Gwil emerged first from Buzzard’s secret tunnel, squinting against the light as he clambered out. The clear blue sky felt oppressive. Burning sunlight beating down—everything gleamed.

The exit hatch was embedded in the ground, camouflaged with false rock. Gwil looked around as the rest of the party climbed out after him, grunting and cursing under the burden of Buzzard’s various supplies, artifacts, and instruments. Dwillard had to be shoved through as his cumbersome tube-thing got wedged in the hatchway.

They found themselves in the base of a ditch with sides steep enough to provide some cover. Gwil crept up the slope, keeping his head low.

They were in the barren, rocky stretch between the town and the wall, surrounded by the towering heights of the narrowing canyon.

Some twenty meters ahead, the stone wall loomed, cutting through the sky.

Gwil’s breath caught as he scanned the top. About thirty Podexian troops manned the wall—less than he’d expected! Two very serious-looking mounted ballistae pointed toward the prison entrance. The rest of the guards paced back and forth. The wall was wide enough that they walked three abreast.

There, in the center, a black silhouette—the sheriff, distinguishable by the shape of his hat. He was sitting in a chair with his feet kicked up on a crate or something. Gwil found that annoying.

“Right, we’re leaving, Buzzard,” one of the derelict guards whispered. “What do you want us to do with all this shit?”

“Oh, heehee, perhaps you could help me carry it just a bit further.”

“No chance,” the guard said. “Ain’t no way you’re roping us into that.”

As they argued, Gwil kept his eyes on the wall, his grimy hair whipping around. It was a clear day, but windy, and dark clouds threatened from the northern horizon.

Reaching up with his long arm, Buzzard tugged at Gwil’s pant leg.

“What’s up, doc?” he said without turning around.

“I fear, in all this commotion, something, heehee, slipped my mind. Heehee. Erm, do you, by chance, know how to obscure your Nirva?”

Gwil looked back at him. The doctor clamped his hands over his mouth.

“No? What do you mean?” Gwil said.

Buzzard stifled a squeal.

“What the hell is it, Buzzard?” barked one guard.

“We’re doomed,” the doctor squeaked.

The guard grabbed Buzzard by the collar as Gwil slid back down to the bottom.

“Jackson knows exactly where we are,” Buzzard explained in a quiet murmur. “He must. There is no way that he does not detect Gwilym’s Nirva.”

“Huh?” said everyone.

“Hey, you probably should’ve thought of that before!” Gwil said.

“Oh gosh, boss, that’s real bad,” Dwillard said.

Buzzard extracted himself from the guard’s grip and rammed a finger into Gwil’s chest. “It’s your fault! It’s such a basic skill I never considered that you wouldn’t possess it.”

Gwil scrambled up the wall of the ditch.

“Shit, boys! What do we do? Should we run?”

“We’ll never make it.”

“Cool it. We ain’t done nothin’ wrong. The sheriff locked us in outta necessity. We got ourselves out outta necessity. He’ll be happy to have us back.”

“Are you crazy? We’re holed up down here with a goddamn Hallowed slave. He’ll slaughter us.”

Gwil watched the sheriff rise to his feet. He came to stand at the edge of the wall. Sunlight glistened off his gold-toothed grin. He was staring right at them.

“Shit.” Waiting around wasn’t gonna do any good. Gwil climbed out of the ditch.

“Don’t leave us, Gwil!” Dwillard said.

“What are you doing, fool?” Buzzard squawked.

“Help me out with one of your gizmos,” Gwil shouted as he started running.

Panic took the band of renegade guards. Most of them fled toward the town, but a few ran with Gwil, toward Jackson and the wall.

Only Dwillard remained in the ditch with Buzzard.

From atop the wall, Sheriff Jackson raised his hands.

A field of ropes spawned out of the rocky ground.

As two of the guards were snared and rooted down, Gwil jumped and kicked at the tendrils.

An anaconda of a rope spiraled into being, as thick around as Gwil’s neck. He turned sideways to dodge, but the hefty thing whipped into his stomach, clotheslining him.

Gwil wrapped his arms and legs around it to keep it from coiling around him. The rope was scalding hot, and his body went cold as his Nirva receded, fleeing.

He let go as the rope lifted him into the air and saw that it was growing. He scrambled across the ground like a crab, flailing to untwist himself from closing knots.

A desperate gnat in a spider’s web.

“Argh!” He was here to fight, not to die like a fucking bug.

His Nirva was hiding, nestling itself deep. Submitting. Nuh-uh. That wasn’t okay. He’d force the confrontation.

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

Gwil stopped trying to fend against the ropes. Instead, he spread his arms wide, grabbing as many of them as he could and hugging them to his chest.

It was like bathing in a tub full of hot coals, but he only squeezed tighter. If he could just force his Nirva to the fore, focus it, Gwil knew he could overcome the ropes. Just like when he’d driven it into his hand and made it heal faster.

He must have been screaming, but he couldn’t hear anything over the torrent of blood rushing through his head.

Fiery Nirva bubbled up and then exploded like a geyser. It surged through his chest, poured down his arms.

More, more, more. Nothing mattered except eclipsing the Nirva that drove the ropes. Gwil would rather die than learn that his will was weaker than a shithead like the sheriff.

And to be beaten without even putting up a fight. He could not accept that.

The ropes spasmed and Gwil thrashed like he was drowning. He lost himself to the dueling tides. He was nothing except his desperate stranglehold. Reduced to a singular purpose—destroy the ropes.

Coolness tickled his flesh like misty rainfall. The furious writhing of the ropes abated. They turned stiff, brittle. With one last burst, Gwil crushed the bundle against his chest, and the ropes exploded into ashy dust.

He threw his head up as if he’d just surfaced from a dive, gasped for breath. Like a river breaking through a dam, Gwil’s Nirva rushed away from where he’d been holding it and spread throughout his body.

Beneath his feet, the nest of shredded ropes quivered. Only what he’d held in his arms had shattered.

He thought he understood. The Nirva needed to be focused. Honed. Otherwise, it was frail and thin. And the ropes were made of Nirva, so they must have been chockful of it.

Gwil took a deep breath and pressed his Nirva down to his feet. It was easier now that he was not tied up. He stomped on the heap of ropes, grinding them into dust beneath his boots.

Lightheadedness racked through him, as if he’d been hanging upside down. The Nirva broke free of its reins.

Woozy, Gwil looked up at the wall. Jackson was not even paying attention to him.

The sheriff jumped off the top of the wall.

Ropes unfurled from his hands. He swung in a graceful arc and landed softly on the ground.

Gwil glanced back but could not see into the ditch to know whether Buzzard was still there. What he did see was the three guards that had been running alongside him—all on the ground, hogtied.

He knew well how much it sucked being hogtied. Gwil drove his Nirva into his fingers. They stiffened and curled into hooks. Claws.

He went to the nearest guard and ripped apart her bindings—it was the woman who’d been making the others laugh. The knots put up more of a fight than he’d expected. Though this rope was much smaller than the one he’d just tangled with, it was sturdier and denser.

Gwil wondered… Nirva was fickle. And these constructs were created out of thin air, like magic. It must have been a complex thing, affected by myriad factors.

Moving to the second guard, Gwil kept his eyes on Jackson. He was not approaching yet. Rather, he was using his ropes to lower a host of his troops to the ground—about half remained atop the wall. The man’s giant bike, too, was wrapped up in a harness and descending.

“What are you doing man!” the guard cried as Gwil untied him. “Get away! You’re gonna get us killed!”

“We’re sticking with Jackson,” the third one, still tied, called from a short way away. “No hard feelings, but we gotta save our own skin. You get it.”

Gwil waved him off. “Whatever you want. Good luck.”

That screaming engine roared to life. The sheriff approached on his bike. A chopper, he’d called it.

Behind him, his officers jogged to keep pace. Since the distance was so short, Jackson just paddled the bike along with his feet rather than actually riding.

Gwil strode toward them.

When they were three meters apart, Jackson stopped and bent low over the handlebars to fix Gwil with a glare.

“You could’ve just walked,” Gwil shouted over the chugging engine.

The sheriff shut off the bike and dismounted. He tipped his hat and said, “Never go anywhere without my chopper, kid.”

“That looked silly though,” Gwil said.

Jangling as he walked, the sheriff came closer. He spat out a slimy wad of chew. “Tell me. Who in the fuck are you?”

Gwil pumped a blink of Nirva into his legs and launched himself. He’d been jumping far with his Nirva before, but now he could really put some force into it.

Jackson raised a net. Gwil reached out, ripped it apart and flew through, raised his fist-

The sheriff spawned two ropes and yanked himself out of the way, almost like a sort of dogsled.

Gwil rolled out of his whiffed attack and popped back onto his feet.

Jackson grinned. “I ain’t fought properly in years. I’m a bit rusty. Take it easy, wouldja?” His hands blurred as a tangle of ropes lashed out to swarm Gwil.

Gwil swatted the beginning of the assault away but lost his balance and had to jump back from the rest. It was disorienting, sending his Nirva sloshing around through his body. When he put everything in his hands, his legs went sluggish with a sort of drunkenness.

“Woo!” Jackson hollered. “Fresh outta hell, and you fight like this? Not two days ago, a single rope had you whimperin’ like a piggy on its way to the butcher.” He laughed. “Oh, to be young again.”

The sheriff’s entourage, who were hanging back, laughed with him and said things like, “Get him, boss.” And “Let’s barbeque him like the pig he is.”

“Don’t worry about them, kid,” the sheriff said, looking only at Gwil. “I don’t fight dirty. It’s just you and me. But I’m warmed up now. The gloves are comin’ off. Wanna tell me your name ‘afore I keel you?”

Gwil ran at the sheriff, his every step feeling thunderous with the infusion of Nirva. He caught the first rope as it swung out to coil around his neck.

But two more snaked around his ankles. He caught one with a stomp, crushing it. But the other snared his leg and pulled it out from under him.

Gwil’s hip bounced against the rocky ground as Jackson reeled him in like a fish. “Works every time. Gotta protect your neck.”

Using his other foot, Gwil got some leverage against the tautened rope and ripped his foot free. His boot came off, along with a strip of flesh.

His hands still occupied with the noose closing around his neck, Gwil pumped Nirva into his spine and rocked himself up onto his feet.

Then he launched himself like an arrow. The top of his head slammed into Jackson’s nose. Cartlidge crumpled.

The sheriff staggered back and spawned a mess of ropes, but Gwil stuck right on him, and managed to get in front of the ropes. He headbutted him again.

Gwil took the moment as they fell to rip the noose off with a flare of Nirva through his hands. The whispering voices flurried with excitement.

And then they were grappling with each other on the ground.

“Don’t you fuckin’ dare,” Jackson barked at his officers. “Stay the fuck back, all y’all.”

Ropes everywhere. Gwil let his instincts shoot pulses of Nirva at random. The spur on the sheriff’s boot caught him on the side of the head and left him seeing stars and gushing blood.

But a knee to the gut knocked his wind out. Gwil loosed a sputtering scream as the sheriff grabbed hold of his flayed foot and dug his fingers into the wounds.

Gwil twisted himself over one of Jackson’s thighs and then grabbed the man’s calf and started bending his knee the wrong way.

Jackson flew out from under Gwil, yanking himself away. He conjured a few more ropes to lift himself onto his feet like a marionette.

Gwil stood with his hands on his knees. The tendons in his foot twisted themselves back together. His closing head wound tugged at his hair.

Jackson took his hat off and held it over his heart, swept his other hand through his sweaty hair. He was breathing hard. Seeing his gray-white hair, Gwil realized the man must’ve been pretty old.

A soft crack popped out as the sheriff bent his nose back into place. His mustache was all stained with blood. But his lip, which Gwil had busted open with his headbutt, was closing itself up.

Gwil grimaced. Part of him knew, of course, but maybe he hadn’t properly considered the fact that Jackson could heal himself too.

“Let’s take a breather,” the sheriff said. “But don’t you dare go thinkin’ I need it more than you. This the most fun I’ve had in years. I don’t wanna kill you yet.” He packed a wad of chew into his lip, then flashed his golden teeth. “Make me regret my hubris.”

Jackson’s officers got a kick out of that. Gwil spotted Cigar and Toothpick, thanks to their respective accessories. Toothpick swooned at the sheriff’s words.

“C’mon kid,” the sheriff said. “Don’t be so fuckin’ surly. We’re havin’ fun here. You’ve impressed me. Damn near ripped your own foot off the moment we started fightin’. Tell me your name.”

Gwil stared at him, but really looked past him, at the wall. He couldn’t let himself get caught up in this, not yet. He needed to get the door open for the others. Time to come up with a clever plan.

He spat out some blood and grinned. “I’m Gwil.”