Golden light streamed through the tall, stained-glass windows of a grandiose dwelling, an ostentatious edifice nestled in the heart of Velaris, the capital city of Duke Eldrin's duchy, Ostara. The building towered over the neighbouring homes and was an extravagant display of architecture, with soaring ceilings supported by intricately carved columns, walls adorned with paintings of historical figures wearing sombre expressions, and floors of polished marble that reflected the flickering light of ornate, hanging chandeliers.
Damien, his fencer's physique more pronounced since his arrival in Caeloria, stood near a vast, arched window, looking out at the bustling city below. His posture was casual, yet there was an air of arrogance in the tilt of his chin, the slight smirk on his lips, as he gazed down imperiously at the flowing streets below. He turned from the view to glance at Elena, who was seated at a heavy, oak table, meticulously caring for her bow. Her expression was one of concentration, tinged with an undercurrent of irritation and weariness, tired of the pomp and politics that inundated the capital.
"How long since we arrived in this ridiculous place? Two months, three?" Damien asked, his voice carrying an edge of mocking disdain for their luxurious surroundings.
Elena set her bow down with a sigh, brushing a strand of hair from her face in mild annoyance. "About that, I think. I haven’t really been keeping track of the time."
Damien's smirk grew as he unsheathed his sword, a weapon gifted to him by his legendary class. The blade was almost ethereal, forged from a metal that danced with colours akin to the northern lights. Eldritch runes ran down the length of the blade, pulsing gently, and the crossguard was shaped like a pair of angelic wings, while the hilt was wrapped in what looked like pure silver strands.
"Would you go back, if you could?" he asked, his tone lighter.
From a nearby lounge chair, another champion, whom they knew as Roderick, a burly man who had embraced a mythic class broadly resembling a berserker, chortled. "In a heartbeat! I miss real beer and a decent night's sleep without magic glowing every which way."
Damien, however, tossed his head back dismissively. "I wouldn't," he declared, his voice laced with the arrogance of youth. "See how fast I am now? And I'm still only level 11!"
To prove it, he suddenly lunged forward, the motion a blur to the naked eye. In one swift movement, he drew his sword and slashed at the air, creating a sharp, audible zing. The tip of his blade narrowly missed a candle, extinguishing the flame without touching it, the air pressure alone enough to snuff it out.
With a flourish of speed as striking as lightning, Damien returned his sword to its sheath, then eased into the seat beside Elena. "Man, I'm on a whole different level here," he said, his eyes shining with excitement. "I've never felt more alive than I do in this place, with all this insane power," he added, half talking to himself. “Think about it, if I were in a fencing match back home right now, I’d score touché before my opponent even knew what happened!”
Elena, typically more composed, let out a huff of annoyance. "And what good is all that speed here? We've been stuck in this city for ages, only allowed to leave under supervision to kill mindless beasts to get us experience. It's total nonsense!" she burst out, her patience wearing thin.
Damien's gaze swept across the room, taking in the familiar faces, each a holder of an incredibly powerful class. "Look around us," he began, his voice low but carrying a certain weight that drew the attention of the others in the room. "We've got two legendary and four mythic classes right here in this building. Rumour has it there's only a handful of legendary classes in the entire kingdom, maybe one or two at most."
He leaned forward, his expression serious, the usual playful glint in his eyes hardening with resolve. "If we really wanted to break out of this glorified cage, who's to stop us? Honestly? With the kind of power we're packing, we could waltz right out of the city gates."
Damien's words seemed to resonate in the room, the idea they could take control of their own fates igniting a spark of rebellion. However, Elena, catching the dangerous gleam in several eyes, quickly tempered her earlier frustration.
"Okay, let's not be hasty," she interjected, her voice a calming balm in the rising heat of rebellion. "We're powerful, sure, but we're also clueless about... everything, really. Survival, politics, geography—you name it. We don't even know the first thing about this apocalyptic threat we were supposedly brought here to fight."
The room settled into a contemplative silence, the champions mulling over her words. They were, after all, strangers in a foreign land, powerful yet paradoxically vulnerable due to their ignorance.
"But is that threat even real?" a champion named Marcus questioned from a corner, voicing the doubt that had been simmering in their minds. "We've been here for months, and there's been nothing to show for it but tales and whispers."
Elena nodded, her expression sombre. "The threat feels distant to us, cooped up in here. But have you seen the people in this city? The fear in their eyes, the way they huddle closer at nightfall as if darkness could bring the end of times any minute. That dread's gotta stem from somewhere," she pointed out, her eyes reflecting the shared fear she'd witnessed among the citizens.
"They don't act like people living under a false alarm. They’re genuinely scared. And if they believe something's coming, then we should be prepared, too. But prepared means understanding this world better, not just flexing our combat muscles," she concluded, casting a meaningful look around the room.
As the champions absorbed Elena's words, the sudden creak of the door redirected everyone's attention. A figure stepped into the room, momentarily eclipsed by the backlight from the hallway outside. As the door closed softly behind him, they could see from his attire that he was a messenger — a deep blue tunic cinched at the waist with a white sash and emblazoned with the city's crest, silver tree rooted in a crescent moon, worn over sleek black trousers that were tucked into well-polished boots. A short cape, the same blue as his tunic, fluttered slightly over his shoulders, and a cap bearing the city's colours sat askew on his head, likely knocked off-center in his rush to deliver his message.
Catching his breath, the messenger bowed slightly, an act of protocol rather than reverence. "Pardon the intrusion, champions," he said, his voice steady despite his evident hurry. "I am here for Sir Damien," he glanced up, looking around the room, clearly unaware of who to address.
Damien, intrigued by the sudden summons, raised an eyebrow. "That'd be me. What's the message?"
"It's from Duke Eldrin himself, sir," the messenger said, standing a bit taller. "The Duke has requested your presence for an exhibition. He proposes a friendly sparring session between you and the city's finest guards. It's meant to be a show of skill and camaraderie, to boost the morale of both the guards and the citizens. Your name has been recommended for your...remarkable prowess with the sword."
The room was abuzz with hushed whispers at this news. This request from the Duke was unusual, but it presented a prime opportunity — a chance to showcase their capabilities, perhaps earn some measure of freedom, and more crucially, to engage more directly with the inhabitants of this world and glean insights they were so far lacking.
Feeling the significance of the request, Damien met the messenger's gaze with a firm nod. "Inform the Duke I'll be honoured to participate. It's about time we started making waves in this place," he declared, the fire of anticipation kindling in his eyes.
After Damien had prepared himself for the event, donning the exquisite leather armour gifted to him by his class, he stood ready for the guards. The armour was a masterpiece of craftsmanship and magical artistry, tailored from a mythical leather that was both supple and extraordinarily resilient. The chestpiece was a deep, rich black, moulded to his torso and highlighted with silvery accents that traced delicate, interwoven patterns reminiscent of blades in motion. Emblazoned across the chest and shoulders were embossed herons, graceful and lethal in their depicted mid-strike poses, their wings subtly shaped like sharpened blades. These symbols, emblematic of precision and elegance, were interspersed with images of swords, each depicted with a different style of hilt and blade, symbolizing the diversity of skills available to a legendary swordmaster. The greaves were similarly fashioned, allowing for a wide range of motion, critical for a fencer's intricate footwork, while the gauntlets were sleek, reinforced with silvery thread and etched with miniature herons and swords on the cuffs, a detail only noticeable to those within arm's reach. It was armour befitting a champion, and as Damien fastened the last clasp, he felt every bit the legendary figure that the people of this world considered him to be.
Stolen story; please report.
The city guards, uniformed in the Duke's colours, arrived to escort him, along with his companions, their demeanour exuding both respect and expectation. They led him from his lodgings, situated in a vibrant district that hummed with the daily rhythms of life in the capital.
Stepping into the streets, Damien was enveloped in the city's lively atmosphere. The thoroughfares thrummed with activity: shopkeepers bartering goods, aromas from food stalls perfuming the air, and the varied timbres of conversation creating a dynamic backdrop. His armor, catching the sunlight, seemed to subtly shimmer, drawing the awed attention of passersby who recognized the symbols of the legendary class he had been granted.
As the party made their way to the town square, anticipation charged the air. The square itself was abuzz with preparations for the exhibition, the populace gathering with an air of collective yearning for distraction and spectacle. A sense of shared experience permeated the crowd, their faces upturned and expressions varied, yet united in their silent plea for reassurance in these uncertain times.
In the town square, an elevated platform had been constructed, its presence dominating the space with an air of solemn authority. Upon this dais stood Duke Eldrin, a figure of noble bearing whose presence seemed to command the rapt attention of all who gathered. Flanking him was the Captain of the Guard, a formidable woman with a stern visage, her posture radiating a lifetime of discipline and an unyielding commitment to her duty. Beside them stood four young guards, the future of the city's defence, each adorned with a proud blue marker on their uniforms — a vibrant sash worn diagonally across the chest — symbolizing them as holders of a rare class.
The crowd hushed as the Duke stepped forward, his voice carrying across the square with practiced ease, a subtle undercurrent of urgency lending weight to his words.
"Good people of Velaris," he began, his gaze sweeping over the sea of faces, each reflecting their own mosaic of hopes, fears, and expectations. "We find ourselves living in times of shadow, times of uncertainty, when the darkness at our borders seems to creep ever closer, threatening the very heart of our beloved city."
A murmur rippled through the crowd, an audible echo of shared concern.
"Yet, in our hour of need," the Duke continued, raising his hand as if to physically quell the rising tide of anxiety, "fortune has smiled upon us. From realms beyond our ken, champions of extraordinary prowess have been summoned to stand between our homes and the pernicious darkness that seeks to engulf them."
He gestured grandly towards Damien, who stood a short distance from the platform, the symbols of herons and swords on his armour catching the light in a way that seemed to underscore the truth of the Duke's words.
"Today," the Duke declared, "we are honoured to witness the skill of one such champion. In front of us we have a legendary Sabre Seraph, who, along with his esteemed brethren, represents our most fervent hopes, our most resolute defences. He will engage in an exhibition with our city's own finest, a reminder of the unity and strength that we embody as a people."
As the young guards stood in formation, the Captain of the Guard cast a challenging glance over her charges. "Who among you will step forward first? Who has the courage to cross blades with the Saber Seraph?" she asked, her voice carrying the heavy weight of expectation.
Before any of the guards could respond, a laugh echoed from where Damien stood, armour glinting with the emblems of herons and swords, an amused smirk playing on his lips. "Which one should go first? That's the question?" he called out, his voice laced with mirth and an undeniable confidence that drew the eyes of the crowd. "Let's make this a real spectacle! I say all four of them come at me at once. I'll take on every single one and win!"
A wave of excited whispers surged through the crowd, the citizens eagerly anticipating such an extraordinary display. The Duke's expression remained inscrutable, but there was a spark in his eyes, an unspoken acknowledgment of the boldness — and perhaps the recklessness — of the challenge.
The guards bristled at Damien's laughter and bold proclamation, their grips tightening on their swords as annoyance flashed across their features. It was clear they took his boast as a slight against their skill, their hands clenching around their sword hilts with barely restrained indignation. They seemed eager, not from excitement but from a brewing urge to deflate his arrogance.
The Captain, too, appeared less than pleased. Her mouth was a straight line of disapproval, and her eyes held a glint of annoyance, though she remained professional. "Demonstrate to our guest the calibre of skill and discipline our city's guard is known for. Do not hold back" she instructed, her voice carrying a formal sternness that echoed through the now hushed square.
With a collective affirming grunt, the guards moved into position, the blue markers on their uniforms standing stark against their steel as they faced Damien. The square was silent for a heartbeat, the onlookers' anticipation building like the calm before a storm.
Then, with a signal from the Captain, the air erupted into motion. The guards advanced in a unified front, swords drawn and eyes ablaze with the fires of determination. Damien, the Saber Seraph, stood ready, his stance relaxed yet undeniably coiled with potential. As the first sword swung in his direction, his smirk transformed into a razor-sharp grin.
The moment hung, a portrait of stillness, before it was shattered by the symphony of battle. Damien erupted from his languid pose like a coiled serpent unleashed. His body became a blur, an illustration of speed that human eyes struggled to track. The first guard's sword cleaved through nothing but air, its intended target already dancing away with an almost dismissive ease.
As Damien moved, his own blade came to life. It wasn't a mere sword in his grasp but a tempest, a whirlwind of gleaming steel that caught the afternoon light in a frenzied ballet of sparks. He darted into the midst of the guards, his movement so fluid and rapid it seemed as though he occupied multiple places at once. The air around him hummed, thrumming with the energy of his class’s bestowed speed, a tangible echo of power in the charged atmosphere of the square.
The guards, highly trained and disciplined, found themselves ensnared in a storm they could neither predict nor fully comprehend. Their swords met his, not in the clang of steel that they were accustomed to, but with screeches of protest as they were forced to parry the relentless onslaught from a blade that seemed to be everywhere at once.
Damien was a spectacle, the embodiment of prowess and agility. His blade, a seamless extension of his will, flickered in and out of existence as if time itself danced at his fingertips. Within moments, two of the guards found themselves embarrassingly disarmed, their swords clattering to the cobblestones with a discordant jangle that echoed through the tense silence of the square. They'd scarcely seen him move; they were simply responding to afterimages, the space where he had been a fraction of a second prior.
The remaining pair shared a nod that spoke volumes in the brief instant their eyes met. With a renewed sense of unity, they advanced, their movements mirroring each other in a deadly dance as they sought to encircle Damien, to contain his tempestuous energy.
The Saber Seraph met their challenge with a gleeful spark in his eyes, his blade meeting theirs in a flurry of sparks and steel. Yet, their combined might and coordination began to push him back, their blades a network of flashing blue that sought to ensnare him, a rhythm of combat learned through years of trust and battle.
The dance continued, a give and take as Damien sought an opening, a weakness, anything he could exploit. It came in a heartbeat, a misstep from one of the guards as he slightly misjudged the Damien's pattern. With a flourish, Damien's hooked his left leg around the man's ankle, sending him crashing to the ground, his own sword flying from his grasp.
That left the final guard, a burly man with muscles corded from years of service, the grip on his sword white-knuckled but steady. He squared off against Damien, the determination set in his jaw a silent vow that he wouldn't be as easily bested. Their eyes locked, and in that sliver of a moment, there was a mutual recognition of the warrior in each other. Then, with a shout that rang through the square, they engaged.
The clash of steel punctuated the air as Damien and the burly guard engaged in their fierce exchange. This guard moved with an unexpected grace for his size, his strikes powerful yet calculated. Damien found himself not just on the defensive but being challenged, each parry and thrust pushing him to react faster, think sharper.
From the sidelines, the voices of his companions broke through the concentration of the duel, their cheers a blend of encouragement and excitement. "Go on, Damien!" "Show him the skill of a Youth Olympian!" Their words infused him with a surge of adrenaline, propelling his movements to an even more blistering pace.
The fight drew out, the guard's resilience matching Damien's relentless assault, until, with one masterful feint, Damien breached his opponent's defence. In a dazzling display of skill, he disarmed the guard, the man's sword spinning away to clatter against the cobblestones. They stood, chests heaving from exertion, and in the wake of the duel's climax, Damien offered a begrudging nod of respect to the guard, acknowledging the honour and skill he'd shown.
The square, which had been enveloped in a tense hush throughout the fight, now erupted in a cacophony of cheers and gasps. The crowd was alight with the fervour of having witnessed something extraordinary, their faces lit with a mixture of disbelief and sheer exhilaration.
Amidst the uproar, Duke Eldrin stepped forward, his presence commanding silence as he raised his hands. "People of Ostara!" he began, his voice booming across the square, "today, you've witnessed the prowess that our champions possess! Fear not the darkness that encroaches upon our lands, for such might stands in its defence!"
The crowd responded with a roaring cheer, the earlier bleakness momentarily forgotten in the wake of their hope's rekindling.
"And now," the Duke continued, his gaze sweeping over the assembly before settling on the champions, "this esteemed group shall embark on a perilous expedition to the southern borders. Troubling rumours reach us from those lands, whispers of malevolence that we cannot, must not, ignore. They go to investigate, to conquer, and if necessary, to quell this emerging threat. Stand with them, in spirit and in strength, as they venture forth for the safety of us all!"
The crowd's response was thunderous applause and rallying cries, the atmosphere charged with a fervent mixture of apprehension and determination. The champions exchanged surprised glances, the unexpected announcement promised the freedom they had been craving only sometime earlier, though it hinted at dangers far greater than any they had faced before. Meanwhile, Damien was basking in the adulation of the crowd, his grin wide and triumphant; he seemed almost oblivious to the Duke's pronouncement, caught up as he was in the glory of the moment.