FVR

Chapter Sixteen.

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While Joel had been able to follow the fight, the quick thinking and unspoken communication between the prisoners was far more than he had expected for people that weren't already in the military. They had moved so well together, each one knowing how to impact the battle in order to find an opening. However, despite their efforts, it all amounted to nothing.

So, that's the strength of someone with an orange name? Joel still wondered what the colors specified and how large the range of ability was. With Ali, for example, he seemed far more experienced than the other three prisoners, but his name was still green. Give me a manual already, Joel asked the void.

Dalton brushed himself off again and realigned his scabbard. "You, and you," he pointed at Joel and another prisoner, "show me what you can do without weapons."

Shit. No, it's fine. Joel sized up the other prisoner: half a foot shorter and just as skinny; his unkempt hair and unwashed face gave Joel second thoughts on getting too close, but he felt more confident without a weapon than he did with one. If the others were that good with weapons, I might not stand a chance against this one. He reflected on his stats, without the Dozrak'een sword, I've lost a bunch of strength, but I should still have a lot more than him... Time to find out just how much thirty strength really is.

Joel looked at the prisoner's name, Smithy, and copied his stance.

Smithy crouched, making himself smaller while lowering his head. He stepped forwards with one hand in front of the other while protecting his face. Joel had seen something similar before with boxing, so assumed Smithy was going to throw a jab, but instead, he reached out with one hand to grab at Joel while furiously swinging his other. The left hand acted as a shield, the right as a sword, while Smithy stepped in and put pressure on Joel with a flurry of blows. There was very little technique to it and no finesse, but it was enough of an effort to push Joel back, as he panicked at the thought of pain.

The punches landed with a feeble force against Joel's left side, many of them only grazing his chest and arm. Disoriented by the rapid flurry of blows, he found himself instinctively retreating, unaware that the first punch hadn't hurt at all. Bit by bit, he was pushed back toward the edge of the yard. Punch by punch, however, Joel started to gain some confidence. Despite the initial shock, the lack of pain from Smithy's punches made Joel feel far stronger than he had ever felt. It was too difficult to know if it was because of Smithy's own weakness, or if the stats had truly increased Joel's strength; either way, he felt his back straighten and his shoulders rise as his confidence grew, and found himself looming over the small man who swatted at him.

With a sudden, half-hearted swing of his left fist, he connected with Smithy's jaw. It was only a graze, but it was enough to send him sprawling to the floor with a thud, enveloped in a cloud of dust.

Whoa, Joel laughed slightly at what he had done - knocking someone down with a single punch was the stuff of dreams, yet here he was. The sting on his knuckles and the thrill in his chest made him feel as though he could live forever, but the feeling didn't last long before he remembered how weak he was compared to the others around him. He glanced up to Dalton and then to Ali, both of whom watched on in silence.

As Smithy cried out in pain and spat out a tooth, he glanced desperately towards Dalton for guidance. Joel stood with a contemplative look on his face, internally celebrating his victory, but externally waiting for confirmation.

"Keep going," Dalton said, his words dropping like lead weights into Joel's chest.

Feeling torn between aggression and empathy, Joel also looked to Dalton. He was now the aggressor, but he didn't feel like one, he felt like a bully. The feeble man in front of him - slowly crawling away in pain - was not who Joel wanted to fight.

Dalton looked on with no sympathy, his arms crossed and a scowl on his face, he stepped in and pushed Joel forwards with a firm open palm, "keep going," he instructed with a frustrated tone.

Joel looked down as he loomed over Smithy; his soft, furrowed eyes, caught upon the cowering man beneath him.

"He's done," Joel said softly, no ounce of triumph in his voice. He saw a lot of himself in the man on the floor and wondered if this was what strength was: the simple power over another person, regardless of their own weakness.

Dalton unsheathed his sword and wielded his scabbard, he approached Smithy with long, heavy strides, and hit him several times with wide swings, "evil gives no quarter!" He yelled, then turned to Joel, sheathing his blade, "do not teach them pity, for the enemy will show none!" Dalton turned with his large frame to address every man in the yard, turning as he spoke to make eye contact with each one of them. "Weakness is death. Here, you are not what you were born, nor what your decisions made you. You are warriors of house Tempest. Act like such, and you shall become more than who you are. Who you could ever hope to be." He stepped to Joel, "and when evil knocks, you must be prepared to kill," he paused for a moment, his unblinking brown eyes full of emotion, then slowly turned to Smithy, curled up in a ball and weeping from the pain, "and you must be prepared to die."

Joel wanted to speak up. He wanted to say how unfair it was, and how hurting Smithy wouldn't achieve anything. But he couldn't. The world he had found himself in was tough, ruthless, and cold. He had already seen just how harsh the game could be, and it hadn't even really begun yet.

He's right, Joel admitted, lowering his hands. Strength isn't just about physical power; it's a mentality. He glanced at Ali and the others - bloodied and bruised - still with a resolve in their eyes that reflected the heat of the sun. Then, he looked back to Smithy, the man whom he had just beaten, and realized that this was not the type of strength that he needed.

"How," Joel choked, clearing his throat, "how do I kill the part of me that doesn't want to kill?"

Dalton's stern eyes softened slightly as they widened, the wrinkles on his forehead relaxed enough to show his age. "You don't kill it," he replied gently. "You learn to control it..." he paused, placing a withered hand on Joel's shoulder, "we control our instincts, we do not erase them. Having a kind heart is a strength on its own. Never lose that. But temper it - with fire - until you can wield it like a blade." Dalton removed his hand, then added quietly with a venomous tone, "not every soul deserves kindness."

Joel stood with the warmth of the sun at his back, and the cold weight of Dalton's words on his mind. He had thought that there was a fine line between killing and not killing, between hurting and not hurting, right and wrong, good and evil, but there wasn't. There was no clear line, and no single rule to live by. Life here, he began to understand, was nuanced, and filled with shades of grey. The real challenge lay in discerning when to act with force and when to show restraint; a challenge Joel was currently too uncertain to face.

Could hurting someone truly make them safer? Or make them stronger? It was a thought he had never considered before, and he felt immoral to do so. He realized he never knew what it felt like to hurt another person, not physically, anyway, not until now, and reflected back on his final conversation with Roland. Can good come from pain? Before, he answered only thinking about experiencing pain. But Roland may have also been referring to causing pain. I wish I could talk with him again...

Dalton finished writing on the parchment while looking up to each prisoner. "Keep sparring or training your mana sense," he said before leaving the yard.

Joel was still deep in thought, trying to piece together a lesson he knew he had learned but couldn't put into words, when he felt a deft touch on his shoulder. Ali's distorted voice flooded the air around him.

"I feel you do not belong in such a place?" Ali asked. His voice was suddenly all that Joel could hear.

The other prisoners sparred and their swords clashed in mime around them, it was as if he were surrounded by glass. Joel looked at Ali's hand on his shoulder, then back to Ali. "What did you do?" He asked.

Ali exhaled, pausing silently before he answered. "This would be akin to a shield," he said with the same sharpness and rolling cadence as before. "Except, however, it does not now repel attack. Instead, I think, I tell the mana to keep sound inside. Or, perhaps, that is how I understand it to be."

An area of silence? Joel imagined the possibilities, then wondered how Ali could use such a technique as someone of his status. I really don't know how the magic in this world works... Before he could ask, Ali continued.

"A merchant has need of silence, sometimes. Though, such a gift does not last long. Understand?" He had a stern, investigative look in his eyes.

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Joel nodded, realizing that such a conversation would be fleeting. "I don't know where I belong," he answered.

Ali nodded slowly, "and if you could perhaps leave this place, you would?" He asked.

"I've got nowhere to go," Joel replied, thinking about the world around him and his place in it. He waited for Ali to speak, but he appeared lost in thought struggling to find a response. "Why are you talking to me when the others won't?" Joel asked, reflecting on their conversation in the city, and Ali's persistence now.

Ali hid a smile by biting the inside of his cheeks, then gave a non-committal, instinctive reply, "why indeed."

Joel sighed heavily and raised his arms in frustration, "why the fuck are people here so damn elusive?"

His words took Ali by surprise. Ali smirked, then let out an amused laugh. "I suppose you are right; you have lived a different life after all." He paused, tucking his long hair behind his ears with his free hand. "Those who are elusive, tend not to want to be seen, no?" He said with a softer tone.

"So, you're worried you'll stand out?" Joel probed.

"Or, perhaps, say something you may use against me." Ali replied honestly, his stern face having softened.

"So, why talk to me? Why take that risk?" Joel persisted, feeling a hook in his mouth.

Ali nodded, and paused. "A man with nothing, must risk everything to gain something." His piercing eyes pulled at Joel again.

Joel looked away, contemplating Ali's words without the distraction of his gaze. "And what do you want to gain from me?" He asked, curious of what he had to offer.

"What any man needs from other men. Strength." Ali replied. A cacophony of clanging and heavy breathing flooded the air, and Ali removed his hand. "I am Ali," he said, "we shall speak again soon, Joel." He then placed a finger to his lips, then walked over to the prisoners he had sparred with before.

I forgot I hadn't asked his name. Wait, did I call him Ali at any point? Joel shook his head and thought about what little strength he had, and how important it would be to gain the trust of others. He looked up to the sky and traced a cloud with his eyes, I may be stuck here for awhile, huh? He looked back down and at his hand and tried to imagine a shield that blocked sound, but the idea was too abstract for him to picture.

Fuck. Why can't this game be easier?

***

Dalton returned a few moments later and ordered the prisoners to line up. As they did, three people entered the yard a few steps behind him, each with an orange hue above their heads. Dalton gave a short nod to them and they stopped in the entrance, each one looking away from the other.

From one, to twenty-two, Dalton placed the prisoners into one of three units: Unblessed Infantry, Rear Support, and General Assistance. Joel was placed into the later.

General assistance? Even though I won the fight? Joel pondered on his designation until Dalton had finished, then tried to speak up. "Why am I not," he said before Dalton interrupted.

"Until you cool your warm heart, and you have mastered your instincts, you will give your energy to complete tasks within the fortress, is that understood?" Joel half nodded, lost in thought about what he did wrong and whether Ali would cut ties with him.

Dalton moved to the centre of the yard and spoke loudly, pacing from side to side while moving his gaze from prisoner to prisoner as he spoke. "Before you leave with your unit leader, I shall inform you of your status and your rights. From this moment on, you are considered recruits in the Kings army. As recruits, you are above nobody, and shall do as commanded, when commanded. You will be fed and clothed by your unit head and shall stay within their public quarters from sundown to sunrise. The crimes that led you here will result in your hanging if they are repeated. Any who leave the walls without permission will be considered a deserter and will be hanged. Remember! If you forfeit your training, you will forfeit your lives!" Dalton turned to the three people at the entrance and walked towards them. He folded the parchment and placed it into his pocket, then corralled the prisoners into three lines. "Unblessed Infantry, stand here," he gestured to his left, "you shall be sent with Beatrice."

Joel turned from Ali, who gave a subtle nod as he lined up, to see a slender woman with narrow eyes underlined with dark bags. Her starved face and hollow cheeks framed her sharp features. Her nose drooped heavily, as if made of wet wax, and a bandage wrapped itself around her neck tightly. Her movements were sluggish as she brushed her straw-like hair from her tired eyes, like that of a wilted flower bending under the weight of heavy rain. She remained silent, communicating instead through a sharp gesture with slender fingers to usher them forwards. With a silent nod and a weak smile, she led the group with Ali out of the yard.

"Rear Support, stand here," he gestured to the right of where the first line had been, "you shall be sent with Aria."

Aria was a short woman, probably no taller than five feet. She bounced in place on the balls of her feet with an unbridled enthusiasm and unruly energy. Her wild, untamed hair flowed sporadically in the wind like a flurry of autumn leaves. With tight-fitting clothing and shoes worn to the leather, she reminded Joel of the Zumba instructor his mum used to see. She spoke quickly, but clearly, chattering away about the plan for the day and her expectation of each person as she disappeared from view with her new members.

"And General Assistance, stand here," Dalton continued, he gestured again to form the third line with the remaining four prisoners, "you shall be sent with Rupert," he said sharply, his voice tinged with a hint of contempt.

Joel took one look at Rupert and immediately disliked him. His smug, self-satisfied expression lay beneath a perpetual sneer; and despite the evidently harsh lifestyle of the military, he alone dressed in fine, well-tailored clothing and a decorative cane that spoke of his wealth and status.

With a lazy, and uninterested glance, Rupert addressed Joel and the others with a sense of disdain. “Come,” he said snobbishly, “the lavatories require a thorough scrubbing.” He didn't make eye contact before he turned and left, leaving the four of them to look to Dalton for instruction.

"Go," Dalton said, spurring them forwards. Dalton reached out and grabbed Joel by the arm as he passed. "The world is not good, just because you want it to be," he said, shaking his head. "Find your resolve, and then find Beatrice." He let go and Joel stuttered forwards, following the others blindly. He looked to the ground as he processed Dalton's words, and wondered how he could prove it when he was ready to kill.

Joel jogged for a few seconds to catch up to his group. He glanced back to Dalton who walked in the opposite direction, then back to the portly man in charge of him. A sense of regret filled his chest.

Rupert didn't speak a word as they walked through the fortress and into a building, where a dimly lit corridor welcomed Joel with a cleaner smell - a pleasant change from the smoke and manure outside. However, a faint smell of damp earth and sweat still lingered in the musty air.

The building seemed old, but well maintained. The sturdy stone walls had no sign of cobwebs or dirt, and were adorned with flickering torches and decorative ornaments. Narrow windows let in slivers of light, decreasing in brightness the further they walked in. Wooden doors lined the corridor, some closed, some wide open, offering glimpses into large, vacant rooms. Sounds of footsteps echoed through the halls, mixing with indistinct chatter and the ringing of metals and irons on stone. Despite the noise, the vastness of the fortress created an illusion of isolation.

Fearing getting lost, Joel looked behind him to remember the path out, carefully building a map in his mind.

After a few twists and turns, Joel arrived at a room on the far end of the corridor. Rupert held a handkerchief to his nose and candidly pushed the door open with his cane. A putrid and moist scent assaulted Joel's senses as the door swung open, suffocating him with the unmistakable stench of feces.

Inside the dark and damp room were two rows of wooden stalls lining either side. The heavy air choked Joel's throat, causing him to gag involuntarily. You can't be fucking serious!?

"Get on with it," Rupert said, his voice muffled by the handkerchief, "do not bother finding me until the evening, I'm a busy man you know; and be sure to clean yourselves in the General Assistance Bathhouse once you have finished." He took a few steps up the hall before turning back, "ah! Your names?"

Joel held his hand over his face and answered along with the others. John, Curt, and Smithy, he echoed as they addressed themselves. The later was still bleeding, his black and bruised eyes avoiding looking in Joel's direction.

Rupert left without saying a word, and without noticing Joel was unblessed - not that he'd be the type to care.

Joel's stomach dropped and his head began to ache as he thought about what he had to do. Immediately, he regretted not bashing the living daylights out of Smithy when he had the choice.

How have I ended up with this? Joel looked to the others, resigned to their fates, and considered killing himself and returning home. The moment this is done, I swear I'll be ready to kill someone.

Ignorant of how to clean such a state, Joel was led by the others. The process involved emptying a pot into the main waste area, followed by the laborious and nauseating shoveling of the more solid, older waste at the bottom of the stools. The waste was then taken outside, apparently for transport to use as fertilizer, before Curt rinsed the pots while the others scrubbed the surfaces.

To say it put Joel off eating would be an understatement. Even after the chore was done and he was outside with cleaner air, he still felt the urge to throw up.

The process had taken the four of them nearly an hour. Without Rupert around and with no more tasks, they found themselves free to bathe. It was only now that Joel realized he had spent a little over three days in the game without showering, and until now, he hadn't felt the urge to. He wondered if levelling, or clearing a wave, washed him at the same time, or if he had simply been nose-blind to it before now. Whatever the answer, he had never felt the need for a clean more desperately than he did right now.

Finding the quarters for the General Assistance Unit wasn't difficult, although it did require asking directions from several people until one could stand their smell. Inside, they were welcomed by several barrels of clean water, with a cloth and soap next to each. To Joel, this was the bare minimum of what he expected - especially for a communal bathhouse. But for the others, it was the first time they had used proper soap, and was likely a luxury provided by Rupert who couldn't stand their stench. I guess he's good for something.

Joel first washed his hands and face separately from the main barrel of water, then soaked in the barrel, finding an overdue moment of peace.

The others laughed and kept smelling the soap, which brought a faint smile to Joel's musty lips. It had been a long day, and his life had never felt so chaotic. But somewhere beneath the layers of mud, the torment of the game, and the smell of shit, Joel felt a sense of fatigue he hadn't experienced in a long time - the kind of tiredness that only comes from pushing oneself, and the feeling of accomplishment that came with it. To a man who was recently a recluse, unable to do any physical work - it was a small - but powerful reward.

With the feeling of pain as a fading memory, he lay there until his skin wrinkled, and his will to fight overwhelmed him. He climbed out, dressed himself, then made for the exit.

"Where are you going?" John asked, a hint of worry in his voice.

"To train," Joel replied, "and to master my instincts."