Two meters away from where Dillon sat was the one man he dreaded seeing every three months, or less distantly in the future with more occurrences of a war. At a height of five feet, seven inches, he had pallid skin, light azure eyes lending a frosty image, and combed blond hair ending just at his nape. He had been a history scholar in the Scholar Sector for at least a decade, giving him a reputation as one of the most disciplined and experienced scholars in the field. Not only that, but he was trained to counsel his visitors, both soldiers and citizens, as well, building up a vast quantity and quality of experience in counseling and therapy for people ravaged by war. Most clients liked him for his array of knowledge and his ability to withhold judgment, speak gently but honestly, and provide effective advice to change their thoughts. It helped that his medical billing of all clients was covered by the military.
At this appointment, however, Dillon wasn't the only one dreading their sessions. His scholar did as well—every one of his scholars did, because Dillon was not a common or even normal case. Normal cases were grieving, enraged, or prone to impatience and fits of temper at having to deal with their vulnerabilities and living a normal life in the midst of war. They were predictable and sometimes solvable.
Yet Dillon would conduct his record narratives and counseling sessions from within an icy, frozen solid exterior, consuming incredible hours of the scholar's time to thaw enough to get something emotionally conducive for a psychological counsel. That was why, as a special case for one as well connected as Dillon, he received two one and a half hour sessions with the Scholar Sector. In total he would spend three hours with Dr. Winston, with a good 10 minutes of the beginning being wasted in stilted silence. Of course, Cedric, who was waiting outside for his session after Dillon, would not wait the full three hours doing nothing. He arrived with Dillon only so that he could ensure he made it to his appointment, for fear of him ditching it.
Winston touched his hands together as he gazed across at Dillon. His audio recording device, used only for his sessions, was powered on already. "So you are now a General Soldier. The badge suits you. Congratulations."
"Thank you." Stiff from parched lips, Dillon's tone was monotonous.
"Were you not so slow to show the true worth of your leadership skills, of which no one has ever doubted you had, and if you actively improved on the parts of your character to allow you to move on in times of grief and reflection, which we've discussed numerously during our sessions, you would have been promoted months ago." He sighed, taking no pleasure in any of the words no matter how truthful. "Instead you continue to mope around, hang by the deceased longer than active war permits, and fall behind due to the severe depth of your emotions. It persists even now after you've finally risen—I see it in your inflexible mannerisms right before me. No doubt your guidance will be hindered by this limitation, this refusal of yours to adjust."
His eyes softened. "Do you understand your predicament?"
Winston would not budge on the notion of adjusting to Dillon's exasperating character, never one to lie about progress of counseling sessions. For all the praise on his attitude and success rate in therapy, however, he seemed particularly preachy and condescending to Dillon in the way he criticized his lack of improvement. Despite this opinion, he was not wrong. For that, and so they could go on with their lives, he would make an effort, difficult as it was. For now, they needed to discuss the previous war. The further that time passes since the war, the more likely a soldier would forget the details of their combat; thus the history records would have to be made vague or would be liable to scrutiny. Fortunately, Winston was skilled at filling in the blanks or drawing out memories, though Dillon had a decent memory of his own.
"I do," he said. He breathed in, then out. To Winston's surprise, he continued, "On the noon of Melo, I was assigned to defend the tower and cities at Tower 7 with four other allies, as it was in one of the most pressing danger at Level 5 Flame Damage."
Usually their sessions wasted 10 minutes with them simply staring at each other, as otherwise Dillon would be unable to utter more than a couple of short phrases. No matter what Winston said, the conversation would remain at a stalemate. This time only five minutes had passed. It was getting shorter with each appointment.
At the start of a war, Dillon, with the power to match that of three barrier soldiers, was often sent to the Kingdom's Towers—these were the most important areas to protect because they were the outer walls that guarded their habitats—for the formation of his barriers, which, due to the strength of his power, were always double barriers. Double barriers were thicker and less transparent than the single barriers that the average barrier user were able to make. They made up twice or thrice the amount of time or strength needed to melt or break such a barrier, if possible in the first place.
As for the 'Level 5 Flame Damage' Dillon spoke of, it was the second to last level in a ladder of levels that apply to the amount of physical damage caused by Volcano's fires. There were other names in the ladder system, such as Flame Duration for the length of time a fire burned, Smoke Inhalation for areas affected the most by smoke, Burn Damage for areas most affected by infliction of burns on people or animals, and Flame Risks for areas actively impacted by Volcano Terrorists or Users as they burned and harmed buildings, objects, dead or unconscious bodies, or living creatures.
Winston was still surprised at his sudden start of the narrative, but he wouldn't ignore a gem like this. "Who were those allies?"
"Richard, Osaic, Madeline, Izasel. They were the best among our team. We set out, but our course was rough and dangerous as usual. Brick paths full of hazardous sharp ice, water in holes strewn about, a few broken homes and storefronts. A group of children were lost, so we let Richard lead them to a safe area and proceeded ahead. We passed streets and towns at least applicable of Level 3 Burn Damage and Flame Damage. Places that did not have assigned soldiers or units yet. I was...torn between losing my direction and giving aid to those in need, but knew my destination still needed me. Townspeople cried for our help. How do I refuse—simply because I'm a soldier? Everyone knows I can't. But as I was helping, Osaic tore me away and my heart hurt for it. Though we extinguished whatever fire we could."
He wondered if he was right in detecting a tone as Dillon spoke Osaic's name. There was a slight hitch amid the robotic narrative.
"They would be Soldiers Osaic Rybec, Madeline Asane, Izasel Tori, and Richard...I believe, Duvel Winter, correct?" Winston questioned as he consulted his notebook. The names of Dillon's team were written in the notebook, which was always in his lap to aid the smooth proceeding of his recordings. The named soldiers in the Barrier Unit had remained with Dillon since his transfer into their team eight months ago. He was familiar with them because of Dillon's narratives.
"The same people. The top five of team 0-18. Richard found us as we marched the streets. I noticed a few soldiers in the Crystallizing and Barrier Units scattered about, a few in Team 0-9, working their tired souls and limbs away. Seems that there may not have been that many terrorists around, or some of the Level 5 areas were contained, seeing that there were soldiers in these Level 3 or 4 areas. Though that is assuming they were not just helping while moving to their mission, the same way we did."
"Was there anyone you remember in particular?"
"Soldier...Tywen. Soldier Annette and Soldier Dimon of Team 0-9."
"How is Dimon's name spelled?"
"I think it is spelled D-I-M-O-N. They're all I remember. One of the soldiers used their crystal sword to lift a large chunk of debris, presumably to free someone who was trapped, so they must have run out of power or at least was nearly drained." The fact that they used a sword instead of their crystallizing power to lift the debris, which was much stronger and quicker, implied they had run out of power.
For crystal soldiers to use their power of forming and manipulating crystals, whether glass or ice, they would tap into the energy in their personal souls, the source of all elemental power, that was located deep within the heart. Once depleted they would be unable to crystallize until they gained sufficient rest. The more relaxed their rest period was, the more power they would refuel. Some powers had a rare condition in which the user may draw from a separate source, but there were only three recorded incidents in all of known history. One such person lived in their present time, a notorious individual in the Island of Volcano. The thing that was most incredible about this special power was that the source may be infinite, as in the case of a volcano for the mentioned fire user, as long as they remained connected to the source. It was fortunate that the gene to inherit such a power was so rare that some eras and centuries would pass without realizing a separate source of power.
"Perhaps," Winston said.
Dillon sipped water from his cup, allowing himself only a tiny drop that did nothing for his throat. "Every time I passed a slip safety hazard, or another ill victim, I lent myself to them, Osaic dragging me by the coat and Madeline cajoling me all the way to the Tower. It's somehow encouraging when comrades never give up on you, I found myself thinking, even as I lent my time again." At this point the memory should be punctuated by a brief chuckle, if only in falsehood, but of course he couldn't break his machine-like narrative. Trained to perfection for months, it was resistant to any kind of change or attitude in language.
"You can't change yet, and neither can they. Your comrades understand you." He would say no more. Doing so would interrupt the narrative; doing so at all may be disruptive on its own, but Winston knew that the timing of his comments was as important as the words themselves. Hence, even in the case of Dillon, he would throw them in on occasion.
He blinked. Other than that his stony face was unmoved. "I wasted precious minutes, but the citizens have lives as well. Who am I to call any of it a waste? If they are not waste, then I have to get everyone's time back."
It was not yet the moment for Winston to inquire and delve into the issues behind Dillon's empathic state in the midst of a crisis, as he was prone to do in their sessions. Recording was for historical records. Therapy was for inquisitive counseling. He noted down his inquiry in the notebook.
"One native grabbed my attention, calling for help by the door of a complex. Even from far away I could see the pants burning away on one of his legs. I asked him, has he rolled on the floor? As I extinguished it for him, he said it wouldn't stop even when he rolled. The crystallizing fire extinguisher was, as to be expected, nowhere to be found. I'm yet again baffled that we don't have more extinguishers in our streets, given the situation. When a crisis happens, they're always disappearing like crystal pops at the doctor's."
Winston nodded his agreement. Many soldiers complained of this problem with the extinguishers, claiming that one accessible extinguisher per public street was not enough, that they were never available when one was needed. The reason must be that one civilian took it for themselves and passed it off to another as soon as they finished with it, as it would never return to its place until all crises passed.
The Kingdom of Crystal was a nation well known for its plentiful resources and abundance of wealth; with such an amount to accommodate a frequent series of demanding wars and combat dangers, surely a few more extinguishers in the streets would be nothing to the government. When asked about the reason, Third Prince Caspian would shake his head gravely, refusing to say a word to anyone. If he was not allowed to tell, it definitely had something to do with a secret political matter, either because of the royal family or eastern island governments. Perhaps even because of the Island of Volcano itself.
"Was this man burned by a terrorist then? Or did he accidentally come into contact with one of their fires?"
The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.
Because rolling on the ground did not extinguish the fire, it was either too severe or was a fire made by a Volcano terrorist. A fire being manipulated was not easy to put out by normal means, especially ones made from special sources like the ones in the terrorists' hands. For example, volcanoes, gas igniters, coals, torches, oil burners, solar outlets, fire outlets, and even fire enhancement books. When a great number of these outside sources combined with their souls, the fire the user manipulates transforms into one a little more special. Of course, just a single outside source would not be enough to transform the fire into a special one. Ice and water crystals from a crystallizing user, or crystallizing fire extinguishers, would be enough to put such a fire out.
"Yes, most likely. He wore a special pair of pants, however, so his leg was luckily unharmed. He told me he waited for help for five minutes, unable to move lest the fire spread to his other extremities. It would have left him in critical condition, or dead, if not for the pants." Dillon's voice was robotic as usual, but his dark eyes betrayed the depth of his inner emotions in its shaking pupils, as if he could not look straight. "I'm glad for the recent passing of these crystal-infused clothing articles. How benevolent our government is."
If not for the lack of feeling in his tone, the sarcasm of his last statement would cut through reinforced crystal. The recent passing of crystal-infused clothing that Dillon was referring to was the passing of The Second Act of Crystal Protective Gear, the second version of The Act of Crystal Protective Gear, in which an untold quantity of crystal-infused clothes were provided free of charge, or some at an unfairly affordable price, to millions of citizens in the kingdom. The Second Act was to provide another round of crystal-infused clothing, only this time even more than in the original act.
Crystal-infused clothes, just like described in its name, were clothing articles that had special crystals infused, or molded, into them by tailors—some of them regular tailors, some crystallizing tailors. Crystallizing tailors would infuse a regular piece of clothing with their own crystals, while regular tailors used crystallizing mold devices to melt crystals, made by crystallizing users, inside the article of clothing. Crystallizing molds were not of substandard quality at all, nor were they easy to make, costing at least 50 four-star adult meals for a single one. Many tailors worth their salt owned one, however.
Using a bowl to melt crystal and soak the cloth would not suffice because the molds had additional features, a top part that the tailor presses down to forcefully crush and melt crystal—already a solid object that took an hour or many hours on its own to melt—which then drips into a hole in the middle of the platform, flowing down a cascade of steps that would layer in the proper places of the cloth. If soaked in a plain bowl, the crystal would not reach the proper layers and spots in the cloth to be effectively infused, as one crystal would not be enough, while also wasting a lot of time.
Of course there was a purpose to crystal-infused clothing: to protect one's hide against all forms of fire, whether a regular fire or special fire. The tailors were not exactly choosy with the clothing that they infused or molded. Not only was the service of tailors costly, but using them on better quality and appearance of clothing would also be costly. Some civilians would even use their cheaper or plainer clothes to avoid tainting their good ones with crystal properties. After all, the infused crystals had a 50% chance of melting away in the future. Fashion wise, they were not exactly pretty to wear for some. As a result, there were too many people still without them, and not enough fire extinguishers—the cause for Dillon's earlier implied sarcasm. Even if they did well to protect, it seemed like such a waste of funds to not instead use more on extinguishers; that the royal government used so much funding on the protective gear meant that expenses was not the reason that they would not produce more extinguishers.
Winston noted down this point for inquiry. It was obvious he meant it sarcastically, but for counseling purposes he would ask why Dillon made the remark. Anything to draw out emotion faster from an exceedingly empathic individual that insists on turning himself into ice at all times. Effective for recording, deplorable for therapy right afterward. If only he could persuade the commanders to send him in for two or three sessions every third month. Scheduling was not right for it, on top of their need for his tremendous talent, power, and diligence.
"When I finished at the tower, I went to lend aid to the cities, fearing that they were in danger. Not long after, I sent a dying man off, after hearing his final words and wishes. As I stood I found Osaic, who came along, but, it seemed, a bit too late. Large chunks of glass fell from above him, as fire had melted away some of a window frame high up. That night I lost him." There was not an ounce of emotion, as if he was not the one speaking at all. Or as if he did not even know what he said.
It wasn't the first time Dillon had lost an ally, but it was never once easy for him to talk about it. The first three times in a recording session, he would not mention their deaths, either giving vague descriptions or going silent. He made progress in that he would speak of them, even if only in a robotic trance. Winston didn't expect him to be callous about anyone's passing, but he hoped he would one day inflect emotion when talking about it, without coaxing.
They wrapped up the recording session in 35 minutes, with a robot as Dillon the entire way through. The most reprehensible part of his whole career began. Given his avoidance of therapy, he would not even bring it up as a conversational subject, even to complain. Not to Fay. Not to Anita. Not to any of his superiors. No one but Winston knew the story.
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201 Year
"Hey, rein it in! Another peep's gonna cost you an arm and a leg!" a booming voice cut through the crew's chatter. "Get the hell to sleep."
He spat on the floor after he saw who the noisy crew was. Crailo, Nauz, Lor, and Dillon. His feral feline-like golden eyes focused on Dillon like clockwork.
Impossibly overbearing, proud, and glowing green as a ginta—the most green shade of a crystal to exist in the Kingdom—with an absurd jealousy, General Soldier Reynard of Barrier Unit's Team 0-13 watched his team with a bure-like ferocity and chauvinistic air. His eyes almost never left them during war, combat simulations, spars, and after curfew. He was insane with his authoritarianism, as well as small-minded when it came to areas of talent. Though Dillon followed law and order like a madman himself, Reynard never missed a chance to turn on him for anything minor, such as the way he used his power, the order he used it, or for whom he used it. Every soldier saw how unfair he was.
As four soldiers arrived at Tower 10's stairway door, Reynard turned to Dillon. "You. Stand here. The rest of us will go up." With that, Crailo, Nauz, and Reynard followed the crystal stairs up to the top of the tower, where they would have a high vantage point and put up their barriers in various weak spots.
Dillon couldn't believe it. A leader was targeting him in the middle of an active war? When this tower needed his barriers now more than ever? He turned his gaze to the forest at his left, smoke and fire rising behind trees in the distance, then he looked at the city to the right. His idea for a plan of action may well get him into trouble, but a soldier had to do what he could in the face of danger. Maybe he would talk to another general soldier about it.
Shutting his eyes, he visualized the barrier at the place he wanted it, chanting the mantra in his head needed to erect the barrier. Pointing outward, index and middle finger toward the edge of the forest, the barrier appeared, empty edges swiftly filling up with the rest of the crystal barrier. Each time he made a barrier, it seemed to pop and fill up faster, proving that his power was indeed still growing. Squinting ahead, he felt slightly different this time. Was he imagining it, or was the wall thicker than last time?
Slow approaching footsteps on dirt broke his concentration. Based on the steady pace, it was the march of a practiced soldier. Several feet away a tall man in uniform much like Dillon's own marched in a line towards him. However, an electric blue badge of valor indicating the General Soldier rank decorated the front of his black coat, next to the old Soldier badge.
"Soldier," he said in a deep voice, stopping and nodding. "Why do you stand here? Don't they need you up there?"
Saluting him, Dillon stood upright. "Sir, my team leader commanded that I stand here while they go up. However, I erected a barrier at the edge of this forest in case a fire spreads this way."
The man hummed, sounding puzzled as his eyebrows pulled together. "Is there any particular reason? What team are you with?"
"No particular reason, sir. Team 0-13 under General Soldier Reynard."
"Ah, you must be that newcomer." His minty eyes were sharp as they admired the barrier stretching from one edge of the forest to the other. "Impressive. So wide for a single barrier at your age, though you must be 22, or 23? I'll go talk to him, maybe put him in his place." His smile grim, yet intimidating, he passed him. "Come."
With such a stride of purpose, there was no way Dillon could stop him, though a drop of trepidation slid down his temple. He did not want to be General Soldier Reynard in that moment. What he did wish for, however, was the stranger's name. So tall, strong, dignified. He had the poise and air of a commander.
When they reached the top, a stretch of cement lay several yards down from one side to the other side. At the corner Nauz and General Soldier Reynard were watching the ground on the side they faced, backs turned to Dillon and the man with him.
"General Soldier Aster of Team 0-18, come to aid," he spoke suddenly, snatching the pair's attention. "Though why you called for me when you have a perfectly competent soldier at your side, I haven't the faintest."
Of course, he was referring to Dillon, his eyes cutting to him before returning to Reynard. The smile from downstairs didn't falter even a bit, sending chills down Dillon's spine and no doubt Nauz's too.
"Yes, Aster." Reynard glued hard eyes on the intruder, his words dripping with disdain. "That is true, but he was tired from using so much power. I simply let him rest while we worked."
What a bald lie! Dillon gave his superior a reproachful look, but Reynard looked as if he could not deign to look at a repulsive being like him. He was not the slightest bit guilty at lying straight to another equal's face. Clenching his fists, Dillon bit his lip.
Aster chuckled. "Really? How odd," he said, glancing at Dillon with a twinkle in his eyes. "Resting, is that right?"
"Y-Yes, sir," Dillon replied.
"Then what of the giant barrier that I saw? Admired so strongly? Praised as if it were a rare form of crystal? Were my eyes simply deceiving me? Reynard?"
Reynard turned on Dillon, golden eyes piercing through him, so full of venom that Dillon couldn't make himself look back.
"Right. That was mine, before we came up. We did not want the fire to spread over here, after all."
At this point Dillon wasn't sure what to do. He could only accept the contemptuous words. Swallowing the argument in his throat, he said, "It's...It's true, sir. I saw it."
Aster was no longer smiling. His eyes made of ice, he took a step forward. "Is that right. Your barriers are that wide, I see. Certainly different than the last time I observed you made." He gazed out at the barriers below them. They were a bit smaller than the one Dillon had made. "Maybe it took so much out of you that you couldn't make any more large, wide, thick ones like it."
Walking down to the middle of the tower, he faced outward and erected his own barriers, four appearing all at once in precisely unsafe areas. The speed with which it happened stunned Dillon. The others only gaped.
"I'll go. But be warned," he whispered by Reynard's ear, a hand on his shoulder, "I may think of dragging over that gem of yours to my side, if you insist on pretending not to know what you have."
Dillon got the cold shoulder the rest of the night, but he spent his time honing his power for the war and placing General Soldier Aster on a pedestal. If only his leader was that great.
At their dorm, Nauz, Dillon's roommate, informed him of what most knew about General Soldier Aster. He was only a soldier for four months before his promotion to General Soldier. He had been Team 0-18's General Soldier for one year, having been promoted at the height of his career. It was also at the peak of his powers, when it stopped growing, having become the strongest it could be. Most didn't want to compete in a show of speed against him, since what was special about his barriers was that he could erect so many at a single time, at an unmatched speed, with one or two chants. That kind of power was rare, making up only 6% of the barrier users' population. They were not as thick or strong as the 20% of users that created double barriers, but they were strong and held up against heat well enough.
His thoughts turned to his resentful leader.
"Feels bad to be you. I heard his talent prematurely stopped growing, once. When he was 22. Must be why he's picking on you like a fire to a Volcano," Lor told him when Dillon had been on their team for three weeks.
Nauz said, "Nah, it's because Dill keeps getting stronger than even our dear ol' leader. Talk about petty."
"But wouldn't you hate being in his shoes too? A superior who's weaker than a mere..." Lor glanced at Dillon, a sheepish look in his eyes.
Dillon smiled at them. "I didn't ask for this power."
"If you don't want it, send it here! A power that keeps growing is like money for us, you know. You'll probably make double barriers at this rate."
He nodded and watched as they began gossip about the female soldiers on another team, Lor's favorite topic. He pondered instead on when he would make double barriers, for he felt a tad more energy in his soul was being drained than originally. Each barrier he made grew thicker, making soldiers around him fussy about the rarity of such a power appearing among them, especially one who transformed instead of being born with it. He didn't want to draw attention, but sometimes it couldn't be helped. Others wouldn't understand, but Dillon needed to be innocuous. The less eyes and friends, the better for his inner peace.