Tunde woke up to the rapping of knuckles against his door, bleary-eyed as he stumbled to his feet and made his way to the door. He opened it to reveal Lady Ryka, staring at him with one eyebrow raised.
“You’re going to be late in approximately ten minutes,” she said.
Tunde froze, all traces of sleep wiped from his eyes as he stumbled and ran backward into his bathroom, washing his face before grabbing his robes and donning them. Lady Ryka stared at him with her arms folded.
“This will be the only time I decide to wake you up, consider it a courtesy to you from me,” she said.
“I’m grateful,” Tunde answered immediately.
With his footwear on, the animal-hide sandals given to him at the requisition hall, he gratefully collected the wrapped warm food Lady Ryka held in her hands and tore out of the building after getting directions from her.
“The training hall is a large building as you head northwards; you can’t miss it,” she had said.
He pushed as much Ethra as he could into his body, tearing through the sparsely populated Petal Street, watching as rankers and shop owners began to emerge for the day’s activities. Even the skies were clear of flying vessels. Trying to calm his nerves as he pushed onward, he was torn between excitement from training and dread for whatever he was about to face. To be trained by an adept of the clan was no doubt one of the highest privileges; the question was if he’d live up to the task.
The training hall was indeed a large structure as Ryka had explained, its front doors made of solid thick wood with the crest of the clan painted on it. They were open, revealing a large smooth platform large enough for him to strain in seeing its end, figures were all over, moving either slowly or fast depending on their training. He stepped into the large field area, wondering why it was called a hall when it was open to the skies and surrounded by seats that could hold hundreds at a time.
Glancing around, he saw no signs of the elder, awkwardly standing out of place as he noticed the eyes of every initiate were on him. Most held envy, few held blatant malice, but Tunde paid them no mind. The elder’s words were clear; they came for him and they were dead meat.
“Taking in your new surroundings?” Elder Joran’s voice spoke beside him as he jumped sideways in shock.
The blindfolded elder, arms folded behind him, smiled at him.
“I greet the great elder,” Tunde said, bowing at the waist.
“I wanted to see what you’d do with the attention. Suffice to say, your not backing down has earned you today’s training with me,” Joran said.
If the initiates were affronted by his proclamation, they gave no signs, merely watching them. Tunde would have to get used to it. Elder Joran sat on a wooden bench.
“Before we begin, we have to know the extent of your knowledge, or in this case, ignorance,” he started.
“Any initiate that wants to step out to show my student how true rankers fight would be given the day off,” Elder Joran proclaimed.
The initiates merely moved, glancing between themselves as Elder Joran sighed.
“And there will be no retribution from me whatsoever,” he added.
They all jumped at the ‘honor,’ bowing their heads to the elder who gave a light chuckle. He pointed at a slim man; hair tied behind him in a knot with a bo staff beside him.
“You with the bo staff, step forward,” Joran ordered.
The man moved with quiet precision, grabbing his staff and marching forward.
“State your name and Ethra affinity,” Joran ordered.
“Oram Jansen, wood affinity. I hope to one day be bestowed with the jade affinity and—”
“Yes, yes, we all know, become a true adept of the clan,” Elder Joran finished as Oram stiffened.
“Initiates, in our world, are merely the bottom of the ladder,” Joran said as he spoke to Tunde, his voice loud enough for all the initiates to hear.
“Disposable, offered to the clan as tributes by their respective families in the hopes of them bringing glory to the clan and family,” he continued.
“And as such, the only thing they’re good at is to fill up the quota whenever the clan needs to subdue an area with brute force,” he said.
“They possess meager skills if any, any technique they use is short-lived and weak, and as such, they are advised to do one thing only with their still feeble Ethra hearts, which is?” Joran asked the assembled initiates.
“Imbue the body and cultivate,” they all chorused.
“Good, at least some of you are learning. Now, Oram, my student here with absolutely no knowledge of how to use his Ethra affinity will need to learn from you,” he said, putting a hand on Tunde and squeezing lightly.
“It would be my honor to illuminate him on the proper way to fight,” Oram replied as the initiates chuckled.
Elder Joran smiled.
“You lose, and you forfeit your right to train with the other initiates,” he said.
That wiped all traces of mirth from the faces of the initiates who stared at the elder with wide eyes.
“If my student, a wastelander with absolutely no experience with fighting, manages to beat an initiate who has been training with the clan for a few months, if I’m not mistaken, Oram of the Soft Stalk family, right?” Joran asked.
“Yes, great elder,” Oram said softly.
“Ah, yes, I thought as much. As I was saying, if he manages to defeat you, you also lose your place among the rankings of the clan as well. What rank are you?” Joran asked.
“Fifth overall,” Oram said stiffly.
Tunde wondered why the elder was so sadistic. Not only had he turned the initiates against him, but he also made him public enemy number one. He kept a cold detached look, though, cycling his Ethra around his body as he prepared for the battle, keeping his body in a relaxed position.
“Congratulations, Tunde, you face one of the five strongest initiates we have. Isn’t that fortuitous?” Joran asked.
The elder definitely knew who Oram was, Tunde realized.
Elder Joran stepped backward, waving his hand for the initiates to scramble away.
“There will be no maiming or killing. Can’t have initiates dying to clan members now, can we?” he said, chuckling. No one laughed along.
Tunde stared down the initiate, no weapon in hand, as Oram gripped his staff and twirled it with moderate speed.
“I must apologize to you,” Oram said. “I do not wish to humiliate you so, but my family is on the line,” he said.
Tunde gave a curt nod, taking a stance as he activated his Ethra sight, blinking rapidly as he took in the sight before him, watching the mixture of a variety of Ethra affinities in the air. He turned his gaze to Oram, watching as he saw the initiate cycle his bright brown Ethra around his body, staff pointed at him. His shoulders lit up as Tunde noted them, his body hardening with his Ethra flowing unimpeded through his form.
“Begin!” Joran commanded.
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His danger sense was the only thing that saved him from losing in that brief second. Rolling out of the way as Oram was suddenly in front of him, staff swinging with pure speed to crash into the ground, his Ethra sight wobbling. Shocked but moving, he matched Oram blow for blow, watching as he was rebuffed with precision, throwing his balance off, confusion warring with survival in his mind as he focused his Ethra sight on Oram again.
The difference between Oram and the initiates Tunde had faced before was stark. Rankers of the wastelands focused on quick, devastating attacks, pouring all their Ethra into each strike. The disciples were much the same, using flashy but predictable techniques that Tunde could anticipate, dodge, or counterattack.
Oram was the opposite. He took control of the fight, testing Tunde for weaknesses, and Tunde had many. Despite his best efforts between twists and turns, Tunde could only do so much. Using his relic to siphon Oram’s Ethra would have created a scenario he wasn’t ready to handle. Instead, he followed Oram’s movements, trying his best to turn the battle in his favor, but each strike of Oram’s staff disrupted the flow of Ethra within his body.
Tunde was strong, his body resilient against an initiate like Oram, but that was his current limit. Oram wasn’t trying to end the fight quickly. Instead, he was demonstrating his proficiency with his weapon to Elder Joran, and the most startling realization was that Oram’s weapon barely contained any Ethra. A thin flow from Oram’s palms was all it took to reinforce the staff. Meanwhile, Tunde flushed Ethra through his body as fast as his heart could pump it, trying to brute force his way through the painful staff strikes as they hit his flesh.
In between attacks, Tunde saw a moment: when the staff left Oram’s hand and passed to the other, the Ethra flow to the weapon cut off for a brief second. Tunde took his chance. His fist smashed into the staff, shattering it as he bore down on Oram, his fist cocked, Ethra flowing to his hand for a devastating attack. He had no idea where the other staff came from; suddenly, the weapon smashed into his skull, sending him tumbling to the ground, Ethra sight cut off, reeling as he struggled to his feet.
He heard Elder Joran clapping, catching his breath as the pain faded away, his cycling back on track. The elder patted Oram on his shoulder, the initiate’s smug smile beaming.
“Perfect footwork, Oram, perfect, and the way you lured him in, beautiful!” Elder Joran praised as Oram bowed.
“Does that mean the great elder would take me as a stu—”
“Don’t push your luck,” Joran said, cutting in as Oram nodded and stepped back.
“For the stellar performance of Oram, you all have the day off. Now, leave,” Joran said.
There were no complaints, the initiates rushing over themselves as they left, whispering among themselves as the elder nodded to the guards Tunde hadn’t seen when he entered the training hall. They closed the gates, leaving Tunde alone with a quiet Joran who watched the initiate regain control of his body.
“What were your mistakes?” Elder Joran asked.
“I couldn’t match his speed; I couldn’t match the way he controlled his Ethra flowing within his body,” Tunde replied automatically.
“And that last staff caught you off guard,” Joran added.
“Where did that come from?” Tunde asked.
He had smashed the staff, and there was no way Oram had gotten another so quickly, not with the speed at which they exchanged blows.
“The affinity of wood allows for some pretty unique techniques,” Joran replied. “Granted, it wasn’t a technique, more of an adaptation,” he continued. “He simply had to pour more Ethra into the broken staff and watch it reinforce and reattach itself in a blink—a pretty valuable imbuement trick to have in battle,” Joran finished.
Tunde nodded, sitting back on the ground, his head still hurting a little.
“Is that it? You’ve given up?” Joran asked.
Tunde turned to the elder in surprise. “No, Elder Joran, merely trying to recover,” he murmured.
“I believe that was why you were given some healing pills, correct?” Joran said.
Tunde blinked, opening his void ring and picking out a dark green pill, swallowing it as it released a burst of healing life Ethra into his body. The quiet throbbing pain in his head disappeared, the tangy taste causing him to wince a bit.
“Now, from your actions and fighting method, it’s obvious you have no understanding of anything. Consider that my wake-up call to you,” Joran said. “Truth was, even if you hadn’t shown up, I’d have been forced to pick a student nonetheless, but you gave me a blank slate, one not influenced by any affinity fighting paths,” Joran said.
Tunde stared at the elder sheepishly, Joran sighing. “By your posture, I can only assume you have no idea what I’m talking about. All good and fine, I believe. Now, where to start from,” the elder murmured.
Joran tapped the ground with his foot quietly, taking a stance before speaking. “Come, join me,” he said.
Tunde stood hesitantly, moving closer to the elder and copying his stance, one hand behind, another stretched forwards, knees crouched.
“In our world, everyone is entitled to one Ethra affinity, and that affinity could either be hereditary—meaning bloodline—or the rare environmental mutations,” Joran said. “What this means is that a person born in the wastelands, for example, has a higher probability of being born with either a sand or dust ability. Not every time, though. There are exceptions, but rarely. These are the mutations I refer to,” the elder continued.
Tunde thought back to the bandits. “Within the wastelands, we were imprisoned by barbarians, blood and bone Ethra users,” Tunde said.
“The wasteland is a large place, Tunde, with lots of anomalies—from the wasteland king, a core ranker, to the sand demon, the dust lord. All rankers whose affinities have mutated into extremes,” Joran said.
“But I’m getting ahead of myself,” Joran said. “My point is, Ethra affinities come in all forms and types—almost endless and as vast as our world.”
The elder stood straight and pointed toward one of the stone seats where a pile of books lay, stacked on top of each other. The books were leather-bound, their spines almost worn out.
“I could go on and on,” the elder said, “but I prefer letting you learn at your own pace. What we need to focus on right now is your poor fighting abilities.”
“Recommended by Elder Wren, he’ll be your second tutor, as a favor to me. Fail him, and you fail me,” Elder Joran said starkly.
Tunde nodded as he glanced at the books and then back to Joran.
“With that out of the way, we need to immediately address your current issue: how quickly you cycle your Ethra,” he said.
Tunde suddenly felt his parched throat itch and glanced around for his packed food. Joran turned with him, a smile on his face.
“I believe we now have a good motivation for you, yes?” he said.
Tunde could only wince, cursing himself for looking at it.
“Your Ethra affinity isn’t shadow; just wanted to put that out there,” Joran said.
Tunde had a confused look on his face. “Elder Wren said—”
“I’m quite aware of what Elder Wren said, Tunde,” Joran cut in, all mirth wiped from his face. “And between you and me, it would be in your best interests not to speak of it. For some reason, you possess some form of Ethra that even the cults would die to get their hands on. Besides, whatever that band clasped to your hand is, it’s giving off a subtle energy,” Joran said.
Tunde reflexively grabbed the band, Joran nodding.
“Mind telling me what that is?” he asked.
Tunde warred silently within himself before Joran spoke again.
“Listen to me very carefully,” he said. “I could kill you right here and now, and no one would bat an eye.” He added, “In fact, some would consider it the right thing to do. And while, thankfully, I believe I’m the only one who can sense it due to certain abilities I possess, it won’t stay that way for long. Got it?” Joran finished.
Tunde nodded, glancing down at the manacle-turned-metal band before speaking.
“I apologize to the great elder, but the truth is, I have no idea what it is either,” he confessed.
The tale was short, but when he finished, Joran had a look of pondering awe.
“A weapon that allows you to siphon the Ethra of rankers and somehow refine it into whatever your Ethra is?” he whispered. “Your friends were right: never use it. Not yet. Not until you’re strong enough to defend it—assuming you live up to that rank,” Joran said.
“Pardon me, but what rank would that be?” Tunde asked hesitantly.
“The minimum of a lord,” Joran answered immediately.
Tunde felt his heart drop a bit. “I beg your forgiveness, but how am I supposed to surpass even a rank you haven’t reached?” he asked.
The area around him suddenly trembled with pure aura, vibrations ringing as his feet wobbled and his danger sense screamed at him. He moved without realizing it, his Ethra cycling hurriedly as he rolled away, Ethra sight burning to life within his eyes. He found himself sweating profusely, panting with his eyes wide, glancing around like a frightened creature.
“Good,” the cold voice of Elder Joran said as Tunde faced him, swallowing nervously.
It took a few seconds for Tunde’s brain to realize that the terror he had suddenly felt had come from the elder himself. He had been so terrified that his instincts had automatically kicked in, saving him from whatever the elder had intended to do to him. Elder Joran only had one finger raised, but the cold look was still etched on his face.
“I want you to remember that feeling,” he said. “I want you to cement it in your soul, carve it, and let it ache. That is the feeling of weakness,” he continued.
The feeling had snapped away, but Tunde still shuddered, the aftereffects rippling through him. Not even Thorne had made him feel this way—primal terror and helplessness fused into one.
“I will not give you the idea that our world is a gentle one. Things are always in motion. Nothing is permanent, not even peace,” Joran said. “If you want to live life to the fullest, then realize the weak will always be at the mercy of the strong. You don’t get to survive because you have someone strong behind you. Oram made you his lesser, and you’d better believe other initiates would be frothing at the mouth to get at you—to prove they’re better than the student of an elder and adept,” he finished.
“I will take you through a training so bizarre that you will doubt my sanity. It will hurt; it will push you to your wit’s end. But if you trust me, if you see it through, then someday, somehow, you might just knock on the rank of a lord,” he added as he turned.
Tunde sat there, letting the words sink in.
“All my life, all I’ve known is the fact that I’m weak,” he whispered. “I should be dead, but somehow, this happened,” he said, raising the manacled hand.
Elder Joran watched him passively.
“And now I have a chance not just to grow stronger, but to be free,” he added.
He turned his eyes to the elder, getting on his knees and bowing, head pressed to the ground as he spoke.
“I will push myself till I bleed. I will train until it’s all I think about. So, I beg you, help me stop being weak,” he uttered.
Elder Joran chuckled as Tunde glanced up, a smile on the face of the blindfolded elder.
“Good, good. The first step is admitting weakness. The next step, my dear student, is ensuring you don’t suffer the disgrace you put me through today,” he said.
Tunde held himself in check, waiting for the elder to speak.
“I hope you have enough healing pills; you’ll need them for what’s coming,” Joran said.