The stones were like a boulder on each of his limbs, burning with every move he made to block the attacks of the elder. Five out of six attacks crashed painfully on his body, driving him to his knees in agony, the one he blocked drained what strength remained in him. His reinforced bones cracked, his skin screamed and his eyes became blurry as the elder didn’t even spare his face which was evident by its swollen features. Twice over he had passed out, only to be awoken by healing elixirs dumped down his throat, the elder giving him a few minutes to recover before calling him to stand again.
It was like torture, it was torture, and yet, Tunde knew that it was his only path to remotely standing a chance against Thalas. Breathing heavily, the density of the stones remaining the same, his belly filled with tier 3 meat and essence fruit, he prepared for another round of trashing. Elder Joran used no elaborate techniques, no complicated movements, just a simple feat of imbuement that saw his evidently heavy Lithane staff grow stronger with every swing he took.
He was moving, deflecting an attack as he strained his body to deflect another when he missed its trajectory, the staff crashing into his knees, driving him to the ground.
“You have eyes and yet you fail to use it,” Joran said.
Tunde was pretty sure he wasn’t referring to Ethra sight, he had employed it after passing out the first time, all to no avail. For some reason, he couldn’t anticipate the attacks of the elder, his sight struggling to even follow the blurry trajectory of the staff, and when he had tried to pick out the elder’s weak spots, it had led to him passing out the third time. The elder was an immovable wall, one so dense that Tunde honestly thought there was no difference between the elder and the Lithane rock.
Rolling away a bit too late from another swipe, he gathered his strength, the power of the recently consumed fruit and meat to swing with all his strength. Elder Joran floated like a calm stream, deflecting the attack to the ground before smacking him in the face with his staff. Tunde rolled to the ground in a heap, breathing heavily as painful shots of electricity tore through his frame.
“Your strength is undeniable, but make no mistakes, Thalas will use that strength against you,” Joran said.
“You need to be able to anticipate his attacks, and ensure he doesn’t steal your momentum, you can’t simply brute force your way out of every battle” he continued.
“it’s worked for you this far, that and resonance, but unless you want to answer why an entire part of Thalas’s body is suddenly missing without bloodstains or even flesh, you do realize you might not be able to employ that technique” he added.
“Cycle your Ethra slowly, follow the breathing technique I taught you, we will continue when I feel you’re ready,” Joran said.
Tunde watched from his one good unswollen eye as the elder passed through a corridor, disappearing into the darkness. He dragged himself to rest on the wall, the Lithane stones on his wrists heavy, controlling his breathing before the collar gave him another dosage of shock, he took his leather skin water holder, drinking heavily as the healing elixir-infused waters soothed his bones. He had been banned from taking elixirs or pills without the presence of the elder, and as his bones mended slowly Tunde winced, closing his eyes and beginning to meditate.
***************************
Thalas sat within the training chambers of his clan located underneath their vast estate within the Jade Towers district. Around him flowed a miniature water stream, pouring around the large circular stone he was seated upon, eyes closed, breath following the cycling technique passed down to him by his father, a technique that, hegemons willing, he too would pass down to his descendants.
The flowing pressure technique gathered the Ethra within the body of a cultivator in strong yet subtle lumps, pushing it around the heart to create a strong and dense Ethra that could leave devastating damage on the body of an opponent. Stretching one hand forward, he began the process once again of attuning himself with the pressure of Ethra around him, grasping at an affinity he had been training to sense even without innately possessing it.
His jade Ethra began to vibrate, releasing small pulses of pressure that he strained his senses to grasp with the intent of unraveling the underlying nature of the affinity, something that should come easily to him now, considering the entire training hall had been embedded with pressure affinity Ethra crystals, oozing the particular affinity around him.
Body covered lightly with a sheen of sweat, he clenched his fists together, jade Ethra coagulating with a ripple into a fist in the air as he grunted in disappointment.
“It is foolish to ask a disciple, even a peak one at that, to begin to grasp and manipulate an Ethra affinity he has no control over, then again, Jashed has always set impossible standards,” a calm yet steady voice said beside him.
Thalas snapped his eyes open, gathering his Ethra fluidly as he stood in the same breath, jade Ethra coating his arms in line with his imbuement technique. He froze as he stared into the deep green eyes, falling to his knees in a move and bowing his head to the ground.
“Forgive me, venerable lord,” he said, shuddering with his spoken words.
Alaric Verdan stood in front of him, clad in a black robe, his blade missing from its permanent position beside his waist. Arms folded, Thalas could feel the cold remorseless stare of the lord on him.
“I was informed you decided to go into isolated training till the day of the duel, admirable,” Alaric said.
“Your words encourage me, lord” Thalas replied.
“But what are you fighting for?” Alaric continued, ignoring the praise.
“For the honor of the clan and my family,” Thalas replied immediately.
“Tell me one more premeditated word and I might as well snap your spine,” Alaric said calmly.
Thalas froze, could he do that? Yes, he could, his grandmother was his sister, and she couldn't care less, he had other siblings, he was replaceable. Swallowing slowly, he spoke again.
“I fight, for my reputation, to put the wastelander in his place,” he said again.
“And by that, you mean deep below the ground” Alaric replied.
“If the clan wishes it so” Thalas whispered.
No reply came from Alaric, the crinkling of the robes signified the lord crouching down.
“Look at me,” Alaric said, Thalas responding immediately, staring into the eyes of the lord.
He felt his chest restricting, his body quaking subtly, to be near such power was a wish and a curse, one hundreds of disciples would kill for and thousands of initiates as well.
“What do you fight for?” Alaric asked again, slowly.
Thalas struggled to form words, gritting his teeth as he spoke.
“To show the clan I am not weak,” he said.
Alaric held his gaze, Thalas trying his best to break the eye lock all to no avail.
“You have found yourself drawn into the games of powers above you, not of your own volition, I see that now, and yet, you thread the same path those that have come before you did, why?” Alaric asked again.
Thalas wondered how the lord had entered the training chambers without his knowledge, the script inscriptions that sealed the entrance remained untouched, he could sense it from here, and yet, here he stood before him.
“I only seek to make a name for myself, for my family in the eyes of the patriarch himself” Thalas replied.
“And you think following the path of bloody footprints left by your grandmother is the answer?’ Alaric asked again.
“If it’ll lead me to the peak, then yes, venerable lord,” Thalas said.
“What it’ll lead you to, is nothing but an accumulation of both foes and dead bodies left in your wake, none of which I assure you, you want so low down the ladder of advancement,” Alaric said rising to his feet, hands folded behind him.
“Rhyn followed the same path” Thalas blurted out, regretting it almost immediately as he bowed his head back, feeling the full gaze of the lord on his body.
Trembling terribly, the silence prolonged, worsening his already frayed nerves.
“Rhyn knew better than to let some vain gloried cultivator impede his progress, definitely not one that barely scrapes by with every battle he finds himself in,” Alaric said softly.
Thalas gave no response, still bowing, head to the ground.
“You fight a ranker with nothing to lose and everything to gain, the opposite of yours, Thalas” the lord continued.
“All this is nothing but a pastime for your grandmother, and I daresay the same for Joran and your father as well, when adepts fight, disciples suffer the blows” Alaric finished.
“Think on my words well, young one, the patriarch has forbidden the duel to be to the death, meaning you have far more to lose now than ever, Thalas,” the lord said moving towards the walls that parted for him.
Thalas watched as the passageway he hadn’t known about for the last five years he had been making use of the training room closed up behind the lord. Turning his attention back to the miniature waterfall, he steadied his rapidly beating heart in silence, sitting upright, legs folded beneath him. Contemplating in absolute silence, he shut his eyes, taking a deep breath.
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What did he fight for?
“I fight for honor” he whispered, frowning almost immediately.
The answer both sounded and tasted sour in his mouth, he cared little for honor.
“I fight for power,” he said again.
It still didn’t sit right within him.
Thalas couldn’t care less for the games of the adepts in truth, he was only in this mess because his teacher, elder Moros had some sort of grudge against Elder Joran, and his grandmother seemed fascinated with the wastelander. He took a deep breath again, cycling his jade Ethra, the crystals within the room glowing as he siphoned their Ethra as well, feeling his body swallow the extra power.
He had a mission, Thalas, to surpass the grandson of lord Alaric, to cement his place as the future hope of the clan not just in the eyes of his peers and other family heads, but most importantly, in the eyes of the patriarch himself, the high lord. Steadying himself, he spoke again.
“I fight for strength,” he said.
This time, he felt his heart beat in resonance with his words.
***************************************
Alaric stepped foot outside the corridor that led to the underground training chambers, moving fluidly as shocked servants hastily prostrated, the lord ignoring them as he passed, making his way to the large wooden gates of the estate. He felt the aura of his sister like a sharp point of a spear settle on him, Alaric pausing in his movement to cock his head slightly.
“You tread where you aren’t supposed to, brother” the voice of lady Lirien flowed through her aura to him.
Aura speech was a delicate yet hard technique to develop and use fluently, something even Alaric himself hadn’t perfected. To weave intentions into one’s aura and then make it ring with the precise words of said intention was something high lords were known to gradually develop, and yet, Lirien had mastered it. She was always the favorite of the two of them, their father’s choice whenever it came to both battle and ruling, Alaric always played catch up, something that he was inwardly glad his grandson had broken.
Rhyn was a genius who showed up once in every new generation, compared to the Scions of the greater empire, he was a shining beacon that overshadowed the combined heirs of Lirien, something that had been slowly building discontent among the two siblings. Alaric didn’t see it that way, he wouldn’t allow his grandson to follow the same greedy and ruthless path as cultivators within the same family did, looking at each other as competition to weed out.
Sighing, he folded his hands, speaking plainly.
“You set him upon a path that would do nothing but ensure his early demise” he replied.
“Then he is not worthy of the title of ranker, not worthy to carry the Verdan name” she replied.
“It’s always black or white with you, isn’t it?” he retorted.
“You would breed weak cultivators that dregs from the wastelands could step on?” she asked with scorn.
“I raise, not breed, rankers that know better than to throw everything on the line for something as fleeting and stupid as pride,” he said with steel in his voice, already getting irked.
“Then we can at least thank the hegemons that Rhyn turned out right, but for how long?” Lirien mused.
“The wastelander didn’t ask for this, you weren’t around when he arrived, he’s simply Joran’s pet project, to spite Moros, and yet, you want to make this duel a matter of pride or shame?” Alaric asked.
“One party had nothing to lose while the other had everything to lose, I simply evened the odds, dear brother,” she said.
Alaric could see the smile on her face in his mind, the mad glint that had persisted for as long as he knew her. He rubbed his forehead in frustration, sighing as he turned.
“he’s your heir, do as you wish, messing up the lives of his siblings wasn’t enough for you, was it?” he said as he began to move, wincing.
He shouldn’t have said that, it hadn’t been her fault, not entirely, and yet, he felt the simmering rage as her aura quivered and servants of the household began to fall to their knees in pain, grasping their heads. Alaric clapped once, his aura honed like a blade’s edge slicing cleanly through hers releasing the servants who scurried away in terror, he saw the disapproving look on adept Bo’s face as he had appeared out of the numerous buildings himself, glancing at Alaric before bowing respectfully.
“That was petty, even for you,” Alaric said.
No reply came from his sister, her unspoken method of dismissing him. He considered cutting apart her home, drawing her out, but apart from the numerous servants whose lives he couldn’t be certain would not be lost, he just wasn’t ready to face an enraged sister of his, not this day anyway.
“These children need to develop bonds of friendship and healthy competition, the path of advancement is not a lonely road, death awaits a lone wolf” he finished as he departed.
“And yet, a lone wolf stands at our doors, eyeing our prizes with greedy eyes,” Lirien said, her aura voice as cold as it was deadly.
Alaric glanced back a bit.
“My point exactly,” he said, leaving the residence, vanishing the moment he stepped out of its gates.
******************************
Tunde had no idea when he dozed off, his body self-healing as the whistling of elder Joran woke him up, bleary-eyed and hungry, he struggled to his feet. His slightly sore body protesting lightly the elder paused a few meters from him, his Lithane staff still in his hand.
“Prepare yourself,” he said.
Tunde took a stance again, feeling the slightly weakened bands on his limbs as he glanced at them curiously. It was still filled with Ethra, so why were they a bit lighter?
“Your body rapidly accustoms itself to whatever trial you put it through,” Elder Joran said.
Tunde glanced up at him.
“Venom, fire, pain, weight, you make for a very curious yet interesting experiment” he continued.
“And while it has all but cemented your growth as one which will definitely include a lot of pain and suffering,” he said, pausing as he smiled.
“One can only wonder if it will adapt faster the more you advance, but for now, we shall push it to that limit” he finished.
Tunde definitely heard the glee in the elder’s voice, Ethra sight burning as he followed the swing of the staff a bit better now, his body reacting a second quicker than he usually did. His staff, the slightly less heavy weapon crashed into the staff of the elder’s, feeling the raw strength with which the elder had imbued into his weapon. It drove him to his knees immediately, Tunde grunting under the weight, as his body groaned, tempted to imbue himself. He tried rolling away as the elder reversed his grip, the weapon slamming into his abdomen, raising him up in the air with absolute pain wracking through his form.
He landed on his feet, knees crouched as he rolled away, pouring Ethra into his staff that glowed, elder Joran crackling with laughter as both staffs crashed into each other. Tunde’s entire arm fractured, screaming in pain as the elder twisted, one heel cracking Tunde’s jaw to send him sprawling on the ground after twisting through the air like a squeezed laundry cloth.
Sight blurry, blood leaking from his mouth, head ringing, he lay there, unable to move, hearing the footsteps of the elder as he got closer to him.
“Some would call me a sadist for the lengths I am prepared to push my students, perhaps, it is why the families would rather let their children learn flashy techniques from Celia and Moros,” he said thoughtfully.
“But I’m not forging you to be some measly adept or lord,” he said, crouching close to Tunde who couldn’t move a muscle.
Cycling his Ethra with great difficulty, healing his body one shattered pain-filled bone at a time.
“No, I want to raise a predator, not prey, and you have it in you” Joran continued.
“I saw it in you, Gale saw it in you before he met his untimely death, the Corespawns saw it in you, Miria saw it in you,” he said.
“You see it, but you fully haven’t embraced it, not yet anyways” the elder finished, getting up.
He threw a small vial to Tunde, the sparkly liquid filled with healing elixir of the fourth tier, adept rank landing near his lips.
“That, is the easy way out, with the funds allocated to us by the clan for the building of our house, you can afford a few of these,” Joran said.
“You could drink that, if you manage to move your limbs anyways, and be as healthy as a peak disciple” he continued.
“Or you could let your body heal naturally, cycling your Ethra over and over till it becomes second nature to your body, listening to the pain and what it’s teaching you, I leave the option to you” he finished, walking away through that corridor.
Tunde watched him go, tears leaking from his eyes at the pain, eyes going back to the elixir that stared at him expectantly. Easy way? Was that what it was, or a reprieve from the pain that threatened to cause him to pass out? Shuddering even as he whimpered from that action, he shut his eyes tight. Strength didn’t come easy, Thorne, Elyria, Rhyn, Sorin, and Thalas, what prices had they paid to sit at the top of the disciple rankings?
He began to cycle slowly, his Ethra expanding and receding, following the ebb and wane of his breath, like an elastic pushed to its limit and then allowed to grow accustomed to it. He would start paying the price from now, the sweat, the pain, the anger, he would start paying it all from now. He had no guarantee he would make it to adept, or even lord at that, but he would make sure that his body was strong enough to weather whatever pain was brought his way. Slowly, without even noticing at first, he felt his mind straying into the cold embrace of sleep as he healed, his aura, drifting out of him as he passed out.
****************
Joran paused, staring at the broken form of Tunde from the darkness of the corridor, arms folded behind him as he watched his aura slowly drift up like smoke, its starry darkness emitting such strength that he was glad the underground chambers were both aura and Ethra proof. That was no aura of some mere disciple, that was the aura of some monster, its potency, its lethality, it could pass off as an aura of a truly gifted disciple, but a powerful cultivator of the upper ranks would take one look at it and snatch Tunde to be his student immediately.
The child had chosen to let his body heal itself slowly, it was foolish, but it proved his resiliency. He hadn’t lied to him, allowing his body to heal itself would let it cannibalize what Ethra he had within him, drawing in more from the air, converting it to whatever affinity his Ethra was, and allowing his heart to grow stronger.
This wasn’t about what tier his body was, and it was that of a peak disciple already, whatever bizarreness the bone of the true beast was, it had completely overhauled his body tempering process, which was a good thing seeing as he wouldn’t necessarily need to go through the traditional body tempering process any longer. He would wake up significantly stronger, the mini vibrations Joran sent his way allowing Tunde’s bones to fracture a bit more, his body healing them slowly.
Leaving with a sigh, he appreciated the tenacity of the kid once again, it would be a shame if he lost to Thalas, he had given it his all after all.
*****************************************
Tunde was woken up by the pang of hunger that ran through his body, voice hoarse and weak, he stared at his near-skeletal frame in shock. He looked like a famine victim, all his muscles gone, only bones in their place.
“Your body cannibalized itself to heal your fractured bones, you’re relatively weak right now” elder Joran’s voice spoke from where he sat on a rock, watching him. Tunde struggled to crawl to where he had dumped all his elixirs and food.
“To your left” Joran spoke again.
Tunde glanced to his left, staring at a platter of sizzling meat of various sizes that wafted with raw energy and various pitchers of elixir energy-infused water. He was like a weak rapid dog, tearing into the meats and guzzling the drinks as his body burned through it just as quickly as he could consume them. Without care of how he looked, he finished it all, heaving heavily as he sat up, back against the wall, staring at the elder who watched him quietly.
“How long was I out?” he asked.
“a few hours, give or take” Joran replied.
Tunde raised slowly healing arm, surprised that the Lithane wasn’t inhabiting his movement, in fact, it looked dull, like it was about to shatter. Tapping it with a finger, the rock shattered to fine dust, Tunde doing it for the other hand as well.
“It seems, my young student and disciple” Joran started as Tunde looked at him.
“That not only does your body grow stronger, but it also absorbs whatever qualities it needs from things that come in contact with your skin” Joran explained.
“Like the relic?” Tunde asked, immediately staring at the still dormant black band around his right wrist.
“Indeed, could you have simply absorbed a particular attribute of the relic, or was it an innate power of your body?” the elder mused.
“Either way, we will exploit this new advantage, and maximize it to the best of your ability,” Joran said as he got up.
Producing an even bigger pair of Lithane cuffs, he threw them at Tunde who caught them, surprised at his own speed.
“More potent Lithane, less purified, stronger, heavier” Joran said.
Wordlessly, Tunde shattered the cuffs around his ankles, locking the new sets on both wrists and ankles again as he began pouring his Ethra that felt denser into it, cracking his neck as he stood up, slightly refreshed. He took a stance, feeling the renewed and heavier weight threaten to hold him down.
“Prepare yourself,” Joran said as he attacked again.