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

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

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

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

As of now, he managed to force the fight to a stalemate, but surely it won’t last long. Fortunately, he needed only the time of a few exchanges more and the perfect moment for him to use his spell. Until then, he must persevere!

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

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

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

I must win!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Impossible!”

“He had achieved that point at such a young age!?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Silence remained.