"Jett, do you know the essence of combat?" Maros asked.

Jett remembered every battle and encounter he had ever faced in Shacktown, contemplating the actions he took to succeed.

"Survival. Protecting yourself to live another day."

"Wrong. But surviving is important," Maros began to pace back and forth in the foyer. "So what would be the most effective way to ensure your survival?"

"Killing." Jett didn't even have to think.

"Then how do you kill?"

The question perplexed Jett.

It seemed obvious: just make your enemy dead. Stab, beat, strangle, whatever.

But then, what would it take to accomplish that?

Jett thought of a fitting answer, "You use everything you possibly can."

"Exactly. You must use every primal fiber of your being before the enemy can do the same."

Maros took something out from his waist.

It was a pristine metal dagger.

He walked up to Jett, flipping the dagger, the blade now pointing towards himself.

"Yet, in the realm of skilled combatants, this primal energy, the lust for murder, does not fade. It becomes harnessed. At least, for anyone worth a damn."

Jett took the dagger by the handle, feeling the handle's intricate grooves, the shine of the steel, and the weight in his hand.

"You might be familiar with a dagger. There's a reason it's all the rage in Shacktown. For what do they have other than a primitive desire to kill? That is what the dagger utilizes."

Maros backed up.

"Now strike me."

Jett stood still for a moment in hesitation.

However, he trusted in Maros' strength. He had felt it first hand.

With the dagger in his right hand, Jett lowered himself to the ground.

Then through a burst of speed, he rushed forward, outstretching the dagger towards Maros's leather-padded stomach.

A swift sidestep and a smack of the arm sent Jett off balance, skidding across the marble floor.

"If you do not land a hit, you'll sleep with the bison and eat whatever he gives you." Maros's declaration reverberated throughout the hall as Jett rose to his feet.

These exchanges continued.

And continued.

And continued more.

Jett was bruised, battered, sent to the floor, sent into walls, and deprived of his dagger severalfold.

He would try everything from feints, throwing his dagger, and grappling, but each would result in a brutal beating. Jett began to lose hope and energy.

While Jett feared failure, it was pleasant compared to his past.

The implications were not nearly as great.

Yet success meant he would gain, not simply survive.

But at this moment, Jett's mind never stopped thinking.

He felt a sensation of activity, vastly improved over his typical idle state.

"Give me everything." Maros declared.

The exhausted Jett took a low stance once more, dagger in hand.

With a burst of speed, he lunged towards Maros's stomach in the same fashion.

"That isn't…" Maros didn't finish.

The same downward strike that Maros performed the first time connected with nothing.

With every fiber, through gritted teeth, Jett twisted his torso sideways with abnormal speed, flipping his knife into a reverse grip, carrying all of his momentum into a stab.

He then understood what Maros had said about using every ounce of his being.

Jett could feel the power coursing outwards from his metaphysical being.

'It feels amazing… this is it!'

The sensation was otherworldly.

But it ended as quickly as it came.

His dagger didn't pierce into flesh.

It was as if he had stabbed into a large jelly, sluggish and stuck in a viscous substance.

A blistering wind flooded Jett's ears despite them being indoors.

Jett saw his dagger stuck in the air, which throbbed in place, his arm twitching against an invisible element.

With Jett's balance only held by his grip on the entrenched dagger, Maros brought his palm downward onto Jett's back the moment the wind released, smashing him to the ground.

The loud clang of steel against marble lingered in the open hall.

Maros loomed over, a slight smile creeping through his darkened and rugged face.

"You have earned the rights of man for today," Maros paced back and forth before looking down at the badly contused boy. "However that does not mean you are to do nothing."

Maros's face turned stern in response to Jett's gaze of fury. Frustration and powerlessness ran rampant within his emotions.

"Go wash up and get some rest. Joanne will give you further instructions."

By the time the beaten and injured Jett could rise to his feet, Maros had already put on a cloak and headed out the door.

Like that, his buyer and mentor disappeared like the fleeting wind.

'He's just… leaving? This is the second time. Maros is quite hands-off.'

If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

Jett then heard light footsteps throughout the nearby halls. Joanne walked in, the older woman's usual refined form and indifferent expression locked eyes with Jett.

"Come, Jett. I'll set the bath, and then food. After that, we'll get started on your academics." Joanne softly declared.

Jett found himself in the middle of the large foyer, his eyes darting between the door, the dagger, and Joanne.

The sweat that drenched his head and covered his tired yet alert eyes began to trickle down as his mind spun.

He stood still, yet shook. He wanted to run, but he couldn't. If he ran, what would happen?

Possibilities ran through Jett's head. Visions of the past led to those of the future. But the present conflicted him the most.

Two adult guardians, those that didn't seek to hurt him, not truly.

There was no fear of food, no lack of water, and no storm that could harm him here.

Though it had only been a few days, he had done nothing but learn about himself and the wider world.

He learned that there was more. More than simple survival.

This was the path open to him.

This was how Jett could climb in the world.

He could be greater.

Jett's tensed body relaxed as he limped his way to Joanne's side.

***

It was a common, grey, and clouded afternoon.

The air remained dull due to a stagnant wind, the blotted sky shielding Strata from the concealed sun.

Through the streets of the Middle City, a cloaked figure steadily trekked through the crowds of content citizens and commercial bustle.

Each step was sturdy. Efficient, yet hurried.

To the cloaked man, there was little time to be spared.

Dipping into a lone alley, deep within its depths, there was a lantern adorning a singular door at the alley's end.

The cloaked man walked up to the door of the empty alley and knocked.

A few moments later, the sliding peephole opened.

"Show me," the man behind the door said.

The cloaked figure raised an exquisite silverish-gold amulet to the slit, held by its chains.

The slit slid back into place, the locks unlocked, and the door opened.

The cloaked figure walked inside as the door shut behind him.

Inside was a tavern of medium size, the sides lit with lanterns.

Off to the side was a trio of old musicians, playing low, ambient music for the small amount of patrons scattered around the establishment.

Directly ahead of the cloaked figure was a high, rounded bar fitted with stools.

He promptly walked forward and stood next to a man who appeared to be several beers deep.

"Drinking already? Strata is doomed to have a day drinker for a king." the cloaked man chuckled.

"Ah shut it, Maros. Takes like thirty of these just to get a buzz going," the man sighed. "I fear I've gotten too strong for alcohol, life may not be worth living."

"Oh, how I pity you," Maros took a seat on the barstool next to the man. "How can your humble retainer be of service?" he jested.

"Be some decent company. If I had any decent conscience I would execute you for your insolence."

Maros signaled to the barkeeper who promptly delivered the same beverage.

The two old—and powerful—souls sat in silence as they savored their pints.

"I've been busy fulfilling your earlier demands. Surely being a subpar drinking buddy isn't the reason you summoned me, Isaak." Maros said.

"Well you'd be wrong, that's exactly why you're here," Isaak sighed. "Divine Crusaders are soon to be up our ass, that's good for our purposes. But you still need more than that."

"How long till the Crusaders wage war?" Maros said with intrigue.

"Little under a year, maybe sooner. They always take forever to mobilize, with the Storm and all."

"They're most likely waiting for winter to lay siege during a Storm drought," Maros took a sip, running his hand through his beard. "So? What're you gonna do about it?"

"As little as possible," Isaak admitted, severely lacking in shame.

"Bastard. Why don't you just hand me the crown already?" Maros spat.

"I told you, you're too weak. And you know I don't play favorites.," Isaak smiled wryly. "You're the underdog in this race, Maros. The rest of the heads would revolt if I showed any favor to you."

"Hmm. And this isn't showing favor?" Maros asked.

"Rest of 'em are somehow worse drinking buddies than you. That's all there is to it," Isaak put down an empty glass. "So, got any allies in your faction yet?"

"Well, along with my vast network of internal connections, the ones I already told you about, and the Storm Wardens, of course, I've gained one more as of late." Maros laughed in a self-deprecating manner.

"Oh? Who is it?" Isaak sat up with intrigue.

"A Soul Released kid from Shacktown."

Isaak burst into a fit of laughter, disrupting the few in the tavern as he struggled to regain composure.

"Maros, my friend, you are hopeless."