A day had passed since the congregation of the Knights at the Tower. Ever since then, a sudden surge of activity flourished within the walls of the Great Keep. Countless people now trod the many courtyards and fields of the Keep, conversing and bustling with dynamic movement. Some sparred and trained in their forms in order to retain their edge, while the others whom were clearly not Knights carried a myriad of objects as they sway to and fro to their destinations.
Since dawn, multiple sizable groups led by Knights had also gone beyond the gates and never came back. With them, they brought along the signs of war, as they were equipped and armed, readied and primed. Their objective could only be guessed from the horses and caravans which they had packed to the brim –they were off to the frontlines, and if not, to one of the many Keeps on the Continent. As of now, they bore the essentials for a prolonged campaign of attrition. Even airships –another product of the Order’s quasi-magic-- were mobilized for war and transport, as they could be seen above the city and as far as the horizon.
At one of the open fields used for training and spars --shown by the prevalence of weapon racks and wooden human-height posts-- a human boy of roughly ten years of age watched the spars listlessly. Even as shouts filled with vigor and the dull strikes against wood echoed out, the boy remained languid still, as if he was detached from the world. He paid little attention to anything at all, and sat there gazing his time away.
His physical features were rather normal for a boy of his age, other than the fact that he seemed underweight. And instead of the common build of a farmhand, his build was more of the lean one. The kind that was more suited for running and the likes. All in all, he had nothing noteworthy except for three things:
The first was his hair, which was of the color black – the kind of color that was unusual but not without precedence, for a few Heroes of the past and reportedly, a whole Kingdom at the islands of the far south were the same. But with that color, it was clear that he was not from here
Second was an eye-catching brand on the surface of his right hand. Like his hair, it was also black, with two sharp artistic lines from a jagged triangle on the center, snaking to his wrist. It was similar-looking to the tribal tattooes of the savages of the Northern Mountains, whom used it to ward off the evils of the Corruption –a practice unique only to one of the many Circles under the Magus Conclave, the Shamans. And when glanced upon, it almost felt alive. Like it was not a foreign object that was branded on, but formed as one entity with him.
Third, and the last, was his eyes. Compared to his apathetic appearance, it was completely brimming with life. It was a pair of emerald eyes that glistened conspicuously whenever someone would meet him for the first time. But those eyes contained something that swirled and violently roiled within, like a brewing storm waiting to be unleashed, only to be overshadowed and covered by the vibrant color of his eyes.
After awhile as the spars grew more heated, the tranquil atmosphere was finally shattered when footsteps and scraping steel could be heard behind him. But even as the sound drew close, he never redirected his gaze from the spars. And when the sound halted just beside him, he could see at the end of his vision a pair of steel greaves. From the direction of the greaves came an amiable voice of a man. The first voice he had heard in his life.
“Hello, young one.” the man greeted.
The boy softly nodded back. And when a second at most passed, the man sat haphazardly beside him. The vision of steel greaves was now replaced with the image of a Knight, the first image he had seen in his life.
With the Knight sitting unlike that of a Knight beside him, he continued to watch the spars on the courtyard. But this time, a certain spar on the middle of the courtyard had garnered much attention from everyone on the field. It was the same spar he had watched ever since he entered the courtyard..
The certain spar was nearing its end. Two young men clad in simple shirts and leather leggings –now dirtied and damaged-- were heaving and gasping for air while holding their respective wooden swords in respect to their preferred stance and style. Both were concentrated and focused on the movements of their respective opponent. One moved around, while one stood still.
On the fringes was a lean man who was quick on his feet as he used his speed to circle around his opponent, searching for gaps he could exploit. And the one who was being circled and standing still was a burly man with bronze-like skin, rippling and covered in muscles like that of coiled snakes. The lean man roamed as he drew near, while the burly man stood on guard waiting.
The lean man abruptly charged in with a shout, and in response, the burly man readied his greatsword to intercept.
The lean man, as expected, was remarkably quick. He had covered the grounds between him and his opponent almost instantenously, intending to incapacitate his opponent with speed. But before he could deal out the blow that could have finished the fight, the burly man swept his wooden greatsword out with full force, completely prepared against his speed; his muscles twitching as he brought the massive weight out towards his opponent. A gleeful expression on his face like he had won against all odds.
The burly man, ever since the start of the spar, was taken aback by his opponent’s speed. He was incapable of accurately seeing the movements of his opponent at all, no matter how focused he was. He was in a massive disadvantage as the spar went on, with him losing out on each engage whenever he took the initiative. To this very end, he relied on his physique and fortitude to drag the spar out, hoping that he would win through sheer perseverance. But even with that, he was losing still.
His enemy was clearly experienced as he went through the gaps of his defences seamlessly and ruthlessly; gaps that even he was not aware of. A strike to his knee. A strike to his waist. A strike to his shoulder. Each strike was brought out on him with the purpose to slow down his already-sluggish movements even more. His body was in great pain and his vision blurred. And each retaliation he made was futile as his opponent deftly avoided his strikes. Essentially, he was both battered and exhausted, while his opponent suffered none but exhaustion.
He needed a change in strategy and stance.
After all the strikes he took, he now knew that charging out on his own accord was useless. Going blow for blow proved the same. Toughening it out was only delaying the inevitable. He had no choice but to stand his ground and risk it all; the only choice that brought him to his current situation, and the choice that would allow him to use his trump card.
The lean man faced with the incoming greatsword didn’t show any signs of panic or hastened movements. Even now, everything was calculated and predicted. He knew that this would be the final part in their spar. He would trick his opponent into thinking that he had overextended himself and thus leading to the current predicament he was in. It was all part of his plan for his opponent to think that he had made a mistake. When the greatsword almost struck him, a dim-green orb coalesced right in his path. This was his chance!
Before the greatsword hit him, he used the recoil from the dim-green orb to get out of range. He was blown back with great force as the power of his charge was transformed. He skidded across the ground, leaving behind trails in his wake. His body, which was already exhausted, was now hurting all over. He was simply still not used on experiencing the effects of the dim-green orbs in combat. The pressure from the transformation of power to a push was just too much. And right now, he did not dare to use it for a second time. But with this, he had escaped the reach of his opponent’s greatsword.
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The lean man smiled that he had succeeded. As soon as he recovered his stance from being blown back, he saw that the burly man was on the verge of stumbling over from the power of his strike. He was one step away from falling down. This was the perfect opportunity to end the spar.
The lean man charged in once more, but unrefined this time. But it did not stop him from closing the gap in due time. He primed his sword for an overhead slash. And when he reached a suitable distance for him to commit the slash, he saw a smile. His opponent was smiling in face of adversity.
The last step that should have made the burly man stumble over, was now attached to the ground with a layer of clutching-soil. His stance was never broken at all. It was all a clever ruse. The clutching-soil, more similar to compact rocks, rooted him to the ground, and gave him enough leverage to ready his greatsword once more for another strike. With the greatsword positioned perpendicular to the ground, he struck out, aimed at his opponent’s side.
The lean man was astonished and shocked. He had underestimated his opponent as nothing more than a brute for a Knight. The greatsword swung out towards his side. There was no time to dodge, block, parry, nor retaliate in return. And using the dim-green orb on himself would cause far more problems than a swordstrike to the side. He could summon a dim-green orb to meet the greatsword, but it was too late. It was his lost. He was beaten fair.
The burly man’s greatsword whistled noticeably as it neared his opponent’s side. When it made contact, the lean man was blasted away, hitting the ground like an arrow let loose. A thump resounded out as soon as the lean man crashed to the ground, whom was followed by overblown dust and grime. And when everything had blown over, what was left was a splayed man with eyes closed panting for air.
“...Nice--” the lean man spoke, before he panted once more. And when he recovered amply, “--Strike.” he continued.
“Thanks, brother-Knight.” The burly man responded while using his greatsword as a crutch to stand. And after a few moments of recovering back his strength, he proceeded to remove the clutching-soil from his foot using the greatsword. He heaved with a bit of force and managed to pry the hold open. In optimal condition, he could have resorted to brute strength in removing the holdings, but as of the moment, he was undoubtedly tired and beat. Afterwards, he dragged himself to the lean man. By then, he lent out a hand, with his free hand bracing on the great sword as a sort of supporting stand.
Understanding the gesture, the lean man grasped the burly man’s hand and managed to prop himself up with his help, albeit weakly. “Thanks for the help, brother. That was a good fight.” he remarked. “And skillful use of the earth-element.” he added.
“It was a spur of the moment, brother. I was forced into a corner, after all. If anything, I should thank you for the insight I had gained from this spar.” he said solemnly. “And the bruises, too, brother. Especially the bruises!” he added with a wry smile.
With both supporting the other, they went off to the side to recuperate and tend to their injuries. And in wait for them were two Knights who seemed to be satisfied and proud of their fight.
This entire time, the black-haired boy gazed in reverie at the fight. The spark of interest in his eyes betrayed his languid impression. In his mind, a place that was completely barren, was now filled with images of the fight.
Since morning, he had wandered around. He had roamed the area of the Keep, as if he was searching for something. He was looking around for a specific something to fill the huge, gaping hole in what should essentially be his newfound life. His mind was empty ever since he woke up in that room filled with two Knights. And consequently, his heart was the same. It was barren... desolate... empty...
He wandered, and wandered, and wandered, in hopes of finding something to fill that hole. He never stopped wandering around the grounds of the Keep until he stumbled upon a certain courtyard ongoing with spars. The shouts, the clashes, the sounds of a fight mesmerized him. And when it did, a disembodied murky voice spoke to him. The words it spoke were unclear and impossible to comprehend, but somehow, he understood what it wanted to say. He went inside the courtyard, powered by curiosity and the machinations of the disembodied voice.
He heeded the words of the voice.
The boy’s reverie was broken by a voice beside him.
“Young one, have you recovered your memories yet?” the Knight asked fatherly.
The boy a bit fazed, shook his head in denial.
“Is that so...” the Knight trailed off. “Have you any plans, young one?” he continued from before.
Again, the boy shook his head.
“I see.” The Knight said in confirmation. “Would you like to be a Knight, young one?” he asked.
The boy, while retaining the languid impression, twitched as if he was unable to contain his glee.
The Knight out of the boy’s view, smiled. Even when he does not remember anything, he is, after all, still a boy. With this, I could help him before I leave. I
would have never expected for the boy to be empty when he woke up.
After a moment of silence, a moment that had been fairly long for the boy, he had finally spoke in a soft voice, “...Can I?”
“If you like to, young one, you can.” The Knight responded merrily. With me saving his life, he is my responsibility. If he agrees, I would probably need to use my privilege as a Master to take him in. After all, right now, he seems too weak to pass the Trainee Exams with his strength alone.
The boy paused to think. He turned to face the Knight. His gaze unwavering and resolute, but filled with unease. And this time, the disembodied voice spoke to him once more --it urged him to accept. And the boy, like it was instinct, felt that the voice was right. His instincts told him that the voice was there to guide him. It was there to help him.
“I want to... I want to be a Knight!” the boy spoke. He had heeded the voice. And when he did, the voice quieted down, like it was satisfied. And the Knight, beamed a smile in response.
This is your calling. The words that the voice spoke.