The sun had already set, but the boys still stood in the arena- cautiously planning their next moves. The salt, the barbs and the glass had driven Abraham to the brink of unconsciousness several times over, yet he continued pushing forwards. Eighty-six times, he had reached the end and returned and suffered dearly for it. He doubted there was any skin left on the soles of his feet and several of the wires had been severely dulled by their scratches.
Sometime after noon, Michael had slumped to a knee, slicing his cheek open on one of the razors before landing on the crushed glass.
As much as it pained his brethren to do so, both Abraham and Marcel had made their way to his sides, sacrificing blood and tears to make it to his still-clear strips of the path.
Michael had groaned and whined with pain as they raised him up to support him on their shoulders.
Abraham felt the clamminess of his skin soak through the leftovers of his robes - he was exhausted and in pain, yet determination still burned in his eyes.
Marcel looked back to his own partition of the path and grumbled before returning to stare at his brother. “This isn’t working. I’ve been thinking about it for the last two rounds… we shouldn’t have split into three. We should’ve stayed as one - it’s madness trying to navigate this alone.” Abraham hadn’t even considered staying in a single file. It was doable, but with its logistical issues.
Marcel continued: “I’ve fucked up my path. I’ve stumbled on so much glass that I’m constantly stepping on it. Sorry, guys… but I’ve got an idea.”
Michael grunted and shook his brethren warriors off, standing on his two legs to listen to Marcel’s plan.
“We go down Michael’s path, turn along the end and head down along yours, Abe. This isn’t an exercise we do alone - we’re not alone in the forest, are we?” Michael wiped the sweat from his forehead, smearing himself with a spread of coagulated blood.
“No, we’re not.” He muttered at the sensible plan and questioned… who had chosen to split up in the first place?
In their new formation, they soldiered on - slowly at first, before they went faster than ever. Walking in the single file, they could learn from one-another’s movements in addition to their own trial-and-failure, effectively tripling the speed with which they were learning the most optimal way of moving through the potentially lethal field.
By the time the sun had set and their sun-burnt skin began to cool, their pace had quickened considerably - from slow trials to normal walking speeds. Then, another challenge appeared. As their minds grew weary with exhaustion, they began to make mistakes - minor, at first, but eventually dangerous; slicing skin and treading glass.
It was after a near-fatal fall had sliced into Abraham’s skin that Marcel one again took the word, reminding his brethren of their mission: “Guys - stop. We’ve still got twenty rounds to go and if we keep going like this, we’ll run out of blood before we reach the finish line.” Michael hated to say it, but it was proving near-impossible to avoid the blades… now, that light was draining, time was of the essence. Another hour and the blades would be shrouded in pitch darkness.
“We need ideas. Anyone?” Marcel spoke - frozen in place between four wires.
Michael looked to his blood-covered, golden-haired brother with a profound, ponderous expression. He did have an idea, but had his doubts voicing them. At that point, Abraham was at the front, his smaller frame having aided him in his acrobatics. Michael, in the middle, still had strips of his leather armor clinging to his body - a stark opposite to his nearly-naked brother in the back.
“We’ve only got one choice. One reasonable choice.” Michael spoke in a sigh and reached up for his chest, tearing off strips of leather to wrap tightly and thickly around his palms. Next, he grabbed hold of the razor-wire and pulled them apart, widening the gap through which Marcel could easily step.
Marcel hesitated, raising his bleeding palm to his mouth before agreeing to step through. Without a word, an agreement was reached - they would have to bend the rules and the wires in order to succeed before the bleeding claimed them.
And so they wandered, wrapping the leather around their hands to provide one-another gaps through which they could squeeze while Abe, clad only in cloth, used barrier magic on his palms to offer all of them safe passage through the blades.
When their journey finally ended and Marcel took his last step through the lethal, sadistic playground, they all collapsed on each their bench - the cold gusts of wind cooling their numerous cuts.
“Do you… think we passed?” Abraham spoke between heaves for air.
A booming voice spoke from further up the arena, answering his question with another question: “You wouldn’t unless you’d have had those talks.” Bear spoke.
Had they had the energy for it, they’d have reared at his voice.
His heavy footsteps seemed to shake the dust as his massive, moonlit frame appeared from the pews. “If I’d have known this was all that was needed to make you talk like a team, I’d have forced you through this years ago.” He chuckled, looking at the naked trio in turns. A proud grin split his lips as he crossed his arms and went on to ask: “That pain’s just the start of your journey, but you never hesitated. It’s only gonna get worse from here - under Logan, I’m sure it’ll be worse. You ready for that?” They struggled to imagine anything more torturous than what they had just endured, but nodded the same.
You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.
Marcel rose up from his seat to stare up at his Master with a determined glare.
“We’re ready.”
----------------------------------------
As morning dawned on the mountain planes and showered the walls of Anza with its golden rays, Luna and Logan returned to the peaceful city, to the great joy of the stableboy.
But the hurried pair had no time to discuss Zeke’s care plan and immediately dismounted before darting across the arrival platform to head to the Order Chapter - passing the empty, bloody arena to ascend ancient, oaken stairs.
As instructed time and time again, Luna’s hood was drawn low over her head as they headed down the long hallway and stopped before an old, heavy door.
“Open up.” Logan commanded and slammed his knuckles into the wood. His voice was strict - cold and decided; a stark contrast to how he had sounded as he taught her of the Monstrum’s biology.
A rattle from the door preceded its opening. Logan wasted no time and entered, shortly followed by his hooded companion. She was taken aback by a second, slightly shorter stone-faced man standing at attention before a desk. Everything about him felt different, even without hearing a word, she could feel that something in the air seemed off about him. And she knew, somehow, that Logan was no fan of this mysterious creature.
Her own Ghast spoke a demand: “I need you to head north and get as much gunpowder as your hound can carry from the towns along the line. Time’s short - at most, we’ve got a week before a behemoth charges for Anza.” The Ghast leaned back on his desk and folded his arms over his chest.
“I’d ask who you think you are, but I already know. I don’t take orders from you, Logan. But I’m willing to negotiate, of course.” His voice sounded nasal, a stark opposite to Logan’s deep, scruff voice. Logan cocked his head and questioned: “Did you not hear me? Citadel sent you to oversee this town - do your job and oversee it. We need gunpowder - what they have isn’t enough.”
The stranger snickered and turned over his shoulder to fetch a well-read paper from his desk. “Do you know what this is? This paper - signed and sent from the Governor himself? Not from his secretary, but his own hand?” Luna heard Logan’s gloves crackle as he tightened his fists at his sides.
“Are you going to do your job, or-” The Ghast cut him off by reading from the paper:
“By my decree, you are to step down from your duties at once. From this moment forth, you are relieved of your duties and are to be met with-”
“I’ll shove that paper up your ass if you don’t obey me.” Luna had to blink as she heard it. Logan seemed so different - so authoritative. Yet the nasal Ghast seemed unperplexed as he went on to explain:
“For doing my job, I’ve been excommunicated. I’ve been sentenced to death. If you had identified yourself, as you should have, then this would all have been avoided and I would have been happy to obey your order.” The Ghast curled the paper up and hurled it across the room, landing it in front of Logan’s feet.
Luna’s Ghast shook with rage, his gloves creaking with frequent tightenings.
The nasal bastard retorted: “Here’s my counter-offer. You write the governor and confess that this misunderstanding was, in fact, your fault. Then, you will go deal with this Behemoth on your own - away from the town. Should any stragglers make it here, I will deal with them myself.”
Logan’s voice was unamused. In fact, he seemed to growl more than speak as he clarified: “I’ve never fought a behemoth in this terrain. I’ll do it, but I’ll need artillery support. Get me gunpowder.”
The Ghast scoffed mockingly and waved the air.
“This isn’t a negotiation, brother. You go in alone, you kill it and I’ll deal with the reinforcements when they charge for the wall.” He turned around again to retrieve a pen and paper, holding them up at his sides. “First you’ll write the governor, of course.”
Luna felt an icy chill spread through the air - raising the thin, white hairs of her skin and depriving her of her breath. She blinked and when she next looked up, Logan had his gun trained on the calm Ghast’s mask.
“Or maybe I’ll perform His sentence right now.” The stranger bellowed a horse, cackling laugh and still with the papers in his hands shouted: “Maybe you will! Come on - fire! You’re a hand of the Governor - he’s given you an order, why don’t you exact it!?”
The room fell deathly silent for a demonstrative moment.
“Oh, that’s right. Killing me would leave the town entirely defenseless as you go get your precious gunpowder, wouldn’t it? Then you’d have to face that Behemoth without another Ghast in town.” The stranger shook his head and turned his grinning mask down to the floor. “I can’t believe I trusted the stories about you. You’re nothing but a weakly coward - filth. If you were a true Ghast, you’d pull the trigger and use this town as a diversion. That’d be a story worthy of the true Commander Behemoth-Bane.”
Logan dropped his arm and returned the gun to his sleeve, surprising Luna with his sudden calm. “Do you know what a bane is, Ghast?” Logan questioned the stranger, only to have his question answered with a scoff.
Logan continued: “It’s the killing blow. A calculated blow. It has nothing to do with the quantity of kills I’ve racked up. It has to do with knowing your enemy - striking where it matters, when it matters. Only an idiot would charge into them blindly.”
“Don’t talk to me as if I was one of your apprentices. Go fuck yourself, Logan.”
Logan chuckled at that. But Luna could sense that there was no bemusement behind his laugh. He promised:
“If you were one of my apprentices, I’d have pulled the trigger.”