It took them another hour before they finished their tour. They were assigned a shared room on the seventh floor—a small two-bed compartment with narrow closets for their clothes—then brought to the armory to be registered in the system, and introduced to the procedure for taking out training weapons and receiving clothes.
The quartermaster was a balding man with a constant scowl plastered on his face, but he gave them no trouble, until they were called to register any weapons of their own.
“I have gear, sir” Ark said, cautiously, placing his hand on the scabbard he always had on his hip, where the hilt of the black dagger was ready for action.
The quartermaster raised an eyebrow, his scowl deepening in confusion, “You have gear.” His statement was laced with disbelief.
When Ark pulled out the black dagger, with the line of crimson down its edge, the man’s scowl evaporated, and his eyes expanded into large discs.
“By the…” He reached out for it, then stopped himself, looking at Ark with a new level of appreciation, “May I see it?”
Ark hesitated for a long moment. The dagger was his lifeline, and there was no telling when he’d be summoned back to the Ashlands. While it had never happened two days in a row that did not mean it was not possible. There was no pattern to the summons, and handing over his one advantage felt like an opportunity that his birthrealm would not resist—irrational though it was.
Despite this, Ark slowly handed the knife to the quartermaster. His stomach churned as he watched his lifeline leave his hands, memories of every battle he had survived with it flashing through his mind.
Eyes full of excitement, the quartermaster grabbed the knife and poured over every inch of it with such a big smile on his lips that put his scowling image to shame. “Interesting… it is clearly bonded to you, but the development appears limited… How did you get it?”
“Family heirloom… sir?” Ark said, knowing it was a stretch. Gear was heavily regulated, and not just anyone could own, or just give it away, not even within a family.
The quartermaster gave him a look that told Ark he clearly did not buy that excuse. “Uh-huh, sure… In any case, it’s legal status is in order. Is that an anti-gravity effect I see?” His finger’s caressed the dagger’s blade, as the light in his eyes told Ark that he was analyzing it with his netlink. “It doesn’t seem psionically activated… That’s odd; the tech isn’t all that advanced, so how would it…”
The quartermaster kept mumbling to himself, when Matthews cleared his throat and said, “I’m sorry Harkon, but we can’t stay here all day. Do you mind?”
“What?” The quartermaster, Harkon, looked up, blinking. He looked from Matthews to Ark and back again, before he shook his head and sighed, “Fine. What’s your name, trainee?”
“Ark, sir” he said, accepting the dagger back, feeling the relief wash over him when he returned it to its proper place in the scabbard at his hip.
“Alright, Trainee Ark, if you come back and let me have another look at your gear, I promise I’ll let you take out some of the more interesting weapons we’ve got for a spin, deal?”
“That’s…” Matthews said, his face twisted into a conflicted expression.
“Deal, sir” Ark said, immediately, cutting off the Pathfinder before he could mention any regulations or safety concerns.
Harkon grinned and blinked at Matthews. “Don’t mind the small stuff, Matthews. I won’t hand him anything too expensive, so keep your panties in a bunch.”
Sighing, Matthews shrugged and said, “It’s your Armory, Harkon, and your head, if anything goes wrong.”
Harkon just laughed, the scowl now completely evaporated from his face. “Sure, sure, now get out of here, before I take the chance to lock you in here with me.”
That got them out of there real quick. Matthews eyed Ark with a hint of curiosity as they walked down the hall. “You’re both rather interesting, Ark, Mino. Where are you from?”
They looked at one another, then said in chorus, “Respite, sir.”
Matthews opened his mouth, then shut it closed. “I should have figured,” he mumbled, turning eyes forward. Looking down at his watch, he said, “We’re just in time. Your fellow trainees have a training session that’s about to wrap up. We should be able to catch the last of it and greet them.” Without waiting for their response, he increased their pace to a near jog.
Ark and Mino both had to half run, half walk to keep up with the Pathfinder, as he walked them through hallways and stairs, taking an elevator to end up before a long row of doors that were clearly labeled with the words ‘Training Room’ and their respective number. Halting before room number six, Matthews turned to them and said, “Your trainer’s name is Tracker Alistor. He’s a veteran, who has been a riftwalker since before the assault on the Red Moon. He’s a bit… unique,” Matthews smiled weakly, “But he’s an one of the best trainers we got, so be respectful, understood?”
Both Ark and Mino nodded. Matthews returned the nod and said, “Good. Let’s go.” He opened the door into a narrow corridor that led into a spacious room. The moment the door opened, the sound of metal clashing against one another deafened Ark, and he felt the tingle of psionic energy trickle over his skin. It was a familiar sensation, even if it was the most he had ever felt from the nebulous force that empowered riftwalkers to perform superhuman feats.
No matter how hard he had tried, Ark had never been able to sense psions in his surroundings, and thus he was unable to absorb them to make that power his own. He had been on the receiving end of those powers, though, many times. As the psionic energies crackled in the air, Ark’s heartbeat quickened. The memory of being helpless while a peer from the Maze battered him into the ground with telekinetic force or blasted with fire from a pyromancer made his skin prickle with cold sweat, the hair at the back of his neck standing on end.
You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.
They stepped through the corridor, all the way up to a blue forcefield that stopped intruder’s from walking into the training room and get blasted from a stray attack. Beyond the forcefield, Ark could see a large, square room, covered in metal tiles that were purpose built to withstand the violence that was going on inside.
Two figures were currently occupying the center of the room, doing their best to put the room’s resilience to the test, as they threw psionic force around like it was paint and they were competing to see who could cover the most surface area.
They were both boys, both Ark and Minos age—though they might be older—and both fought with melee weapons as they clashed. Covered in training gear from head to toe, it was impossible to see their faces, but their posture and aggressive fight gave off the impression that they were locked in a bitter contest.
The larger of the two used a two-handed training sword with a glowing edge. Ark had seen these kinds of weapons before, and knew how badly it hurt when they hit—both the physical force of the blow, but also the simulated damage that would accurately mimic the pain if you got your hand ‘sliced off’ as well as dampen your nerves to make the limb useless as a result.
The other wielded a spear with an impressive proficiency, fluidly moving from attack to defense in a near-dance. He was surrounded by a bubble of psionic energy that doubled as his attack vector, whenever he launched an assault. The bubble expanded along his spear, elongating his attack with a sheen of kinetic force that shot forth like a missile, extending his range.
The swordsman, on the other hand, was clearly enhancing his physical strength with his psionic energy, as he swung a pirouetted at a blistering pace. It limited his range, but he made up for it with the sheer speed of his footwork and movements, flanking the spear wielder at every opportunity, trying to get past his guard. The way he cut and weaved back and forth made Ark jealous, as the two were locked in an equal battle that had clearly been going on for some time.
When it finally ended, it happened in an instant. The swordsman made a feint to one side, then stepped past the spear as it swung to the wrong side. Too late to redirect, the spear wielder held out a hand, meeting the edge of the sword with nothing but his palm. It looked like a rookie mistake, but Ark noted the way the spear wielder’s bubble contracted around that one spot.
The swordsman did as well, but it was too late. The sword hit the barrier with a violent crash, and all the force of the clash was reflected back on the swordsman, sending him flying through the air and into the wall. The blow should have knocked the air out of the swordsman’s lungs, and the sword out of his hands, but it looked like he held onto both as he landed on the ground, even if he was brought to his knees. He fought to get back up, clearly wanting another go at the spearwielder.
“Alright, that’s enough, ladies.” An authoritative voice spoke over the rooms speakers. “Calm down, Jenson, I’m not paying for your medical bills if you pass out from overfaze.”
The swordsman, or Jenson, still tried to get up for a little while longer, before he listened to the advice.
“Ahh, I see we have guests,” the voice continued, “Matthews, get in here. What have you got for us?”
The blue forcefield disappeared, and Matthews immediately stepped forward, walking off to the side. Ark and Mino followed, though their heads were turned toward the combatants.
The spear wielder was taking off his helmet, revealing black curls that fell all the way to his shoulders, as he shook them lose. He looked their way with a dispassionate glance of his black eyes, before turning and walking in the opposite direction, toward a small cubby set into one of the walls, where he sat down and closed his eyes.
The swordsman, Jenson, threw off his helmet with a curse, eyes locked onto the spearwielder. He had fiery red hair, short cropped, and a freckled nose. When his eyes finally turned from the spearwielder and onto Ark and Mino, they narrowed to slits, leaving only a slight hint of glassy green.
“Ahh… more fodder for the fields,” the voice still reverberated over the room’s speakers, catching Ark’s attention. He looked forward, to where Matthews was headed, and saw a man leaning back in a beach chair, with a parasol shielding him from the room’s white light.
He had brown hair cut neatly, with a hint of gray on the sides, and black sunglasses that hid his eyes. He wore a thin linen shirt and shorts, with flip flops on his feet, and a necklace of plastic flowers around his neck. Sipping from a bottle through a straw, he lounged in his seat as they approached. He was, possibly, the most unprofessional man that Ark had ever seen.
This is our trainer? He thought, as Matthew came to attention before the man, saluting him. On reflex, Ark and Mino mimicked the Pathfinder.
“Tracker Alistor, I’ve brought you these trainees. They’re newly signed on with us, and they’ve been placed under your command, sir.”
“Well, well, isn’t that just great,” Alistor said, with something between amusement and sarcasm in his voice, “I get more brats to babysit. You two, names.” He addressed the latter comment to Ark and Mino with a whip in his voice, making them both straighten further.
They said their names in unison, to which a long silence ensued. Alistor looked from one to another, then said, “Tiny and Mule it is,” Alistor declared, his tone leaving no room for argument. Ark felt a flash of irritation at the nickname, but he suppressed it, knowing better than to show weakness. “Alright you two, what can you do?
Neither of them moved, uncertain as to what he was asking for.
“Abilities, skills, whatever you can do!” The man barked, “Mule, you first, let’s go.”
Mino hesitated for a moment, eying Ark, which got him another tongue lashing. “I’m not asking him, I’m asking you, you big, useless lummox. Talk or get the hell out of here.”
Though the tone was harsh, it was not enough to overwhelm Mino. He was used to people yelling at him. Squaring his shoulders, he said, “I am strong, and I’m good at stopping others. I’m best with a shield—“
“That’s enough,” Alistor cut him off with a wave of his hand, “So you’re pretty much useless. What about you, Tiny? Got anything worth my time?”
Ark took a breath before he answered. He wanted to brag about his gear, after seeing the reaction from the quartermaster, but the way Alistor had just dressed Mino down told Ark that he would chew him out, no matter what he said. There had been instructors like that at the Maze too.
“I’m a mindweaver, sir,” Ark said, speaking with a clip in his voice.
“Really now?” Alistor leaned forward in his chair, half a smile on his lips.
“What, so we can get tech support?” A voice cut in. From the side, Jenson had approached, helmet under one arm and training sword propped up on his shoulder with the other. His tone was far from friendly, and the look he gave Ark mirrored it.
In response, Alistor moved at such speed that he looked like a blur to Ark. Before anyone had the chance to react, Alistor had grabbed Jenson by the neck and kicked out the legs from under him.
On his knees, and eyes bulging from the sudden assault, Jenson spluttered as Alistor leaned down by his ear and spoke as soft as a velvet, “You stay silent when the grown-ups are talking, Jenson.”
“Don’t call me—“ Jenson tried to bark back, and got his entire face planted into the ground as a reward. “I’ll call you whatever I want, Jenson,” Alistor said, sweetly, “Now sit and be quiet.”
Releasing his grip, Alistor rose back up to his full height and dusted off his hands. “Now, you say you’re a mindweaver, Tiny?” He said, ignoring the boy squirming at his feet.
“Yes, sir.”
Alistor walked around Ark in a circuit, studying him. Finally, he stopped in front of him, arms crossed as he tilted his head from side to side, as if coming to a decision. When he stopped, his mouth twisted into a mockery of a grin, as he said, “Prove it.”