Beyond the blackened valleys of Garig, where perpetual storm clouds remained unpierced by sunlight. The hopeful youth were forced to face a gruelling rite of passage, an annual test of survival that gnawed at sanity and left little behind.
Beyond their territory, they were abandoned among the likes of creatures born of hell, solely equipped with the goal of evolving themselves into useful tools for the Astras.
Teens from every city, village and race, all catapulted into a world made of hunger, frostbite, and the haunting whispers of those who had failed before them. Beaten by the freezing gales that carried ancient curses. The very earth writhing at the touch of their feet.
Their meager aspiration, to emerge hollow-eyed and broken, bearing the weight of a generation lead fearless to slaughter. The hope of their legacies etched in scars, as they were chosen for a war older than time itself—a dispute that devoured ambition and spat out despair. It was said that a week south the wall and a recruit never returned a warrior; but a sentience akin to wraiths, forged in suffering with eyes prepared to stare into the abyssal hole of death itself.
The origins of conflict were long buried in the annals of forgotten kings. A truth whispered only by the winds that carried the scent of a blood—a millennia's worth.
Garig proved itself to be the marquee frontline, being the only continent of which both Astras and Titan flags could be erected or broken down. On this bridge between north and south, death and conflict were as widespread as the sky. Two millennia wasted, with neither of the sides being able to seize the much-needed upper hand.
Shahari, Alven and Hurcs alike knew not why they fought—only that they must. As their fall would equal the purge of every name they stood to defend. In fear, existed the lone motivation for their kind to gather at the border with an ever-multiplying desire to defend. Or, on a day when the Astras looked down on their people with favor, they could gain the advantage and assimilate territories beyond what they had yesterday.
All followers of the Astras were encouraged to describe their own Soul Trial to future recruits. In uncorrupted detail. So, the temple hands recalled the celestial guidance that they needed to survive, never sparing the harsh end of those who never made it back.
Such had been the expectation for as long as he lived.
Relik, was born perched at the precipice of fate. An ode of sacrificial loyalty the only reason he came into being. A soul cursed to plummet into nothingness on the whim of those who saw fit. His soul branded and marked. Among his peers he was more an expensive pet than a boy entrusted to religion.
Every child born of the Astran territory had learnt to clutch wooden swords before they could walk. Relik had a youth of no difference. After sixteen years of calloused hands and learned aspirations, his crossroad of difference seemed to arrive before he had opportunity to deliberate.
For years he took liberties with his imagination, envisioning a dominant showing and then receiving plaudits equal to his astonishing effort.
He remembered the many times that The Hands provided him tips on survival and securing financial rewards for returning with enemy bones and flesh. As one of the few who lived within the Temple from birth, he had no choice in becoming a trooper, but their stories made him anticipate his Soul Trial with an unnatural enthusiasm.
Now that he was here, hiding at the base of a tree whilst his enemies conversed within spitting distance, all his anticipation had fallen to the opposite side of the spectrum.
A sudden heaviness caressed his face as his thoughts went silent the sounds of the river replacing what should have been streamlined thought.
He provided the Astras silent appreciation.
The situation would have gone far different if they spot him first.
With lungs gripping onto his last breath, he stuck his head around attempting to get a clear look at the group.
He glimpsed them through the underbrush, their specter like forms extending from the moonlight shadows. Four figures, each bearing a secret burden, their existence woven into the fabric of warfare and bloodshed.
Three of them, their skin bronzed and their eyes ablaze with otherworldly light, had their eagerness restrained by purpose. Their essence whispered of ancient pacts and forbidden alliances. They were the Ankh-Ra, the metallic-skinned warriors who danced on the edge of immortality. Their bodies, forged from techniques parallel to known science, defying the ravages of time and blade alike.
But it was the fourth—the Shahari—that held Relik's gaze. A being that mirrored his own lineage stood cloaked in treachery amongst the sworn enemies of his kinship. The blood of brethren spilt for him to live; now cast aside in favour of collusion.
Relik grabbed at his chest, his countenance eroding the longer he stared.
This intelligence could be the difference between life and death.
The latter of which stood most likely.
Tales of the Ankh-Ra and their ancient power, established themselves as the backbone of nightmares and fearmongering. They were to the Titans as the Alven were to the Astras, the beings that stood between the northern territory and the much-desired end to conflict.
It was believed that a competent Ankh-Ra could uproot forests with sheathed thought, their will bending the roots of oaks that lived double a Shahari's lifetime. The waves of the ocean, too, yielded to their command—a tempest at their fingertips and the sun on their tongue.
Yet as they interrupted what should have been a simple Soul Trial, the inklings of self-confidence requested that he act with effect. However, he had sufficient fear to remain bolted to the spot.
To their lidless eyes, Relik remained unseen. Though his breath lay ragged with gasps, the weight of his own mortality suddenly pressed against him. He knew that the Astras had guided him to lose track of his peers and lead him to this side of the river with a plan in mind.
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Observing one of his own brethren defect to the very enemies they were meant to eliminate, clarified the objective. He was placed on this path to obstruct the collusion.
Quickly, he stuck his arm down the front of his armour, fiddling for a grip on his necklace. Once he felt the metal between his fingers, he held his eyes shut.
As a marked soul, he could not hear the Astras voice, but he knew that they heard him, and for that, he offered a prayer.
This yearning, paired with his desire to prove himself, became enough to develop a singular reason.
He was going to put an end to this informant, his people, and everyone that came before him.
In the depths of the Temple, he was forged—a blade honed in shadows, a soul tempered by deprivation. Ten years, a decade of relentless worship and discipline that left the sun a reward for good behaviour. The basement made a realm of damp stone and rotten wood, all melded in hopes that he could tether into oblivion and back unphased by the trials.
A result of heightened senses and constant awareness, with an answer forged into bones and etched into the sinews that held him up-right. He was marked and thus more than a mere wraith. The Astras and the people that planted their flags—depended on him to end this while the opportunity lay bare.
Every breath taken in search of honour and glory was sidelined only by his primal urge to see a blade swing and blood spill.
His eager gaze landed on the bolt-gun fastened to his side.
Although the Shahari were more renowned for their close quarters combat than their gunplay, the chance had to be seized.
He encircled the Iké sensitive weapon with his hands shaking with an unwanted rush of excitement. He squeezed the trigger, waiting for the reservoir to recharge, a timeframe determined by the quality of Iké. For those who shared his imbalance, a pause was needed to afford the gun an opportunity to catch up.
Eyes glued themselves to the red bar as it progressively extended towards a full charge.
A soft purr hummed its way into existence, bringing with it an air of joy.
Relik's grip tightened around the weapon, and he slipped out from behind the tree, not allowing himself to delay any further. He took aim at the man of his kind, slowly releasing a breath he held since he placed a hand on the weapon.
After years of thankless duty to the Astras and their temple, he finally found himself in a fraction of bliss.
He eased the trigger and released his first shot.
A concentrated beam of his energy burst out of the barrel, a charge that shattered the boltgun as it did. The furthest Ankh-Ra from him made the target and recipient of the shot. The supercharged Iké flew at the being, cutting them in half upon contact. Throwing bronzed limbs and bones of iron in several different directions. An eruption of which prompted the others to squat on instinct as they swept the forest floor in search of the source.
It didn't take long for them to find him, a machete in hand glowing red with his rage.
The two remaining Ankh-Ra moved forward to distribute retaliation, only to be stopped by their informant. He spoke to them in the language of the south, one that Relik knew written but not spoken. This did little to stop him from trying to pick apart what they were saying.
Ultimately, the Ankh-Ra returned to their spot.
The uncontested compliance whilst their comrade lay dead three meters away from where they stood. Relik felt his countenance waiver, as this act of indifference sowed seeds of self-doubt. Flashes of his fate if they were to gain the upper hand did little to alleviate the situation.
He lifted his weapon, pointing it at the Shahari whose shoulders shook with what seemed to be a chuckle. In his next hand, his bolt gun, made unusable by his first shot, but the trigger was still held down for a charge.
"You have committed the sin of treason; the penalty of death is absolute."
Relik held his voice steady, hopeful that the inconsistencies in his tone would go unheard.
The man stepped forward into the moonlight, prompting Relik to step back and adjust the hold on his blade. The Shahari now directly under the faintness of the moonlight, presented himself hidden behind the green and black of a metal mask. His eyes, though, seemed to glow in a vein similar to that of the Ankh-Ra themselves. Signs that he had used Iké in a forbidden manner.
"In a world where our gods bleed, there are no absolutes."
His voice resonated with the metal, amplifying a vibration that could be felt more than heard.
Relik swallowed to force a break in his increased breathing.
The man paid him no mind, instead looking about the forest as though he was not held at knifepoint.
"I remember the soul trials taking place on the opposite side of the river," he said, turning to Relik, his eyes went dark preceding a curt nod. One, which Relik returned out of courtesy.
Relik dug his heel into a bank of dirt., "as a servant of the Astras it is my duty to exterminate darkness wherever it clings."
"Like a flashlight."
Not allowing further disrespect to his religion, Relik rushed forward, his machete held in tow. He bolted at the Shahari whose head dropped as the boy approached.
In swift motion, he brandished a sword of his own, joining Relik in a clash that met with a force of restrained anger. Relik swung his red blade with desperation and practiced eagerness. His opponent balanced out the fray with a tempest of steel that danced under the veil of starlight.
The young boy kept his offence, each crescent edging towards a chink in the method. Still, the traitor moved with experienced grace, every parry a testament to their sin. However, light stood as the cure to darkness, and Relik found an opening to strike with a kick.
The Shahari slid, his frame upright and unperturbed, as he left a trail of upturned dirt.
"Éjilelogún kaf se," one of the Ankh-Ra spoke in their native tongue.
The traitor held his hand up in response, while Relik tried to translate the statement. He gave up, realising that all he truly knew was the word for hope. He steeled his confidence, realising that in this very moment, he was one-on-one against someone of his kind. In this very moment, he had the upper hand
"You owe the Astras a willing end," Relik offered up an option where they both expended less energy.
"On this side of the border, everyone has the right to choose, and I decide that they owe me several years I can't get back," His voice was still as steady as before they began.
"I prefer not to kill a child, but I'm sure they're in your head right now, begging for my death."
Relik tightened his grip and furrowed his eyebrows.
"Interesting you're both marked and undereducated," the man pointed at the Ankh-Ra tossing jeers Relik, "could you believe I was fighting fairly against the lesser. That alone is enough for Astras to see me drawn and quartered."
"Brace yourself, kid," He turned to the boy once more but dropped his weapon to the side, "I'm just going to gently toss you way across the river.
The man held out his arms to the side, and the winds seemed to gather on a whim.
Relik bolted forward again, ready to end the man with one strike. He channelled every ounce of Iké he could to thrust him towards his target. He lifted his blade, ready to thrust it into the chest of the Shahari, his very existence crying out for him to greet the man with death.
Relik's ears popped a sign that they were stepping into an area of combat that he had no access to, the Yaris formation. A level above the Vogus where most Shahari were founded. The winds gathered and held Relik back, leading him to give up fractions of the ground gained. He was sliding against the dirt as he was battered by a focused hurricane.
He drove the machete into the ground and contemplated his next action.
As a marked soul, he was wrought with eagerness to prove. That was a mental state that developed before he was given a name. His oldest memories include himself seeking approval. Now that he was within spitting distance of redemption, there exists no ideal future where he didn't risk his life to end that of his enemy.
Relik relaxed his frame and let the wind carry him. He flew through the air with a gentle grace, as the man had promised him. Just as the boy had told the man several times, he owed the Astras his death.
The dark-haired boy, sixteen years old, pointed his bolt gun at the Shahari and released the trigger.
The weapon exploded with a concussive blast that knocked Relik off course. In his descent, he watched on as the man dove out of the way, the beam exploding where he previously stood. Relik sighed to himself, he had accomplished nothing, and just as many predicted, he was not fit to survive the soul trials. He was a failure.