‘Why is it that people fight?’

‘Is it for personal gain? For power? To defend someone they love? Or maybe fighting is something more primal. Perhaps war and violence are essential parts of human nature, and humans would fight no matter their circumstances.’

‘Heh, doesn’t matter to me either way. After all, only the strong can gain anything by fighting.’

“Hey…”

“Hey kid…” 

“HEY KID”

A strong voice split through the darkness of night. "Your shift's over already."

In the middle of the room, a boy with messy brown hair and an old tunic lay sprawled out on the floor, staring up at the ceiling with his emerald-green eyes. The boy raised his head reluctantly to glare at the source of the voice. "Shut up, Jet. I thinking about things."

"Daydreaming again, huh Atlas?" responded the middle-aged man. "We're both gonna die someday if you keep that up. Fiends don't wait for you to get ready before tearing your throat out."

Atlas laughed. "So? It's not like the world would miss a couple of Markless idiots like us."

Jet sighed. "Well, you're not wrong about that. But I'd rather be alive myself. Now get up before I rat on you to the boss."

Atlas raised himself up from the ground and stretched. He took one last look into the darkness beyond the watchtower before making his way down the ladder. 

Dropping to the ground, Atlas looked around. Stretching all the way to the horizon, dilapidated buildings and rubble filled the landscape as the final memories of what was once a great nation. On Atlas’ left, he saw an old leper lying in the shelter of an abandoned hospital with her eyes gazing lifelessly forward. On his right, flies were circling around a pile of garbage. Everywhere, the smell of decay permeated the air.

In other words, it was just another night on the Frontier. 

The Frontier was one of the five remaining cities of humanity, though it could hardly be called a city. In reality, it was nothing more than a collection of camps and walls on the borders of the human realm. It was commonly known among the four other human holds as the 'Field of Death'; 'Tartarus'; the 'Kingdom of Decay'; or more simply, 'Hell.'  But to people like Atlas, it was known as 'home.'

'What bull,' thought Atlas. 'Those damn Marked make us do whatever they want in the daytime and sentry duty at night. Do they think we don't need sleep or something!?'

Lamenting his fate, Atlas sauntered over to one of the slightly less dilapidated buildings in the city and opened the door. The other side of the door opened up to a large entry room. One would have thought it was a hotel if not for the dozens of weapons covering the walls and the strange, muscular, red-headed man who seemed far too invested in examining said weapons. 

The man was clothed in nothing but a simple red tunic and countless deep scars. The only thing that betrayed his status was an intricate golden band on the ring finger of his left hand. On the back of his right hand rested a tattoo-like symbol of a warrior's helmet from which emanated a dominating aura. Noticing the sound of the door, the muscular man turned around and smiled.

“Atlas, my boy!" The man's hearty voice shook the room. "You're late. I was almost sure the fiends turned you into their midnight snack." The man laughed. “So, anything new on the border?”

"Nothing tonight, sir. I wouldn’t be alive if there was.”

The man’s smile faded. “I see. That’s a real shame. I’ve been itching for a fight recently.”

‘What a war-crazed maniac,’ Atlas thought.

“Anyway, I’ll be on my way, sir.” Atlas began to walk back toward the entrance when…

A flash of wood flew through the air a few inches in front of Atlas’ face.

By the time Atlas realized what was happening, the short wooden sword had already stuck itself deeply into the wall to his right, mere inches in front of his face.

“Not so fast, Atlas.” The red-haired man grinned. “I told you I’ve been itching for a fight. And when I want something, I get what I want. Now take that sword and get over here.”

Atlas obliged, still shocked. This wasn’t exactly unusual behavior for the big man, but Atlas was still very tired from the night and didn’t want to put up with his more of his tomfoolery. Alas, the big man wasn’t someone he could disobey.

He pulled out the wooden sword and gently swung it around. It was light and easy to swing around but clearly not something meant for killing, unlike its steel cousin. From the deepest recesses of his memory, a faint feeling of nostalgia passed over him, but Atlas quickly pushed the feeling back into his memory. There were more important problems to deal with at the moment.

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Atlas turned back to the muscular man. “Uh, sir, I don’t mean to be disrespectful, but there’s no way I won’t die if we fight. I don’t even have a Mark. You could probably kill me with a single flick.”

“Don’t worry, my boy. It’s just a duel. I’ll be gentle. I won’t even use my Mark. I’m not so dumb as to break another sparring partner.”

Atlas grimaced. ‘That last comment wasn’t very reassuring.’

“Keep your chin up, Atlas. Stand tall.” The man took another wooden sword off the rack on the wall. “Do you know the Code of Chivalry?” 

“I’ve heard of it, but I wouldn’t say I know it.”

“Ah, I suppose that makes sense. Sometimes I forget you’ve never been to the Knights Academy.” The man scratched his head.

“The Code of Chivalry is basically the rulebook for honorable dueling between Knights. For a duel between Knights to be legitimate, they must first introduce themselves to each other, stating their true name and status. Neither Knight may attack the other until introductions are finished and they both agree to the duel. It is a crime worthy of death for a Knight to attack another without the proper dueling procedure. The duel is over once one side gives up, is incapacitated, or… is dead.”

Atlas nodded. He wasn’t sure he completely understood everything, but he didn’t dare make the large man repeat himself. “Okay, I think I got it.”

“Alright then, let’s get started.” The large, red-haired man faced Atlas with his sword in hand.

The man began in a clear, strong voice:

“My name is Victor Bellifer. I am a graduate of the Knights’ Academy as well as the bearer of the Divine Mark of Ares. As the Lord and King of the Frontier, I challenge you to a duel.”

For a few seconds, Atlas paused. He was about to duel one of the most powerful people on the planet, albeit without the power of his Mark. But even among those with a Divine Mark, Victor Bellifer was a legend. Atlas himself knew that the fabled ‘Son of Ares’ was much more friendly and amiable than the legends made him out to be, but he was deadly nonetheless.

There was an old rumor around the camps near the border that Victor Bellifer had killed as many fiends as everyone else on the Frontier combined. Atlas wasn’t one to believe random rumors, but now that he was standing before the man himself, he was starting to believe it.

“Go on, boy. It’s your turn.”

Atlas took a deep breath. “…My name is Atlas, just Atlas. I’m a Markless citizen of the Frontier. And…” He hesitated. “And I accept your challenge.”

Instantly, Victor was rushing toward him. Seemingly with complete disregard for defense, he lunged at Atlas, the tip of his sword heading straight for Atlas’ neck. However, Atlas observed that with a well-timed dodge and slash to Victor’s side, he should be able to hit him.

That is, if Victor were to truly follow through with his attack.

‘This is a trap.’ Atlas calmly stepped back from the attack just as Victor himself jumped back, anticipating an attack that never came.

‘If I had tried to defend my neck, he would have countered.’

The King of the Frontier may have been an idiot in real life, but not in battle. A warrior with as much renown as Victor Bellifer would never leave himself open to such an obvious attack. Even the most hot-headed warriors understand the importance of good defense, because in this world, the ones who don’t are the ones who die.

Now it was time for Atlas to make his move.

Without wasting a moment, he aimed a slash for right between his opponent’s ribs, but it was effortlessly deflected.

Not getting caught up in the momentary failure, Atlas swiftly transitioned to his next attack.

Slash followed stab as Atlas masterfully flowed each move into the next, leaving no room for his opponent to do anything except parry. With each attack, hundreds upon hundreds of hours of sparring came rushing back into his head against his will. Throughout the building and even into the street outside, the deafening clang of wood striking against wood filled the atmosphere. Atlas was now fully lost in the whirlwind of battle.

But something was wrong.

‘He’s luring me in. What nerve.’

Atlas had finally realized the big man’s ploy, but Victor’s plan was already in motion. Atlas had extended his arm just a bit too far in front of him, and the big man immediately capitalized on that mistake by launching a vicious strike at Atlas’ unprotected body.

If Victor had been fighting a novice swordsman, the duel would have been over then and there. But as much as he liked to act like one, Atlas was not a novice swordsman.

He ducked under the blow just before the blade would have smashed into his side. The sword missed him by so little that he could feel it displace the air above his head. He had barely escaped unscathed.

Now, though, Victor was truly defenseless.

Moving underneath his opponent’s wooden blade, Atlas swung his sword up toward his opponent’s ribs to land the final decisive blow.

It was at that moment, however, that the symbol of the warrior’s helmet on Victor Bellifer’s right hand began to glow.

For a split second, it felt as if the world itself stopped to watch the final moments of the duel. The air quivered; the earth trembled; the walls shook. Everything around Victor looked on in anticipation before being shattered by a violent blast of aura.

The aura stopped Atlas’ sword in its tracks before sending Atlas himself flying into the nearest wall. With a thud, Atlas crashed into the wall.

The duel was over.

The Son of Ares was standing over Atlas with a wooden dueling sword at his throat. His eyes were glowing with a bright red light.

“Give up, kid.”

Atlas sat there for a second, gasping for air. “I… give… up…”

“Ah, another duel easily won.”

Atlas looked up in disgust. “You… used your Mark… you bastard.”

“Oh yeah, sorry about that Atlas. I forgot you were Markless for a second.” Victor grinned playfully, almost as if he had merely made a silly little mistake and not just thrown a teenager full force against a wall.

“Really though, you’re an impressive swordsman. The gods must be fools to not bless you with a Mark.”

Atlas finally caught his breath and stood up, brushing the dirt and rubble off his pants. “The gods aren’t worth my time. I wouldn’t mind having the power of a Mark though. It’d make life a lot easier,” Atlas muttered. “Speaking of Marks, sir, there’s a question that’s been bothering me for a while.”

“Hmm? What is it?

“With a Mark as powerful as yours, you could live like a lord in Solis. Why do you choose to fight out here on the front lines?”

A hearty, vigorous laugh burst out of the King of the Frontier as if Atlas has just said the most hilarious thing he’d ever heard in his life. Settling down, Victor looked directly into Atlas’ eyes and said:

“Because I enjoy it.”

At that moment, a piercing, ungodly ringing filled the room.

At first, the sound startled Atlas, but it didn’t take long for him to recognize what the piercing sound meant. Atlas’ face turned grim. It was coming from the direction of the watchtower where Jet was keeping watch.

Jet had sounded the alarm.

The Frontier was under attack.