Like booming drums in the sky, a flock of rainbow coloured birds pound their incandescent wings towards the tournament grounds. Looking up, looming radiance eclipses the horizon. Rapidly and unceasing, the flock approaches our location until the sun and the clouds above are blocked out by a vortex of splendour.
Heralds, the messengers of the Towers. Crane like birds of vibrant, luminous colour that deliver to Tension Masters their missions, rewards and supplies within the Tower floors. This isn't the first time I've seen them, and yet the same wide eyes and parted mouth painted on every face around is mirrored by my own expression.
For there to be so many Heralds at once, for them to be outside of the towers... It's not a sight many could claim to have witnessed. Within the flock, my eyes begin to distinguish individual birds from the conglomerating mass of swirling brilliance. In spite of the illusive randomness of their arrangement, the birds are ordered by size.
Colossal Heralds rotate in the top layer. Wings seemingly reaching out into infinity, producing a gale of wind stretching out from the clouds above to the ground below. The turbulence of their thrashing fans my hair and whisks my discoloured tunic behind me, allowing beaten air to caress my back.
On the layer beneath, Heralds of lesser luminosity parallel the flight of their masters above. Each level lower exhibits birds of diminishing stature and radiance, stopping at the fifth and lowest level of the swarm. The birds inhabiting the lowest circle, while awe-inspiring in their own right, pale in comparison to the transcendent beauty above them.
Though their feathers glow, they lack the dazzling intensity of their preceptors above. While formidable in presence, their meagre size displays none of the grandeur emanating from the other birds in the higher levels. Despite their humble form in comparison to the wonders illuminating the sky, my eyes fix solely on those lesser Heralds.
Exuding dignity and poise, the birds of the lowest level delicately grip envelopes between their blade-like talons. Rotating once more with the flock, they disperse and descend. Seemingly locking on to a target, the smallest of the Heralds swim through the sky and systematically deposit their envelopes to the examinees sat around the fighting platforms. Without the time to fully process the scene, my envelope glides towards me. Through impulse alone, I reach out my hand and receive it.
With the last envelope dispensed with, the Heralds exclaim a chorus of song. With their mission complete, as quickly as they arrived, they depart.
Silence.
The noise of palm greeting palm resounds through the air. The lone clap is joined by identical sounds until rapturous applause banishes all traces of the earlier quiet.
'That was incredible', Tarik says, parroting similar exclamations spreading through the audience. Turning in his seat to face me, he asks, 'Have you ever seen anything like that'.
'No, nothing quite like that', with no hint of a lie, I meet my friend's gaze.
'That was incredible', Tarik repeats.
'Yes that was amazing, or incredible, or whatever adjective you want to use in substitute.' The voice of the blue-haired man once again fills the stadium. 'More importantly, you might want to read what's inside of your envelopes because your final exam starts now.
Tearing the letter open, a card slips out of the freshly torn cavity. Printed on the card: "Candidate number: 27".
Chest convulsing, lips widening, a soft chuckle escapes my throat. Such a display for two words and a number? Isn't this too ostentatious? Turning the card over in my hands, I confirm that there's nothing worth mentioning about the card beyond the number it records. I slip the card into my pocket.
'Wait, take it back out.' Holding the card to his face with one hand, Tarik nudges me with the other. 'Take it back out', He repeats.
'It just has my candidate number.'
'No, channel some Tension through it, just like with the doors.' Doing as I'm told, I retrieve the white card from my pocket, extend my arm and channel Tension through the seemingly unremarkable slip of paper.
Circuits of light pulsate into life carving intricate patterns onto the surface of the formally bland rectangle. With a soft pop, the card disappears, replacing it, a small glass bottle filled with violet liquid, forms between my thumb and index finger.
Tied by string to the neck of the bottle a label rests on its side. Pinching the corner of the label between my hand, I read:
"Corruption Expulsion Potion. One bottle a day keeps corruption at bay, two bottles a day and you'll die."
In my time spent with Father, jumping from floor to floor, Tower to Tower I had gotten used to item drops such as these, but for such a thing to happen within Aspire, until this moment it was unthinkable. Taking the wooden box from inside my pocket, I unclasp the latch and place the purple vial within. Securing the latch, the box returns to my pocket.
'You're not going to drink it?' Eyebrows threaten to cede from Tarik's face as he looks at me in shock. 'You've used Art after Art all day and you're seriously not going to drink it?' Without giving me a chance to reply, he uncorks his bottle and ingests the violet potion. Face contorting into a mask of disgust, he wipes his lips.'
'I'm serious, Nero, this is the last assessment, if you don't drink it now, at best you could fail, at worst you could die.'
'I don't need it. I'm still able to use fifteen, maybe sixteen more set Arts. At a push I can probably use my tentacles for a few more minutes, if that's not enough to pass then I don't deserve to pass.'
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My friend readies himself to reply, but before he can say a word, the blue-haired man resumes his instructions.
'By now you should all have found the potions sealed within the cards we got for you. You're all topped up now, so if you fail you have no one to blame but yourselves.' As if vindicated, Tarik sneers in my direction.
'Let's get started, shall we? Platform one...', the disembodied voice of the blue-haired examiner lists the number of the fighting stages from one to four and follows each platform number with two candidate numbers. At his call, the students corresponding to the numbers announced stand from their seats and walk towards the platform they are directed to.
The eighth candidate number is proclaimed. Lips part in surprise. The white-haired girl stands from the seat beside me and moves in the direction of the nearest platform.
Joining the girl on stage, a beast of a man. While his face proclaims youth, his towering height and broad frame negate all indications of his adolescence. At the sound of a cymbal , their battle begins.
Manifesting a gauntlet onto his hand, the muscle-bound boy strikes his fist onto the concrete stage beneath his feet. Spikes of hardened earth form on the surface of the concrete making their way towards the girl. Leaping out the way into a forward roll, the girl responds with a wave of her hand, forming a horizontal blade of compressed water.
Like a hot knife through butter, the dense arc of water cuts through the earth spikes, forcing her opponent to leap out of the way. Unrelenting, the girl, now on her feet, summons three spears of spiralling water and releases them in the direction of the still crouching boy.
Pounding his guarded fist into the floor, rows of spikes ascend, intercepting the lethal projectiles. With a further impact of his fist to the stage, the boy sends another tide of savage spikes towards the girl. As if dancing gracefully, the white-haired girl sways out of the range of the earth formed stalagmite. Advancing on her prey, she charges towards her adversary.
Halting her advance, the boy raises two bare palms in the air, his gauntlet now dispersed, he immediately surrenders.
Three times. His bound weapon can only be used three times in a given time frame. Digesting the conflict, my mind races to analyse the result of the battle. No doubt the boy would have been able to continue on with the use of Arts... He must have considered his chance of victory to be minimal without the use of his bound weapon. Why?
As if by inspiration, the answer comes to me. He can't use higher form Tension. Against the skill and strength of the White-haired girl, he must not have had any confidence in achieving victory, and even if he could, he'd still have another fight to survive. The corruption accumulated in an all-out battle with that girl…
That girl. Her face lingers in my imagination. The elegance of her movements, the slenderness of her form, the strength she displays. Her every attribute excites a fire inside me. Attraction?
No.
Killing intent.
Nervous energy surges through my veins as the girl makes her way back to her seat. Blood drains from my knuckles as I squeeze the sides of my chair, terrified I might leap forward in frenzied assault.
Father, what have you done to me?
'Have you seen Amy?'
Scalding blood cools in an instant.
'She has to be here somewhere, but I can't see her.'
Opening my mouth to respond, whatever I was about to say never passes my lips as from the air my candidate number calls out.
Visibly shaking, Tarik stands.
'I...gue- guess it's my turn.' His attempts at disguising the quake in his voice fail miserably as his staggering breaths distorts his every word. 'If- if I surrender quickly I might still be able to leave this place alive.'
I stand.
Realisation flashes through Tarik's eyes.
'You?'
Only two numbers were called. With the other battles still raging on in the three other arenas, it takes Tarik less than a second to recognise his opponent.
'You're not going to have to surrender, Tarik. I will.'
'You can't-'
'I can and I will', smiling broadly I end the argument. 'We only have to win one round. You yourself said I was strong, I'm not scared of my next fight.'
I'm scared of being alone...again. The words dance on my tongue before receding into nothingness.
Smile rooted firmly on my lips, I grab Tarik's shoulder and push him forward. 'Let's go.'
Walking towards the platform, Tarik and I scale the steps and continue to the centre of the stage.
'I surrender!' My voice travels from the arena to the audience seats closest to us. Without looking back, I turn and make my way back to my seat, bathing in the callous serenade of boos and jeers.
With Tarik once again to my right, I sit and watch the battles unfolding before my eyes. The surroundings flash with exchanges of power and technique. Shouts, and cries, and wailing intermingle with the laughter, cheers and applause of the audience above. Combat begins and ends in manufactured warfare. Mangled remains of children are lifted out of view to be sorted and discarded according to their worth. Fights rage on until finally, Tarik stands.
'You've already passed the assessment. As soon as you get up there, just surrender.' Words met with hushed grunt, indistinctly Tarik nods his head. Arriving at the stage, my stomach rises to my throat as his competitor joins him.
Wolf Yung. The brutality of the well-dressed boy still fresh in my mind, dread mounts inside me with every passing second.
The cymbal chimes.
Words pass between competitors and in an instant, a torrent of flames engulfs the platform.
Blood rushes to my ears. The roars of the crowd drown in a tsunami of rage as smoke billows from the platform. Seconds pass, or maybe minutes, time at this moment loses its meaning.
The smoke clears revealing the charcoaled remains of my friend.
"The weak have no right to complain."
Father's words penetrate my consciousness. "The mighty crush the frail, the big devour the small, that is the way of this world."
He's dead because he was weak. He left me because he was weak. Like a blazing inferno, the thoughts spread throughout my consciousness, leaving no corner of my brain unpolluted.
"This is the truth of the world…"
That's right, he was weak. Why was I trying to protect him? Because I'm alone? Am I really that pathetic? Clinging to the first people I meet because of what? Because I'm alone?
I'm alone...
He's dead…
Tarik's dead.
'Twenty-seven make your way towards stage three.' The call draws me out from my depths. No, I left something behind. A frost runs through my veins, smothering all passion. Father's words retreat, but their branches shade my heart.
As if by trance, I draw myself up and walk towards the arena. Eyes cast downwards, I lift my head and blankly look into the eyes of my opponent.
Wolf Yung.
Laughing fiercely, he faces me.
'Did you like what I did to your friend?' He mocks. 'Oh you should know, that bitch you were with, she's dead too. I made sure of it. If it's any comfort, I hear she did manage to defeat the beast. Well, one of them at least.' As if hearing the funniest joke, his laughter resumes. 'I wish I could have seen it myself. I can only imagine the look of sur-'
'It doesn't matter', I flatly retort. 'She died because she's weak. You'll die for the same reason.'
The cymbal rings out. With a wave of his hand, Tension collides around me threatening to combust. Pooling energy to my lower back, monstrous tentacles spouts through my clothes. With a thought, they extend. Slicing through the air with pitiless indifference, the tip of one tentacle impacts with the boy's head, showering the stage with blood and brain matter.