His body shot forward, closing in on the blurred shape in front of him. His weapon cut like a pendulum but the figure took a quick step back letting the blade swing by. Then a blade struck his weapon, knocking it aside and forcing him to retreat. He placed the weapon between him and his opponent, serving as a bulwark against his foe potential attacks.
The long wooden shaft of the weapon looked out of place in his small hands, but he was stronger than his small stature implied. He had no trouble with exerting full control over the weapon.
The blurred shape that was his foe took on a relaxed stance and lowered its wooden sword. He eyed its movements with caution. Its face — a mess of different features meshing over each other — seemed to be moving as if it was speaking. Botched sounds emerged but he couldn't make anything out. However, its blade was still pointing at the ground. It was essentially inviting him to attack.
He was more than happy to oblige.
Taking half a step forward, he thrust the tip of his weapon straight at the figure's chest, not minding that his weapon was very much real and his opponent's was not. For some reason, he knew that wouldn't matter for this person.
His foe side-stepped the thrust, immediately bringing the wooden sword up to block the cut that soon followed. Another attack was just as easily deflected.
Pulling his weapon back, he once again held it between him and the figure. He had to land one attack. It shouldn't be that difficult. He had a much longer reach. But his opponent was faster than a Hairless Nightstalker despite being almost twice his size.
Scanning the environment, there was nothing to use to his advantage. They were in a large courtyard, surrounded by ever-changing walls of stone, granite, and marble. One second a tower loomed over the walls, only to be gone the next — replaced by several other towers and spires in all directions. Nothing was ever constant, including the courtyard. Plants and trees would change places every other second. The only permanent element was the weapon he held in his hands.
He shook his head and refocused his attention on the figure standing opposite him. It hadn't moved. No point in wasting time.
He resumed his assault. Attack after attack was dodged or parried by the figure. Nothing he tried succeeded, but he didn't relent. Not even when his arms grew weak and his back — and the rest of his tired body — became covered with sweat.
This was training. If he couldn't handle something on this level, then he had no place here. It was his responsibility. There was nothing else to this moment. Where or why he was here? It didn't matter. Everything but this was covered in a fog — even his name.
A loud call sounded out across the courtyard. He paused his assault, the blade of his weapon hanging precariously close to the blurred figure's head. It did not react to the attack, instead turning towards where the cry originated.
The voice was...comfortable. His earlier fighting spirit disappeared. The training was over. He lowered the weapon, spinning to look at the approaching person. They were short. Even shorter than him. Just like his training opponent, their features were in constant flux — their long golden hair the only defining feature. A long assortment of cheerful sounds, just as disjointed and unintelligible as those of the other figure, emerged from their mouth as they moved closer to him.
A sense of familiarity surrounded them. He couldn't remember who they were, but he knew them. They were important to him.
They stopped in front of him and asked a question.
And then everything went white.
----------------------------------------
He woke up with a startle. Feeling as cold as ice, a chill spread from his spine to the rest of his body. Despite that, he was sweating — his clothes sticking to his skin.
The room was bright. And empty. None of the Summoned were still in their beds. He turned his head to look beside him. His halberd was still there, its hilt and shaft feeling as familiar as ever in his hands as he grasped it. There was also some pain to it, however. He wasn't a person to ever shy away from manual labor, but the training from yesterday had been more strenuous than expected and blisters had formed on his palms.
With a tired sigh, he sat up from the bed. He didn't know for how long he'd slept, but his body felt fully rested. Not at all as if he'd spent the entire day training the day before. His head, however; not so much. He could still recall parts of the dream he'd had. Of training with that unknown figure for what felt like hours. Where was that? Some kind of barracks? And had he been a child? He was small. But he had no memories of ever doing anything like that when he was young. Which meant that it had to do with whatever was wrong with him right now.
Someone else's memories...?
He shook his head. There was still too much information lacking to reach any conclusions. All he knew was that it had yet to affect him negatively. He wouldn't figure out anything else just by thinking about it real hard. Putting it out of his mind, he switched his focus to his status window.
[Information]
Name: Lane Davenrish
Summoned: N/A
Age: 21 y/o
Height: 1.84 m
Weight: 70 kg
Gender: Male
Class: N/A
Affiliation: Barrage (Temporary)
Birthplace: Haeryn
Location: Testing area of the Gods (6,5 p)
Titles: None
------------------------------------
[Stats]
[Strength: 2.16]
[Stamina: 2.09]
[Speed: 2.20]
[Endurance: 2.05]
[Perception: 1.99]
[Mana: 1.13]
[Luck: 2.01]
------------------------------------
[Abilities]
[None]
Looking over the stats, he smiled. He was progressing. Just his speed alone had increased with 0.08 points from one day of training. Was that much? It meant that he'd be able to reach a 4 in speed at the end of the month if it continued to grow at the same rate. Would he be twice as fast as before, then? Or how did these stats actually work? Maybe Lela would know. Or Chris.
His smile turned into a frown when he saw his mana stat. I'm sure that used to be higher.
Wasn't it closer to 1.20 earlier? Why was it 1.13 now? Was he just imagining it? Why would his mana stat decrease? It had been low enough to start with, and now growing even lower? Wouldn't that cripple him, in a way? Despite what Chris had said yesterday about mana not being that important unless you have a class that needs it, there's a difference between having a low amount of mana and having no mana. But he couldn't remember exactly what it had been before. He could just be remembering it wrong. He'd have to pay attention to his mana stat from now.
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Putting on his leather boots, which were beginning to look rather haggard, Lane grabbed his halberd and left the room behind. The first thing he did was leave the building and go to the washing station that was set up behind the dormitory. After cleaning himself up he headed to the cafeteria. It was surprising to find that, among the few people that were still in the cafeteria, Claire Bright was one of them, sitting in a chair at the edge of the large room with a book in her hands.
She was in charge of the dormitory, so perhaps she had to be here to ensure people behaved themself and didn't take more food than allowed. But couldn't they find someone else to do these things?
Claire looked up from her book and smiled at him when he moved over to the table with food on it. There wasn't much of it left.
"Good morning. I see you are a late sleeper." She said brightly.
He waved at her as he grabbed some bread and fruit, along with a jug of water. "I tired myself out with all the training. I'll try to hold myself back and go to bed sooner tonight."
She nodded her head. "A wise thought. The cafeteria closes after ten, so if you had been any later you'd have to make do without a free meal for the whole day. I hope you learn much from the instructors." Having said that sentence she turned back to her book leaving, Lane to eat by himself. She was one of very few Summoned he'd met in his life that he didn't dislike, so he saw no point in bothering her while she was busy and took his meal to another table. He finished eating quickly and left for the colosseum immediately after.
Watching the sky as he crossed the cobblestone courtyard between the dormitory and the large oval colosseum, part of her statement finally sank in.
6He was almost too late to the cafeteria which closed at ten. Looking up he saw that the sun had risen fairly high in the sky. Did I miss it?
The instructor that General Lichter had brought for teaching pole-arms was supposed to be in training hall three during the morning. But when exactly? And for how long?
He felt confident that a lesson on the basics of using the halberdier wouldn't matter too much for him, but he wanted to find out the truth regarding this instructor. And he didn't feel like waiting for the next time they had a training session.
Quickening his pace, Lane entered the Colosseum and passed through the entrance corridor. There were a lot of people moving around in the lobby, but he ignored all that and approached one of the stairs that lead to another floor. He hadn't explored the entirety of the colossal structure that was the Colosseum the day before but he'd made sure to learn where training hall three was after hearing about it.
The polished stone of the Colosseum's corridors was lit up by the same crystal lights as the training halls. Except for the lobby, most of the Colosseum seemed to be lit up solely by those crystals. They weren't super expensive, the inn he used to work at had a couple and they could function for a few years before needing to be replaced, but the sheer amount of the crystals in this place was ridiculous. There was one installed in the wall every few feet. The Royal Palace probably didn't even have this many of the crystals.
The exorbitant expenditure of the gods didn't distract Lane from his current goal, however, as he reached his destination after a few minutes of brisk walking. Just like with the other training hall, there was a sign above the entrance said 'Training Hall 3'. The hall itself wasn't as large as the other training hall. It was also different in that it had a section where pitch-black stone walls emerged and descended into the ground at irregular intervals. Behind the walls were several round targets composed of the same black stone.
There were people holding what looked to be sticks, throwing spells at the targets. Balls of fire or acid, blue spheres of energy, and other magical projectiles continuously slammed into the black stone of the walls and targets, barely leaving a scratch on the impressive material.
Except for the occasional use of magic from the Summoned that passed through his hometown, Lane lacked any prior experience with magic up till a couple of days ago when the test began. That was why he was momentarily left staring after seeing those people practicing their spellcasting with what he assumed was their spell-wands. While unlikely that these attacks were of any note to the more powerful Summoned — for example, the flare he'd seen on the first day of the test had been more visually striking than these attempts at magic — it was still impressive to him. Any one of those spells were bound to heavily injure — if not outright kill — him if he was struck by one.
But his attention soon shifted from the group of Summoned practicing their magic to another group of people that stood at the other end of the training hall. There were at least seventy of them, all of which held some kind of pole-arm in their hands. The majority had different kinds of spears, but there were also a few people with poleaxes, glaives, and halberds like him. Most of them were busy slashing out at thin air or the wooden targets that were spread out across the training hall, while a few were sparring against each other with wooden weapons. It wasn't clear for how long they had been training, but it was evident that he'd missed the start.
As was the norm, most of the Summoned wore dirty or broken clothing. One person, however, stood out from the rest. Not only in the state of their clothes but also in what type of clothing it was.
Like the sword instructor yesterday, the man wore a light blue uniform. He didn't wear a cape, however, as his uniform — which like the other instructor's uniform, had golden inlays in it — went all the way down to his knees at the back but was open in the front. Beneath it, he had a black shirt and bright white pants. Looking to be somewhere in his twenties, his chestnut brown hair was short and unruly and he had light-tanned bronze skin. A scar that seemed to have been caused by a claw of some kind ran over his left cheek.
Currently, the man was busy observing two people who were in the middle of a spar. Arms crossed, his gaze shifted to Lane as he approached, lingering on the weapon resting against Lane's shoulder.
"Oh, a latecomer? You here for learning to use that halberd?." The man asked.
Lane examined the person. He assumed they were the Brigadier General Quentrell that the sword instructor mentioned. It felt odd that a person of such high rank would talk to him that casually. Of course, if the man was who he suspected he was — then he was of even higher rank than that. Not somebody a commoner like Lane would ever meet under normal circumstances.
While he didn't know how they were supposed to look, this person certainly appeared to have western blood in them. That fit with what he'd heard.
"What's your name?" The man asked when Lane didn't speak.
Lane flinched. He wasn't sure when it started, but he tended to lose himself in his thoughts more often. "I'm Lane Davenrish. And yes, I'm here to learn the halberd." He didn't bother with excuses for his tardiness.
The man's eyebrows rose. "Unusual name for one of you Summoned. Sounds Coldonian."
"...One of you Summoned?"
It was as he thought.
"Right. You would've missed my introduction." The man smiled. "I'm Marquess Barret Quentrell, Brigadier General of Hammer's Dawn. Although I guess that doesn't mean much to you."
But it did.
In front of Lane stood a legend, and one of the people he'd always aspired to emulate. One of the few Natives who'd gained access to 'The Interface'. 'The Divine Wind', and 'The Bronzen Chevalier' was just a couple of the things he was called.
The Quentrell family was the second most well-known noble family in the Duchy of Coldoan. Originally an off-shoot of a powerful family that served the old emperors, with land situated on the Sunset Coast on the western part of the continent, the current Quentrell family had served as the right hand of the dukedom for generations and were famed for their prowess with the spear, the head of the family often referred to as 'The Spear of the Empire' ever since the Old Empire fell and only the eastern countries remained. Along with the Steel Duchess herself, Marquess Quentrell was lauded as one of not only Coldoan's greatest heroes — but of the entire Alliance.
But why was he here? As far as Lane knew, Barret Quentrell was still the right-hand man of the duchess. But here he was — an aide to a Summoned like 'The Blood and Teeth General' Nikolas Lichter.
"I can't really spend any time going through everything again with you. I still have to instruct everybody else." The Brigadier General said, gesturing toward the training dummies. "For now you can go over there and practice cutting and thrusting. There were a couple others with halberds. I've already shown them what to do, so you can just copy them. I'll try and keep watch and point things out."
"That won't be necessary," Lane paused for a moment. How should he address him? How did the Summoned address a noble? My lord? Your excellency? From what he'd seen, they didn't seem to care much about decorum. Clyde had mentioned that many of the newly Summoned had powerful backers, but he hadn't seen anyone that acted like they were nobility. "...Brigadier General." He decided to play it safe. Around here, it appeared that Barret Quentrell was first and foremost a Brigadier General. Addressing him with his rank should work. That's how Lane's father addressed his superiors.
"I have some previous experience with the halberd, so I'll be fine for now. Although any advice you might have would be appreciated." He added after he saw the Brigadier General frown slightly.
"I'm curious as to how much experience a Summoned could have. Maybe I'll have you spar with some of the others later"
"I won't disappoint." Lane said, before taking his weapon and walking over to the training dummies. Brigadier General Quentrell moved his attention back to the people who were still practicing in front of him.