Alone he stood before a throne of hardened light. His Golden form flickering briefly only to soon regain its steady flow. Light slowly turned. His eyes only briefly meeting existence before once again turning away. He could not bear to look. He still could not face reality.

The council had made their decision. Who was Light to defy the other gods? He had fought his hardest, did all that he could to protect creation. Yet, the council had made its decision. Utradem was to be abandoned and Light could do nothing more to stop it. This was his shame. His greatest failure. Never again could he truly look onto creation.

Light felt a pair of eyes focus on his back. The gaze was gentle at first, but it only took a moment to regain its edge.

“Father.”

Light nearly flinched at the word. It took all his strength to maintain his composure. Light began to focus on the throne of hardened light. Doing everything he could to ignore his visitor. He began to stare deeply into the throne before losing himself into his thoughts.

He escaped into the times of old when he would rule over his creation. Memories of when he was a cold and heartless deity. He existed only to maintain existence and nothing more. When he was able to act as a proper God. However, doubt spares none and as his memories of his former glory flowed through his mind so too did that of the only woman he had ever truly loved. The one who had taught him of the beauty of life.

The reason he had fought so hard for creation, his beloved wife.

She was not particularly good looking, nor was she of great cunning, nor did she have any power whatsoever. By any other God’s standard, she was but a mortal peasant. And so too did Light hate her. She was so pathetic, nothing more than a flicker in the great fire of creation. Yet, Light could not peel his eyes from her, for she had something he truly wanted.

Happiness.

No matter what happened she always met life with a smile. Her positivity never faltered, and she brought warmth to all those who knew her. Her mere presence alone brought Light from the depths of his loneliness. Light was filed with anger and denial. Surely, she was faking it. None could be so pure hearted. And so Light went down to the mortal realm set on tearing away her caring façade. Only it was his cold heartless façade that began to crumble under her warmth.

Before he knew it Light was in love. He wanted to spend all of existence with this woman. Fortunately for him the feeling was mutual. When the other Gods learned of this, they set out to reprimand Light. Wherever he and his wife went disaster followed. Never could they find a home to stay in nor a people to welcome them. There life was full of turmoil. Many times, Light had thought to disobey the council. To war against the Gods, only to be stopped by his wife’s smile. So, they lived traveling across Utradem wading disaster after disaster as they went.

These were Light’s happiest memories. The very memories that gave him the strength to oppose the council and protect creation. The very symbol of that life was standing behind him. The only thing he and his wife could truly call their own. His beloved son, Hokron. His son’s eyes, strengthened by the memories of his wife, burned a whole in Light’s back. Hokron’s weak voice pleaded out into the silence.

“Why?”

***

It didn’t take long for the Seamstress and I to rejoin the caravan’s remnants. The Poet and the Cardinal were hardly stealthy and left quite the trail from dragging back the guards. The caravan was holed up a makeshift fort made from destroyed wagons, debris from the town, and any other wood or stone they could get their hands on. We were greeted by two guards wearing stolen God killer armor and a very angry master Guardsman.

“About damn time.” The head Guardsman grumbled. “With the addition of these things, everyone is accounted for.”

These things?

“Someone’s in a bad mood, huh?” I whispered.

The Seamstress only gave a light nod before walking through the forts makeshift gate. I followed the Seamstress inside before splitting away and heading towards the Poet. He was sitting on a half-broken barrel that shouldn’t be able to support his weight and humming a tune. Poorly, I might add. No luck with rhymes and is tone deaf. Neat.

“I hope the Seamstress has regained her composure.” He asked in between his attempts to murder sound with song.

“Yeah, it took a bit but eventually she came around. Turns out cliches are universal, she was quite the tsundere. Oh sorry, that’s a term from where I’m from. It means…”

This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

“One who hides their true feelings behind a guise of disdain or disgust, yes?”

“Just who in the hell are you? Not only are you the worst poet I have ever heard but you know magic, swordsmanship, wear full plate armor constantly, and have knowledge about my world. That can’t be normal.”

The Poet took a pause as if to consider my question before answering. “I have lived for longer than you can imagine. Plenty of time for me to pick up one or two trades. Not to mention I spend most of my time talking with other challengers. It is only natural I would know of your worlds.”

“Worlds?”

“Yes, yours is hardly the only world Lato has taken from.” The Poet stopped for a moment. He looked up into the sky and sighed before continuing. “I remember not the number of wayward souls that the prince has torn from their fate.”

There was another moment pause before continuing. “Apologies I slipped into the old tongue. We have delayed long enough. After your performance in front of the Cardinal the guards have seen it valuable to train you in various weaponry.”

“Hold on. Before we go I have two questions. How many have actually cleared the Path? The Cardinal told me Lato was trying to achieve Godhood what does that mean?”

“None have fully cleared the Path. As for your second question you may ask Lato himself if you reach Min Lochter. Now come.”

“I wonder if I will ever not have more questions after speaking with you.”

With my final complaint we made our way over to the guards. Any of the caravan who weren’t bound by their faith were being trained in whatever weapons the guard could find. Many were holding hand made spears and clubs. Yet each swung their respective weapon like a master. As far as I looked not one of them struggled with their weapons.

What?

“Why is everyone so good at this?” I asked to no one in particular.

“When you have lived for hundreds of lifetimes, you’ll naturally pick up one or two skills. And if you happen to live in the outer kingdoms those skills will always involve fighting.” A warm soprano voice answered from behind me.

I turned around only to have a dagger pressed up against my cheek. The Seamstress was dressed like a rogue ripped straight from the pictures in a dungeon and dragons book. The black base and dark form-fitting leather armor covered in knives was the last thing I expected to see the Seamstress wearing. She playfully tapped the flat edge of her dagger on my neck before leaning in and whispering into my ear.

“Mutter a word about what happened in the cellar and I will slit your throat.” With that said she pushed herself away from me and took her place in the line.

I wonder if she can go anywhere without causing a scene. I took my place in the line and was surprised to see the Poet hand me a sword. I opened my mouth to ask but he simply motioned for me to be silent. He pointed at a bag of straw tied up against a cross of logs before speaking.

“You will attack the target with various weapons. The master Guardsman and I shall judge your potential with said weapon and proceed with training from there. When you are ready you may attack the target.”

With his spiel out of the way, the Poet stepped aside and joined the head Guardsman to the side of the target. The sword I was given was an old beaten broadsword. It was a lot heavier than I expected it to be and it showed when I went to take my first swing. The swing went wide and only chipped the ‘head’ of the target. That was when the second problem occurred. The sword was so heavy I had trouble stopping the blade mid swing. I was only able to stop the blade when it was a few inches off the ground.

I stepped back from the target more than a little embarrassed but seeing as neither the Poet or master Guardsman tried to stop me I continued to strike the target. It wasn’t until my arms were so heavy that I could barely lift the sword that the head Guardsman told me to stop and switch weapons. That’s right. Not take a break. No.

Switch weapons.

So, this process continued as I went through nearly every weapon the caravan had access to. Spear, axe, sword, halberd, lance, bow, knife, everything I tried seemed to only have moderate success at best. I was exhausted and truly just wanted to stop there but there was one weapon left. It was a weird mechanical hand crossbow. It was made completely of metal and fired small, modified bolts.

I was handed five bolts and was motioned to about 40 feet away from the target. I loaded the crossbow easily enough, the draw weight being more than manageable. It was rather light despite its metal construction and had nice sights to boot. Even with my tired shaking hands I was able to line up the target and easily score a headshot on my first try. I loaded the crossbow and again I got another headshot. Feeling a little overconfident I made my way back about 30 more feet from the target and lined up a shot. The crossbow fired and with a sleek thud the bolt stuck itself right in between the other two bolts.

Feeling more than a little happy with myself I decided to move back further. I went as far as I could while still being able to see the target and lined up my fourth shot. With another press of the trigger the fourth bolt whizzed past the target and struck the ground beneath it. I made some adjustments to my aim before firing again. The bolt seemed to travel in slow motion as it flew down from its arch directly onto the chest of the target,

“YES!” I yelled out loud. Completely forgetting that there were other people around me.

“Well done. I’m sure if a half-decent bard had seen that shot, they would sing about it for generations to come.” The Cardinal’s said as he took his place by my side. “How about it master Guardsman can you make a warrior out of him.”

“He has no skills whatsoever in any weapon, no talent with any blade, and no potential either. He’s a wasted effort.” The head guardsman grumbled.

“Ah but he is skilled with the crossbow.”

“Yes, the useless trinket that we only have five bolts for.” The head Guardsman said with a sigh. “Whatever I’m not going to be training you anyway. The Poet has decided that he might be able to beat some sword skills into you if given enough time but that is none of my business.”

“So, I can keep the hand crossbow?” I asked trying to contain my excitement. The head Guardsman sighed and began to walk away in defeat.

“Just be ready for our counterattack.” The head Guardsman muttered as he stormed off into the fort.