FVR

Chapter Ten.

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The first minute of Joel's frantic sprint through the city had been riddled with obstacles, with narrow paths strewn with debris and fire. Once he cleared the immediate area around the wall, the streets opened up.

Why aren't they bombarding the city? Is their goal not to destroy it? He wondered what their objective could be as he ran.

In the turmoil of his frenzied haste, he had not noticed the lights above him until he turned a bend. The sky over the city wall lit up with spots of red, as an invisible shield defended from aerial attacks. A mana shield?

Each impact sent a slight tremor through the earth, with the occasional attack crashing into a building beyond the wall; Joel had ran too far into the city to have to worry, but fear still found him.

The second wave! It's started already! Or is it the things Claycel just mentioned? Shit... His thoughts were as chaotic as the battle around him, so he just kept running, using his dash every ten seconds.

The streets were completely barren of life, making it easy for him to run as fast as he could. His passive skill must have been activated due to the battle too, because he was able to run indefinitely. Hopefully that keeps up.

The castle rapidly approached, but Joel still wished he could leap over the buildings in his way. There's no time, there's no time! His rush had blinded him to the twinge of pain that started to creep up in his legs.

The city stopped abruptly to a large stairway up to the castle doors. Dozens of men stood at the castle walls and on balconies with their arms outstretched.

Joel glanced up to the castle, adorned with intricate carvings of men and women, of crowns, shooting stars, and a meadow. In the centre, stood a statue of the current king, which rose high into the sky, wielding a blade that pointed towards the heavens.

Joel ran up the stairs and saw a row of soldiers, one stepped forward and met him with a stern voice.

"Halt!" The soldier commanded. Joel stopped immediately.

"I have a message from Captain Roland," he held up the piece of parchment, presenting its stamp for them to clearly see. A moment of tense scrutiny followed, before the soldier relented. His stern pose softened as he signaled to his comrades behind the doors.

"Go through," the solider turned to the row of men against the wall, "open," he commanded.

Joel entered through the large castle doors with a sense of relief and excitement. The clamor of battle faded behind him as the doors shut, and a large soldier ushered him into a room by the far side of the hall, then told him to wait until called for.

The young boy from before walked passed Joel, gave him a brave smile, and took of running again. The doors slammed closed behind the boy, leaving Joel in a stuffy room.

A cacophony of urgent voices and the pungent scent of sweat, oil, and parchment enveloped the atmosphere.

At the center of the room stood a large table littered with charts and documents, and several figurines, around which several figures were having an intense conversation. At the head of the table sat an aged, burly man with a long grey beard that cascaded down his chest, and disheveled, curly hair. He wore a stained shirt, and loose trousers, tied at the edge with a piece of charred string. He read the note silently as his lips mouthed the words, sorry father.

One man looked on with intent and a stern expression chiseled on his weathered face.

Of the three remaining men, still deep in conversation, one looked younger than the others, but still much older than Joel, with a clean-shaven face and an angry look in his eyes. The fourth man had an ageless face, with a bald head and a large beard, split in two by a deep scar. His arms were crossed as he listened to the others speak.

The final figure looked to be a middle-aged man with a scholarly air about him. He appeared clean, and tidy, and lacked a military appearance, yet the others went silent every time he opened his mouth to speak.

"We bring the men back from Kyrstil," said the scarred man, moving figurines across the table over a scratched map of the city.

"It's too late for that and it would allow for a two-pronged assault if we forsake the passageway. For all we know, they have half their army there waiting for such a move, and we have a duty to maintain access through the pass," replied the younger one.

"Access!? They've gained access by walking around the bleeding map!" The scarred man replied with a humored tone.

"Sorry, Nicholas, I agree with Jacob, we leave them there," said the scholarly one.

"Walter," Nichloas - the younger one - replied with surprise, "what if the kingdom falls while half of our army defends an empty cavass?" He pleaded.

The aged man at the head of the table held out a hand, silencing the others, and spoke with a firm voice that resonated with authority. His piercing blue eyes glanced at Joel then immediately discounted him.

"What is it Tiberius?" The stern-looking man asked.

"The wall will not hold another hour," Tiberius said, placing the note into a pile of others. "We have to evacuate the remaining nobles into the mountain through the royal escape route and hope for their safe passage to Pinella's Pass." He sighed deeply and put his head into his hands.

"The remaining royals are unlikely to leave. They are devote believers in his majesty and will believe in the king until the last." Nicolas said.

"Then it is down to the king," Jacob - the scarred one - spoke up, rubbing his bald head.

"And The People of Samul," Walter - the scholarly one - added.

A moment of silence loomed as they made peace with their fates, but each man seemed to hold their breath, not wanting to leave.

Joel's feet itched. He wanted to hand over the note but the pressure in the room had been suffocating. He waited with baited breath, trying to catch the eye of one of the men.

"What is it?" Tiberius asked Joel finally, ushering him forwards with a wave of his hand.

Joel stepped forwards and handed Tiberius the note, "I was told to give this to a certain man. It's from Captain Roland."

"Captain?" The man echoed with a slight smirk. He opened the note, and mouthed the first two words, the king, then his lips quivered as he read the next part of the message. He took several seconds reading it, before dropping the note to the ground.

"The king?" The stern-looking man asked.

"Fallen."

There had been an ounce of hope in the air before he spoke that word. A reluctance to leave, or to imagine that they could lose. But upon hearing news of the king, each man in that room aged several years. They seemed to slouch into their chairs in resignation, all energy having left their bodies.

Except for one: the one who had read the note sat with a focused eye and pursed lips, as if trying to hold back a tear.

Walter stood, and without saying a word, walked to the exit.

"Do not spread word of the king," Tiberius said, stopping Walter in his tracks. "A plan is in motion."

The four men looked back at the head of the table.

Tiberius stood, placed a gentle hand on Joel's shoulder, and walked to a figurine on the table - a single knight on horseback. He picked it up, caressed the face of the knight, then spoke softly. "Almost nothing of a person carries on after death. Their feelings, the memories they made with others, the way they laughed when they saw the moon for the first time." He paused, lost in thought. "None of that persists. However, the things you learn and pass on, the actions you make that help build, or restore. These remain long after you have breathed your last. They are the only logical thing to focus on in a life that is spent serving others and not just yourself." He looked up with a dampness in his eyes. "My son knows this." The others had no words to say, but their eyes widened all at once, either in sadness, or in realization. "Squire!" Tiberius called. A young man entered through the doors. "Bring the king's attire, whatever remains in his personal armory. He will be making a ride soon." The boy smiled from ear to ear, nodded, then left.

Walter walked back to the table slowly, with a soft tone of surrender, he said, "the king is dead. Hel has won. He will march through this world and set it on fire. What good can one man do against such a force?"

Tiberius nodded. "When I was young," he turned to Joel, "about this boys age, in fact." He placed the figuring on the table, then walked to a shelf while continuing to talk. "My father taught me how words, spoken, or written, are a form of manipulation. The choice of words, the inflection, the tone, were all devices to manipulate, he told me." He gently picked up a small statue of the king - a replica of the one outside - and returned to the table. "If our men believe the king to be here, so too will the enemy. If the enemy believes him to be alive, they will believe their own king to be dead." He placed the figurine next to the knight.

"You hope," Walter said.

"Never." Tiberius replied, "I plan." He clenched his shaking fist and hit the table with a mild restraint, his fear and sadness unable to be controlled. "Our King was the most powerful force of nature in the world. Whether the enemy believes or not, our men will. And they will buy the time that is needed for The People of Samul to make good on our deal."

"And if they are also dead?" Asked Nicolas faintly, his shoulders still slouched in his chair.

"Then we will have lost our freedom, but gained a few more moments of life before seeing our families again."

The young squire appeared a few moments later, carrying the folded clothing of the king, with shoes and a golden crown on top. Tiberius dismissed the boy and turned to Joel.

"The crown is slight overkill, don't you think?" Jacob laughed.

"My boy always wanted a crown." Tiberius casually replied, "you're a runner, yes?" He asked, placing the clothing in Joel's arms. "Take these to my son." The other men stared in silence, with sad, resolved eyes.

"Sorry," Nicholas said, the others bit their lips and hid their faces.

"He was always brave." Tiberius smiled, then patted Joel hard on the back. "Go."

〘Wave Three. Deliver Roland's Message〙

〘Wave Three. Deliver The King's Attire To Roland〙

***

What the fuck am I living through!?

The last few minutes had been a crazy rush of adrenaline for Joel. The conversations he had been privy to felt almost unnatural, as if he had found himself in the Oval office. How the fuck does something like this fall onto me!? He almost laughed at the thought. He had gone from having no use, to passing along a top secret message, to now carrying the kings attire.

As he exited the castle, he dashed down the stairs to avoid the steps, his feet crashed into the ground with a squelch as he landed, then continued to run along the cobblestone floor back into the city.

The second bombardment had been fully underway for several minutes, and dozens of fires and even more plumes of black smoke filled the air around the city wall. Please let me get there in time.

So much had happened in thirty minutes that Joel had some hope that he could somehow turn the tables of the battle. There's still so much time left! There HAS to be something that I can do which keeps the battle going for a little longer. His knowledge that they win the battle gave him the will to keep moving.

With every step and every dash, his heart pounded louder, urging him to move faster. If only I had more agility, he cursed his premature decision as he navigated his way through the destroyed parts of the city, and finally back to the barracks.

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"Where's Roland!?" He called out through the sounds of explosions and screams. "ROLAND!" He screamed.

Claycel's voice echoed back to Joel from atop the wall. "ROLAND!" He yelled while looking far into the distance.

Joel couldn't see the battle beyond the wall, but he assumed the message found its way to Roland somehow, as a few moments later he returned on horseback covered in fresh blood across his torso and a piece of wood piercing his chest. He practically toppled from his horse as he dismounted, his weary form supported momentarily by Joel's shoulder as he steadied himself.

"What happened!?" Joel asked, wasn't he meant to be the final line of defence?

With a pained grunt, Roland began to shed his armor while walking into the barracks with Joel at his side. Each piece clattered to the ground with a metallic echo and the stench of blood and sweat, leaving lingering patches of blood on the ground as he did. He winced as he removed a jagged shard of wood from his chest plate, then dropped both to the ground with a dull thud, releasing a small pool of blood with it. With faltering steps, he found solace in an empty room, then collapsed into a bunk.

"I was needed on the front lines, which are about to fall." He sighed heavily, "go to the captain's quarters, grab the bag behind the desk".

Joel nodded, then ran to the room he had sat in before. He grabbed the heavy bag he had seen briefly, and carried it back to Roland, who opened it up to reveal his personal affects.

As Joel helped to put on the regal boots of the king, Roland pulled out a pendant from the bag. He opened it to reveal a lock of hair inside, then closed his eyes and inhaled the smell briefly, before hanging the necklace around his neck.

Roland sighed and spoke with a quiet, relaxed voice, while still breathing heavily. "You say you fear pain," he said slowly, recalling their earlier conversation in between haggard breaths, "do you believe good can come from it?"

Joel thought for a moment as the question settled in his mind and he tied Roland's boots. Realizing this took place in the past, and that the festival with Lor lay in the future, gave Joel hope that not all pain persists. And that maybe, just maybe, the pain that comes from this night leads to something good.

But the thought that something good could ever come from the chronic pain he had suffered, filled him with an anger that made him want to scream and laugh.

Taking a moment to reply, and trying to focus on Lor, Joel met Roland's eyes. They seemed to hide something that didn't look like sadness, or fear, but a resolve that Joel had not yet come to learn.

"Sometimes," Joel answered softly.

"I think you're right," Roland stood carefully while holding his chest. He finished putting on the cape, then tentatively placed the crown on his head, "surely this is overkill?"

"It's like it was meant to be," Joel said with a smile, noting that it fit perfectly.

Without a hand from Joel, Roland walked back to the hallway. He took several deep breaths, then turned back to Joel. "They called me brave, because I never knew when to give up." He smiled, although it was hard to see through the mud and the blood. Then, turning his head, he looked outside, and walked out of sight, leaving Joel alone in the room.

Joel had no idea what to do. He knew that going into the battlefield would lead to his death, but nobody else had remained behind. The barracks had been emptied of all living personnel, which likely meant Joel stood as the only person left behind the walls, barring the people in the castle.

I can't do anything else, he told himself. His legs burnt and his feet were raw beneath his shoes; the sudden drop in pace and the return to solitude had brought a fierce pain to the forefront of his mind.

I... don't know if I can keep on running like this. His thoughts echoed Roland's words, pain is inevitable, as he took a small step towards the hallway, followed by another. Joel noticed a second trail of fresh blood that led up the hallway; he looked up to catch Roland as he climbed on top of his horse.

Roland gave one final look to Joel, nodded, then turned. The red cape of the king billowed behind him as the horse galloped out of sight.

With every painful step, Joel pushed himself forwards and back to the main street. He looked out beyond the gate, at the final line of a thousand or so men prepared to march, all cheering for the man they believed to be their king.

Joel turned and slowly walked away, good luck, he said silently, then stopped when he heard the words Roland spoke.

Every sentence came with a pause - the weight of his words weighed down on each and every soldier who stood in front of the wall, just as heavily as they weighed down on Joel.

"To every man who treads upon this blood-soaked soil this night, who Death shall welcome in the moments to come, I ask you this: how can a man die better, than knowing that they lay down their lives for their children, their wives, and their homeland? Freedom is not a birthright. It is not handed to us. Freedom is earned. We fight for it with every word we speak, every step we take, every sacrifice we make. Tonight, we earn our freedom and the freedom of our kin, so that they may carry our legacy of freedom through the ages! Fight now! Fight! Brave men of Durnovia!"

The roar of the army thundered through the air and gripped Joel's heart as he ran. He couldn't help but feel like he had betrayed Roland by not fighting by his side, but there was nothing Joel could do to help - not as he was. He thought to the cleansing strike he had stored in his inventory, and how it would probably save their lives. But for now, Joel felt safe, and that was all he cared about.

Sorry, he thought, as he continued to run.

The air filled with the stampeding sound of Roland's final charge and the clanging of metal on metal, while tears cleaned Joel's dusty cheeks as they fell onto the rubble and disappeared into the night.

〘Wave Three. Deliver Roland's Message〙

〘Wave Three. Deliver The King's Attire To Roland〙

〘Wave Three. Survive Until The Dawn〙

***

With every pained step, and his legs feeling like lead, Joel ran as fast as he could. The weight of exhaustion pressed heavily upon him, but he couldn't afford to stop. Survive until the dawn? How's that possible? Joel recalled what he heard in the war room. There was a way out through the mountain, hopefully it doesn't break the rules of the game if I escape.

This felt like his only chance, and his sole hope of survival in the chaos. I can't believe they win this war? What the hell happens in the coming minutes and hours?

As he approached the towering steps of the castle, the air cracked with tension and the distant battle of war. A sudden aerial assault from above pummeled the castle, each strike shook the steps as Joel ran up. As he reached the top, a lone figure still stood, defiantly defending the castle. His arms raised feebly in a desperate attempt to ward off the onslaught.

Joel drew nearer, about to ask for help, when a crash reverberated through the air, followed by a sudden impact within the castle walls and something flying inside. The man's arms dropped to his side in defeat, as he turned and stumbled inside; Joel followed him in.

"Where's the cave!?" Joel asked.

The man turned, his eyes glazed over, "it's this way," the man said slowly, before he collapsed to the ground.

Joel ran to the man's side. "Hey! Hey!" Joel tried to wake him, but to no avail. Shit! I can't carry him with me! He cursed the dilemma of leaving him, but he couldn't save them both. Where's this fucking exit!?

"BACK!" A man's voice screamed, faintly echoing through the castle, "BACK!"

That's Tiberius? The voice came from higher up in the castle. Shit shit shit, Joel seemed so close to safety, but he didn't know where to go. Tiberius will help. But. The thought, that whatever had flown in was likely strong enough to kill him easily, terrified him. Resolve, Joel, he told himself. Resolve.

Running through the city had been bad enough, but the countless stairs up the castle were a new form of torture. Every step now came with an audible squelch in his shoes as they filled with blood - he didn't know if it was his or not, but he dared not check.

Dashing really fucks with my feet, what a stupid fucking result of using a skill. The thought stopped when he saw the sight of several dead women and children, sprawled under a window. His eyes widened and his mouth scrunched - he wanted to weep, or be sick.

"Gah!" A scream echoed louder, "Run!"

Tiberius!? Joel fought through the urge to mourn, and moved past the bodies, averting his eyes. He continued his ascent up the stairs, his shaking legs wanting to give up with every step.

The closer Joel got, the clearer and louder the clashes of metal became. As he neared the top of the stairway, he leaned against the wall and poked his head around the corner. Lining the hallway were the bodies of several royals - their blood painting the walls.

In the dim light of the hall, at the far end and illuminated by the occasional explosive lights from outside, a figure emerged along with the sound of metal clashing on metal. At first glance, it appeared almost human; but it's once-human features were partially distorted with sickly yellow eyes that glimmered with an unsettling and unblinking intensity, and a pallid complexion of its skin. As it stepped deeper into the light of the hall, Joel could see horns that jutted from its arms like twisted daggers. It appeared to be clad in tattered remnants of washed-out multi-colored garbs - an attire which contradicted the very essence of the creature itself. Amidst the worn fabrics and frayed edges, were small pieces of armor fashioned from bone and sinew. Every movement clicked the bones together - a melody, or cry - Joel did not know which, but it rang through the air as it danced through the hallway, and besides it, pushing it back, stood Tiberius.

Old man!?

Despite the years that hung on his weathered face and grey hair, Tiberius fought with a ferocity that lied of his true age. Each strike of his blade was delivered with precision and determination, swiftly followed by a smooth transition into another strike.

Joel could maybe see one or two strikes out of what could have been dozens, the speed and accuracy looked unlike anything he had imagined. The clang of steel as it clashed, or grazed the horns on the creature's arms, echoed in Joel's mind. He watched in awe as Tiberius battled the creature into a defensive stance, his heart pounded with admiration.

He's on the offence! Holy shit! The people in this world are amazing! He kept watching, believing he could do nothing to help. But a sense of worry washed over him. Tiberius, despite his efforts and exuded energy, and sweat dripping from his face, had failed to land a blow, and he knew it.

"Run! Now!" Tiberius screamed. Joel could see the strain in his eyes as their fight continued down the hallway.

He's scared. He wants me to run. But... Joel pictured Roland in his mind, briefly contemplating what he would do in this moment. Be brave, he told himself, not necessarily feeling that he should be brave, but rather, projecting Roland's courage onto himself, and in the heat of the moment he conflated the two - blurring the lines of his own mentality and that of the man he admired.

With the creature's back to Joel, he slowly moved into the hallway - the thought of Roland's bravery naively captivating him - he unsheathed his sword, and prepared to strike. I can do something here... I can help, then we can run away together!

"It's pointless," it said, suddenly, stopping Joel in his tracks. The voice scratched with a chilling blend of stillness and malice; no doubt or fear could be heard in its inflection, just a calm hatred, devoid of compassion.

Joel's heart skipped a beat as he pictured how exposed he had made himself, how open, how vulnerable. What am I doing?

"Your king is dead," it continued, "and his world will fall."

Every word it spoke sent a shiver down Joel's spine. It spoke as if filled with an unbreakable sense of its own infallibility. It didn't seem to be resolve, or bravery, but something else. Something more controlling. It turned to face Joel and smiled.

His mind stopped, his eyes widened, his mouth stood agape, and he felt a chill cover his body. Run... Joel... run!!

Tiberius took a chance and attacked, but the creature turned back and caught the blade with the horns in its arm, then twisted the sword, throwing Tiberius off balance. It grabbed an exhausted Tiberius by the throat, then turned to look at Joel.

It all happened in a second, but it lasted so much longer in Joel's mind. His hands shook with the weight of the blade as several thoughts flashed through his head all at once; one-handed, he echoed, ensuring the blade rested in his right hand only. Footwork, he focused on his feet, which were spread to ensure his balance would be able to dodge in any direction. Don't telegraph with your eyes, he had set his target and averted his gaze. He felt ready to dash forwards and strike - but his mouth wouldn't speak. His feet were frozen and his mind spun in turmoil. He had no lucid thoughts, except for a vague sense of discomfort; he did not want to hurt this person, he just wanted Tiberius and himself to be safe. What are you doing!? Fight! Now's your chance! The brief thought of tearing through the creature's flesh made him question his morality. He tried to convince himself that it was all just a game as he steadied his resolve. Then, suddenly, in the very next moment, the creature dropped its weapon to the ground. It clattered against the stone floor, and a momentary relief relaxed Joel's muscles. It'll be fine, he told himself. It was less of a thought and more of a feeling, a gut wrenching scream quickly replaced it as a horn plunged through Tiberius's chest.

"NOOOO!" Joel dashed forwards without thought, slicing as he did. He moved twice as fast as before and had not telegraphed it in the slightest. He hadn't really intended to attack, and had dashed clear across the hallway and into the room at the end, but had dashed without a real position in mind and tried to stop himself too early, breaking several of his toes in the process.

As his dash ended, and he stood facing the wall, he realized his blade had not connected with anything but air. He spun on his heels as he winced from the pain - his sword ready to defend - but the creature ignored him. At that moment, Joel caught the sight of a young boy cowering in the corner of the room. It was him that Tiberius was telling to run!?

Joel, while able to see it, could not react in time when the creature pulled a horn from its arm and threw it into the throat of the boy.

"Prince..." Tiberius whispered before the creature snapped his neck and dropped him to the floor.

The prince slid down the wall holding his neck as he struggled to breath. Blood filled his mouth rapidly, forming bubbles as he tried to speak.

Joel's body ran cold. He found himself completely alone, his back to a wall, facing an enemy he could never hope to defeat.

His mind felt completely empty as he thoughtlessly stepped forwards with another slash. For a brief instant, his body reacted faster than his mind could - leaning slightly to the side as a sword ran up through his chest and out the other end, cutting his right arm clean off.

***

There was nothing.

No noise at all.

No sound left his mouth as he collapsed to the ground.

His mind fluttered in a state of fading consciousness.

Memories flooded his vision.

He was there, in the room, but he was also lost in the memory of his life.

Everything up till now happened all at once, and he saw it all play out before him; a video of all his failures.

He felt no pain.

No feeling of moisture as the blood gushed from his body.

No fear, or emotion at all.

Just a silent video of his life as it flashed by, and an out-of-body experience as he saw himself bleed to death.

"Quick reactions," the creature laughed, "must hurt." It sheathed its sword and walked over to the prince, who barely hung onto life. The creature pulled out the horn in his throat, grabbed the prince by the head, and stabbed again, killing him. "All you do is take." It stabbed again. "And take." And again. "Your whole damn race sickens me." Then stabbed a final time. It let the body go and it fell limply to the blood-filled carpet. The creature turned back and walked to the center of the room, grabbed Joel by the neck, and threw him into the wall, letting out a scream as it did. "YOU STOLE EVERYTHING FROM US!" It cried. "VIVAXEM WAS A PEACEFUL LAND UNTIL YOU RIPPED US FROM OUR BEDS!" Its scream reverberated through the halls as it cried out in anguish. It grabbed Joel again, lifting him face to face. "This was never a war over land. It was nothing less than the extermination of..."

A sudden rumble and blinding light cut him off. A golden hue illuminated not just the room, but the entire night's sky.

"No," the creature said meekly, its weakened grip letting Joel go. "My Lord..." It turned to face the blinding light.

In the dim, mental haze of his inevitable death, Joel summoned the last vestiges of his strength. His trembling left hand reached over to the right side of his body, and with a final, desperate movement, he clicked onto his inventory.

Confronted with an encroaching darkness, and a vague sense of sadness, he uttered a solitary word before surrendering to the void.

"Accept."