Author's Note: Wow, this chapter is deceptively short for the amount of progress made in the story.
I'm so sorry that it's taken so long for me to update. I went in for surgery a couple weeks ago, and I've been recovering since. I've tried to write, but I just can't get it to a point that I'm satisfied with it. Thus, screw it. This is what little I thought was pretty decent in what I wrote. Again, so sorry for being slow, late, and jank.
On another note, I need some time-skip opinions. Do I do big time hops at short intervals, small time skips more often, or no time jumps at all?
Aren ran forward with a determined look on his face, preparing to swing his blade.
However, he never had a chance.
One moment, Lucius was standing in his ready position, and the next, his blade was pressed against Aren’s throat. Aren’s eyes widened, and he dropped the scimitar.
In the background, Polona snickered. “The result has been decided! Lucius is the winner. Lucius, you are dismissed, and as for Aren, your rank has been evaluated.”
Aren was prepared for the worst. He knew that he didn’t do well. He knew his swordsmanship was as shoddy as the definition of the word itself.
“You are Rank 0.” Polona grinned spitefully at him.
“Eh? Not even Rank 1?” A look of concern crept onto his face. He looked as though he was going to burst into tears at any second.
“Correct. Allow me to define Rank 0: It is the rank created by the Cliché Master to deal with people like you: The ones who get in on recommendation from people we can’t afford to give up. The worst fighters imaginable who have such pathetic aptitude that it’s almost funny. Just give up and leave of your own accord.” Polona practically spat the words at him, not hiding her disdain. “Oh, and keep the sword. Anyone who touches it will probably be infected with your ineptitude.”
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Aren had entered the forest surrounding the city. Out of frustration, he ran off, and ended up here. The guards just gave him a confused look, as though he were some alien, and let him pass.
He dragged the blade of the scimitar along the ground and wiped the stream of blood from his forehead. Planting his feet, he pulled it upward with all of his strength, slicing through an amorphous blob that attempted to attack him.
He was entirely surrounded, his narrowed eyes showing his insatiable anger. It looked as though he was a child having a murderous tantrum. From behind him, a giant rat jumped, biting his shoulder and tearing out a chunk of flesh.
A slime jumped, hitting him in the back. A single drop of blood entered its blue membrane, and immediately, it began to spread. Within seconds, it had become a crimson hue, and grown to an abnormal size.
Aren spun on his heel, swinging the blade into the slime’s body. However, when it hit, the Slime simply stole the scimitar, taking it into its body.
Aren shouted in frustration. He was now frail, injured, bleeding, and disarmed, and not even thinking straight to boot. He closed his eyes, clenching his hands so hard that blood fell from the gashes opened by his nails. A single tear fell from his eye. This is how it ends, then? Some hilariously impulsive decisions and it’s all over.
A single flash.
Pure white permeated everything, even through his eyelids. As quickly as it appeared, it faded, and, falling to his knees, Aren opened his eyes. Around him lay charred, scorched earth. All that was upon that was ash. Only where he stood was the ground not ruined.
He watched as the trees around him went rapidly down, the blue sky the last thing he saw. Everything went black.
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“W------o—f—ki---wa---p-al—ady?” The garbled sounds entered Aren’s ears, disconnected, fading in and out of comprehensibility. The figure raised his voice.
“Would you fucking wake up already?” The voice was far clearer this time. It was a moderately young, energetic voice, but evidently annoyed. Opening his eyes, Aren saw his features. This person had bright blue eyes, a stark contrast to his moderately long black hair. He was of no diminutive height, standing at least two meters tall.
“Ah, Sleepyhead. Finally feel like getting up?” He remarked, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
“Who…?” Aren immediately expressed his confusion, his eyes narrowed. “Last thing I remember, I was fighting those things, and then…”
“I saved your sorry ass.” This guy completed Aren’s sentence. “By the way, the name’s Gregorius. Gregorius Gelasius IV. Until training is over, you can call me Greg.”
“Training?” Aren questioned, his face once more blank.
“Dammit, say more than one word.” Foul-Mouth Greg remarked. “You’re pitifully weak. It’s almost hilarious; I was only late to save because I was doubled over laughing. You need some help, so I’m gonna help.”
The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.
“Didn’t ask. I’m leaving.” The now highly frustrated Aren attempted to stand, but a sharp pain coursed through his back like a bolt of lightning. He grunted and winced in response.
Greg’s hands immediately appeared below Aren’s back, easing him back into the mattress. His face still didn’t portray any emotion beyond the smug, mildly spiteful look that Aren thinks is normal for him. “Whoa there, Zero. Let’s look at cause and effect. When you get your shoulder gouged out, it takes time to heal. When something is healing, it is sensitive. Lay the hell back down.”
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After a rather long rest, Greg decided it was totally fine to drag Aren along with him, despite him still being rather sore. “Where are we going?” Aren asked flatly; not able to be surprised by this firecracker of a guy anymore.
“Oh, I’m sure you’ll like it, sleepyhead.” Greg gave off a mischievous grin, and ran straight into a wall.
Of course, because he doesn’t have any relation to logic, he glides through the wall as if there is nothing there, his iron grip on Aren’s now red wrist dragging him through too. “Eh?” Aren lets out a voice of confusion.
“Secret passage, genius! Catch on for once.” Greg continued in his dash, at this point practically dragging Aren across the ground. Very quickly, the passageway deteriorated from the clean, decorative marble and cobblestones of the surprisingly lavish building into a dank, poorly lit passageway. Some bluish-green liquid dripped from the ceiling, forming repulsive puddles that gave off some moderately visible putrid gas.
Just as quickly as it deteriorated, the passageway returned to its decorative state, this time even more ornate. Gold plating and rich, deep blue gems decorated the walls. They reached a grand hall that wouldn’t lose in size or decoration to the guildhall.
Greg stopped, pulling Aren to a stop beside him. He let go of Aren’s arm, pushing him forward. “Go on. You know what to do.”
In all honesty, Aren had absolutely no idea what to do. He walked forward, and around him, it was as if his steps formed waves. With each tile he stepped upon, the tiles to the sides rose sequentially, creating some form of wave. Everything about the room screamed, power. Finally, he reached the end of the path, arriving at a coffin. Something ominous emanated from the strange box. It was almost purely white with its silver plating, gold and countless jewels ornamenting it.
He stepped forward, putting a shaky hand on the surface. A voice boomed all around him, shaking him to the core.
[Grave robbing, hmm? Is this what royalty stoops to nowadays?]
“U-uhh…” Aren fumbled around his mind for a response, stunned. The voice held some sort of dignity that Aren couldn’t even imagine.
[Nn? You do not seem like the normal ones I get here. Usually, they just want to sell the coffin for money, or use it themselves. I can’t count on two hands how many people come in here seeking money. However, you… you are different.] The voice went into some odd monologue. [Gregorius’s friend, I presume?] It spoke after a long period of deliberation.
“How did you…?” Aren asked, his silver eyes widening in shock. He stepped back, taking his hand off.
[Mm-mm-mmm-mmph! Mm! Mmph!] The voice seemed exasperated; frustrated that Aren’s hand had been removed. Noticing that the entity had become considerably quieter and muffled, he stepped forward once more, placing his hand on the coffin.
[Satisfactory, boy. Now then, as I was going to say before you so rudely interrupted me, eons pass like days in my consciousness. It has been only seconds since Greg last spoke with me, and let me tell you. That guy wouldn’t let you pass even if it cost him his life.] The voice chuckled, as if fondly remembering something. [The only other way you could possibly get to me would be to overpower me, and trust me, there’s no way that would happen as you are now.] It outright laughed. Aren felt frustrated, the voice was mocking his ability.
“And?” He grumbled, quite close to dropping a white glove on top of the coffin.
[And the only reason that child would ever bring someone before me would be if they were about as frail as you who cannot even lift a sword.]
Aren sighed, closing his eyes as a vein popped out on his forehead. “Get. To. The. Point.” He enunciated every word with his annoyance.
[Open the coffin.] The voice chilled, and Aren swore he felt the silver under his hand do the same. He shivered as he followed the order, putting all of his strength into lifting it off.
The contents within shocked and underwhelmed Aren.