The man with the knives looks down at the group of four that have gathered in the valley below, ignoring the three cowering weaklings beside him that are huddling together in the scant cover provided by the cave. The voice in his head pushes him towards killing one of them, to give the others some motivation to become stronger, but he pushes back, knowing that this Trial was about a ‘group’ working together.

His answer to that issue was to round up the first three people he saw and ensure they survived by staying out of his way.

The perfect moment arrives and the man with the knives begins to run down the hillside, his bare feet making no sound as they propel him faster and faster. His knives come out of their sheaths and he begins spinning them in his hands, feeding the voice inside of him that pushes him forward. It takes him a few seconds to reach the group below and he gets his first good look at his opponents.

Three rough looking individuals are currently tormenting a young man who can barely react to their administrations. He is missing body parts, covered in scars, and bears more than a handful of currently open wounds, but his eyes are fixated on the fourth individual, obviously their leader. Dressed in a garish white robe, the leader is fed by another fixated individual as he pays no attention to the torture that occurs in front of him.

All of these opponents display their own forms of weakness and that is one thing that the man with the knives cannot abide. Weakness needs to be purged so that only the strong and capable remain.

Spinning his blade again, he uses the momentum to throw it forward. The blade moves at a speed barely visible to the average person and hits one of the three rough looking men in the eye, instantly ending his life. Before the other two have an opportunity to react, the man with the knives is among them and his hands blur in a flash of speed.

The other two jump backwards only to feel a sense of fire and pain wash over them. They both look down to discover dozens of stabs and cuts covering their bodies, blood flowing out of them at a prodigious rate. Just then, the pain then overcomes then and they both pass out, not able to attempt even a single retaliatory strike before they are killed.

Retrieving the knife from the first man’s eye, the man turns to face the final opponent, the lazy and weak person in white. To his surprise, the white clad individual claps his hands in glee before speaking. “That was amazing! You’ll be an excellent addition to my collection. Why don’t you join me?”

It suddenly makes sense. The foe in white is one who uses Charisma to achieve his goals. Does he not understand the inherent weakness in his position? Does he not think that the saviors taught him how to resist the honeyed words of a Speaker?

He walks forward, staring at the Speaker’s eyes and spinning his knives. He sees the nervousness in his foe’s face and the voice in his head begins whispering in pleasure. The weak should see the strong coming, should understand the reason why they must be removed. The only way for the other weak to survive is to join the strong.

“Why aren’t you stopping? Join me! Bow down! Prostrate yourself!”

The commands tickle the edge of the man’s consciousness but he knows how to resist the words. The saviors had taught him well. Only the extremely weak fell prey to the Speakers and he is amongst the strong.

He continues walking forward, the voice in his head enjoying the continued blubbering and nervousness. He quickly reaches his final opponent and pushes him to the ground, disgusted by how little resistance the Speaker puts up.

Eyes staring around at the few remaining members of the camp, all of them extremely weak willed individuals who fell prey, he speaks his creed in hopes of passing along his passion. “Become Strong”.

The knife falls.

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Astrid stares at the party in front of her, recognizing a few of the faces. It seems fitting that this meeting, this battle between cities, would take place in the same location where she first passed judgement upon others. The moment still appeared in her dreams from time to time but she had moved beyond guilt and towards acceptance, knowing her role would require great and hard things of her.

The gods do not give power without sacrifice.

The four men stand a few hundred feet away her party, separated by a snowy field. The three women behind her, supposedly expertly trained women recommended by the Council, quiver in fear at the sight of the bearish men. Three of the men bare immense weapons that could only be wielded by those with exceptional Strength, while the fourth hides in the back with his face covered by a robe.

“Ey, Astrid. You going to surrender or is this going to get rough?” Jarle, the leader of the other group, yells, spinning his ancestral battle axe in a figure eight pattern. Astrid ignores him and instead focuses on the quiet man that lurks behind him. There is something about him … something that tickles her consciousness in a way that she’s never felt before.

It takes her a few moments before her eyes widen in realization. This man is also speaking to the gods! She begins to make out the nearly invisible strings of power rise out of him and into the sky above, most likely continuing to Asgard. The real question is which god is supplying him with power? It doesn’t matter in the long run, as Astrid was not concerned with her ability to remove this group, but she could feel her curiosity pushing for an answer.

“Ey, Jarle. I’m going to give you chance to surrender before I begin.” She responds, knowing that he won’t accept it. Jarle was many things but calm and collected were not some of them.

“So be it. Anders, now!” He yells in response, running forward and holding his axe in front of him.

The lines of power above the quiet man in the back begin to flow with power as he offers up his energy in return for his god’s assistance. It’s the first time Astrid has seen this on someone else and she watches in rapt fascination as the energy is pulled from his core and sent towards Asgard. After a few seconds, a dark and shadowy energy flows down in response and into his hands. The shadowy energy coalesces into two orbs, which he promptly tosses towards Astrid and her party.

The rest of her group, the useless sops that the Council had saddled her with, jump away to avoid the orbs of pulsating shadow, but Astrid remains rooted with a smile breaking out on her face. Finally! A chance to test herself against another Chosen.

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Allfather, I give my energy unto you so that I may cast down those in front of me. I beseech you to grant your follower with the power she needs. The energy of her body rushes out of at a prodigious rate and the orbs begin to get closer and closer. It’s only right as they’re about to hit her that the Allfather responds.

Her smile spreads even wider as she uses the Allfather’s gift just as the orbs crash onto her, releasing a voracious shadow that tries to consume her. Unfortunately for the other Chosen, the Allfather has been kind with his gift.

An explosion of light blasts the shadow into oblivion and the new Astrid becomes visible. Clad in the sacred armor of the Valkyries, she emits a strong light as she holds her sword up to the sky and then points it down towards her opponents.

No matter what god supports the quiet man, they could never be as powerful as the Allfather.

A battle cry erupts from her lips as she steps forward in a burst of motion, almost instantly appearing in the middle of the three combatants that remained behind during Jarle’s charge. Her sword flashes with bright light, once, twice, thrice. The headless bodies of the men topple to the ground as she moves with the same speed to appear right in front of Jarle, his face having gone pale at the death of his men.

“Guess this got rough, huh?” Astrid quips just as she swings her sword a fourth time. The snow darkens red.

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Two men sit across from each other, sipping on the delicious substance that the humans called ‘coffee’. Between the fantastically bitter taste and the rush of energy, the drink alone made the trip worthwhile.

Red eyes try to pierce the veil of the older man while trying to maintain their own nonchalant façade. Blue hands raise the drink to blue lips and take a sip, barely suppressing a sigh of contentment at the rich taste. Even if the other man doesn’t represent a threat, something he’s still not sure about, his presence at this meeting would warrant an immediate execution from his father.

The older man, wearing nothing but a coarse brown robe, simply sits in the chair opposite and stares at his supposed ‘nephew’ in silent contentment. Kind eyes set his face, framed by a pair of surprisingly bushy eyebrows, and his lips occasionally purse for split seconds but remain silent. For a boogeyman of one of the most powerful civilizations in Genesis, he seems more grandfatherly than Octavian had imagined.

His supposed ‘uncle’, Bine the Lesser, is the first to break the silence. “Well, I expected this to be uncomfortable but I’d hoped my most ‘social’ nephew would be more apt at small talk.”

Octavian snorts in amusement, taking another sip before he responds. “What did you expect? You want me to discuss the weather while sitting across from the man I was told would steal me from my home if I was naughty?”

To his surprise, Bine erupts into a full body laugh, only recovering after a few seconds. “Is that really what they’re saying about me nowadays? Say what you will about Sol Invictus, but they are certainly not lacking in creativity.”

Octavian finishes off his coffee, setting the cup down on the table and hardening his voice. “You speak of Sol Invictus as if it isn’t your home. But that is beside the point. I held back the message from the Capital but I want some answers in return.”

Bine nods his head as if he expected nothing less. “Fair enough. And what would you like to know? I must preface this however with saying that I won’t be able to tell you everything.”

A thousand possible questions rush through Octavian’s mind as he considers which one to lead with. The origin of the Empire? The reason for the hidden falling out? The nature and goal of his organization? No, all of those are too massive in scale. Something smaller but just as important. A question that can be answered quickly and possibly investigated to know if he’s telling the truth.

“What do you want with this backwater planet?”

A smile breaks out on Bine’s face and he leans forward to answer. “Believe it or not, the 11th Wave may just serve as the impetus for a change some people have been waiting millennia for. I have been personally looking for this answer since I left Sol Invictus. Nephew … We stand on the precipice of understanding the purpose of Genesis.”

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Irsorth, Primus of Arrenth, walks down his gilded halls, nodding at the Blessed Guard as he walks past them. Their eyes widen and they fall to their knees in supplication at the simplest gesture but Irsorth continues to try, committed to making his people understand that he is just a man.

A hard task to undertake when one cannot die.

Pushing open the doors to his personal chambers, he takes in the ostentatious setting with his regular distaste. Precious jewels and rare metals cover almost every surface, a gaudy display of his country’s wealth. His bed is built of Fortidian wood, his weapon cabinet fashioned from the bones of a Dungeon Lord, and his closet covered in Syprathiun jewels donated by the Biwa Hoshi. And yet, despite all this luxury, all Irsorth desires is a simple meal in a simple home with a clear view of the Forests of Ingmar.

As always, when confronted with these selfish thoughts, he reminds himself of his code. The price of leadership is sacrificing individual wants.

Turning away from the bedroom and walking into the welcoming area, he sees a figure sitting on a chair and waiting for him. With slow and confident strides, he glides over and into the adjacent seat, facing the entity that somehow managed to get past his overprotective defenders.

“And what may I help you with today Uriel?” He asks, folding his hands and placing them flat on his knee. Most would be unable to discern which of the ten Judicators currently sat in front of him but Irsorth’s abilities had long surpassed the limitations of most.

Uriel’s metallic skin shines like polished steel and his bright blue eyes look around the room, taking in the luxury with a slight sense of disdain.

“I am here to ask … a favor.” He chews on the words as if finding them distasteful.

“To the best of my knowledge, the Judicators have never needed the assistance of any outside their brotherhood. What is it that you seek?”

Uriel seems to debate with himself before speaking, the reluctance and frustration in his voice immediately evident. “I … we seek knowledge of Bine’s actions. We are aware of your friendship with the deviant and have reason to suspect that his recent actions pit him against our purpose. We come asking for information on his movements before setting ourselves on this path.”

Irsorth leans back on the seat, his every movement giving off the impression of disinterest while his mind works at a blazing speed. Had Bine finally been caught stepping over the line? The Organization’s recent discovery most certainly qualified but they had assured him that the information had been kept secret. If it was really that particular discovery that brought about this meeting, then that suggested the Judicators’ hidden purpose was not what he had long assumed.

“I must confess, I have not seen Bine in decades. We have not spoken since he last contacted me in hopes of mediating the conflict between him and his brother. I apologize for not being able to help any more than this.”

Uriel watches him with his powerful eyes and then nods his head. Standing up in one smooth gesture, he begins to walk away before stopping for a moment and looking back. “In case Bine makes contact in the near future, I must caution you; do not pit yourself against my brothers. Your resilience is legendary but your people … they lack your Class and Skills. The hand of Azreal can only be stayed for so long.”

Just as Uriel turns to face forward, Irsorth moves. His cautious personality is cast to the wind as his Class takes over. Grabbing tightly onto the interloper’s wrist, he forces the Judicator to turn around and face him. Removing the mental lock on his power, the world shimmers and shakes for a few seconds as a power not seen in centuries is released once more.

The being simply known as ‘Ender’ lets out a growl and the world bends around him.

“Threaten my people once more and the Judicators will know what it is to face their End.”

Uriel seems almost … morose as he nods his head and conjures a portal, walking back into the false safety of his headquarters.