As night commenced, Augustus managed to avoid any priests.
He counted 3 of them to be present from his observations. They were tall, portly–2 of them were balding–and white-haired.
So as he glanced at a priest that was nearing him, he turned further into the circle he was in and continued to listen to the discussion. It was something about this one guy who learned the cause of what killed over 300 cattle on one of his farms.
Augustus swore some people could be so boring sometimes.
It sounded obnoxious to say this, even to himself in his own mind, but why couldn’t they talk about swords or heroes of old, instead of just…cows?
Unfortunately for him, the majority of people who were in attendance were in the agriculture industry. It wouldn’t get better no matter where he went, typical of a wedding for a family that owned a vineyard.
His brother’s wedding was a convergence of people from all walks of life. Stakeholders in the vineyard that had investments in its operations, merchants looking to create connections, bored nobles also making connections, friends and families, distant relatives, people from in town, and priests from the church.
The church especially had a big slice of the pie in their vineyard. Nearly half of the total produced wine would be shipped off to the churches of Anyel for mass. So it would be an understatement to say they were just customers.
The church had apparently sent 3 priests this time, instead of the mere one they sent for his eldest sister’s wedding. It was because the church wanted as much wine as they could for the upcoming pilgrimage to the holy land. Anyel’s grave.
It was thirty-three meters tall and made out of pitch-black obsidian. There was no name engraved on it except for the faint outline of the sun. Someday, Anyel, through the collective love and power of the people, will be resurrected.
At least, this is what the people who believed in Anyel thought. He didn’t think so.
But why know so much about the church?
One, his family relied heavily on the church for their business. No chuch, no food on the dinner table.
And two, his entire family were faithful devotees. And so was everyone else that he interacted with. There were only a few people out of every hundred that wasn’t believers.
Even then they had to put up the appearance of belief else they would be excluded from their local community. Some were so extremist that they would straight up shun them until they finally ‘came to their senses’. There were also Lanyens, people who believed in the supernatural powers of magic. They were a rare bunch, but it was beside the point.
He was the black sheep of the family. The only person who didn’t believe in Anyel. He didn’t care though and despite their attempts, he remained unwilling.
“Augustus. Is that you?” A voice suddenly came from his side.
“Hmm?” Augustus turned, shaken out of his distracted musings by one of the priests.
Ahh…I’m such an idiot, Augustus thought as he swivelled on his feet to face the priest completely. He took notice of the boil on the man’s left cheek, his pale skin, and his unusually compassionate eyes.
“Hello, Father George,” Augustus forced a smile that he then immediately retracted.
“Extraordinary. You have grown well, Augustus. How have you been?” Father George asked.
“Very well, Father George,” Augustus replied.
“That’s great to hear. I was talking to your father a few moments ago, and he told me that you have some skill with the sword. I was once a knight myself, once. When I was a young boy who was still finding his way in the world. Would you care to…give me a demonstration?”
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“Are you kidding me?”
His brother had asked him to not bring a sword to the wedding and now one of the priests was asking for him to show his ability with the sword. Augustus didn’t know whether or not to start choking the priest or slap his brother in the face.
“No,” The priest smiled, “I was talking to your brother just after you left the wedding and he said that you practised the Blinking Sword Art. I have heard that it is a frighteningly quick sword style. Just one swing and your enemy is dead. Is this true?”
Augustus found a second wind from his anger as he talked about himself.
“It is. Not many people can learn to handle the blade with such quickness, not unless they’re really talented and dedicated. I have been training every day for about seven years now and I don’t think any–”
He swallowed. He remembered what happened yesterday. His embarrassing defeat against a mere twelve-year-old boy. A knot in his heart. He backtracked on his words and continued.
“–I mean, most people can’t compare to me. Pit me up against an ordinary knight, and I reckon I could take him on equal grounds.”
“Really? Would you care to show me then? I would be delighted to see it in person.”
Augustus paused for a moment before replying, “I can’t though. Swords aren’t allowed at the wedding. My brother said so. I mean you were talking to my brother earlier weren’t you?”
“No, no. He was just making sure that people at the wedding felt safe. They didn’t want some young boy with wild, unkempt hair and a dirty face not just walking around amongst people, but also wielding a sword. I’m sorry if that offends you in any way.”
Augustus just found another reason to hate his brother.
“No, it doesn’t at all,” Augustus lied.
You look disgusting but alright, Augustus thought for a moment before smiling once again to put up a good appearance.
“Great! If you’re going to show me, you might as well put on a show for everyone else. Would be a shame for your skills to go unnoticed when an event like this is ongoing. You can use my sword!”
Augustus looked at Father Geroge’s waist and frowned.
“Where is it? The sword?” Augustus asked, perplexed.
Father George simply smiled. Praying with one hand, he whispered a single word.
Suddenly, materialising out of thin air, buckled to his waist was a golden scabbard, a leather wound hilt sticking out of it.
“Ah. magic,” Augustus laughed at himself. It was cynical at the same time. Invisibility was a rare spell amongst mages, priests, and the like. He would be lying if he said he wasn’t jealous of people who could use magic.
Father George chuckled as he unbuckled the sword from his waist and handed it to him.
“Here.”
“Thanks,” Augustus retrieved the sword from its scabbard and inspected it.
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“Good people, gather round. Let us witness the valour and strength of Augustus, the second son of Philip Light. His Blinking Sword Style has been honed to a fine art over the past seven years of training. Pay very close to this momentous occasion, for he is a great warrior in the making!”
There was a change in the crowd as a gap in the shape of a circle formed directly in the middle of the plaza. People dressed in their dresses, gowns, suits and ties, and holding glasses of wine, stared at Augustus with curious expectation.
Coming to the front of the crowd, Augustus’s father couldn’t believe what was happening.
“Honey, you’re shaking,” grabbing his hand in hers, Anne Light attempted to calm down her husband.
Inside Philip’s mind, the repercussions of this moment played out in his mind. Not good. Bad. Terrible. He was in trouble. He could barely hold himself back from walking right over, back-handing Augustus and ending this whole ordeal.
But it was too late. Too many people were watching. The priests, his close contact, business partners, the public, and his wife.
He knew what the priest was trying to do. Rope him into the church. Indoctrinate his son and use him as leverage against them. So that they could fuck over his vineyard and squeeze him dry. His old habit of chewing his nails came back in a wave but he resisted.
He knew his son was good. Thomas had told him so. He had the potential. The grit. The discipline. The courage. But he knew even better how his arrogance could lead to his own foolish death. He had heard all the stories from his father first-hand and he was not going to let that happen to his own son.
At least that was what he tried. He sighed.
His son’s worship of his own father even exceeded his own. Augustus had viewed his grandfather as a deity; a god amongst men.
He could only blame himself.
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The eyes were on him. All of them. Brown, emerald, blue, and red. He could feel it all flowing through him. The sense of power. Of his confidence in his blade. He was strong. He was better than the rest of them.
He was the best.
He yanked the scabbard off the sword, throwing it over to Father George to hold.
All at once, he felt all his instinctive reflexes flood his mind. Move forward. To the side. Upward slash. Turn right. Yank his wrist to the left.
He was dialled in.
He gasped for air. Finally, he found his moment and began.
In a jumping lunge, he swung his sword forward in a diagonal slash. The crescendo of his blade was a blurry silver.
But then he froze. Paralysed, he stared ahead of him. Out of nowhere, a sword appeared. Unable to react in time, he watched himself get cut down. Their blade was like a dawning star bounding down to earth.
He could only watch on in terror as he was killed.
He was dead.
And then he wasn’t.
As if waking from a drowsy slumber, he looked around incredulously at the people staring at him. At their agape mouths, their confused faces and bored eyes.
He was drenched in sweat. His arms and legs were covered in goosebumps and his feet were trembling. He could barely stand. He would collapse at any moment.
Move!
But he couldn’t. For in front of him laid the ghost of a familiar opponent. They were short, wore light leather armour, in their hand was a longsword far too big for someone their size, and on their face was a devious, teeth-bearing grin.
It was him. The boy to whom he had suffered a humiliating defeat.
Marcus. A child who had an open soul. A soul that was innately connected to the world. Bright blue eyes that could just somehow see through himself. The protege. The favoured disciple of Master Shi.
Could he defeat him?
No.
Everything felt useless in front of him. An overwhelming force of fighting aura flooded around him. He couldn’t take a single step forward. It was as if he was trying to move forward against the current of a river.
He wasn’t…as strong as he thought he was.
“Augustus!” the voice of his mother came from beside him and suddenly his muscles relaxed. The tension was gone and so was Marcus.
He turned to his mother. She was shocked.
“Love, are you okay?” She asked, concerned.
He looked around at the crowd. They were all staring at him. Looking at him. No one was going to let him down for this. But if he just–
He looked at the sword that he had dropped to the ground. To even gaze upon it brought pain. A fear that had nestled into his heart would bloom if he took hold of the hilt. Two times in quick succession, he had experienced the fear of death. Something that he had never previously experienced before.
He couldn’t do this anymore. He was in disbelief that he thought such a thing. That he would give up. But he would get killed.
He walked away.