Another collection of fans fell… but not by Gregor’s hands. He had only one to his name, while the headless man just hummed in the face of its second exploding corpse. Unwavered by the gust that made him wince and brace at the edge of the platform.
When the air died down and the bridge rose, there was only silence and a lingering wait that showed a frown on his face.
“I didn’t ask for you to take another one down.” Gregor said, feeling as though he was more than capable, after knowing the Monster would explode. Now, what should have been a difficult challenge had been rendered mute, and turned into nothing more than a wistful walk. The unease in his gut churned.
“You asked for my help, and I am simply extending my gratitude.” The headless man replied, almost whimsically. Gregor continued to be unconvinced. “But if you desire my help to end then I suppose it's an appropriate time, the challenge is over.”
Gregor blinked.
“Just passed the bridge and off to your very last challenge, I do hope to see you make it through.” The mists began to whirl, converging onto the man. A cyclone shrouded his form, he was there… waving goodbye till the last moment, and then everything faded. The headless man was gone.
Alone. Gregor stood on the platform, gazing out onto the bridge. He couldn’t help the shiver.
What can I do? The being carried him through the challenge, and then just disappeared? Why? Gregor didn’t know what was being played. The contrast to the mansion and now was subtle but there. He thought about it, the two voices that came to mind. Especially on why… why did the hints come as whispers to his mind and not from the being himself.
This was supposed to be fair, not a free ride. The beginning was evident enough. The Rifts were supposed to test Seekers more than a decent herbalist in an overrun market. Cornered all the good mushrooms in their hut-stores, even the ones that weren’t medical.
But that was just it, none of this was making any sense. Because, what was the end goal of all of this? Why help him at all, if the desire was to see him dead by the end of it?
Questions… and more questions. More confusion brought.
Gregor’s Miasma shuddered at the thought as he went off through the mist, to what was, supposedly, one last time.
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Henry fell off to the wayside, panting at fading pressure that pricked his body.
He didn’t pass out like the previous days, and his control was becoming better than the mindless exercises that Riker had him do— so that was good. Still below proficient, but Riker’s resigned grumbling and frown made it all worth it.
Especially after speaking on his core; a natural progression of Yor as he had come to know, and all the outsourced callings for his energy. Dimetrodon took most of the calling, but there were still faint trances, lingering sensations in his skin, muscles, and bones. Fading in and out, almost awaiting a decision.
And Riker’s word, because he was sure the man knew what he was asking about, but refused in silence.
His muscles finally were beginning to respond again. He was up and finding his balance after a few minutes. The specters went off to convene some sort of talk, it was quicker than he expected. Hell, he didn’t need to find a chair as he felt them coming down from the sky. With Riker showing a pensive look upon his face.
“You're getting a better handle on your energy, I assume?” Ifeden asked, pleased that the change in curriculum produced better results. Even if they said this would be a detriment when he went off on his own. But that was a luxury, he pressed the issue of it being better to use what he had now to push him through the experience. Because these days, as if they weren’t obvious enough, were limited— but out there, he had a lifetime to figure out the mysteries with their passing teachings. And ultimately, what worked best for him.
So onward he would go, even if it was to be called arrogant, he would figure it out in time.
Henry gave a tentative smile and nodded. “So what’s happening now?”
There was a brief silence, but it came like thunder anyway. “After tomorrow, I will no longer be able to guide you on your path.”
“But— but, you told me I still had weeks with you?!” Henry was struck, almost delirious of time. Had it been that long?
“Then I apologize,” He spoke with regret. Forlorning the next few words. “We are Wys, so long as one of us still remains then it is enough to teach you moving forward.” He paused, almost thinking of what to say. “Originally, with your progress there was a call to a meeting of Ize and I giving our remaining time to Riker. Allowing him to guide you a while longer.”
“Ifeden—“ Riker was silenced with a raise of Ifeden’s hand.
He continued, “Initially the goal was a two week extension. One for each of our sacrifices. But now, I shall give my time to them, and Ize will follow to give Riker one more day.
“So a day left for myself, and then another week for them, plus a day for Riker.” His words were soft, but filled with a familiar conviction.
At any other time, his heart would only feel two courses. Drained from the long days, his mind would echo the sentiment. Without worry. Without care. Why did it matter at all, for when he had barely enough sense for himself. Or, a confusing flurry of emotions. His doubts, faults, second guesses lead his frustrations and anger to stew. And maybe just, explode more than it already did.
He would never say it, but perhaps it was better this way. Getting it all out. Leaving him to face reality with a steadier heart.
If this was for the best, then he wouldn’t sully their convictions.
“Alright.” He said simply, without a hint of burden.
Riker seemed pensive in response. Ifeden hummed, almost pleased. As came and patted his shoulder.
“Then we should move on to my final instruction.” Ifeden said, and Henry agreed. The specter held out his arms as they appeared to grow— no, manifesting something. Two, sharp, curved, blades came into being. “With the remaining time I shall have you face all that I know.” The other specters went off to the side. Ifeden got into stance. “Regardless of your advantage of Yor, those on the path of Anima, and all of subtypes, are some of the most innovative challenges you will come across. What you carry onward is up to you, remember well Henry. This may very well save your life one day.”
There was no waiting around for questions. No answers to be had. But of all the thoughts that rang through his head, there was only one that made any sense.
Henry turned tailed and fled the blade.
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Time was running a fraction as it once did. And once more did the blade come down to split Henry in two, vibrant as it showed its coating in ethereal blue. Unconsciously he pushed forward for the only thing left to try, getting under edge, dodge to the side that held the blade.
You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.
The blade went past, missing its mark. His body hummed, Thame responded to his call, however small, pushed his speed. Because he wanted it— needed it. He reeled back his arm, the exhilarating feeling of matching a blow revealed a smile.
He was finally— finally, able to land a counter.
Before there was a sharp movement, and the back of the blade hit his side. Shorting everything.
His back hit the ground, failing to roll, sliding until his exposed elbows and top back burned. He could feel the stings, the undercut of wet skin. Or, was that blood? Henry lifted up his elbow to see.
Yeah, I need some bandages. He finished, shakily getting up.
“Better.” Ifeden said, coming over. No longer holding his blades. “If I followed the way of the Yor that could have been problematic.”
Henry scoffed, glancing over to Riker. “Now you’re just being nice.”
Ifeden chuckled, “Perhaps. But remember, the body of those that practice Anima is secondary, to the objects they claim. Especially their links to hand held weapons, with their greater potential than any other combative form of Thame.”
It was Riker’s turn to scoff, but made no comment. Tossing him a bandage roll to cover his bleeding scraps. A routine that was getting old, even for the long day, as most of his bandages were dirty with sweat and dust, if they had not fallen off entirely. Revealing a line, cut deep enough into his flesh to draw blood. A marking for his failures… a lot of failures.
But he was getting better, and this was proof. Without a doubt he believed it. Believed in the word as his proof.
He was proud, maybe at another time he would have been ecstatic. But, to keep his words true, it was time. Ifeden looked at his hand, faded as if it was never there. Ize came over to give him one last hug. Riker simply nodded, his jawline sharper, and his eye’s unwavering in focus.
“Farewell my comrades. My friends.” He spoke without a hint of remorse. His voice strong, even in this last moment. Henry stood at attention, instinctively holding onto these words. “Henry, whatever may happen. Remember… our voices, what the Wys stand for. What you stand for. Regardless of the world you’ve known before, this is all that we have in this one, make the most of it…
“I wish you well, in this journey to the Stars.”
His voice echoed, in those last moments, as Ifeden’s body faded in a puff of smoke. Dissipating altogether the next moment.
There was an intake of breath from Ize. Riker just about looked to pop out his teeth by how hard he was clamming his jaw. While Henry, he was, well… floating, on the mix of emotions foreign to him.
Longing, regret, pride, resolve. Together they came, and acted as one. He wasn’t sure of the word, or even if there was one but, he carved this moment into his mind. Never, would he ever forget, of the promise left unsaid and the history that would stand with the memory.
There the silence lingers, for how long Henry didn’t bother to pay attention.
A grunt ended it, and Riker stepped forward.
“In this last week you are going be put through the ringer.” Riker wasted no time getting into it, he needed it. They both did, Henry thought as Ize stood beside Riker. “All this equipment, training, it was in preparation for your choice in path.” Riker began to pace. “But unlike Miasma, and Anima where they have three distinct opportunities. Yor is quiet sensitive, and muddled with its five…”
He had somewhat knew, Riker had gone off about this on the run around and lifting. But now, this was something, a tangible something. And just like the way he Awakened, this choice and his dedication to it, mattered the most along his path.
Because only one path could rise to the level of Instinct.
Strength, leverages the body, regardless of mass, if there ever was a need to overcome with pure force there is nothing greater than pursuing strength.
Resilience, the skin, muscles, blood, bones, and everything between, faces the world with impossible defenses and regeneration. When the will to keep on fighting relies on the condition that ‘can’ is still possible.
Perception, sees through all things, when even the weakness of Miasma and their illusions can be pierced through with enough dedication. Nothing will stand in the way of the six senses, so much so that prediction of your enemies movements might only be a matter of time.
Agility, out paces all when a number of improbable occurrences align to demise there is assurance. That the speed, hardness, and dexterity wielded, can create a final moment to escape unscathed and off within a blink.
Endurance, the will to keep on fighting, control and stamina conjure a brimming force that keeps on the pressure. Spells become a whole heart of life and reserves, to keep on fighting until one could fight no more.
“So, then.” Riker asked, after he was done giving his lesson. “What it’ll it be?”
Henry didn’t think this over much, he smiled at the obvious course for himself.
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The walk was already much longer than the others. There were no dips. No slopes to tell when he had passed the midpoint of his walk. Only that the ropes were tight, and the boards under Gregor’s feet were trusted in his next step.
But, eventually, the tight hold over his attention waned and his mind waged a different battle. One of fear, that past this last leg there would be no help. No hints. So Gregor did the only thing he could think to remedy the strain, he opened up his notes to the Nightmare section, bare of anything but a few distinctions.
‘Nightmares are nearly formless. They are less things, but ideas. Few Avatars are Nightmares within Miasma, and whatever they are, they are not illusions like the others. Something different… how, I don’t know. Few Spells work on them, and nothing low-ranked does.
If you come across one, you must run.’
It didn’t make him feel any better about the situation, because he almost made the comment in jest. This fractured reality, full of twisted things. Stuff born from Nightmares, and Miasma. It was an off hand thought, an off hand idea. Because what trial would be fair if it held the lurking Monsters that made Seekers the horrors of the night?
This one.
And, maybe, just maybe he had been too greedy with taking the second key… and the helping hand.
The trek went on, Gregor pulling his papers in and out again. Getting tired, bored. Resolving himself to not read the title pages that were expressly written so. Even, he recalled, his hands moving faster than his mind could keep track of what he wrote. Perhaps this was for the best, and, at the very least, more than any other man, he trusted himself with this piece of knowledge.
The mists began to fade, Gregor shifted his pack to his other arm. Seeing the end of the bridge and chasm, to his first step of solid ground. There came his first view of the blank sky in… well, a while. But what struck him was the scene. He paused, gazing upon the cracked moon over the mountain. It was almost serene, like something out of a painting. The only thing that took him out of it was the glimpse of the path before him, leading towards the mountain.
He was a bit weary to follow, but this wasn’t a harmless path. Right? Nothing could be that easy.
Gregor tightened the grip over his pack and readied his mind just on the bladed edge. He was ready as he would ever be, whatever may come to be.
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On the top of the mountain, two forms stood next to each casting their gaze to the oncoming challenger. Both stood tall, sharing the same form; headless, but dressed in fine wears. But that was only by appearance, for one was only a small fraction of the other.
“It has been much too long. The wait, it’s nearly insufferable.” The one on the left said, clearly relishing each stride the challenger took.
The other being, the one far above, only hummed, not saying anything. But the mere acknowledgment was enough, in this long wait that might as well have been damnation for eternity.
“Don’t you find this amusing, seeing how far your given little speck of indulgence could grow?” The left asked, but there wasn’t a response. The left cheerfully hummed in turn. “Then enjoy the show, you brimming boil of iron.”
The left disappeared in a puff of smoke. Leaving the single, and only whole being on the mountain.
You are reaped by the debts you sow. The being thought, to no one in particular, but to a familiar feeling. Not of hope, or pity for the to-be Seeker. But something that brought them here, to their own Trial and exile.
The being wished, oh so dearly and by whatever means necessary. For the twisted memory of their own reflection to see what good can be done in relishing the desires wrought by longing and hunger. And then, in the final moment, in the last fragment of time, be maimed for it. Struck down to the lowest of whispers, and pressed low to the earth.
And then… remember the damned, of regrets and anger. For their failure and contempt.
Oh yes. The being had tightened the hold over their own relish, but nothing good would come out of it to kill it or ignore it. For what they were, standing there, a warm feeling in their chest, content to savor the familiarity.
Of spite, and reckoning.
Youngling I do hope for a good show.