Sideways glances and irritated stares were nothing new to Otis, but the sheer animosity levelled at him by the lone mage wasn’t something he had ever had to experience. He was too much of an unknown, too isolated, for anyone to give a damn. No one had ever had a reason to be actively hostile.
The lone mage wasn’t the only abnormality, with Suzia gone his existence had become irksome. There were many new faces, here in the mess hall, but Otis recognised many of the mages from guilds within The Veil. As a whole, these guilds and departments had been unphased by his comings and goings. His experimentation had amused some but nothing more.
Around the room now, those same mages reacted to his presence like a bad smell. The young man in the corner took this upset to an extreme. There was genuine hate to his stare.
The once-warm comfort of the mess hall suddenly felt icy. Despite the adjustments the enchanted room made, this wasn’t something lighting or gentle woods could fix.
Standing from the table, Otis took a second to watch his bowl and cup as they melted away. He had marveled at the scene when he had seen it at a distance but now it felt like a hollow experience. Something had changed and he couldn’t decipher what. There was no logic to it, no sequence of events he could trace.
Thankfully, no one acted on their hostilities as Otis made a hasty retreat. Manoeuvring his way to one of the exits, a glance over his shoulder sent a cold flash roiling through him. The starring mage was gone. His fears were likely unfounded but that didn’t stop Otis from flitting his eyes over the room. He couldn’t find the young man with the hateful eyes anywhere. The realisation had sent his heart pounding.
Newly awakened and taken in by a sect at war, Otis had felt alone and lost and hopeless. He hadn’t known who the sect was at war with, he hadn’t known the dangers within its walls, nor had any of these unknowns scared him. The young man, with the hateful stare, scared him.
Suzia had left him on his own to get back but Otis was confident in getting back. The labyrinth of walls were beyond confusing but they weren’t without purpose. After his delirious return to the bunk beds, after his first attempt at channelling his [Manipulate] skill, Otis realised that the walls had to be enchanted. He should have spent hours walking the halls of The Veil. Not only had he woken up in his bed but after repeated trips to the Smithy it felt as though he was getting there faster; as though the walls were learning where he wanted to go. When making a journey it permanently felt as though his destination was just around the corner.
Whilst this feeling of imminent arrival was usually comforting, now it only served to heighten his unease. His mind was racing a mile a minute, his back slick with sweat. Something about that stare felt fanatical. There was a momentum to it that sent a fear running through him, in a very primal way.
A metallic taste rose from his stomach, unease turning to fearful nausea. He couldn’t get over the feeling of being stalked, of being prey.
Rounding the corner, Otis felt the instinctual fear continue to rise, in his throat, from the pit of his stomach. The sensation rose till he couldn’t bear to walk. It had started as a jog but then he was sprinting. His pulse was pounding in his head. Something screamed at him: danger.
Mentally changing his destination from the bunks to the Smithy, Otis’ lungs burnt as he ran. The blacksmiths had been totally unemotional but they felt immovable, insurmountable. He would be safe there. He just needed to reach it.
After the last corner disappeared behind him, the scorched walls of the Smithy appeared in front of him, the sign plunged through the thick basalt walls. He was almost there.
WHAM
Without warning, Otis was flung from his feet and slammed into the wall. Scrambling, he was disorientated. He hadn’t seen the mage approach. Grabbed by the neck, he was thrown back into the wall.
“What a waste. You had so much potential?”
Confirming his fears, it was the mage from the mess hall. If only by his hateful stare, Otis recognised him immediately.
SLAM
Otis saw it this time. His assailant had thrown an energy blast, crushing Otis to the wall. The other mage could clearly have killed him in an instant but that’s not what he wanted. The maniacal sneer screamed 'narcissistic superiority complex'.
“What… do you… want?” Otis coughed out. The second blast had knocked the air from him and his diaphragm refused to cooperate.
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Straining through the pressure, Otis was defiant but genuinely curious. What had him so angry? It couldn’t just be a show of strength, given the general reaction to his existence. If it was due to his magical path it felt like everyone gravitated towards specific paths that they were best suited to. It didn’t feel like he’d ever had a real choice in the matter. How would you even begin to choose a path that didn’t suit you anyway?
“What do I want?” the mage chuckled, “I want you to prove you’re not totally worthless. I want you to be worth the effort it took to save you.”
‘Fuck, it's personal then,’ Otis thought, the verbal attack stinging almost as much as the magical concussive blast.
The assailing mage stepped forward, releasing a wave of pressure that pinned Otis down. He grabbed the neck of his t-shirt and forced him against the wall.
Reaching into his jacket pocket, he didn’t see his victim squirm. He barely felt the level 1 mage struggle. The sensation reminded him of how far he’d left his base self behind, how much he’d improved. He was younger than Otis by a year but was manhandling him as if he were barely out of kindergarten.
Having taken a moment to bask in self-reflective boasting, he didn’t notice the dagger until it was plunged into his leg. The blade sliced through flesh like it wasn’t even there, as it created a deep trough in its target.
Pride bloomed in Otis’ chest as he sliced through his target. He didn’t know what level the mage was but he was higher than him, that’s all that mattered.
It was all that mattered, for a moment.
With a scream, the stabbed mage erupted with energy. If before he had felt like he was being crushed, now it was as though he was being thoroughly atomised.
“FUUUCK,” the hateful mage screamed, “YOU SHIT!”
It felt like every bone in Otis’ body was bowing inwards. He couldn’t breathe, his was diaphragm unable to resist the extreme pressures. Helpless, all Otis could do was hopelessly gasp.
Snatching a black bead from his pocket, the assailing mage grabbed Otis by the throat and squeezed both simultaneously. As the edges of Otis’ oxygen-deprived vision began to tunnel vision reality began to spin around them.
The vortex of space was different than what he had experienced with Tiera. Instead of a perfect blackness and interweaving lines, this was a jarring world of sudden movement and instantaneous deceleration. The inertia alone was sickening. Clouds of red and shocks of white light exploded as they moved through space. The fabric of reality squealed as they were violently shuttled through an entrance to nowhere.
A burst of light gave way to granules of sand, littering over a concrete floor. The roars of a crowd took over the screaming spatial fluctuations of the void. Whatever this unknown mage had used was utterly different to Tiera’s.
Bursting into existence, the two mages tumbled across the rough ground.
Screaming spatial fluctuations were replaced with a cacophony of faraway voices. Jeers, screams, and cheers intermingled into one wall of sound.
“Eros!” came a voice, “another entrant?”.
Eros could be heard shuffling, as he ground out swears against gritted teeth. The identity of Otis’ attacker was finally revealed.
Otis went to turn to the newcomer, although he acknowledged that “newcomer” was probably a matter of perspective as they had only just materialised seconds ago. His field of view didn’t falter. The side of his face was planted on the ground, unmoving. His fingers stretched out, limply, before him. He couldn’t move.
Trying to move there was nothing. Willing with all his might, there was only a lightheaded fizzing that accompanied the internal pressure.
Eros said nothing in response, to the newcomer. Even his previous fury had been quelled in the man’s presence. He had continued to grimace when he applied even slight pressure to his wounded leg but it appeared that decorum, at least in front of the newcomer, was a must.
The crunch of sandy footsteps slowly roused Otis from his rapidly mounting fears. Only able to see his own outstretched hand, his vision shifted to the ceiling as he was spread out. Compared to the dilapidated luxury of The Veil, this room tipped the scale further towards dilapidation. Every inch looked to be scored with deeply clawed groves. Chains hung from the ceiling, mostly intact but several thick chains were shattered or melted. The things that usually made their way through here were far more powerful than his newly awakened self, Otis realised.
Although he could breathe even that wasn’t entirely under his control. Exasperated, he wanted to shout but only weak rasps escaped his throat.
“Let’s see what you’ve brought us,” the newcomer’s voice spoke, now closer. “I don’t expect many levels on this one, Eros. A strange choice, given your last contender.”
The voice still hadn’t made shown themselves, but they sounded polite with a sinister air, that screamed power.
“He’s a late bloomer,” Eros spoke up, surmising Otis' existence.
“Ahh… I do love a gamble.”
Although the man sounded satisfied, when he finally stepped into view, Otis was not. Aged, jaundiced, skin crept into view. His bald head stared, calmly down. The man wasn’t inspecting a person, he was inspecting data, livestock... worth. His gaze was entirely impersonal. ‘It’s business not personal’ could have been the man’s personal slogan. Otis could imagine the text tattooed somewhere in scrawling text beneath his platinum robes.
“Let’s see just what kind of contender you’ve brought us,” the jaundiced man muttered.
Whilst his vision was limited, Otis could feel the man clasp his wrist. For a moment, nothing happened. Then the world imploded. Pain rampaged through Otis. Trapped in stasis, unable to move, it was unbearable. This was torture, this was hell incarnate, he was inside the bronze bull. Even the pain of his awakening didn’t equate to this sudden seizure of agony.
“Ah… I see… yes, the fates love to play their games” the old man whithered an appraisal to himself. He was unmoved by the pain he saw in Otis’ eyes, by the trembling of his breath. He had seen it all before, he would see it again, and it was a power he would savour, whilst he could.
“Ten percent.”
“Thirty.”
“Fifteen.”