulder Kranos just let the sword fall towards the ground. “Bifask.” The largest rune on the giant piece of steel activated with a hissing. The earth exploded and sent projectiles that made two other running wolves fall back from the impact. Meanwhile the young protector bit back a grunt of pain as the fangs of the unreal beast he let pass impaled his shoulder. Before the monster could do further damage a blue light flashed from his coat and the beast burned. This was getting harder for him, he couldn’t even spare a moment to see how his companion were doing. As if to mock him frantic yells resounded at his back, ‘where the circle of people is’ grimly thought Kranos. If one side was being attacked, probably one of the other protectors was dead. The image of an old man flash on his mind. With urgency, he was about to turn back when a voice stopped him. “Lad, I have this!” Kranos had to use every ounce of willpower to comply. McLarth bellow sounded like… gurgling. Just by his warning he knew that the jester was drowning on his own blood. He grimaced. He couldn’t take his sight away from his current fight. Slash! Rip! Slash! His sword bludgeoned, chopped and crushed the almost invisible forms dashing towards him using mere instinct. Without realizing he had offered his whole soul and body to this collision of bloodlust. Their fight changed the surroundings with each clash, burning, tearing and cracking the very earth under their feet. He surrendered his flesh and blood in exchange of taking one more life in the mad dance of death. The crowd washed fascinated the show of gore. One arm for a Varg’s cranium pulverized, an eye for two burned bodies. But no amount of wounds could stop him, nor the other protectors, fighting just as fiercely. ..... The clouds in the sky rumbling with thunder amalgamated together, drawing a sinister grey roof as if they were hiding something from the heavens. Strangely, they couldn’t hear the beast anymore, perhaps something or someone killed it… it certainly didn’t made him feel better. “R-Run.” His parched throat strained to get a croak out. It was the thing the protectors could barely get. And how costly was, he thought bitterly. Not far from him the body of one of his comrades lied, his form ravished and unrecognizable. He wasn’t even in one piece, as his organs were strewn in the ground. Graller. Ever the taciturn man, now he would never talk again. He felt useless. What about Oska? The little genius wasn’t spared even a body as he blew himself up to stop the last wolves on his side. The boy with a whole life in front of him. How could he face his mother, the very same who entrusted him the boy that hadn’t even seen 16 winters. McLarth…didn’t he say he was still young? Why did he had to perish? Kneeling, his sole arm punched the ground with animal fury as tears riveted down his cheeks. What a protector he was…he couldn’t even stop two thirds of the townspeople from dying too. Their bodies soaked the ground red with blood. In particular one set of eyes, those belonging to a mother covering her a tiny form stared right at him. As if mocking him, as if reminding him of the failure he was. Why? How? Did they deserve this? Why so cruelly? And why…among the capable magicians only he had to survive. He sobbed alone surrounded by corpse, just wishing to join them. Meanwhile the scarred survivors didn’t have the leisure to mourn, they had to keep moving, they had to. So, they could protect the meaning of the sacrifices made today. In that bleak mood they trotted, crying, screaming, but nevertheless advancing towards the now cleared exit. He caught more than a few worried glances in the group, a female pair of them paining him in different ways, but he had no intention of following for now. He would do the proper burial of his friends, his townspeople, it was something he wanted to do before anything else. He couldn’t precisely see or move very well, but for the task at hand it was more than enough. ..... The existence of the gods wasn’t particularly doubted, their disasters, their miracles, their champions, it served more than enough proof, especially when the individuals, must of them suffering from acute boredom, loved to intervene on this plane. Perhaps the tempestuous weather was work of gods too, maybe a merciful god felt sorry for the puny humans in the ground and couldn’t bear to keep looking. It made sense even more when a giant shadow soared over the sky and fell to the ground. VROOOOOOOOOOM The earth trembled with blind terror as an abomination of more than 40 meters crashed unto it, disfiguring the surface in a crater proper for it humongous size. His body was humanoid, a pair of legs supporting his frame together with a pair of arms stabbed in the ground product of his descent. The dark red of his skin was a tone between blood and rust. “Ogre!” “¿How did it get here!? Ogres don’t fly!” “Run!!!” “God” To say people was panicking was an understament. Madness itself possessed the remaining population of Odifiska as they gazed at the Unreal Beast that should have been kilometers away. Instead, Kranos was simply baffled. The Unreal Species were showing an unusual cooperation, and it seemed specially prepared for this town. First, an ogre is spotted advancing from southwest, then, minutes later an enormous pack of wolves used the surrounding woods in the direction to rush an attack to the north exit they were using to evacuate the civilians. After a gruesome fight and liberating the gate, the previously mentioned ogre freaking fell from the sky…right in front of the north entrance. The world didn’t even have allowed for him to cry. “Don’t!” Pleaded the woman whose love he didn’t deserve. “Wait! There has to be another way.” Begged the woman whose love he never had. He was weaponless, bleeding out, missing an arm and an eye, his spirits crushed and spitted upon it. His ragged clothes lost all the functions as armor and his body could barely be called alive. As he stood up, he dragged back the scream of pain that tried to claw the way out of his throat. Kranos checked how much Ash he still had on him, groaning in defiance of his unwilling Chains and Blaze. He spat the taste of blood in his mouth as a glob, glaring at the red monstrosity. The protector refused to abstain from giving honor to the title. For a single moment his eyes abandoned the beast’s form and fixed them on the blue ones he knew so much. In that brief instant a thousand thoughts whirled through his mind. He regretted the night she, hurt from the betrayal of her husband, came looking for physical comfort on him. He regretted keeping her away that single day. He regretted never telling her how he felt, even as he slowly watched falling in love with another man and eventually marry him. Against insurmountable odds, a lone man stood. He had lost his family a long time ago, many of his friends today, and even more people who had entrusted their safety to him. It was selfish of him, but the reason that made it possible for him to break further his body, to be warrior when he should be corpse…wasn’t vengeance for lost past. It was for the sake of protecting his most precious’s future. “May we meet again.” Was all he said as he flared his Blaze to burn, hotter, brighter and more fiercely than ever. However, as stunned into silence people watched him facing their nightmare, his dazzling figure was baptized on their minds with a single word. Hero. Slowly they clapped. The rhythm picked up aggressively, without anyone knowing when, they vociferated daringly and made his name heard to the heavens. A war cry exited his mouth. It wasn’t simply an animal demonstration of challenge. It was a flag. It was the start of the battle. ..... “Noooooooo!” Lughus clawed and squirmed, crying as he did. “Someone!! A-Anyone!!” He looked around, looking, begging for single human being that helped him, but every pair of eyes that met his, couldn’t face the desperation in them, instead, with shame they hid from his gaze “Please…don’t!!” His request was ignored too, sending more acid to his heart and stomach. “Please…s-s-save them.” As his voice broke down in prayer a hand pressed the back of his head and the world returned to the blackness it was before he unknowingly disrupted the magic that made him loss consciousness earlier. ..... Far away, a Protector reunited with a certain bakery girl and the husband of a soldier in the stomach of the now dead ogre.