The magistrate was a striking figure with a voluminous afro. She rose from her seat inside the VIP booth and stood militantly before a podium. Her presence demanded attention. The crowd sensed the gravity of the moment, and hushed their collective breath. Amplified by the stadium's speakers, the magistrate’s voice boomed across the rooftop arena like the blow of a hammer.
She became fixed on an elderly man standing stoically below. Her voice hardened as she listed a litany of crimes.
"Martin Gijon, the Free Vassal State of Synoro has found you guilty for the crimes of human trafficking, torture, embezzlement, murder, and persecution against innocent parties. For the last 30 years, your involvement with the Nader Regime led to endless abuse and suffering. Therefore, the court has bestowed upon me, Luisa Lawton, with the responsibility of overseeing your sentence."
A hush fell over the crowd, broken only by the distant rumble of traffic and the occasional caw of a bird circling overhead. Luisa paused, creating a moment of suspense. Then, she continued.
"Finally, you have been brought to justice."
She remained focused on Martin.
"Before we proceed, I ask the referee to place the microphone before Mr. Gijon. This court will allow you to make a final statement.”
The referee, a man dressed in combat gear, stepped forward. He held a microphone to Martin's lips. Martin remained impassive.
"What I did, I did for my country.”
Luisa scoffed with a sound that echoed through the arena.
“Men such as yourself, always pervert noble causes."
She turned to the crowd.
"As per the laws of Newos, Martin Gijon's sentence will be determined by the outcome of this Trial by Combat. If he, the defendant, wins, he will be sentenced to life in prison. But, if he loses..."
Luisa paused, her eyes gleaming with a cold light.
"He will be sentenced to death."
A gasp rose from the crowd, anticipation rippling through the assembled masses. Luisa raised a hand, silencing the murmurs.
"May the martial advocate representing the defendant arise."
Martin’s voice cut through the silence.
"I will be representing myself."
In the front row behind Martin, a man bearing a striking resemblance to him, clutched his chest. Alonso Gijon contorted in anguish. His father was standing before public humiliation.
Luisa nodded, her expression unreadable.
"Very well, the defendant's decision is accepted."
She turned to a well-dressed blonde man standing across the platform.
"Mr. Jacob Carl, is the prosecution ready to begin the battle?"
Jacob nodded with a smooth confidence
"Yes, your Honor. Our representative is ready."
A few seconds later, a figure emerged from the shadows, stepping onto the center stage. He was a physical specimen, muscles rippling beneath his skin. His fists were bandaged, and he wore royal red shorts emblazoned with a bold "K" insignia. The crowd erupted into a deafening roar as they recognized the man.
Luisa sliced through the noise.
"Let the trial commence!"
A tidal wave of sound surged from the crowd. The air crackled with an energy that seemed to electrify the rooftop arena. Small, glass-covered booths sprang to life. Their clerks' voices were a steady drone as they accepted bets from the eager spectators. The clink of coins and the rustle of bills mingled with the excited chatter.
Martin Gijon, wearing a faded t-shirt that said 'Synoro First', stepped onto the fighting platform. His movements were slow but deliberate, each step showing the experience of a lifetime of battles fought and survived. He assumed a battle stance. Martin’s aged body seemed to wither against the youthful vigor of his opponent.
The referee, microphone in hand, joined the men on the platform. His voice boomed across the arena, outlining the rules of this brutal contest.
"This is an open match. No limits on power levels, takedowns, or signature moves. The first to keep their opponent down for an eight-count, wins."
The referee raised his hand, signaling the start of the match.
The crowd erupted once more with cheers and jeers that reverberated through the concrete jungle. Luisa’s face showed impassive authority. She settled back into her chair and turned to the man beside her, a figure cloaked in anonymity. The man’s dark skin and well-trimmed beard projected his regal position. A silent nod passed between them. There was a shared understanding that spoke volumes. Luisa murmured.
"It is done.”
Below, Alonso Gijon etched with worry, fidgeting nervously.
On the platform, the battle had begun. The prosecution's representative, a whirlwind of muscle and fury, charged at Martin. The old man met the onslaught with surprising force. A chokehold, a desperate struggle, and then Martin broke free. His breath came in ragged gasps.
Martin lunged with his fist aimed at the prosecutor's face. The prosecutor dodged, his movements fluid and graceful. A swift knee strike to Martin's abdomen, a grunt of pain, and the crowd roared its approval. The prosecutor pressed his advantage, raining down blows on Martin's midsection. The old man crumpled.
The cheers grew louder, fueled by the scent of blood and the thrill of the fight. Luisa watched impassively. She was fixed on the unfolding spectacle.
A guttural roar tore from Martin's lips. It was a primal sound that echoed through the arena. Gusts of raw energy emanated from his periphery. They were a wave that blasted the prosecutor back several feet. Veins, pulsing with an eerie neon blue, snaked across Martin's face and neck. His aged body was suddenly imbued with an unnatural vitality.
The world sharpened around Martin. The roar of the crowd became a distant murmur, replaced by the rapid thud of his own heartbeat. Blood rushed in his ears. Everything magnified. The scent of sweat and dust, the cold concrete beneath his feet, the heat radiating from the prosecutor's body - every sensation heightened to an almost unbearable degree.
It was a torrent threatening to burst from his very being. He felt the earth tremble beneath his feet as he charged, leaving faint cracks in the platform's surface. His hand mystically transformed into a spear, thrusting towards the prosecutor's chest.
The prosecutor barely managed to evade the blow. He stumbled backward, landing awkwardly on his back. Martin’s spear shaped arm returned to its fleshy origin. Manipulating his cells reduced the time he could hold this power. However, his momentum continued unchecked. Stomping down, Martin released a force that would have crushed bone. But the prosecutor was quick, rolling away just in time. The platform, however, bore the brunt of Martin's attack. The concrete splintered and cracked under the immense pressure.
Scrambling to his feet, the prosecutor aggressively demanded.
"Come on!!"
Now, it was the prosecutor’s turn. A surge of blue energy enveloped him, veins pulsing beneath his skin, mirroring Martin's own transformation. The old man paused, a sardonic grin twisting his lips.
"Be careful what you wish for."
The prosecutor ignored the taunt. Then abruptly, his body blurred as he prepared to charge. He vanished, leaving only an afterimage in his wake. A flurry of kicks, a whirlwind of blows, assaulted Martin from every angle. The old man twisted and turned, his movements defying his age, dodging most of the attacks with uncanny precision.
One kick, however, found its mark. Martin seized the outstretched leg with an ironed grip. With a grunt of effort, Martin slammed the prosecutor onto the ground. The impact reverberated through the arena.
The crowd's roar went silent.
Martin didn't hesitate. He hoisted the prosecutor into the air. His muscles strained with the effort. A suplex, a brutal maneuver, and the prosecutor's body crashed onto the platform with bone-jarring force. The concrete shattered, leaving a spider-web of cracks spreading across the surface. The crowd erupted once more. It was a deafening crescendo.
Martin’s chest heaved as he stepped back from the wreckage of the suplex. The neon blue glow in his veins wavered, dimming slightly as his superhuman exertion took its toll. The referee began to count. The voice was a strained echo in the sudden hush.
"One... two... three..."
But before the fateful "four" could escape the referee’s lips, the prosecutor's eyes snapped open. Another guttural roar, this time more primal than before, ripped through the arena. The sheer force of the sound lifted him, launching him off the platform and back into the fray.
The neon blue in his veins surged, brighter now. It was a network of pulsing light beneath his skin. His pupils, once a deep brown, now shimmered with an eerie, red glow. He crouched, muscles coiled, like a predator ready to strike. Then, with a speed that defied perception, he vanished again.
Martin braced himself. He began to feel a slight tickle of anxiety. He’d seen this attack strategy before, this blurring speed that left only afterimages in its wake. The prosecutor was trying to use his age against him. As Martin suspected, even with his heightened senses, he was a fraction too slow. A knee slammed into his abdomen with a force that felt like a cannonball.
The air exploded from Martin’s lungs. He choked, gasping in agony. The neon blue in his veins flickered, threatening to extinguish. For a fleeting moment, he teetered on the edge of oblivion, the world fading to black. But instinct, honed over a lifetime of battles, kicked in. Gritting his teeth, the blue glow returned, just in time to absorb another devastating blow.
Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.
Blood, warm and metallic, filled Martin’s mouth. The prosecutor’s face had grim determination, as he seized the moment with a chokehold. A swift twist, and Martin's world spun as he was slammed onto the unforgiving concrete. Martin remained still. The referee's voice was a distant drone as he began the count once more.
"One... two... three..."
The crowd held its breath. At six, Martin’s bloodied hand clawed its way up. It was a defiant gesture on his part. He refused to let the encroaching darkness take him.
Groaning with pain, Martin clawed his way back. A shadow fell over him, and in a flash, the prosecutor was there, a merciless predator. He seized Martin's waist.
The first suplex was a blur of motion. Martin's head cracked against the unforgiving platform. The crowd roared with bloodlust. The second slam was worse, as Martin’s body folded like a rag doll. With the third, the neon blue of his veins, his life force, seemed to evaporate.
The prosecutor sensed the shift. He stepped back, surveying his kill. The referee's began the countdown.
"One… two… three…four..."
Martin's eyes snapped open, staring into the black abyss above. The crowd's roars trembled in his ears. Laying there, he felt like a broken man, his breath coming in ragged gasps.
“All those years and I never noticed our worst enemy was right in front of our eyes. What a shame…I’m sorry I let us down, Oliver. I almost believed I’d die in peace-my kids, grandkids…what a shame.”
The referee’s distant drone interrupted Martin’s thought.
“five… six…"
Martin’s body, battered and bruised, began to tremble. A hoarse grunt escaped his lips as he pushed himself up, an agonizing inch at a time.
"Seven…"
The referee faltered. The crowd's cheers turned to a hushed disbelief. Martin was on his knees, swaying, but alive.
With a blur of motion, the prosecutor was suddenly before Martin. Hands reached Martin, intent on finishing the job. Martin’s eyes were locked on his adversary, as he allowed himself to be lifted. Surrender crept all over his body.
"I'm sorry," Martin rasped, his voice a rusty hinge.
The prosecutor's grip tightened. He had a triumphant sneer spreading across his face. But then… a change. The blue neon surged back into Martin's veins. Eyes, once dull with pain, ignited with a redness that seemed to almost bleed. Martin’s right arm, flesh and bone, warped and twisted, elongating into a shimmering blade. The crowd gasped.
With a swiftness that defied comprehension, Martin struck. The blade pierced the prosecutor's chest three times. He screamed but his lips were silent. Life was drained from the prosecutor’s eyes as he crumpled.
The arena fell into stunned silence. Then, chaos erupted. The referee, veins bulging, charged at Martin. But Martin was no longer the prey. He sidestepped the attack, seizing the referee in a vice-like grip. The blade flashed again, and the referee joined the prosecutor in oblivion. Panic rippled through the crowd. Screams and thuds of terror began.
Luisa requested a desperate plea for order.
"Stop this madness!"
Martin’s eyes burned with that otherworldly crimson light. Snatching the microphone from the fallen referee, Martin announced.
"Hadic Cumberland, I know you're here."
A figure, cloaked in shadow, rose from his seat beside Luisa. Hadic Cumberland showed cold ambition, as he stepped into the spotlight.
A chilling smile came over Martin's face.
"I'm happy you will get to see this, Hadic.”
He paused as he looked over the terrified faces in the stands.
"You may have gotten what you wanted, Hadic, but remember this: none of this is yours, it’s only your turn."
A faint chuckle escaped Martin’s lips. Then, his eyes softened as they landed on Alonso, a mirror image of his younger self. Martin mentioned words he didn’t intend for his son to hear.
"Alonso, I'm so sorry, son. I never wanted this for you."
Alonso, tears streaming down his face, ran his hand over his eyes to hide his emotions.
A sad smile played on Martin’s lips, as he looked at Alonso. He reached the edge of the platform, his blade gleaming in the harsh arena lights.
"I'm sorry."
With a final, resigned sigh, he sliced his throat with the sword. The blue neon light of his veins flickered and died. His eyes returned to their natural hue. The blade, no longer a weapon of supernatural power, reverted to a normal human arm.
Alonso screamed, his voice raw with anguish.
"No!"
Hadic Cumberland stood motionless, his expression unreadable. Chaos enveloped the arena.
TWO YEARS LATER - THE INSTITUTE OF GOVERNANCE; CENTRAL SUOR SECTOR, SYNORO.
Octavius Bartholomew-Salvatore leaned against the polished oak podium. He had a stack of weathered textbooks beside him. The amphitheater-style classroom, with its plush carpet and rows of eager faces, had a distinctly new feel. Sunlight streamed through the expansive windows, illuminating the adolescent students who fidgeted in their seats. Their eyes darted between a professor not much older than them, and their notepads.
"The Letters were not just a collection of philosophical musings. They were blueprints. Roadmaps drawn by those who witnessed the horrors of the Bonvista Reformation."
He paused, allowing his words to settle. A student in the front row, his face framed by a shock of unruly black hair, nodded eagerly.
Octavius continued.
"Like many before them, they sought to end the chaos by building a system that would prevent it from ever happening again.”
He scanned the room, his sight settling on the eager student.
"Tell me, Nicholas, what made this all possible?"
Nicholas straightened, his eyes widening slightly.
"Well, sir, I suppose it would have to be the discovery of Indigo. It's what helped them survive."
Octavius nodded.
"Good. But could you elaborate, please?"
Nicholas's face flushed. He fumbled with his pen, his view fixed on the carpet.
"Indigo granted the founders an evolutionary advantage. The revolution would have ended in failure without it. They couldn’t survive against the high technology used by the corporations. But, Indigo gave them a biological boost - they were no longer just flesh and bone.”
Octavius smiled.
"Excellent, Nicholas. Thank you."
Octavius turned to the class.
"Our society exists because of this peculiar tobacco plant, or as the clergy calls it, God's last gift. This gift combined physics and biology, pushing human evolution to a level not seen before. It temporarily gave us a taste of godly power, enough to defend ourselves from the despots that subjugated us for centuries.
Octavius' tone shifted, darkening.
Indigo saved us. But, we also learned it could hurt us.
A girl in the back row, her lips painting a defiant shade of crimson, scoffed. She spoke, her voice dripping with sarcasm.
"Yeah, that’s why the world is still shit. Just walk outside, would ya."
A few students chuckled, their laughter tinged with cynicism. Octavius' smile widened.
"That, Tracy, is precisely the point I want to make. Systems are made of people. And people are flawed. Tools aren’t solutions, they’re only as useful as the person. There are no guarantees. Even something as strange as Indigo cannot create utopia. The founders knew this much.
Tracy raised an eyebrow.
"So what's the point?"
Octavius' eyes twinkled. He countered.
"The point is making sure we can mold you into the best version of yourselves. That's why you are all here. With all its endless pages of political, social and religious life, that is the purpose of The Letters. Making you worthy.”
Tracy remained quiet. Octavius continued, as he grinned.
“And…also to get high off of tobacco juice. Just pray you come out of it with power, or the trip won't be worth it.”
A few students laughed.
Octavius paused, as he looked across the room.
"Our system exists knowing we are corruptible. It’s why we have kept the knowledge, but prohibited the tech that made it extraordinarily simple to destroy ourselves. For now, we’ve returned to a simpler time, a time similar to the ancients - when their endless wars did not mean their extinction. Thankfully, however, we are not a warring society."
Silence descended upon the classroom. Octavius held their stares, expecting another challenge. But none came. He sighed with amusement in his eyes.
"All right guys. Class dismissed. We'll meet again tomorrow."
The students rose. Shuffling feet and murmured conversations filled the room.
As the last student shuffled out, the classroom's energy dissipated, leaving a vacuum of quiet. Octavius' shoulders slumped. His smile faded into a neutral expression. The echo of youthful idealism bounced off the walls, leaving him feeling hollow. He crouched, rummaging through the mess beneath his desk. A battered lunchbox emerged. Its faded paint hinted at its age. With a sigh, he unlatched it, revealing a predictable sight. It was white rice and chicken. Again. The monotony of it mirrored the monotony of his days.
"Olt?"
The voice, soft but commanding, cut through the silence. Only those he trusted called Octavius by his nickname. He looked up to find Rebecca Santander framed in the doorway. Rebecca, with her shoulder length hair, exuded a quiet authority.
"Lunch?"
Olt nodded. Slight relief crossed his face.
"Yeah.”
He snapped the lunchbox shut.
"Just grabbing my stuff."
Rebecca's lips curved into a knowing smile.
"See you there."
She turned and walked away, her footsteps muffled by the plush carpet.
Olt watched her go, then glanced back at his lunch. The rice and chicken seemed even less appealing now. With a resigned sigh, he tucked the lunchbox under his arm and headed for the door. The routine was exhausting.
...
The break room was a space bathed in the harsh glow of overhead lights, hummed with the low drone of the microwave. Olt stood before it, concentrating on the small tube TV mounted in the corner. The news anchor's voice, a practiced blend of concern and urgency, rattled off details of another grim discovery: two more bodies found in Bonao Sector, their lives snuffed out in the shadowy labyrinth of the sector's south end.
The anchor intoned, her eyes wide with faux alarm.
"Ten bodies in six months. Is this the work of a single killer? A serial predator stalking the streets of Synoro? For now, what is known is that red hair has been found at the scene. We hope to keep you informed as this continues to develop."
Rebecca, perched on a nearby table, scooped a forkful of stewed beef and yellow rice into her mouth. She chewed slowly, her eyes never leaving the screen. She mumbled with cynicism.
"Well, that’s not smart. I feel sorry for the red heads out there. Surprised they're even reporting on this, especially for that neighborhood."
Olt turned away from the TV, his hands buried deep in his pockets.
"Keeps the people distracted."
His tone was flat, devoid of surprise.
"Just what the new government wants."
Rebecca chuckled, a dry, humorless sound.
"You're too smart for this job, Olt. Be careful before you end up like me."
The microwave beeped, its shrill tone cutting through the tension. Olt yanked open the door. A cloud of steam billowed out. He juggled the hot container, his fingers fumbling for a grip.
A woman burst into the break room, her olive skin flushed, her dark eyes wide with panic.
"Mariah," Rebecca greeted, a hint of surprise in her voice.
Mariah gasped, leaning against the doorframe.
“I knew you’d be here. Did y’all hear?"
Olt and Rebecca exchanged a glance. Mariah rolled her eyes.
"The Director of the Board is here. On the premises."
Olt grunted, his appetite evaporating.
"Just what I needed."
Rebecca's eyebrows knitted together.
"If the Director's here, it means it's the new guy."
The room fell silent. The microwave's hum seemed to amplify.
The silence was shattered by a screech from the intercom. An elderly lady's voice, amplified and distorted, disrupted the room's sterile calm.
"Attention all faculty and staff, classes are canceled for the remainder of the day. Please report to the Trial Hall within the next forty-five minutes."
The announcement became a guillotine blade suspended, waiting to drop. Mariah's face paled. She blurted out.
"It's because of the Director, something's happened."
Rebecca, unfazed, continued to chew her stewed beef. In between bites, she added a hint of defiance in her tone.
"Plenty of time to finish my lunch. Cooked it myself, you know. Gotta savor it."
Olt, however, remained motionless. He placed his untouched food container on the table beside Rebecca, the steam curling upwards like a ghost. His face was stone cold. His eyes were closed.
"One year. All that work, and I only made it a year."