Buren's awakening the next day was not to the haunting specters of his dreams, but to the insistent nudge of an elbow from the monk beside him. He blinked open crust-laden eyes, immediately squinting as the candle and brazier light seared into his brain. The fiery sensation emanating from his gut, coupled with the urgent need to relieve himself, made it clear that he couldn't linger lying on the floor, no matter how grueling the alternative appeared.
The rigorous fasting and self-denial with the Faith had left him ill-prepared for the previous night's festivities. His body, already lean and parched, had not taken kindly to the excesses. Yet, his training had also honed his resilience. Clearing the grit from his eyes, he cautiously surveyed his surroundings. He lay amidst a sea of monks, sprawled on bedding initially meant for the infirm. The revelry had incapacitated more men than any brutal battle he'd ever witnessed. Yet, many had willingly joined their incapacitated brethren just for the sake of it. No one thought themselves too good to join the ranks of the infirm. Probably because they did their best not to think anything, Buren reminded himself.
With effort, he extricated himself from the tangle of limbs, relying heavily on his trusty right arm to hoist him upright. His body protested with soreness, his head throbbed, and his mouth felt like a desert. Yet, for a fleeting moment, he felt an unfamiliar lightness, a hint of joy. It was short-lived, however, as the weight of his mission came crashing back, obliterating any semblance of happiness. Anod was nowhere in sight amidst the sea of slumbering monks. Buren made his way to the water barrels, sidestepping the prone figures. Forgoing the ladle, he plunged his face into the cool water, gulping down mouthfuls. Revitalized, he wiped himself dry with his robe's sleeve and grabbed a plate of the bland roots and vegetables that now seemed perfectly palatable. He then sought the refreshing embrace of the outdoors.
The morning outside was crisp, the square before the temple deserted. The cool breeze was a balm on his skin, a stark contrast to the humid, sweaty cloud of fumes he had stewed in for the morning hours. He was feeling better already.
A sound, akin to ice shattering, drew his attention. It emanated from behind a hillock dotted with the area's characteristic stone statues. In the dim light, he noticed the statues shimmered, reminiscent of the bioluminescent flora, despite lacking any discernible grooves or pores. Curiosity piqued, he navigated through the stone figures to investigate.
On the hill's other side, he found Anod, completely disrobed, breaking the ice atop a pond using a studded pole. The man greeted him with an unabashed grin, appearing none the worse for wear despite participating in, and winning, multiple drinking competitions the last evening..
"Morning," Anod greeted. "Care to join me for a dip? The water's just fine this time of year."
The pond shimmered with clarity, revealing a tapestry of rounded stones in hues ranging from verdant green to fiery red and the deep obsidian of a moonless night. Each stone emitted a faint luminescence, yet they bore no resemblance to the ancient stony outgrowths of yore.
"Why the hesitation?" Anod teased. "Are you getting cold feet?"
Buren shot him a mild glare. He had endured icy waters as a form of discipline and devotion, a rite of the Penitent. It was never a pursuit of pleasure. In Coldwood, plunging into natural waters was a summer ritual, with saunas being the favored method of cleansing during the colder months. However, the lingering grime on his skin and the haze clouding his mind made the prospect of a frigid dip appealing. With resolve, he shed his cloak and undergarments. Anod, with an approving nod, waded into the pool, immersing himself up to his neck with a satisfied sigh. Buren followed suit, steeling himself against the initial shock.
"Don't resist," Anod advised. "That's just the mind's protest. Remember, we can leave whenever we wish; there's no peril here. Tune into your body. It revels in the sensation, if your inner hearing is good enough."
Buren rolled his eyes but decided to indulge Anod's perspective. To his astonishment, he soon found himself relaxing into the embrace of the cold. The sharpness of the chill heightened his senses, and as he exhaled, mirroring Anod's earlier sigh, he grasped the tranquility it brought.
Buren fished one of the stones from the bottom and scrutinized it. The stone, with its autumnal red hue, was impeccably smooth and emitted a gentle glow in his hand.
"We've infused them with the dust derived from the diluvial stems, granting them this luminescence," Anod explained. "It's our primary export. Or at least, it was. Our output has dwindled of late, with so many of our brethren incapacitated. The care they require consumes the energies of those still able-bodied. I suppose people will need to seek alternative sources for their lighting, dyes, and paints."
"Why keep the incapacitated around?" Buren inquired. "I was under the impression that you frowned upon those who couldn't fulfill their roles."
"As long as there is hope of healing, the body prefers to keep its parts," Anod replied. "We'll nurture them. In time, they'll find ways to contribute to the whole once more."
Buren studied the stone a moment longer before releasing it, letting it sink back to its resting place. A contemplative silence enveloped the two.
"You're still set on going ahead?" Anod finally broke the stillness.
Buren simply nodded in affirmation.
"You've chosen the path governed by the mind," Anod observed. "I've implored you many times, and I won't belittle your resolve with further entreaties, even if I find myself at odds with your reasoning. The very thought of your chosen future chills my heart. The Challenge will determine our destinies. As your friend, both I and my brethren will strive to ensure your defeat—for our sake and, perhaps, for yours. Maybe defeat here would put a stop to your mad, delirious strivings and guide you towards inner tranquility."
Buren met his gaze, unwavering.
With a graceful motion, Anod emerged from the pond. Beside it, a vase warmed by a gentle flame beckoned. He lifted its lid, drawing forth a handful of oil, which he began to methodically apply over his skin.
"Feel free to use some," he offered, gesturing towards the vessel. "It wards off the chill. All creatures dwelling in these heights possess a layer of fat beneath their fur. While we may lack such natural insulation, we compensate with mastery over our muscles. Still, a touch of this oil is a boon, especially during a full day's vigil at the outer gate."
Buren's brow furrowed. He had just managed to cleanse himself of the previous evening's residues. Nevertheless, he stepped out of the pool, his feet slightly numb from the cold. Opting for his left hand, he scooped some of the warming oil, applying it generously. The oil not only provided immediate warmth but also formed a protective barrier against the brisk air. Contrary to his expectations, it felt like a second skin rather than film of suffocating wax.
Anod, now clad in his loincloth, remarked, "Shave that beard, add a few tattoos, and perhaps thirty more pounds, and you'd blend seamlessly here."
Buren, not wanting to take any chances, donned his complete attire—shirt, trousers, robe, and boots. The mountain's unpredictable climate warranted such precautions, even with his newfound protective layer.
By now, the monks had awakened, efficiently clearing the remnants of the feast. A dedicated group meticulously scrubbed the floor, erasing any lingering traces of the night's revelry. Subsequently, they engaged in their morning rituals, a blend of precise movements, rhythmic breathing, and immersion in the surrounding chilly waters. Observing them, Buren marveled at their discipline, finding it hard to reconcile with the exuberant celebrations of mere hours ago.
By noon, the monks, seemingly without a cue, gathered in the temple's forecourt. They stood in solemn stillness, their gazes fixed on the horizon where the sun began its ascent. As the sun's full orb emerged, reminiscent of a radiant gem edging over a table, they initiated a resonant chant. The mantra, in a tongue unfamiliar to Buren, swelled and receded in rhythmic waves, each crescendo more potent than the last. The hymn reverberated through the courtyard, its echoes bouncing off the temple walls and surrounding mountains. Just when Buren believed their voices had reached their zenith, they soared even higher. Then, as Anod appeared on the balcony above, the chorus ceased, plunging the courtyard into a profound silence. After the overpowering harmonies, the quiet felt tangible, as if the very air had stilled.
"Brothers!" Anod's voice rang out, addressing the assembly. "The sun heralds the commencement of the Trials. From this moment, discussions and debates surrounding the Challenge are forbidden. We are bound only by the reality of the Challenge."
He gestured to three monks standing apart from the congregation. "Speak, Messengers of the Corporeal! Declare the challenges our contenders shall face over the next three days."
"The Stones," intoned the first monk, his declaration echoed by the multitude.
"The Hunt," proclaimed the second, his statement resonating through the crowd.
"The Poles."
Once the mass ended its refrain, Anod declared, "The first trial commences at the Crystal Cave's entrance. You have one hour to ready yourselves. The Messenger who has informed us will ensure the necessary provisions are in place."
As the crowd dispersed, Buren found himself momentarily isolated, uncertain of his preparations. Yet, this unfamiliarity didn't perturb him. He was accustomed to the unpredictability of each day, always aware that it might be his last. He fortified himself in his usual manner: a modest meal of meat and grains, followed by stretches and light combat drills to limber up.
Approaching the cave entrance an hour later, the throng parted, creating a corridor flanked by stern-faced monks. Anod awaited him at the entrance, accompanied by the designated Messenger and two unlit braziers filled with wood and dried leaves.
Without hesitation, as Buren stepped forward, Anod began to speak.
"The first Trial, as decreed by the Messenger, seeks to gauge one's prowess in manifesting the intangible aspects of their being—the unseen essence and distinct attributes that distinguish every soul. In line with our hallowed traditions, contenders are tasked with sculpting stone effigies, enduring testaments to their spirit and lineage, long after their mortal coil has disintegrated. To aid this endeavor, sacred herbs are provided to obscure the conscious mind, allowing the body's innate artistry to emerge. The resultant creations will be assessed, not only for the physical prowess and dexterity they exhibit but also for the sincerity and depth of self-expression. Furthermore, the sculptures will be evaluated based on the visceral, unbidden reactions they evoke in onlookers, essentially, how its reverberation awakens dormant energies in others. The deadline is dawn tomorrow."
Anod reached out his arms, both palms cupped upwards, and two monks poured paint onto his hands, green on the right and red on the left. He then pressed the green-tinted palm against the Messenger's bare chest, imprinting a vivid handprint over the heart. After a brief, expectant pause, Buren unveiled his chest, allowing Anod to brand him with a sanguine handprint.
This ritual was beyond Buren's expectations, although he had not known what to expect in the first place. He observed intently as the Messenger, his competitor, seized a brazier and ventured into the cave's depths. Buren's questioning gaze met Anod's, who responded with a faint smile and a gesture for silence. "Seems the time for discourse truly has ended," Buren mused internally. Without further delay, he grasped the remaining incense burner and, torch in hand, delved into the labyrinthine cavern. Strategically placed torches illuminated the cave, their flames dancing upon the myriad crystals that adorned the cavern's expanse. The rhythmic chipping of stone echoed from the depths, though its source remained elusive. His opponent must have already begun his work
As Buren pondered his next move, a torch's emerald hue caught his eye. Scanning the vicinity, he spotted its crimson counterpart near a cavernous aperture. Scaling the wall to reach the red beacon was trivial, thanks to the rugged surface and protruding crystals. He hunched over to fit into the shaft, following the trail of red torches deeper into the mountain's bowels. After traversing a shallow stream and crawling through narrow passages, with the eerie echo of his own footsteps mimicking a pursuer, he emerged into a luminous chamber. Sunlight filtered through an overhead crevice, illuminating a massive stone block. An array of tools lay nearby, accompanied by paint jars of diverse shades. Encircling the monolith were red torches and a circular arrangement of multicolored gems, perfectly sized for his brazier.
It was evident: this sanctum was where he was supposed to craft his magnum opus.
He stood still, recalling the works he had seen on the hills outside. He had hoped to draw inspiration from them, but did not know what to incorporate from them as the symbols they bore were unfamiliar to him. The realization dawned that he had not been given any context or guidance regarding the motifs or the principles that shaped these stones. A flare of frustration ignited within him; he could inadvertently carve a jest or meaningless patterns into the stone. His jaw tightened. Was this lack of direction deliberate, a ploy to undermine him? Despite Anod's affable facade, Buren couldn't shake the feeling that he had been played. Pushing these thoughts aside, he gripped the tools with determination. During his earlier exploration, he had been captivated by a particular stone, a masterful blend of muscular forms and intricate symbols. He resolved to replicate its design, prepared to fabricate meanings for its features if questioned.
"If I'm going to copy, might as well copy from the best," he mused. But as he poised to deliver the hammer's inaugural strike, doubt paralyzed him. His intended design, though magnificent, lacked the personal resonance that was the heart of this challenge. In a fit of frustration, he cast the chisel into the shadows.
Lost in thought, he paced the chamber, nearly tripping over the brazier he had brought. Initially, he had decided against using it, as Anod's description of its effects had seemed dubious to him, if he had been telling the truth at all. But now, with the odds against him, it seemed like his only hope. Crouching, he ignited the incense. A thick column of smoke rose from the flames, surprising him with its intensity. As he watched the smoke swirl and dance, filling the room with its hazy presence, he felt a stinging in his eyes and a strong fragrance he couldn't place at first. The aroma transported him: the familiar scent of his childhood woods intertwined with the smoky tendrils from his family's cabin chimney. A sweeter note, reminiscent of blossoms and honey, evoked memories of his mother, though the exact association eluded him. His heart raced, not with trepidation, but with a giddy, childlike excitement.
"What in the Flood is happening?" he pondered, his analytical mind grappling with the overwhelming sensations. He almost lost his balance and struggled to stay on his short, bowed legs. But then he noticed that his legs were the same, yet he couldn't shake the feeling that he had shrunk down to the size of a child.
"The smoke!" Buren's realization struck with clarity. "Anod wasn't kidding about its influence. If anything, he understated it." His mind was still the same, but his body seemed to think it had returned to the state of his childhood. A sense of wonder swelled within him, contrasting starkly with the typical apprehension he would have felt in such circumstances. The smoke's acrid bite forced his eyes shut, and he found himself sprawled on the cave floor. Yet, beneath him, it felt like the rough-hewn planks of his childhood dwelling, his cherished wooden sword resting on his lap. Now that he thought about it, there was something more than just playful in the way his hand grasped the toy weapon. Determination. Obligation. Words that a child would not have known but could instinctively understand. The smoke's essence rendered these memories almost palpable, amplifying every sensation. He felt each individual muscle fiber tense, the rhythmic contractions of his digestive system, and the nuanced ebb and flow of his bloodstream. Despite the sensory deluge, his mind remained an observant bystander, preventing him from spiraling into panic.
Yet, as the biting cold gnawed at his bones and hunger gnarled his stomach, he knew what was coming, and braced. "No," he rasped, but his resistance did little to stave off the intensifying sensations. The cold's grip tightened, its icy tendrils stabbing his feet. A ravenous void seemed to open within him, and an impossible gale lashed at his face. His legs screamed in protest, fatigue weighing down his every movement. But just as clearly he could feel something that seemed to prop him up like a steel support, something which he could only describe as purpose. Reliving the sensations of the chilly trek seemed to go on forever, but it, too, ebbed away. As the cold's embrace loosened, he felt an uncanny sensation of growing at an accelerated pace. Tears and the smoky haze obscured his vision, but he saw no change in his actual stature, despite his sensations telling him otherwise. A surge of pain, reminiscent of years of growth spurts, coursed through him. Startlingly, the anguish emanated not from his metallic gauntlet but from the arm he had sacrificed.
A torrent of memories engulfed him—kaleidoscopic fragments of tastes, emotions, and tactile experiences, each narrating its own tale. Prominent among them were his brother's departure and his own ascension as the village leader. Once sources of anguish, they now evoked a poignant nostalgia. These memories, however vivid, flitted by swiftly. The sensations were razor-sharp, but his thoughts felt increasingly distant. The fetid stench of decayed flesh assailed him, and he himself running from something. His thoughts grew murkier, but a singular clarity emerged: he was reliving his time with the Seekers of the Artifact. With his heightened perception, he discerned how the relentless trials had eroded all his softness, leaving him a being of cold logic and unwavering resolve, all in the name of the all-consuming duty.
He braced himself for what was to come, but the memory of losing his arm still made him scream, the sound echoing through the long, winding passages. In a fleeting moment, he felt the cold weight of his iron fist crashing into the visage of the Malignant One.
He had no conscious recollection of what happened next at the top of that tower, once the spire fell, and had thought he had blacked out. But his body remembered. He felt a sensation of plummeting, yanked from reality into an abyssal void. His descent accelerated, threatening to rip him asunder, yet he remained whole. He shielded his face with his arms, but it did little to fend off the haunting memories of his initial confrontations with the spectral entities of his nightmares.
A gentle shake roused him, gradually anchoring him back to the present. The benign grip soon transformed into frantic clawing, snapping him to full alertness. He whirled to face his assailant, only to find that he, in his stupor, had been the aggressor. His iron grip had ensnared the throat of the monk who had endeavored to awaken him. Releasing his hold, the monk crumpled, gasping for air. After a tense pause, Buren realized he was perched on a rugged mountain path, not within the confines of the cave.
"How did I get here?" Buren asked, confused.
The monk, voice raspy, responded, "By walking, presumably. Whether bipedal or quadrupedal, I cannot say. But you ventured here on your own."
Thoughts of the trial he had embarked upon surged to the forefront of Buren's mind. Rising, he demanded, "Which path leads back to the cave?"
"I shall guide you. We've been searching for you. The assessment of the sculptures was slated to commence hours ago," the monk replied, voice still strained.
Buren halted, casting his gaze to the heavens. The sun's zenith indicated that nearly a day had elapsed since his venture into the cave.
"Follow me," the monk urged, rubbing his bruised neck. "But maintain some distance. And keep that hand at bay."
Upon entering a different cave, they soon encountered Anod and several monks laboring to clear a cave-in.
"Thank goodness," Anod exclaimed, relief evident in his voice. "I feared you were buried under."
Buren remained silent, scrutinizing the obstructing boulders.
"What happened?" Anod inquired.
Buren merely shrugged. "The primary route to the sculpting chamber you took earlier has been collapsed entirely. However, this secondary entrance might yet be navigable. If not, our only recourse is to descend from the light-bearing aperture above."
Buren motioned for the monks to retreat. Once they had withdrawn to a safe distance, he reared back his metallic arm and, with a clenched fist, unleashed a formidable strike upon a rock he deduced held the blockade up, like a keystone. As the boulders cascaded down, he deftly sidestepped the avalanche. Dust and debris rained from the ceiling, but the passage remained intact. With the dust settling, a clear path emerged. Anod led the way, clambering over the fallen stones and navigating the narrow corridor.
Upon reaching the chamber, the lingering dust obscured their vision, and the sun's rays no longer illuminated the space. Yet, the faint aroma of incense persisted. The monks busied themselves reigniting the torches.
"Did you complete your task before the cave-in?" Anod queried.
Buren didn't answer. He didn't even know if he had started.
As the torches were rekindled, a collective gasp echoed from the monks.
"As I live and breathe," one whispered, raising his torch to cast its glow upon the walls. The stone, once smooth, was now marred with frenzied gouges and scratches, a chaotic tapestry of violence. Signs of powerful impacts were evident, with cracks spiderwebbing across the solid rock. Buren approached, aligning his right arm with the marks. The grooves matched his claws flawlessly, and the indentations cradled his fist as if tailored for it. The wild etchings extended to the ceiling, and beneath the layer of dust on the floor, similar marks were revealed.
A chill ran down his spine. " I did this?" The chamber bore the marks of a madman's fury, yet Buren couldn't reconcile such chaos with his own nature. He realized that his outburst must have caused the cave-in in the first place.
"Behold," a monk gestured towards the chamber's center. The room, now bathed in the torchlight, revealed a transformed stone slab. What was once a pristine block now resembled a dog-chewed bone, a relic of violence, its surface gnawed and gouged. Broken vases lay strewn, their spilled paint lending the stone a gruesome visage, with rivulets of red and black resembling blood and decay. Atop the sculpture, a large gem gleamed with a cold blue luminescence.
He didn't remember ever seeing the statue. But it spoke to him. He understood. Its rawness, its anguish, mirrored his own journey.
Anod, struggling to find words fitting for both the situation and his stature, finally asked, "What is the intent behind this creation?"
Buren could have spoken of the parallels between the jagged stone and the Gauntlet, his life, or his very soul. Explain to them how all had become blood and corruption, how he had to pay for everything with those two currencies, only to defend a world that ran on such tributes. He could have spoken of his noble purpose, a guiding star, a brilliant jewel shining above it all. A noble goal on a bed of thorns.
But he simply stated, "It is my creation."
The monks exchanged glances, their expressions inscrutable, before Anod declared, "We shall now evaluate the Messenger's piece. Return to the temple courtyard at sunset for our judgment." As they departed, their eyes lingered on Buren with a mix of curiosity and suspicion. Alone, Buren contemplated his creation, lost in its depths for a long time.
The score ceremony commenced as the sun grazed the horizon, which, given their northern location, was shortly after midday. To Buren's astonishment, Anod presented him with seven of the nine crystal tokens designated for the Trial.
"The Trials are crafted to ensure neither contender wholly dominates the other," Anod elucidated. "Victory often hinges on situational advantage and the subjective perceptions of the judges. Nature itself teaches us that the seemingly weak can outmaneuver the strong, and how the one who stays perfectly still catches the prey the fastest can only dream about. Thus, a council awards points, and the one amassing the most tokens is declared the victor."
Buren examined the gleaming tokens, their weight significant in his grasp.
"Don't lose them. The next Trial awaits at dawn," Anod intoned, retreating to his chambers.
As dawn's light heralded the morning of 'The Hunt', Buren arrived at the staging grounds, ready for the next Trial. He had forsaken his conspicuous crimson robes and metallic helmet, knowing their vibrant hues would betray him in the wilderness. Instead, he donned pants and a coat of supple goat leather, layered beneath a poncho and gaiters crafted from goat fur. A thick woolen cap shielded his head from the cold. Alongside his trusty sword, he bore daggers and a pouch filled with fist-sized rocks, intended as makeshift projectiles. The monks, with their aversion to advanced weaponry, had left him without access to a bow. A water bladder, nestled beneath his attire to prevent freezing, hung from his neck, while a satchel at his waist held meats, serving dual purposes as sustenance for him and bait for potential carnivorous prey. Additionally, a compact net and a coiled length of string for crafting snares dangled from his belt.
He was the first to arrive, taking a moment to sit upon a rock and hone his sword's edge. Fresh snow blanketed the ground, marred only by the footprints of barefooted monks.
Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.
Anod appeared shortly after. With each breath, his abdomen rhythmically expanded and contracted, a technique Buren recognized as the monks' method of generating warmth despite their minimal attire. Steam rose from Anod's mouth and nostrils, reminiscent of a laboring bull. He paused, taking in the serene morning before addressing Buren.
"Traditionally, the stone sculptures would be transported from the caverns to the nearby hills, either reassembled piece by piece or moved with the collective might of the temple. However, given the recent cave-in and the unique nature of your creation, we've decided to let it remain in its place. It seems fitting."
Buren continued sharpening his blade, not diverting his gaze.
"I suspected you'd be indifferent," Anod remarked. "But I held a sliver of hope that seeing your current state immortalized in stone might prompt some introspection. Because that sculpture reflects your true self, regardless of the illusions your mind conjures."
Buren briefly eyed the horizon's growing light.
Sensing Buren's unwavering resolve, Anod's head and shoulders sagged slightly in defeat. "The second Trial is upon us. I had hoped you might reconsider." He paused, lost in thought. "I often wonder how different things might have been if Hewlett had received the Gauntlet. If our choices had diverged. If I had taken a stand."
Buren's sharpening faltered as his left hand slipped, the grindstone screeching against the blade.
Noting Buren's momentary distraction, Anod pressed on. "You've pondered it too, haven't you?"
Buren's jaw tightened. " No use mulling over something I can't change."
After a beat, he added, "I was the best fit anyway."
"Indeed, with your intellect and resilience, the Gauntlet's power would certainly be put to the most effective use. That's what we though was the best. But now, seeing what it has done to you, and what you're doing, I'm not so sure anymore."
" All I do is for the greater good," Buren retorted.
"A greater good, not 'The'," Anod corrected. "I'm increasingly convinced that someone who grasped that nuance would have been a more fitting Bearer of the Gauntlet."
"I'm all you got, so better make your peace with it."
Anod's smile was tinged with melancholy. "Indeed, that's one perspective."
After a brief pause, Anod continued, "It wouldn't have been any fairer to burden Hewlett with it, either. Nonetheless, I regret being a part of what happened to you."
Buren's expression hardened into a scowl. "You didn't do anything. I volunteered."
" As if any of us had a real choice, given the circumstances. And yet, you still carry yourself like a man trapped, with no other paths to tread. I can't help but feel things would be different for you if it weren't for that lifeless slab of metal."
A fleeting look of anguish crossed Buren's face, revealing Anod's words had struck a nerve.
In his mind, Buren acknowledged the truth in Anod's words. "I'd be like the others, striving to rebuild, to return to the life I once knew," he admitted to himself, quickly shoving the thought aside. Before Anod could delve deeper, Buren stood abruptly. "I need to get ready," he said quickly, distancing himself from the conversation and Anod.
As the sun crested the horizon, the remaining monks assembled. The ceremony commenced with Anod addressing the gathering. "The true measure of a body is its harmony with its environment. Even the most adept, conditioned by specific circumstances, can falter when faced with the unfamiliar. The next Trial, the Hunt, will test the contestants' mettle in challenging, real-world conditions."
From a leather pouch the Messenger had provided, Anod produced a diminutive stuffed bird. It was so small that a cluster of them could have nestled in his palm. Its dorsal feathers matched the hue of the mountain rocks, while its ventral side boasted vivid yellow plumage adorned with black spots. Its head bore a reddish-brown crown. "The task is to journey into the North valley and return with a live mountain swallow. There are no limits on time, and tokens will be awarded based on the difference in completion time. Should both finish simultaneously, each will receive four tokens, leaving one unclaimed. The greater the time lag, the more tokens the swifter contestant garners. There will be no search parties. If a participant fails to return, the Challenge remains eternally incomplete." Addressing Buren and the Messenger directly, Anod continued, "Most swallows have migrated south for the colder season, leaving only the hardiest to claim prime cliffside nesting spots. Success demands not just physical prowess but also keen instincts and astuteness. Moreover, the valley teems with beasts. Stay vigilant."
Both contenders acknowledged their comprehension and readiness. Anod distributed goatskin parchments, which, when unfurled by Buren, revealed a map delineating the route from the temple to a circular valley in the North. Buren stowed the map inside his coat. With a sharp clap from Anod, the race commenced. The Messenger, leveraging his familiarity with the terrain, swiftly outdistanced Buren, vanishing into a cave beneath a stony overhang. Buren, however, adhered to the designated trail. It meandered uphill, leading him across several precarious rope bridges that swayed and protested under his weight, the wind causing them to swing like pendulums. The trail culminated at a slender mountain fissure, just wide enough for him to squeeze through if he walked sideways, demanding Buren to sidle through after shedding his backpack. Despite the scrapes from jagged rocks and the snow trickling down his collar, he eventually emerged on the mountain's opposite side. From this vantage, he surveyed the valley beneath. The thick evergreen canopy obscured much of the terrain, save for an eastern lake and central hillocks. Suddenly, the ground trembled beneath him, forcing him to brace himself. In the distance, a mighty plume of steam and water erupted skyward, drenching the surroundings.
"Geysers," Buren deduced. The area must have had some thermal activity just below ground, explaining why the cover of snow was a little thinner here, with bare ground showing here and there.
Amidst the trees, colossal diluvial formations loomed, constructed of porous, orange spires that branched endlessly into tinier counterparts, resembling vast, leafless corkscrew shrubs. Yet, neither the elusive birds nor his rival were in sight. The ground was speckled with avian droppings, indicating the swallows' summer nesting. Now, his challenge was to pinpoint one of the scant inhabited crevices amidst the sheer cliff riddled with potential lairs and forsaken roosts, and then to capture the swift creature. Like finding a needle in a haystack before it flies away.
Descending into the valley, Buren leaped from one ledge to another until he alighted on the valley floor. His nearly ten-foot drop ignited a radiant wave across the terrain. Observing its spread, he discerned the forest floor was blanketed in luminescent moss. Each step he took set off another radiant ripple. His movements would be glaringly evident to all nearby, rendering stealth nearly impossible.
"Great," he mused sardonically, venturing deeper into the woods. "But at least I don't have to worry about those beasts attacking me without a warning. "
Without a warning something erupted from the ground beneath him. Only his right arm's superhuman reflexes and resilience allowed him to parry the sudden assault. Despite his efforts, the force hurled him into a calcified diluvial shrub, which crumbled under his weight. A behemoth form emerged from the ground, its elongated limbs thrashing towards him. But Buren's reactions were swift. Evading its reach, he fluidly drew his blade, settling into a defensive stance, sword-tip aimed at the looming menace.
The creature, a jagged monstrosity, steadied itself on its spindly, multi-jointed legs, its myriad beady eyes fixated on him. Buren recognized it as a relic from an era when these lands were submerged: a colossal crab. It brandished its formidable pincers, advancing with a rhythmic tap reminiscent of a seasoned craftswoman's needlework. As it neared striking range, the crab veered, darting sideways in an attempt to flank him. Buren mirrored its movement, every sinew coiled and ready, hardly blinking as he bided his time. The ground under their feet flashed wildly to the tune of their steps.
The colossal decapod lunged, its right pincer arm extending with lethal precision, aiming to close its razor-sharp scissors around Buren's neck. But in a heartbeat, he had dropped low, using the creature's own outstretched, armored limb to his advantage, slipping into its blind spot. With a swift motion, he closed the distance between them and slashed at the joint connecting the pincer to its body, severing it in a spray of silvery ichor. The creature let out a screech, reminiscent of gravel scraping against metal, and recoiled. Its left pincer flailed around the bleeding stump, its cognition appearing too primitive to understand where its arm had disappeared to.
Buren did not give it time to reorient itself but lunged, spinning clockwise, and with a fierce, sweeping arc, cleaved off two of its spindly front legs on either side. The creature toppled on its face, but before Buren could drive his sword through its brain, it thrashed wildly, forcing him to retreat. Regaining its footing, the creature darted sideways at a startling speed, burrowing into the ground, which was but a thin layer of dust concealing a spacious tunnel. It vanished as abruptly as it had appeared, its anguished cries echoing even after its departure.
For a tense moment, Buren remained on high alert, eyes darting across the forest, anticipating another ambush. When none came, he relaxed slightly, wiping his blade clean of the creature's viscous blood before returning it to its sheath.
" The fiery underground depths must be enough to harbor the beasts in this frigid climate," he mused, eyeing the treacherous terrain with a newfound wariness. "Let them come," he thought defiantly, hands resting on his weapons. "They'll find they have bitten on more than they can chew on."
He set his course eastward, aiming for the lake where, during warmer months, swarms of mosquitoes would thrive, their incessant hum luring birds. His progress was measured, his senses heightened, every step taken with caution, every rustle in the underbrush noted.
It was the feeble sunlight that proved his savior. Without its muted glow, he might have missed the shadow descending rapidly from above. Instinctively, his sword was drawn, its blade gleaming with anticipation as he thrust it skyward to meet the incoming threat. A creature of feathers and sinew deftly altered its trajectory, gliding gracefully overhead before alighting on a lofty branch.
"A harpy," Buren identified, his eyes narrowing. This creature was another grotesque fusion of man and beast, akin to the satyrs and other abominations that roamed these lands. Its raptorial eyes, disproportionately large for its delicate, almost feminine face, fixed on him intently. The middle of its face was malformed, something half-between a human nose and mouth and a beak. Its torso resembled that of a feathered woman, and instead of legs, it had human arms, delicate and slender, but ending in vicious talons that clutched the tree branch. In addition to its expansive wings, malformed appendages protruded from its back, twitching in rough tandem with the rhythm of its wingbeats. Another example of the stunted, developmental deformities infesting the creatures referred to as 'subhumans' by the Faith.
Above, more of its kin circled, each bearing its own set of grotesque mutations. Their plumage was pristine white, speckled with dark spots, and their ears, pointed and alert, bore a striking resemblance to those of a snowy owl. Unlike the creatures they mimicked, these harpies seemed to hunt in packs. They had likely anticipated an effortless kill, but now hesitated, thrown off by their prey's unexpected resistance.
Buren, however, was resolute. He swiftly grabbed a rock from his bag and, with the might of the Gauntlet behind his throw, hurled it at one of the harpies. The stone pierced through the creature, continuing its trajectory even after delivering its fatal blow. The harpy plummeted, leaving a spiraling trail of drifting feathers in its wake. That was enough for the rest of the stare to scatter to the winds.
He observed the fallen creature for a brief moment. In death, with its eyes closed and its form draped in soft feathers, there was just enough of a waifish quality to strike a chord of sympathy in his heart. One which he promptly squashed. A moment's compassion, and he would be the one lying there, with the beast's sisters pecking the eyes from his skull.
" I'm going to need eyes at the back of my head," he mused. Capturing the elusive bird was just one aspect of this trial; the immediate challenge was surviving the hunt. It was no wonder most birds migrated. With their usual prey dwindling, predators grew increasingly audacious in their pursuits.
With threats looming both above and below, Buren pressed forward. Every shadow, every depression in the earth, every rustling branch seemed to harbor potential danger. The perpetual sense of menace was, in many ways, more draining than direct confrontation. It evoked memories of evading the Malignant One's forces, but he couldn't afford to be lost in the past now.
The luminescent moss beneath his feet pulsed, signaling movement ahead. " Must be large to send signals so far out," he pondered, adjusting his path to avoid the unseen entity.
Yet again, the moss illuminated with the telltale ripples of movement, prompting Buren to alter his course. And then, once more, the pattern repeated. As he continued to divert his path, a nagging suspicion began to gnaw at him.
He found himself ensnared within a valley, its towering cliffs hemming him in. A dead end. The rhythmic pulses emanated from all directions, slow but unyielding.
Wolves. The largest he had ever seen. An entire pack of them, strategically positioned atop the cliffs, their eyes fixed on him, effectively sealing off his escape route. The realization struck Buren like a bolt: they had manipulated the forest's unique signaling system to lead him into a trap.
"Smart curs," he mused. The menacing growls grew louder as the wolves descended from their vantage points, eager to feast upon him.
"But not clever enough."
With swift precision, he lunged to the side, cleaving a wolf that had misjudged its distance. Seizing the moment, he gripped the cliffside, propelling himself upwards before the ravenous pack could reach him. One audacious wolf leapt after him, but it plummeted back down, now headless. The remaining wolves, witnessing the fate of their kin, could only snarl in frustrated rage. Buren silenced their protests with three expertly thrown stones, targeting the alpha first. The remainder of the pack, sensing the tide had turned, scattered in fear.
Buren took a moment to recalibrate. He could continue his brutal onslaught through the forest, but that path was fraught with danger and exhaustion. There had to be a more efficient way.
Observing the retreating wolves, he noticed an anomaly: the underbrush remained quiescent. Curious, he descended to inspect the fallen wolves. Their elongated claws caught his attention, but it was the luminescent dust on their pads that intrigued him. Experimentally, he pressed a wolf's paw against the ground. The moss remained inert. Yet, when he applied pressure using the claws, devoid of the glowing dust, the moss responded with its characteristic shimmer.
"I have it now," he concluded. "The lichen only reacts to contact from anything that is not covered in this dust they excrete."
He recalled the bumblebees from his homeland, their clumsy flights from bloom to bloom. For their trouble the plants awarded them nectar, but covered them in their pollen in the process, which, as natural scholars had established, was required for the plants to procreate. Here, in the unforgiving North, nature's contract was inverted. There was no reward for carrying the pollen, but a punishment of having your every step announced to all the predators and game around if one refused to do the flora's bidding. The region's fauna had adapted, devising strategies to either circumvent or exploit this environmental quirk. They had evolved to ambush from below, strike from the skies, or use the environment against their quarry. Survival demanded such cunning.
And it was time for him to adapt as well. He plucked a stalk with a bulbous head from a nearby trunk, smearing its sticky powder onto the soles of his boots. When he stepped down, the moss emitted a gentle, almost pleased luminescence confined to his footprint. Stowing a few more bulbs into his sack, he continued towards the lake.
Behind him, the gravel subtly shifted. A flat stone tilted, allowing a massive crab limb to emerge and drag a wolf carcass underground. The stone settled back, leaving no trace of the disturbance.
The murmurs of bubbling and hissing water heralded the proximity of the lake before it came into view. Mountain goats, grazing by the water's edge, scattered at his approach. The water's clarity revealed fish darting about and crabs meandering along the lakebed. A deep chasm near the center spewed a ceaseless stream of bubbles, causing the water's surface to roil. Steam spiraled upwards from the lake's tumultuous heart, cloaking the surroundings in a warm haze. Dewdrops adorned the verdant foliage and vibrant petals of the waterside flora, nourished by the ambient warmth. Beetles scuttled over rocks, and mayflies danced over the agitated water.
"This is the place." If swallows were nearby, this would be their hunting ground. Now, it was a game of patience. He selected a vantage point on a neighboring hill, crafting a hideout by excavating a shallow trench with his formidable right hand. Overhead, he fashioned a canopy of moss draped over slender branches. Nestled within, he was virtually invisible, with an unobstructed view of the lake and the skies above.
The fleeting daylight began to dim, and Buren surmised that the swallows would emerge during brighter hours. Resigned to wait, he nibbled on his provisions, opting to remain concealed to minimize any disturbances that might deter the wildlife. As twilight descended, a parade of creatures approached the water's edge: goats, wolves, a stealthy puma, hulking apes that ambled with knuckles grazing the ground, a majestic stag crowned with expansive antlers, and a formidable brown bear, among others. The harpies returned, ambushing the unsuspecting stag. The three of them dug their claws into it and worked in unison to fly it away to consume in a safer place.
The muted luminescence of the groundcover bathed the surroundings in soft hues, allowing Buren to discern the shapes of nocturnal creatures. Their slithering movements, the rustling of underbrush, and the eerie howls and growls dissuaded him from seeking a closer look.
His thoughts meandered, and in this moment of respite, memories of his youth surfaced. The scene evoked memories of countless overnight hunting trips with his father. From a tender age, his father had initiated him into the art of tracking, trapping, and hunting, acclimatizing him to the perils of the untamed wilderness. The paramount lesson had always been the sanctity of silence; a single misplaced word could spook the prey or attract predators. Their bond had grown so deep that they moved in tandem, intuiting each other's intentions, orchestrating ambushes and strategies without uttering a word. When hearts and minds aligned, words became a redundant hindrance.
He lost himself in the recollections of triumphant hunts: vanquishing a pack of wolves that threatened their village, tracking a murderous bear, and his most legendary feat—being gone for three weeks during one of the harshest winters the elders of their village remembered, assumed dead, only to return pulling a sleigh with the best parts of a mammoth in it to feed the starving people and provide them with warm furs. Even then, his actions had been for the greater good. Those days had been simpler, the challenges tangible and surmountable with determination. His current burden was far more nebulous. Yet, even amidst these cherished memories, the specter of past hardships lingered, like the biting cold he had relived in the cave.
But here, enveloped by the forest's damp, earthy aroma, with the hunt as his sole focus, Buren felt a profound sense of belonging. He knew this solace was fleeting, but he indulged in the nostalgia until dawn's approach. For these few hours, he was merely Buren the Hunter, not the Marquis of Coldwood or the Bearer of the Gauntlet. Despite the lack of titles, he felt he had not lost anything. Quite the opposite.
His slumber was restless, but by the time dawn's first light touched the valley, he felt rejuvenated. To gain a clearer view of the pond, he shifted some bushes he had uprooted and positioned at the entrance of his hideout. As the moths and fireflies retreated to their daytime sanctuaries, swarms of flies and mosquitoes began to dance around the moist lagoon. Buren sipped from his waterskin and nibbled on dried meat, his gaze unwaveringly fixed on the sky. However, it was the sharp, piercing cries that signaled the arrival of his target. The bird darted through the air, nearly skimming the pond's surface before abruptly changing course, plunging into the insect swarm and likely emerging with a mouthful of wriggling prey. Buren attuned himself to its call, then responded with a whistle that mirrored its tune. The bird made several passes but wisely refrained from landing. Buren hadn't anticipated otherwise.
Emerging from his hideout, he unfurled the net from his belt, attaching four of his rocks to its corners for added weight. Intent on a swift capture, he remained motionless, waiting for the opportune moment. As the swallow swooped down, he hurled the net with the might of the Gauntlet. While an ordinary man couldn't dream of such speed and precision, it was still not enough as the bird's agility bested him, executing a sharp turn to evade the net, which ended up ensnared in branches on the lagoon's far side. The startled swallow took off, soaring above the treetops towards the valley's heart, with Buren hot on its trail.
The dense canopy soon obscured his view, but he refused to be outmaneuvered. Seizing a low branch with his metallic arm, he propelled himself skyward, catching the upper bough of a towering evergreen that sagged under his weight. The bird was once again in his sights. Dropping slightly to a sturdier part of the trunk, he launched himself towards the next tree. Their rough bark and needles grazed him, but the Gauntlet's unerring guidance ensured he always found purchase. Nearing the valley's center, the towering diluvial structures loomed above the trees. Transitioning from the treetops, he used these ancient pillars as stepping stones, their sturdy columns offering a more solid base and allowing him to leap even greater distances.
The swallow ascended, becoming a mere dot against the overcast sky, making for the top of the highest of the Flood-time monoliths still standing. It disappeared into one of the opening in the porous rock. Buren, too, made for the monolith, securing a grip closer to its base than its pinnacle. Yet, with the Gauntlet's precision, he scaled it as effortlessly as a squirrel might. However, his swift ascent was abruptly halted. Agony radiated from his left shoulder as talons sank deep, trying to wrench him from the rock face. A guttural growl escaped him, but his iron grip remained unyielding. A glance revealed a snowy owl harpy, with two more in tow. As he reached for his sword with his left hand, the harpy's violent tugging hindered him. Another harpy alighted beside him, its grotesque, oversized eyes locking onto his before lunging, beak first, at his face.
Knowing it was only a matter of time before the beasts managed to sever a major blood vessel, Buren acted with swify. Releasing his grip on the trunk, he and the harpy attached to his shoulder plummeted. The creature, taken by surprise, couldn't bear his weight, its wings flapping wildly. Before it could release him, Buren's metallic hand seized its head, crushing it, its eyes bulging grotesquely from their sockets.
The ground approached fast. Drawing his legs up, Buren planted his feet against the now lifeless harpy's torso, pushing off with all his might. This maneuver altered his descent, bringing him close enough to the rocky column to grasp it once more. The abrupt halt sent him crashing against the pillar. Catching his breath, he assessed his injuries. Blood stained his left sleeve, but the arm remained functional, suggesting no grievous harm.
Another harpy lunged, but Buren was ready. He parried its assault with his blade, impaling it through its upper abdomen. The creature writhed, its cries gurgling with blood. Buren kicked it clear of his weapon, sending it spiraling downwards, its weakened wings failing to break its fall. The final grotesque bird of prey, witnessing his prowess, circled warily from a distance, then dived for the forest when it saw him pull out one of his throwing stones.
Resuming his ascent, Buren noted the myriad of holes dotting the monolithic structure, any of which could shelter his avian quarry. The biting wind and encroaching dampness from the enveloping clouds made the climb treacherous. The thinning air left him gasping. " That little thing is tougher than it looks," he mused.
Methodically searching each crevice would be time-consuming, and he had no gauge of his rival's progress. Opting for audacity, he whistled the tune that had previously lured the bird. Moments later, it emerged, mere feet above him. Recognizing its peril, the swallow darted away, wings beating furiously.
He couldn't let it escape. As he launched himself after the bird, the final harpy reappeared, having seemingly circled back to intercept him. That confrontation would have to wait. With a determined grimace, Buren soared, his right arm outstretched towards the swallow. The bird evaded, but the Gauntlet's speed was unmatched Its fingers closed around the feather-ball like a cage, the fact it did not cut its captive into ribbons in the process a testament to its precision.
Buren breathed a sigh of relief, then glanced down and sucked in air through grit teeth, frowning. It was a long way down. His course had passed its summit and he was now in freefall. At this altitude, even the Gauntlet's power couldn't halt his descent without tearing him to pieces.
The harpy glided closer, giving him an idea. Swiftly, he stowed the fluttering swallow into his bag and drew a length of rope.
"All or nothing," he resolved, hurling the rope towards the harpy, ensuring he retained one end. The rope snaked out, coiling around the creature's neck. With a forceful yank, he reeled in the ensnared beast, mounting its back. The harpy flapped its wings vigorously, slowing their descent but far away from halting it.
The wind howled, mingling with the harpy's frantic screams. Amidst the chaos, a distinct hiss caught Buren's attention. He recognized the rising steam from the geysers he'd observed the previous day. The situation was too hectic for conscious thinking, too quickly evolving to ponder with mental dialogue. It was more of a gut feeling than calculated decision that directed him in the next dire moments. He shifted his weight, steering the harpy towards the billowing steam. It would be a close call.
They dived towards a shallow wetland, a smell of sulfur wafting high into the air, its yellowish waters bubbling ominously.
They were on the level of treetops.
Then below them.
He could see the yellowish water boiling. Nowhere near deep enough to cushion his fall. He braced himself for a hard landing.
The waters beneath them exploded upwards with a deafening roar, engulfing them in a torrential surge. Their rapid descent halted, then, astonishingly, reversed. The geyser's forceful jet propelled Buren and the harpy skyward, accompanied by debris from the thermal spring. They collided with the dense foliage of a fir tree before tumbling to the ground, the harpy cushioning Buren's fall. He rolled away, blade drawn. But his weapon was unnecessary - the creature lay still, its body scorched and battered beyond recognition. A quick check og his satchel found the captive swallow within, dazed and miserable but alive. Time was of the essence as every second would affect his final score, so he sprinted towards the valley's entrance, eager to put the treacherous terrain behind him. Scaling the cliff, he mused that he'd had his fill of climbing for a lifetime. He navigated through the narrow passage, leaving the concealed valley without a backward glance.
However, as he approached the cliff's edge, a new challenge presented itself. The first bridge he encountered lay in ruins, its moorings on the far side severed, causing it to dangle precariously over the chasm. This was the sole path to the temple.
He reached down and, with a grunt of exertion, managed to haul the bridge's remnants onto solid ground. The frayed ropes and damaged stakes on the opposite end bore signs of intentional harm rather than natural wear.
"Sabotage," he surmised darkly.
He swiftly severed the strings from the planks, weaving them into a single, sturdy line. Tying a hefty rock to one end, he began to whirl it overhead, the stone gaining momentum, powered by the relentless mechanical force of the Gauntlet. With precision, he released it. The makeshift grapnel sailed across the chasm, coiling securely around the branch he had targeted. After a firm tug to ensure its stability, he anchored the other end to a nearby boulder, checked his gear, and grasped the taut line. It creaked under his weight but held firm.
Moving one arm while the other held the rope, he began his treacherous traverse, the wind roaring around him, tugging at his cloak and tilting him to one side.
Midway, a figure emerged from behind the anchoring tree. It was Brother Jigten, the one who had advocated for the village's subjugation under the Corporeal Form's dominion.
"I had hoped the valley's beasts would spare me this task," Jigten shouted over the gusts. "An outsider like you meeting a natural end. But here we are. I must defend my community, the body of which I am but an organ."
"Interfering in the Trial between the Messenger and the Contender is forbidden!" Buren shouted.
"You are a disease, come from without to attack the body, using our own inner workings against us. Let's call this a temporary aberration in vital functions," Jigten replied, reaching for the stone anchoring the rope, intent on undoing the knot.
Dangling precariously, Buren rummaged in his bag. He had one missile left. Taking a deep breath, he aimed and hurled it. The stone struck true, shattering Jigten's left kneecap. The man crumpled, clutching his injured leg and howled in pain. But his determination was unyielding. Hobbling on one foot, he lunged for the rope, managing to release it. As the line slipped away, Jigten turned, expecting to see Buren plummeting. Instead, he found himself face to face to the man, the end of the rope clutched in his unnatural metallic limb. Before Jigten could react, Buren swung the rock-tied rope, taking out the monk's other knee. Jigten collapsed on his stomach. He would not be getting up that time.
The dark figure stood over the monk for a moment before going to walk past him. Desperation evident, Jigten clutched at Buren's legs.
"Please," he implored, his voice a pitiable sob. "This is my home, my brethren. We cannot survive without that village. Don't take them from me!"
Buren kicked his legs free free and continued without a backward glance.
From his vantage point, Buren could have easily ended Jigten by cracking his skull with the projectile. But understanding the monk's motivations had stayed his hand. Taking it upon oneself to work for the good of all, even when it meant dirtying one's own hands with blood, was something he could respect. The mercy he'd shown was his silent nod of respect to Jigten's dedication, whether the monk recognized it or not.
He hastened his pace, sprinting back to the temple with fervor. The only challenges that met him were the gravel that occasionally shifted beneath his boots and the paths slick with melting snow. His breath came in ragged gasps by the time he reached the temple square, where he found the monks engrossed in their physical exercises. The first to notice his arrival halted their regimen, emitting a resonant hum to alert the others. As they all turned to face him, their collective chant crescendoed, only to end in a sudden, flat note that echoed disappointment. It was then that Buren's gaze landed on a cage at the square's center. Inside was a swallow, its appearance strikingly similar to the one he carried.
"The Contender has returned," Anod proclaimed from his balcony, his voice carrying over the monks' murmurs. "Thus concludes the second Trial."
Emerging from the crowd, a monk stepped forward. Only when Buren caught sight of the green mark on his chest did he recognize him as the messenger. With a hint of arrogance, the monk gestured towards the cage. Buren carefully placed his captured bird beside its counterpart. The vibrant health of the messenger's bird only made his feathered prize seem even more battered in comparison.
"This round is awarded to the Messenger, with a lead of over twelve hours," Anod declared. "For his exemplary performance, the Messenger earns eight tokens, while the Contender receives one."
Buren pondered. Had the monk bested him through superior skill, familiarity with the terrain, and foreknowledge of the region? Or had he already pinpointed the swallow nests even before the Challenge commenced? After all, he had been the conduit for the Body's decree regarding the second Trial. Perhaps he had chosen the Hunt knowing full well the advantage it granted him, despite their teachings against letting conscious thought sway the decision.
Yet, such suspicions were unprovable, and voicing them would be futile. Buren accepted his token with grace, knowing he'd need to dominate the final Trial to such an extent that his victory would be undeniable. For to best them at their own game, making them willingly submit, was a far kinder fate than the alternative should they obstruct his mission.
"One of your brothers has lost his footing," he remarked, nodding in the direction where he'd left Jigten. "He's going to need stretchers."
The monks exchanged bewildered glances, but Buren paid them no mind. He retreated into the temple, preparing himself for the challenges of the morrow.