Taking deep breaths didn’t help, especially when memories of disappointed faces and sick rumors began to spread in his own home.
Adrian chuckled. It didn’t carry any form of joy, nothing but a promise to get vengeance to those that question his mothers honor when he failed so spectacularly to take his fathers legacy like his six brothers before him. Others simply called him a dunce and dismissed him. The intelligence stat did little to suppress that feeling. He originally had a whopping six but somehow it had advanced to ten.
Yes, the Sterkhander bloodline ran through his veins. His Mark accepted his fathers legacy in the forms of [Strengthen Strike] and [Fortified Body] but he was incapable of improving them past the point he had reached. Years of his youth wasted attempting to get even an iota better had been for nothing. In the end, his father had to bend his neck to the viscount to save Adrian’s future.
I am not Adrian! He screamed mentally. He refused to fall into the same hole the original had. This was his life now, and he would not be caged by the norms of this society. Enough had already forced his hand back in his own life on earth. He didn’t want to go into engineering, and yet he had done it. And look where he ended up.
Yes. He was blaming his engineering degree and classes for somehow ending up here–
A scream shattered his thoughts. With it, his thumping ears cleared. An explosion of sound assaulted him. Monstrous roars and battle cries that promised endless agony. Women and men screaming and others giving their own weakened battle cries. A chorus of clashing metal, dying beings gurgling and crying loudly from injuries. Steel thudded loudly like an explosion.
A guttural laugh that didn’t sound human at all.
Adrian Sterkhander grabbed his great helm. With practiced hands, he locked it into place on massive shoulders that seemed capable of carrying a mountain.
Getting up turned into a difficult task. His legs felt like jello. He collapsed to a knee, armor striking the wood board with enough force to crack and shatter them with the force. How much did he weigh? It had to be in the thousands if his estimation of his height was correct. His sword and shield clattered and thudded on the ground, leaving imprints in the wood.
Again he tried to stand up. But his body did not want to cooperate. Shaking like he had done leg day at the gym without mercy.
It took four tries to bring his behemoth body off the ground. Sweat poured down his body. A lifetime of muscle memories sufficing his bones and mind. Endless hours of training all aspects of his art of battle. Tactics. Swordsmanship. His failure of a Mark. And the stain on his soul, the reason his father had been embarrassed in court nearly five years ago, the Shadow Mark.
He forced himself up right, base wide to keep himself standing. On the way up, he had grabbed the shield and sword to use them as crutches to lean his weight on. The shield especially had been a great boon considering it was probably over five feet in height.
This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.
The longsword glimmered in the wavering red light leaking from the outside battle.
Battle continued outside the barn. Shouts of victory and others of agony. A few of what could only have been car crashes erupted to the side followed by the tearing of flesh meeting steel. The sounds stirred something primal in his transformed biology, duty called with a voice that brooked no denial. His legs almost started to move without his mental command, barely stopping himself from toppling over.
It took a few long minutes before he was able to swing the sword without tipping over like an idiot. One of his ribs on his sword hand’s side flashed in pain with every strike. He could have hidden inside the barn, but he refused to. Who would suddenly arrive in a fantastical world, be equipped with galaxy barrett armor and a longsword the size and width of a normal person, and to top it all off be given equally fantastical abilities in the form of ‘Marks’, and become a pacifist.
He was no glory hound. But spurned the thought of being weak in a world he could be anything he desired within an advantaged position as a noble son.
His massive frame moved through combat stances. Katas that he had been taught since childhood. Each position awakening paths of muscle and memory burned into flesh by years of relentless training. Yet even here, in this dance of death, inadequacy haunted him. Shadows of his brothers' perfection loomed large. Their forms flawless. Their dedication absolute. He was the imperfect son, the whispered shame of House Sterkhander.
Six brothers, five dead, and an elder sister, second eldest in the family after a deceased brother. And every single one of them outshone him in all possible ways. Intelligence, strength, leadership, Mark ability, etc…
Dunce of a great Sterkhander.
"This isn't helping," Adrian growled. He forced aside memories of disapproving glares and whispered accusations. They would not hold him back. The shame of the Shadow Mark would not hold him back, no matter how much the original had left distaste and disgust at the thought of using them. He would relish in their abilities and grow them beyond anyone's expectations.
He would remake his legacy. Burn a new trail even if the whole world decided to doubt him.
The battle outside demanded attention. Oaths much greater than he could mentally and physically battle demanded he step out into the field of battle and leave his mark.
Self-pity was a luxury reserved for peacetime. His father had once reprimanded him. And he was right. He had no time for this rubbish. Each step toward the barn's entrance felt like marching through lead. Enhanced body fighting between flight and the ingrained compulsion to face death head-on. The compulsion won in the end.
The roar of combat grew louder as his fingers touched the barn doors, making it creak open slightly. A song of death and violence that touched the essence of the large meathead that was Adrian Sterkhander. Duty bound him tighter than any chain. This was what it meant to be of House Sterkhander, to stand against the darkness of the frontiers no matter the cost. It was what his father had done, what his brothers had done, what his ancestors had all done in their lifetimes. He would not be the exception to run away; a coward.
His gauntleted hand dug deep as his steel fingers wrapped around worn wood of the door. Words came to him unbidden. Rising from depths of genetic memory and warrior tradition. He had said these same words a thousand times.
"For Honor," he declared. Knowing the violence that awaited him. The brutality of battling foes as strong as he was. It echoed with the weight of generations. With the blood price paid on countless battlefields. "By the Great-Helms.” His father had shown him the array of ancient helms his ancestors had worn to battle. The glory it was to fight for land and people. “And The King, so far away."