Who knew bending the fundamental stuff of reality to make cool shooty laser eyes would be such a major pain in the ass?

You’d think if they were called the “building blocks of creation,” they’d be easier to line up in a row.

Not so, it would seem.

Either creativity was dead on a primordial scale, a marked drop in appreciation for the arts—because I mean, c’mon, who could say no to cool shooty laser eyes—or these patron ideals he kept hearing about were some damned harsh critics indeed.

It’d been three days since he’d first arisen from that momentary lapse in his general will to go on, and, if he wasn’t ready to call it quits necessarily, he’d say he was getting pretty damned close.

Lying on his back, with legs and arms outstretched, Jun stared up at the jumbled purple mess of overlapping lines as it slowly rotated above him—all broken geometry and chaotic noise patterns. Looking so much the ball of lint one might find in an old dress suit pocket, that it was honestly getting to be pretty depressing.

To say that he was quite bad at this would be the understatement of the year. That wasn’t what really bothered him however. He’d honestly expected as much. You didn’t achieve anything in life without realizing, very early on, that failure was just another part of the process. And that, in the very beginning at least, you’d be failing quite a lot.

To give a personal example, at one point in his bare, entrepreneurial infancy, he’d been positive, almost obnoxiously confident, despite all sane counsel to the contrary, that his hot air balloon backpack idea was too big to fail.

That it did so spectacularly, with as much expediency as that first, catastrophic test run, was as predictable, in hindsight, as it was costly.

That it hadn’t taken his career down along with it—smoldering in a bent pile of deflated canvas and shattered dreams—was the truly miraculous twist of fate. The only miracle to come out of the entire, ill conceived endeavor.

Oh! That and the test pilots survival, of course.

Completely unscathed, I’ll have you know!

…minus a couple of eyebrows lost in the bonfire.

No, it wasn’t the repeated failures that bothered him, but the near total lack of input as to what in the nine hells he was doing wrong.

It was kind of hard to take a step back and reassess when there was no clear indication as to where he’d messed up in the first place. Just a long list of failed attempts ending in the same, generic, entirely unhelpful conclusion.

With a thought, Jun summoned up the specialized system screen he’d been using as a notepad. Tinted the tell tale purple that spoke of workshop tampering, it read as follows:

Attempt #5: Awesome Defensive Technique (Failed).

Cause of Failure: Spontaneous explosion.

Attempt #6: Super Awesome Defensive Technique (Failed).

Cause of Failure: Spontaneous explosion.

Attempt #7: Super Ultimate Awesome Never Going to Fail Defensive Technique (Failed).

Cause of Failure: Spontaneous explosion.

Attempt #8: Cool Shooty Laser Eyes (Failed).

Cause of Failure: Go on. Take a wild fucking guess. Spontaneous explosion.

Now, that wasn’t to say he’d learned nothing in all this time. No, on the contrary, he managed to pick up on something he thought was rather crucial. That thing being, effectively, whenever a mantra fell below a certain conceptual stability threshold, it would explode, spontaneously, no matter what he did or how he tried to course correct.

Not only that, but it would do so in the exact same manner, each and every time. To the point that he had begun to think it rather suspect. Even the splatters of entrails rained down the same.

He’d tested it thoroughly.

Standing in the exact same spot while he spectated a multitude of custom mantras—generally those whose stability averaged at around the four percent mark.

Without fail, the same meaty chunks rained down in the same gory patterns, leading him to believe that maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t so much a simulated response, as an automated one. A fact that could change everything, if true. Or nothing, he really wouldn’t know until he tested it out himself.

And there was really only one way to do that.

Custom Mantra: [Cool Shooty Laser Eyes] (2nd Aspected)

Grade: (Trash Quality)

Conceptual Stability: 3%

Do you wish to spectate, assimilate, or edit?

“Assimilate!”

You have selected the Custom Mantra: [Cool Shooty Laser Eyes] as your trial partner.

Is this correct?

YES/NO

“I’m offended you even feel the need to ask.”

Initializing…

Calculating Trial Difficulty…

Your resonance pillar has been adjusted for.

Your body cultivation has been adjusted for.

Your soul cultivation has been adjusted for.

Be warned. Your Mantra: [Cool Shooty Laser Eyes] is an offense to its patron. Difficulty raised by two stars.

Please hold…

Stolen story; please report.

*Ding!*

Estimated Trial Difficulty: |3 Stars|

Designated Arena: Arcane Metropolis Blood Sport Arena

Acclaim Bonus: NOT APPLICABLE

Notoriety Bonus: Fallen Iron Fist Sect

Demonic Alignments: NOT APPLICABLE

Heavenly Alignments: NOT APPLICABLE

Star Ranking: NOT APPLICABLE

Temporary Titles: Mammoth Slayer, Giant Slayer, Titan Slayer.

Please hold still while we transport you.

Your trial will begin in: 10… 9… 8…

image [https://i.ibb.co/rw6tMBB/IMG-2711.png]

“You’ll be wanting to get up now, son.”

Jun’s eyes snapped open.

There was the briefest moment of disorientation as he took in his unfamiliar surroundings, before he eventually came back to himself, and his breathing, which had become ragged, once more settled.

He was lying atop a hard cot, staring up at the low, dirt caked ceiling of what was apparently a dank prison cell.

Abruptly, an almost nauseating thrill of emotions inundated him—mostly dread and apprehension tinged with a healthy dose of anxiety. Practically assaulting him from out of nowhere, backing him up into a dead alley and pummeling him senseless with the sheer, raw, unfiltered feel of the place.

Immediately he could tell that this was different from the previous trial he’d faced. An order of magnitude more real, for lack of a better term, and far less benign. As if there were a will to it, a hostility so palpable it could be felt in the air.

A spike of panic shot through him, felt from his navel down to his groin.

No doubt in response to the tactile wash of sensations which crashed over and through him, making themselves known all at once and indiscriminately. The undeniable, harsh and unsettling clarity of the moment nearly taking his breath away.

The sudden invasion of damp and cold seeping into his bones not helping matters any, making him shiver uncontrollably—breaths frosting the air before his unbelieving eyes. He pulled the thin hemp blanket covering him tighter around himself, to little effect, mores the pity.

Torchlight flickered from somewhere outside the cell, shining through the bars of the small viewing port set into the cell’s only door, a sturdy looking number, iron bound and thick. The orange flames cast the cramped space in shapes of dancing light and flickering shadow. It didn’t make the dreary scene any more hospitable.

In the distance, there could be heard the unmistakable sounds of moaning, some in obvious pleasure, though most in what he could only describe as abject despair. Some weeping, screaming, and the occasional meaty thwack of fist on flesh. Feeble cries and protests more or less drowned out by the stomach churning metronome.

The steady beat of unchecked violence.

And over it all came the slow tread of boots on flagstones. That, and the merry jingle of keys. Somewhere, someone began to whistle a jaunty tune.

Finally, Jun turned to the only other occupant in the tiny cell, taking heed of his earlier instructions and rising unsteadily to his feet—if only to be better prepared should the older man, as he’d surmised from both voice and cadence, try something. He wrapped the thin blanket around himself, then turned to the origin of the voice.

When he finally caught sight of his cell mate, partially hidden in the gloom, he had to repress the instinct to take several wary steps back.

The man was huge. Not that retreat would’ve been feasible at any rate. His hamstrings were already pressed up against the sharp edge of his cot, and even then he was barely three feet from the giant man.

“Guards don’t take kindly to their authority being questioned. Disrespect and the like, you understand, real or imagined. You’d do well to avoid their ire, son. Avoid their eye if you can help it. Best practice? Don’t provoke a king in his throne room. And, well, to folks like us? Every whole man, woman, and child might as well be nobility,” the man grunted. “Now, I know what you’re thinking. Reeks of age old imperium, aye, but that’s what you get when every guard captain is a prince and every warden the emperor. Help an old man to his feet, would you?”

After only a second's hesitation, Jun complied, if only to be polite.

He didn’t know how much time they were going to be spending together in this cell, after all. He figured it was best he stay on the giant’s good side, if he could help it.

He crossed the cell. It didn’t take long.

Then, he wondered how in the world he was actually meant to accomplish such a monumental task. The man had to be three times his size, at least, and he didn’t even want to know how many times his weight.

Many, many times, if he had to wager a guess, seeing as he easily took up the majority of their cell. Upon giving it an honest go anyway, not really expecting much, he was surprised to find he had no trouble lifting the old man’s bulk whatsoever.

In fact, it felt as if the man weighed almost nothing at all. Like a heavy box or an unwieldy chair, as opposed to the hundreds of pounds of fat and muscle he’d been expecting.

His first thought was that the man must have hollow bones, or some other such malady to explain away the discrepancy. Going by the matching grunt of astonishment the man uttered, Jun immediately reasoned that probably wasn’t the case. It took him an embarrassing amount of time to reason out the actual cause.

Oh! Duh, my temporary titles! Seriously, this place must be getting to me or something. Man. That dew really packs a punch huh?

“Much appreciated young man.”

“Ah… Don’t mention it,” Jun gulped.

As the man rose to his full height, in so far as he could in the cramped confines intended for regular men, Jun got his first good look at him in the flickering torchlight. The sight didn’t make the man any less intimidating. If anything, the shadow had helped to shroud his brutal visage. Because only now did Jun realize that the man was not human.

Or at least, not entirely.

Possessed of decidedly bovine features, he had the head of a bull, and the body of a man. One dense with sagging muscle—a fit man well past his prime—and the other sprouting curved horns that only further added to his imposing height. Both of which were heavily crisscrossed with aged scars. What had to have been the work of decades to acquire.

Abruptly, the booted feet came to a halt outside their cell. At the old man’s silent urging, Jun slipped off his blanket, feeling naked for all the cold viciously bit at him immediately after.

There was a clank as key was inserted into lock, then a screech as un-oiled hinges protested their poor treatment.

The door swung open to reveal two regular looking humans standing in the torchlit hallway beyond.

A man and a woman, dressed in crisp gray, fur lined uniforms. The uniform of the prison guard, if he guessed correctly. The male guard, a tall clean shaven man, traditionally handsome, with a cruel tilt to his lips and hair slicked back, briefly flicked his eyes in Jun’s direction.

Whether it was because of the old, not quite a man’s, earlier ramblings, or some internal instincts kicking in, Jun was quick to avert his gaze and fold in on himself.

Not quite bowing, but not quite standing tall either.

The guard swiftly dismissed him, returning the whole of his focus back onto the giant. The female guard gestured for them to follow with a jerk of her lantern, while the male guard struck up a conversation.

“Ooo! Haven’t seen this one before,” the cruel smirk intensified. “New blood, ay Goro? What’s that? The third one this week? You strike a deal with the warden or something? Swear you always get fresh pick of the young ones. Wager a choice few of these scum swillers are starting to get jealous. Ain’t your mother ever taught you to share?”

“Shut your trap, Manny,” snapped the woman.

“What? What I say that was so wrong? Weren’t saying it’s wrong for a man to have his preference, just wager it’s greedy hogging ‘em all for himself.”

“You’re full of shit, Manny, and you know it. Bite your tongue fore I kick your teeth in and bite it for you.”

The man grinned. Waggled his eyebrows.

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Emm’s.”

They continued bickering like this for the entire time they traversed the dank corridors.

Bantering, even as they led the way down winding passage after winding passage—identical cells and lunatic ravings boxing them in on either side.

When at last they reached the end of their long trek—at which point another, larger, even thicker door was opened—and they exited out onto an open air courtyard, Jun found that it couldn’t have come soon enough.

That was when a biting gust of wind speared through him down to the bone. And suddenly, he very much regretted abandoning the scant warmth his blanket had offered so readily.

Urged into the courtyard by two sharp, and entirely unnecessary, prods of the man’s baton, Jun heard the door slam closed behind him shortly after. Although, in full honesty, he was so engrossed in trying to comprehend the scene stretched out before him, that he barely even noticed.

Nor did he see the apologetic look the female guard gave the bovine giant right before she left. Or the grateful nod he gave in return. Not that time around, at any rate.

Instead, he only had eyes for the enclosed training area that spread out before him.

Hard brick covered in a light dusting of snow, which explained the brisk temperatures he’d been experiencing, as what snowflakes slipped between the iron wrought grate—the cage which seemed to bar them from heaven, even as it let in overcast light—floated down languidly to cool the steaming bodies below.

Bodies that, much like his cellmate, were anything but normal.