You would think that after Durations upon Durations of exercise, and a power boost in the Ichor Droplet he had . . . taken out of other’s possession, that Remus would be able to keep up with the Fire Sect trainees. It soon became painfully apparent that he was very, very misinformed.
Lumped into his cradling arms, two boulders that were much heavier than their deceptive appearances conveyed, attempted to tear his limbs off. This was the second ‘hold’ of the day — the first being the laborious task of holding a much larger shard of igneous in two hands, as you pressed your back against a wall, forcing the strenuous load onto your poor, defenceless legs. Suffice to say, Remus would likely be the first to succumb to the seemingly insurmountable weight. Which only mortified him further, upon realising that his boulder, in contrast to several of the others', hadn't even been particularly heavy. He didn’t want to use his Rank as an excuse, that would have been awful sportsmanship. And yet he couldn’t help but feel cheated of any potential success, considering the Enkindled, or Emblazed Rank of the others. Whilst those Ranks’ main improvements were Mark-based, physical strength and endurance did take some boost, with Ichor slowly saturating further with each subsequent advancement.
No excuses, he mentally huffed to himself, realising that he was trying to divert the blame of his inadequacy. Just don’t be the first one to collapse, don't be the first to collapse, don’t . . .
Remus repeated the motto to himself endlessly, as his eyes scoured across the room, latching onto anything but the aching sensation ravaging his arms.
Attached to the sleeping bunks, was a hall so expansive it could fit the one hundred or so trainees enlisted within, without the slightest trouble. Each with their own personal, designated mat, that was of surprising quality. Apparently each of the Flame — or Fire, the clan suited both titles — sect camps housed a similar number of future soldiers as this vast chamber did. It was an airy, hollow expanse with great windows slanting in the last remnants of the day’s fading sunshine. This light flooded throughout the room, illuminating the fixed stances of the fellow men and women enduring insufferable pain alongside Remus, though they weren't fidgeting quite as much as he was. The image of such impressive military wrath for just this generation of combatants alone put the Flame Sect’s might into perspective for Remus. He had known that they must’ve been strong, being a main-stay in First Rite’s second place in the top five, but this was something else entirely.
Near the entrance, Hadrian stared down at them all, his fiery hair seeming to radiate a faint glow as if it really were a self-sustaining fire hazard.
“Three more minutes!” He roared, his voice echoing across the room. “Then we move on to our third and final pose. Let’s see who makes it to the end shall we?”
Judging over the stoic looks of his peers, this bunch of trainees had undergone this routine long enough for the majority to survive right to the bloody end, each and every time. Remus tried not to let this dissuade him, but admittedly, he couldn’t help but be a little disheartened. It had been two agonisingly slow minutes, but Remus, feeling his body on the verge of giving in, vowed to himself that he’d push through one last tortuous minute.
You’re going to have to endure worse under the Infernal Bays . . . the portion of his psyche taking the post as motivational-speaker whispered into his ear, keep pushing.
Nevertheless, his arms made one concerning pop too many, and Remus let the load collapse beneath him, before he promptly joined it. His fist slammed into the cushiony material, and yet he didn’t get to savour the lush texture too long, however, the panting raises of his chest burning in painful puffs outwards. Muttering a few silent curses under his breath, he only moved his arm away from his face to suffer further disappointment. Every single other trainee was still going strong. He sighed.
First to drop again, and I ache like hell.
The last minute passed within a blink of an eye — funny how relative time can be; the bliss of relaxation seemed so fleeting, to the dragging shackles of gruelling labour.
“Final hold!” Hadrian boomed, as workers off to the side quickly, and with systematic grace, took away each boulder.
Remus watched with confusion as everyone placed a thin oval onto the centre of their palms. It was completely blank: a dull, pearly white colour.
Sensing movement ahead, Remus turned his head to see Hadrian. “Apologies Remus, but this hold involves sustaining a pillar of fire at a high output level for as long as possible. I’m afraid it may not be wise for you to linger here, being flammable and all.”
The man said it in such a way, you would think Remus had fallen ill to an incurable disease. He scratched his nape awkwardly, half-expecting to see welts covering the skin of his arm. “May I watch?”
Hadrian frowned slightly. The subtle signals of consideration consumed his face. “I don’t see why not, but do it from a safe distance. Come, I’ll join you off to an observing point.”
Following the walking mass of leather up a stone staircase set against the right-hand wall, Remus found himself atop a fenced platform. Grasping the railing, he leaned in closer to catch a better look at the mysterious gadget placed upon each trainee’s inner hand. For some reason, as every leather-clad trainee called on their Mark, the previously pigmentless white bled into a furious, dark red.
“What is that thing?” He eventually bursted out, his curiosity uncontainable.
The Mercenary-Ranked glanced to where his pointed finger indicated. “Oh that? It's a Progress Calibrator. Veida works with a wide breadth of researchers and inventors all over the map, so managed to purchase a few in bulk with the clan’s royalties.”
“What do they do?”
“Keeps track of different statistics about yourself.” Hadrian explained. “General health, intensity of Mark-usage, records of strength and endurance . . . and a bunch of other nonsense, but you can badger Veida about that if you must know. Plus, they can do this.”
Hadrian clicked on a seemingly empty space on his own hand, tapping on it lightly. Instantly, one of the same circular dots manifested on his own skin. “It's a convenient feature to have; it avoids a lot of repeating questions about what exactly the thing is. We just haven’t told the trainees they can camouflage yet. They only borrow them for these training sessions, you see, and we wouldn't want them to be sneaking off with the Calibrators. They're damn expensive!”
His words were punctuated with row upon row of sizzling flames erupting upwards, even past the platform’s height. The lashing sound of their sudden arrival caught Remus off-guard, and the immediate wave of moisture-snatching heat wasn’t very comfortable to adjust to, to say the least.
“They don’t get damaged by that?” He asked, finding it hard to believe that even the most durable of this earth’s resources could survive the constant beating, if this really was a daily occurrence.
“Well yes. They’re created by the Marks of the Matter Sect, animating individual pieces of Supreme Steel — incredibly dense concentrations of Infinity. That’s both why they're so stubbornly resistant to all major forms of attack, and why they’re so grossly expensive . . .”
The phrase Supreme Steel was so tightly intertwined in Remus’ mind with the Supreme Fiend, that he couldn’t help but be overcome with a sudden wave of anguish for Andreas. With the rot that creature had left on him cutting his lifespan short, what would the old man think of Remus, dashing off so nonchalantly? Would it be prideful admiration for him, seeing his great grandson rushing out into the perils of adventure? Or, perhaps more likely, would he harbour deep-rooted issues with the fact that in his last days, Remus had willingly decided to spend a great number of them eluding his company. The question unsettled him, to the point that he struggled immensely to kick the topic back into an unused closet, somewhere within the forgotten depths of his mind.
A minute passed. Then another. Still, the fumes didn’t do so much as cease. Remus was starting to get a little concerned. “Do they normally last this long?”
Hadrian nodded, something reminiscent of pride glinting in his watchful eyes. “Sustaining an ability as long as this isn’t as impressive as you might first think. Without any distractions, and whilst keeping perfectly still, you can draw out your energy into sustaining this for as long as possible. Fire is the least difficult of all of the Flame Sect’s potential summonings. It has no real substance to it. Try and get them to pour out, let’s say, lava for instance, they would not last quite as long.”
Another thirty seconds came and went, before a beeping noise from several locations resounded around the room. This was quickly followed up by several trainees recalling their explosive streams of steaming fire. They looked thoroughly exhausted, but Remus was glad that at least a portion of the men and women had finished. The smoke made his eyes water, the heat was more irritating than if you were to inflict a thousand itches onto his body, and the perspiration would not stop leaking from his pores. Looking onto the recovering trainees’ wrists, his eyes stinging a little from the still raging pillars of heat quite a few were still managing to maintain, he spotted the colour from their Calibrators slowly fade out.
He felt like a nuisance, continuously seeking explanations from Hadrian, but just another turn of the head towards him, and the man started talking without him having to ask. “Veida set them to beep when their Mark output isn’t at a certain degree of intensity. Once they do, they’re out of the running, and have to quit. Or, they can carry on I suppose, if they want to push themselves further, but it won’t count in the final rankings of everyone’s time.”
Minutes flew by, and in tiny groups at a time, the same buzzing sound that was quickly becoming familiar reverberated repeatedly. Until, at last, all one hundred or so were laying on their backs, panting for dear life. The whole time, only one thought other than an impressed admiration circulated Remus' mind. One day, I need to get my hands on one of those. Legally, he felt obligated to add.
“With power like this, why haven’t you sent any of them off to the tournament?” Remus enquired.
“We train every group of budding soldiers in a five-year cycle, though many trainees have been known to advance to Foot-Soldier far before the end of that run. These, believe or not, are first years. And whilst nearing the end of the first tenure, I dislike giving them the opportunity until they are reasonably further into our supplied education.”
Hadrian stepped up to the railings, grasping them with his gigantic hands, and exclaiming loud enough that Remus wouldn’t be surprised if the other two camps in the Flame Territory had overhead. “Twenty minute rest before the bouts begin! Please return any sect property and prepare yourselves — I am aware that we usually hold these training sessions at dawn, and not right before nightfall after a Duration long expedition, but no excuses!”
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With that, the man darted away, before Remus could catch the chance to ask if he would be participating. He exhaled, shook his head to no one in particular, and walked down the stairs to join what he supposed were now his fellow siblings-in-arms.
They headed right outside of the vast chamber, where a sizeable water tank stood. Drinking taps protruded out of the grey body of the vessel, and after surviving off sour, watered-down wine for the last few days, it was refreshing to quench himself on the purest drink there is. Bored, and now recovered enough to actually want to do something other than lying face-first against the floor, he examined the trainees more carefully. Not for their ability, as he had before, but what they were like as people.
It was reasonably dark out, so their faces weren’t perfectly clear, but by their builds, the overwhelming majority of the squadron were male. And presumably around his age too. They gathered in groups he assumed to be established friendship circles, gossiping amongst one another, tossing water upon themselves, and laughing merrily. A couple fought off the oncoming darkness with tiny flecks of fire lingering on a fingertip or two, highlighting the rigid features that set these few individuals apart as the strongest of the group.
Eyes flickering over their hard expressions, the sentinel’s words of wisdom echoed in his head. One false move, or if they just found a disliking for him, any one of them could decide to turn Remus into extra kindling for their fireplaces. In only a simple incineration. For some reason, he now wasn’t so interested in striking up conversation.
No one approached him — perhaps wary of the foreign newcomer, which Remus could understand — and in return, he approached none of them. He merely sat, drinking his body weight in cool water, before Hadrian strolled out before them yet again.
“Duelling time.” He smirked. “My favourite part of the training regiment! Everyone, get into the hall once more and . . . “ His eyes scanned the awaiting faces of the trainees. “You, Tanguy! Come over here — you too Remus!”
Sceptical, and his ears teetering on bleeding out from the man’s excessive volume, Remus and a boy of similar age made their way towards the Mercenary, as the others did as they were told. Tanguy was one of the few Remus had sussed out to be of considerable strength from his brief observation. His head was fully bald of course, with only an area of the faintest brown as its remnants. His irises were coal, and as an aftermath of advancement or hereditary, Remus couldn’t be sure. His lips seemed to be set in a permanent scowl that didn’t exactly scream ‘friendly’, but Remus refrained himself from passing any judgement.
Hadrian’s eyes passed over the two of them, obviously expecting them to introduce themselves.
After an uncomfortable moment, Tanguy extended a hand. It was frighteningly muscular, with both his bicep, tricep, and the rest of the muscle tissue bulging out, as if inmates breaking out of their fleshy cells.
“Nice haircut.” He said, in a voice that was neither deep, nor high in pitch.
For a moment, Remus gave him a perplexed look, before recollection slapped him in the face. His precious hair . . . it was all but a memory now.
“Same to you,” was his rapier reply, doing his best to match Tanguy’s grip strength. He was embarrassingly weak in comparison.
Whilst not quite smiling, he allowed the end of his mouth to curl upwards in a subtle motion.
Finally, sparing the two from any more gawky attempts at curt conversation, Hadrian spoke up. “As you know Tanguy, Remus is unfortunately of a background that,” he was clearly very carefully choosing his words, “that rendered him stuck at Engorged for quite some time. Because of this, I would ask you to fight him without activating your Mark. It won’t exactly be completely fair, but the best of brawls never are. Would you do me and Remus a great favour, and satisfy this request for us?”
Tanguy said nothing for a few painful seconds, eyes darting between a reddening Remus and his trainer. Finally, killing the tension, he shrugged. “Sure, why not. Might be fun to actually have a fist-fight for once. It can get so boring just marinating my foes in lava.”
Remus wasn’t sure how he should feel about that.
“Great, just what I wanted to hear.” Hadrian smiled at the two reassuringly. “Come now, we mustn’t keep the others up. They must be itching to get today’s training over with.”
As they walked at a contained pace back into that spacious expanse, nervous butterflies sprouted to life in Remus’ stomach.
Something about Tanguy’s rigid features unnerved him . . .
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Everyone had gathered into the training hall, and during their brief outing outside, the place had undergone quite the impressive makeover. Instead of mats layering the floor, trapdoors Remus hadn’t noticed in the room’s floorboards had now been pried open fully, the stone slabs previously concealing what was hidden beneath resting against the very back wall. Freed from their plight of darkness, foot-deep pits of sand were now brought into view, fifty of the things sitting in an equidistant grid. It had gotten so dark out now, that touches circling the entire place, set in their respective brackets, danced lazily against the walls. Remus noted that the time took lighting all fifthteen would be surely wasted. They would certainly be an ample amount of illumination; the oncoming bouts made sure of that.
“Students!” Hadrian roared from his perch. “The first two rows, and half of row three, please come up and take a name out of the chest below the platform where I’m standing.”
They all did so without complaint, and Remus had espied upon entering the building the half not presently drawing, writing their names on a thin strip of parchment. These were the names making up the lucky-dip of sorts the rest were blessed with pulling a combatant out of. He watched them silently, before a voice off to his left grasped his attention.
Standing next to him, Tanguy murmured under his breath just loud enough for Remus to coincidentally hear. “Such an ineffective way of doing things. Why can’t we just have permanent sparring partners, and save ourselves the trouble?”
It was logical thinking, and Remus cringed at the waste of parchment. It had become something of an expense, whenever traders and their trotting carts ported it into First Rite. Clearly not here apparently, otherwise they’d be sure to use the material much more sparingly.
After what felt like a generational-spanning wait, all fighting pairs had been selected by the fickle whims of luck, and everyone got into position. The sand crushed under the soles of his feet, shoes having been required to take off for safety’s sake. Remus had trouble understanding this however — what damage could the sole of a sandal do that a wall of fire couldn’t? But primarily however, his attention was pinpointed on the stretching view of Tanguy, who was substantially more calm in regards to the situation.
“Three rounds!” Hadrian called. “Being kicked out of the perimeters counts as a loss, damaging your opponent at risk of taking their life, or maiming them will result in an automatic forfeit to the entire brawl, and a round is won when your opponent is dropped, and does not get up within three seconds. Or, you incapacitate them. Take your pick on whichever strategy you wish you to use on your path to success. Now . . . start!”
Remus was still enraptured in the man’s explanation when his hand cleaved through the air ahead of him, in signal to start.
“Wh-” He barely managed to get half the syllable out, as motion in his peripherals alerted him to danger. Tanguy was apparently not the waiting type.
Launching himself to the side, being sure to leave a few feet between him and the boundaries of the sand pit, Remus immediately went on the defensive. Tanguy punched, and he blocked. A flurry of flame from all directions seemed to generate a curtain of fire around them, the rush of heat disorienting as all hell. And as he was caught off guard, enduring a blow to the abdomen, that was exactly what their battleground looked like: the underworld. Throwing blow after blow in an attempt to turn his innards into a thick goo, Tanguy served the role of a punishing demon quite nicely. All he was missing to perfect the position was a whip, and a snug pair of horns to emerge from his bald scalp.
A fist to his side threatened to cave in his ribcage. His flimsy guard Violet had taught him managed to save Remus from the wrath of two more, but his forearms paid dearly for it. They stung red, and with each subsequent attack either absorbed or just about intercepted, he lost an additional few inches of territory. The most infuriating part wasn’t the beatdown he was taking, it was the placid, emotionless face that masked his opponent the entire time. Not a bead of sweat wetted his brow, the launches of his fists and the movement of his feet was almost a blur to comprehend, and there was a methodical emotion behind it all. No, not emotion; the absence of it. The boy was getting bored.
Unholy anger flared as a vein bulged on Remus’ forehead. He skirted to the side, skidded back a few paces more, and paid his environment no mind. Remus’ attention was solely centred on the abomination in front of him, the devil in human coating that Tanguy had become. Or had been all this time.
Remus hunched forwards, tightened his fists, leaned forward, and-
Tanguy circumvented the attack entirely, with Remus’ arm flinging past his dodging upper body. And alas, the worst was yet to come; before he could do so much as blink, a ton’s worth of muscular leg was sent flying into his exposed stomach. All it took was one second of contact, and agony ravaged his core. Entire body sent hurling, Remus was only vaguely aware that he had just been casually tossed out of bounds. Like a puppy.
Grasping for breath, it took him well over five seconds just to get up, and a few more until his lungs seemed to function again properly. Vision dazed, he blinked rapidly as his chest decompressed, Tanguy’s placid face eventually coming into sharp quality.
“Not terrible.” He commented, sounding unfocused, as if even this talk was immensely uninteresting. “But dodge. Blocking doesn’t work if you just absorb blow after blow mindlessly.”
“I-” Remus shut his mouth. It was solid advice after all. His predatory instincts were just aflame after such a humiliating showcase. All those Durations with Violet, and this time he lasted what, a few more minutes than his first real fight with another person? What spectacular progress. Though, he wasn’t exactly certain if this trainee, powerful or not, could stand up to Edmar. That cranky old man was a Foot-Soldier, after all.
The second round started the moment Remus regained his place in the ring. Taking heed of his enemy’s advice — which wasn’t a sentence he ever thought he would be thinking, right in front of said foe — he bobbed and weaved between the blows as best he could, taking a sort of middle-ground between complete offence or defence. Nevertheless, and despite his great exertion, Tanguy was faster. Indisputably so.
For every kick or rapid punch that missed him, three more he was forced to either painfully block or simply take. Remus sensed his anger swelling, but he wouldn’t make the same mistake twice . . . well, he intended not to, anyway.
It was his rage and reliance on blocking that had spelt his doom last round. This time, he couldn’t let it get the better of him. Nevertheless, emotion was a powerful tool if wielded correctly; the only problem was, actually doing so proved immensely challenging.
He poured the blazing ire into his body’s every movement, the adrenaline pumping through his very heart the only painkiller he could rely on, as a kick to his legs threatened to sweep him off his feet — and not in the romantic way. Somehow he flickered out of the way, failed to kick Tanguy in his shins, and the barrage finally ended with him rushing through the air for but a moment, unable to successfully block or manoeuvre out of the way of the boy’s next ferocious attack. Flung to the floor, it was all his disconcerted mind could do to roll aside, and leap clumsily back to his feet.
One second. That’s how close he had been to disqualification.
Slowly, with one hand behind both of their backs, the two circled each other in a cautious gait.
“You were right.” Remus panted.
“What?” Tanguy’s eyes narrowed in perplexion.
“Dodging does help.”
Time seemed to slow, as if even the gods were watching. Making sure to drag this one moment out for all its worth. The flames crackled around them both. Sweat appeared to water Tanguy’s face. The grunts of forty-nine other bouts reverberated around the two in an endless, self-sustaining echo. For a moment, for some inconspicuous reason, both of them halted. For a pensive moment, they stared blankly into the depths of each other's eyes.
Then they leaped.
Tanguy was the first to pull his arm back, his face the image of concentration; all boredom had long since perished. Remus followed a close second later, mimicking the action, going towards his chest. Before, right at the last possible opening, he withdrew the fist, swinging upwards with the other hand instead.
Right into Tanguy’s chin. Or well, brushing against it. But a hit was a hit. The first Remus had gotten on the evasive trainee in all their collective time of battle thus far: a valiant five minutes. He was nothing but gleeful, but Tanguy on the other hand . . .
Remus hadn’t known a face could convey such loathing. In the highest kick he had ever seen someone pull off, he felt Tanguy’s ankle smash into his head over and over again, as if doing its utmost best to rearrange his facial structure. There was blood of course, and a lot of it.
Suffice to say, feign successful or not, that round did not go in his favour.