Myra awoke, groggily brushing the ends of her stinging and heavy eyes… yet they felt oddly light despite how heavy they felt the night before. It seemed like the entire week burdened her more than ever, something she hadn’t felt since the passing of her father and uncle.

She yawned and tried to chase away the last lingering remnants of sleep. Her long brown hair and messily sprawled all over her covers and face, so she parted it aside as neatly as she could without a brush.

‘Ah! Osias…’ She thought quickly.

She needed to run to the kitchen before the cooks arrived to cook something small for their breakfast.

A small smile curled the ends of her lips upwards as she steeled herself to finally admit to Osias that she was the one cooking their shared meals instead of the cooks… she couldn’t bring herself to open herself up to embarrassment in case he had any complaints.

“What time is it—”

She turned her head and found herself not in her usual quarters… but in Osias’s room. A plain room like her own, but larger and had a lavish window: a familiar pale chair, a long table, and a humble lantern in the corner.

Quickly swiping her head side-to-side it felt as though she tripped and a cold bucket of water poured all over her as the memories of last night returned and poured over her.

Despite the cold air, she felt her face and ears turn a little warm as she slapped her face twice to make sure this wasn’t a dream.

‘I-I’m so shameless! Immodest! Does he think I’m… indecent?’ She thought as a small shriek left her mouth.

She bundled Osias’s covers and tightly clasped them with all four limbs and plunged her face deeply into them to mute her humiliating wails.

‘Why! Why! Why! Why did I do that?’

Finally relenting, she lifted her and gently rubbed around her eyes, careful to not redden her eyes anymore, but suddenly she found something that puzzled her as she recalled what they talked about yesterday before she fell asleep.

…She found a lingering tear against where she pressed her face.

In the next moment, a faint sad smile began to stretch. She… couldn’t help but worry about Osias.

She lied to him, that she didn’t watch him fight in the courtyard against the others of the clan. He was cruel to both those he faced and to himself. And it felt as though each cut on his skin pained her as well… but the worst of it all was how he swallowed the pain, treating it as something natural.

"Oh, Osias… what type of life had he lived?"

Although she wanted to voice her complaints about how… painful he fights, she would only cause him to worry.

And if he hesitates in battle… she already knew the consequences of such a thing as she thought back to her father and uncle.

Once again tightly embracing the soft covers stained with Osias’s scent, she remembered that he was gone.

He was fighting somewhere in his Ordeal.

Somewhere she couldn’t find nor see even as she worried about him so dearly.

Somewhere she couldn’t care for him.

Somewhere they couldn’t share a meal once more.

And so a single hopeful tear once more trickled down her cheek as she hoped for him to return — a single teardrop that felt fleeting as the morning dew before it freezes in the cold winter.

—

Osias awoke with a jolt, his body drenched in a cold sweat. His heart pounded in his chest, each beat echoing in his ears as though it might burst through his ribcage.

He didn’t know where he was for a moment—darkness and confusion swirled in his mind. He reached for his great sword, gripping the hilt as though it were the only thing anchoring him to reality.

‘Where? Where is that damn bug!’ He thought with a shiver, looking around the same altar of carved pale stone along with trying to pull at straws through his blood connection.

But he felt nothing…

His limbs felt weak, almost numb as he struggled to push himself off the cold, rigid stone ground. He staggered, his legs trembling beneath him, barely able to support his weight. The once familiar heft of his sword now seemed a burden, yet it was the only thing keeping him upright. He leaned heavily on it, the blade dragging along the ravaged stones as he forced one foot in front of the other.

Osias looked around and spotted his helmet which was knocked off earlier and he picked it up.

There was nothing here anymore… so he left, uneager to stay.

His breath came in ragged gasps, the air biting at his lungs with each inhale. The world around him was a blur of sounds and sights—cries of anguish, the clash of steel, and the distant roar of flames.

He could hear the chaos once more, the brutality of war all around him, but it felt as though the horrors unfolding in the conquered city helped his mind recover as he was reminded where he was.

‘What… was that centipede?’

As he hobbled away from the city’s center, the strength slowly began to return to his limbs. Each step became steadier, his legs gradually finding their strength again. The trembling in his hands lessened, and the weight of his sword became familiar once more. But with the return of his physical strength came the rising tide of questions in his mind.

What had happened? How long had he been out? And what had the centipede done to him?

The memory of the creature’s venom flooded his mind—the strange warmth that had surged through his body, the clarity of his senses that had followed. But now, in the aftermath, there was only confusion. His thoughts felt fragmented, and disjointed, as though he were piecing together the remnants of a shattered dream.

Lifting his gaze to the sky… he found that it was the same as it was. As though mere seconds have passed, much less a few minutes.

He shook his head wearily and pressed forward, his gait returned to as it was as he made his way through the city roads. The cries of the conquered echoed around him—women weeping, children screaming, men groaning in pain as cackles and jeers followed.

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

Fires began to break, perhaps in the mere moments he explored the city center his fellow bannerman grown tired and wrathful.

As he approached the other end of the city’s walls, the fog in his mind began to clear. The venom—it hadn’t just kept him alive. It had done something more, something he couldn’t yet fully grasp. His senses were sharper, and his body felt stronger, yet there was a profanity to it, a power that pulsed just beneath the surface of his skin. Beyond simple flesh and blood. Seeped into his very… soul? It was unsettling, and yet, it called to him, urging him to understand.

But it was familiar.

‘Garm. What was in the ink… what made the tattoos and his ritual the way it was. It’s similar.’

Something that humans shouldn’t touch. Even now… Osias didn’t know for certain how ‘deep’ the tattoos had been etched. How assimilated it is with his very being.

It was always odd.

How his skin could be burned, peirce, cut apart, torn to shreds, gnawed… if he undergoes healing, they grow along with the skin. As if it was irreplaceable.

‘It doesn’t make sense.’

There was a heaviness in his chest, a sense of unease that gnawed at him. It was the same as he felt after each session of inking with Garm, that something within him felt… wrong. This time, was as though the venom had planted a seed deep within him, something dark and potent, something that would grow if he wasn’t careful.

‘A… relic. It had to be. There is nothing else even remotely close to the feeling Kiran described.’

But this was an Ordeal! How does this work?

‘No… where is it? What is it? What did it do?’ He thought, his mind in turmoil.

He pressed a hand to his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath his fingers to make sure he was… whole. Alive, even, so he could calm himself.

…When Osias reached the street corner leading to the other side, he stopped and took a deep breath. The city's main road stretched out before him, now a ravaged and smoldering ruin, and Osias doubted that the already handful of inhabitants were still alive. The cries of the conquered faded into the distance as he stood there, staring out at the devastation as he breathed and collected himself.

‘Relics… The first was something that caused the change in our Path’s progenit—’ Osias’s eyes tensed and his eyebrows rose.

‘Garm’s father was a First Ordeal Path Finder. He came upon the first relic, but this… I am an Ordinary. Kiran… he never mentioned anything of an Ordinary relic.’

Osias felt as though he was discovering something unsettling as his mind raced and drew from odd suspicions and memories of what he knew.

If this was truly the Ordinary relic of his Blood Path, then this was a boon. Nothing else could’ve elicited such a response from his blood connection.

But what did it do? There was nothing he could draw upon to learn. Or anyon—

‘... Is this Ordeal in the time before Garm’s father? Of the true blood ancestor? The relics… they came from something, someone.’

In the next moment, a haggard and wild laughter began to leave his mouth.

‘Is the… Great Blood Ancestor a tale turned truth?’

To think there was a day that he’d wonder if such a tale was true! Osias was hysterical and his laughs grew crazed.

The Gods…

With that disturbing thought in mind, Osias shook his and turned away from the city center once more and began to walk, each step taking him closer to the opposite side from which the army entered — what his destination was before he came upon… the nameless relic, pushing the worry aside.

The reason for this is because from atop the watchtower he was on, he saw the leaders of the rear not partaking in the pillaging, but instead trampling through the main road towards the other end of the city wall. He wanted to see the faces of these elusive leaders of the Third Army.

Eventually, Osias came upon a familiar face and called out to him.

“Erdma!”

It was one of the followers of his from his first day waking up in this Ordeal. A short, stout, and burly man. A rugged and sharp face with a wild mane for hair.

Osias sighed, finding Erdma inside a larger home of stone furiously yelling at a group of other bannerman as they struggled to pull apart a sealed cellar.

‘Worried about his share, I wonder.’ Osias groaned inwardly.

Walking in leisurely, Osias drew his sword and helped them cut apart the cellar’s entrance and then waited for Erdma to finish filling his pockets before they approached the city’s high walls.

Erdma had a long grin plastered on his face, fiddling an odd coin from a currency long forgotten that Osias didn’t know of. But Erdma also didn’t know where they were headed or why he was coming along — both of which were because of Osias’s limited vocabulary.

However, slowly, even Erdma could sense the difference in the air as the grin began to twist into a puzzled expression and then into a deep frown.

Osias pointed upwards to the hulking tower structures built atop the fortified walls and said:

“Urotys.”

Erdma frowned, but Osias pointed both at him and himself before gesturing up towards the towers once more.

In a frantic voice, Erdma tried to gesture and voice what his apprehension at what Osias was trying to convey.

Stifling a laugh at the outraged Erdma, Osias also ignored the cluster of words he didn’t understand.

‘He doesn’t know that I only mentioned the Second Ordeals because I don’t know the titles of those above that. ’ Osias thought to himself with a grin.

“Jentys,” Osias abruptly said, using the tip of his hefty great sword to scratch the paved stone below before scratching another marking beside the first, “Urotys,”

He carved a circle beside the marking he made for Urotys before lifting his chin towards Erdma who was studying his crude markings.

And if Erdma was outraged before, then now he looked as though he wanted to strangle Osias.

Tapping against the circle, Osias wore a puzzled look and narrowed his eyes, directing Erdma to tell him what was a Third Ordeal or whoever was above a Urotys.

“...Cratys,” Erdma huffed out.

“Cratys.” Osias echoed back and pointed above the walls.

With raised eyebrows, Erdma tried to turn aside towards the sounds of bickering bannerman inside a building to escape, but Osias nabbed his collar and practically dragged the stout man against his wishes atop the steps to lead up.

But in the next moment, Osias’s eyes narrowed instead of Erdma’s.

‘An Urotys…’

From above the steps, an unknown Urotys was descending the same steps. In his hand, Erdma became limp and slowly turned his head towards the descending figure and stammered out what Osias assumed was a greeting.

Earning nothing more than a curious glance, they continued.

As they made to atop the walls, his eyes were drawn to the three imposing structures that crowned the ramparts. The roofs of these massive edifices were adorned with intricate, upturned eaves, each level of the structure slightly smaller than the one below it.

The tiles on the roofs were a deep, weathered green, but in the dim light of dusk, they appeared almost black, absorbing the remnants of daylight.

Erdma looked as though he wanted to jump off the ledge, but Osias pushed him ahead towards the closest of the three towers.

‘No running away. Even if it was insolent, I want—no, I need to know… is there a Fourth Ordeal?’

If a Fourth Ordeal Path Finder led this army…

It was telling of many things.

The state of this period… if it was even an accurate portrayal made by an Ordeal, but regardless, it showed how significant he was.

If a Fourth Ordeal led a single great army among three similar ones… then perhaps there may be a Fifth Ordeal.

Osias took a deep breath as he tried to imagine such a being.

If there was a God amongst the world below… then Osias believed it was whoever a Fifth Ordeal was.

Perhaps all stories of a God have been spun from mere vestiges of such supreme beings. After all… the Tailed Rebellion was led by such a figure.

Shaking his head, Osias realized he was beginning to get ahead of himself once more — a poor habit he needed to resolve.

First, he has to figure out how many and perhaps even accustom himself alongside a Cratys.

Step by step, and eventually all he needs to know will unravel itself in time.

‘So why… are my legs trembling below my armor?’ He thought with a grim smile as they walked atop the city's walls.

Eventually, Osias took off his helmet — it was the least he could do when addressing those superior to him… although marching in without knowing anything of the circumstances and dynamics is already impudent enough.

With a sigh, he pressured the poor Erdma ahead towards the entrance of the first tower.

However, Erdma glanced back, and his once flustered expression suddenly turned a little curious as he pointed towards Osias.

“Hm? Erdma?” Osias asked.

“Amisya mo!” Erdma abruptly said, gesturing once more.

Osias looked behind but found nothing amiss.

“A-mis-ya-mo!” Erdma grunted again, but this time touching Osias right temple.

‘What is it… blood? My hair?’

Erdma swiped Osias’s helmet and wiped it a little on his leather armor before displaying it in front for Osias to study.

Osias narrowed his eyes and tried

“What is this gu—” Osias’s eyes narrowed and he scowled at what he saw.

‘...What is this?’

He… he had a new tattoo.

A menacing centipede in the same black and crimson hue as all his others… it spanned from behind his ear and probably further beyond he could see and perfectly blended into the rest of his ink.

He stretched behind his ear and past his temple and circled his right eye, all the menacing legs and wicked jutted horns were all on display. It looked barbaric and wicked, and made his face look even more like a brigand…