Sprinting was quickly proving, yet again, to not be Remus’ forte. Not that he had found an area he excelled in yet, besides from getting himself in an ample amount of mindless trouble, but he was hoping beyond hope that something he could excel at would turn up sometime soon. But it was becoming quickly apparent that even baseless faith would expire if granted enough time, as the days until Cyrus’ arrival ticked by at a snail’s pace. It was only now dawning on Remus, like a creeping shadow snickering knowingly at his naivety, that any helpful skill or talent wouldn’t just appear under a turned leaf or shifted pebble that destiny would set in his path.
Experience informed the truth: Remus would have to put in the hours, no matter how gruelling they were, if he ever wanted to stand a chance at improving. And that didn’t exclude the prospect of growing stronger — the only requirement in scaling the Divine Ranks.
Somehow, his morning laps around the Flame Sect camp, the obsidian buildings flying past him like fractured shards of twilight, took a far larger toll on his body than the five holds could have even dream of. Which was saying something, for it had taken several days of tirelessly lofting up oversized boulders before his body had finally stopped making those concerning popping noises. Cardio, on the other hand, stuck out in Remus' mind as a practice in futility. A stitch that he couldn’t quite manage to remove lingered upon his side, the metallic taste of copper never quite departed from the parched chamber of his throat, and his legs . . . Well, he didn’t quite know how they were doing. Any speck of feeling in the limbs had vanished approximately two laps ago.
At Remus’ side dashed Tanguy, and Remus, for but a moment’s haste, felt a pang of pride pulsate through his fatigued mind. It had received nothing other than reports of endless aches and pains for an unbearably long time, that the mere possibility of dopamine, if the gods dared to permit it, was the emotional equivalent of the most outlandish of the underworld’s drugs. It had barely begun to form however, before Remus recalled that the trainee was about three laps ahead of him. Damn his operational memory.
The two passed a glance at each other in wordless acknowledgement.
Hadrian had seen to it that the two were continually paired together in evening bouts, and his explanations for doing so were dubious at best. Apparently he believed setting Remus against the best of the best of the class would do wonders for his training. Insane difficulty was exactly what he had to endure, with limited time on their hands before he was to be tossed into the Infernal Bays’ caverns. Where he would subsequently either emerge victorious, shard of Infirnite in hand, or as a dragged out corpse, promptly disposed of. Remus felt his stomach churning at the thought.
Needing something to direct his attention on as his body withered away by sheer excess of expenditure, he reflected on his time spent within the camps’ perimeters, eying the stony walls not too far off from his current stride. A Duration had dragged by in a jumble of aches, pains, and an all encompassing fatigue. Nevertheless, no matter how hard he believed he would work himself to death, he would wake up the following day with nothing more substantial than a sore sensation in his muscles. And, for some perverse reason, he found that indescribably aggravating. Some twisted part of him was awaiting the day he would finally overstep, and then would thus have an excuse to avoid training. It was obviously beyond stupid to yearn for this, for a multitude of reasons that didn’t need to be spoken into existence, but drained of all his capacity to care and more, logic was lost on Remus.
He watched in silence as Tanguy rushed off in a spike of resolve, his back slowly reducing to but a speck in Remus’ vision as the boy demonstrated impossible vigour. Needless to say, the trainee had floored Remus each and every bout with pinpoint accuracy. It was almost as if Remus was doing worse, as each day’s fight found new ways to disfigure his face, which was quickly amassing quite the repertoire of cuts. He supposed his body hadn’t yet bothered to fully heal the damn markings, too preoccupied with patching up the packets of dust his muscles would be reduced by, by the day’s climax. Funny how Engorged healing functioned, it was much more exact then a carrier of red-blood, prioritising what urgently needed healing instead of scrambling to patch-up everything at once. Shame his mind couldn’t work as efficiently, perhaps then he would be freed from this fit of humiliation. Just thinking about it turned his cheeks red.
One flick on his chin. That was all he had managed to land on his sparring partner — a mere dent in the shield of a god. It was somehow more pitiful than if he would’ve left no injury at all. At the very least, he wasn’t required to endure the face of rage veiled behind Tanguy’s mask of indifference. One part of him wanted to uncover the guise once more, to see just how far it could slip off if Tanguy was pushed, and the other was terrified at what the implications of accomplishing such an impossibility would be.
A few more laps until we fight again, Remus thought, the pain building up throughout his entire body a herculean task to ignore as blatantly as he was attempting to. The only thought that propelled the momentum of his footfalls was spite. The first few sprints, many days prior, had resulted with him collapsing in a puddle of his own perspiration, only saving a shred of his dignity by not passing out completely.
It was an image he was not keen to recreate. Not without fighting tooth and nail first, at the very least.
“Remus!” A tremor of syllables off to his side caused a mini quake in the air. “Don’t let me catch you slacking now!”
Remus wasn’t entirely surprised to see Hadrian jogging alongside him, an infectious smile on his lips. He couldn’t help but notice that not a drop of sweat smeared him. In reply, Remus nodded, worried that even a muttered word would be a waste of energy too far, spelling doom for his chances of finishing the track.
In tremulous, quivering breaths, Remus visualised his destination. With Hadrian at his side, failure wasn’t an option. He would not allow a timeline to exist where he would disappoint the man.
“Quickly now Remus, if you survived all five holds without collapsing, you can push through this. Push forward!”
He took the words to heart.
----------------------------------------
“I hate running,” Remus finally muttered, some time later, after he had recovered enough to form words without them sounding like the empty winds of a desert.
Amid the sounds of his insistent huffs, and the chugging water of his cup, his peers voiced agreement. He wasn’t particularly close to any of them, but a bond of sorts between Remus and the other trainees had formed over the course of his stay. You didn’t exactly endure agonies daily and not build an endearment for those suffering alongside you.
They were seconds away from preparing for the day’s final activity: the famed bouts. One more challenge, and Remus could eat like a rabid animal to his heart’s content. Dinner was the highlight of his day, and at the worst of times, his singular motivation pushing him through. The problem with breakfast was that it was immediately before training, and physically exerting oneself to extremities when bloated was not the best idea. It was awful to miss out on the trays upon trays of fruits, creams, and breads, and not to mention the pitchers of the best quality milk Remus had ever had the pleasure of guzzling upon, but he had learned it was best to have a light meal the hard way.
Tanguy was leaning against the doorway, and his shuffling to the side drew everyone’s attention. They were all enraptured with the sight of the door finally opening, with Hadrian’s looming shadow coming into the limelight.
“It's not time yet,” he announced, which received an equal amount of gloomy looks as it did sighs of relief, “just thought I would stretch my legs.”
He met Remus dead in the eye. “Would you mind joining me?”
Remus wasn’t especially keen to spend his recovery time mulling about, but he got the implicit impression that Hadrian wanted to discuss something. In private.
“Of course.”
Together, they strolled far out of ear-range of the rest of the curious trainees, heading deeper into the camp, before Hadrian finally stopped at a bench beneath the shade of a boulder — the best replacement for a tree you could get in these parts, where the colour green was evidently an archaic rumour.
“Apologies for interrupting your rest, but I’m rather interested in your future, Remus.” Hadrian then rubbed his chin, and set his eyes slanted to the side like a misbehaving child, caught red-handed by their parents. It was quite a bizarre sight for the beast of a man, one Remus silently prayed he would never repeat again. It didn’t quite suit him. “I was doing a little snooping through our records, looking into the Earnest Trials, and I couldn’t help but have my interest piqued by your following challenges, after you collect the Infirnite.”
He spoke as if his success for the first trial was already set in stone. It was both daunting to support the weight of so much blind faith, and yet at the same time, warmly reaffirming. If Hadrian was so confident in him, then why shouldn’t he hold a little belief in himself?
“The second trial in particular, about killing a beast of considerable power, what exactly do you have in mind?”
Hadrian’s reaction could have gone in several ways, many of them not very unappealing. So when Remus spoke, he did it slowly, and deliberately. “Styrmir, the Giant of Tempests. I don’t believe he’s too far away from here. According to the rumours, the Unbounded is the equivalent of a Foot-Soldier Ranked.”
Scowling, the Mercenary’s immediate reaction wasn’t exactly reassuring. He didn’t entirely strike down the idea, but his scepticism dripped off his words and formed a puddle of doubt at their feet. That coursing dubiety set the tone for the remainder of the discussion, and didn’t waver once.
“With you and Violet working together, it's possible . . . but remember, Styrmir’s power is in his speed. He’s an elemental Unbounded, one whose notoriety precedes him. And there is nothing in this world, aside from the Speed Clan perhaps, that is more nimble in nature than the wind. Defeating him would garner you some respect, most certainly. Even so, that is only if it were revealed that you two were the ones that slayed him, and even ignoring all the trouble that can of worms opens up, your names would still be far from clean. But it will be no small challenge. The power difference alone is a concern that troubles me deeply.”
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Remus exhaled, not attempting to disprove any of the man’s points, for they were all true. “You’re right of course, but I can’t think of any other potential Unbounded nearby that we have nearly as decent a chance at taking down. For his speed, we’ll have to think of something, but for now, all I can do is train, and focus on the task at hand. I still have the first trial to tackle, after all.”
A hand patted his shoulder, and Hadrian beamed down at him. That pose was so alike his grandfather, it stung to gaze upon. “That’s the spirit. I would be tempted to assist you on taking Styrmir on, he’s a bother to us all. But my clan duties don’t leave me free for such an excursion. I hope you can understand.”
“Of course, don’t feel obligated. Anyway, I don’t suppose the creators of the trial had in mind a Splintered Rank taking part when they devised it.”
Hadrian boomed in hearty chuckle, before realisation widened his eyes. “We’re running late. Quickly Remus, we have to be back for sparring!”
With that, the two said no more, making a brisk beeline back to that obsidian cuboid, where outside, loitering trainees came into view.
Many entered before he even had a chance to announce the bouts. “Rest is over, you know what to do. It's time to spar!”
Remus cleared his mind free of any berserk wind giants, as he followed the last of the group to settle in. As everyone drew names, Remus took his position opposite to Tanguy, adjusting to the cushiony texture of the sand beneath his feet.
“ . . . You’ve improved, y’know,” a voice called, and Tanguy so rarely exchanged words with Remus, that it took him a foolish scan of the hall before he realised it had been him who had spoken.
Already, Remus was sceptical. Praise from Tanguy? Pah! What would happen next, the gods calling it a day and giving up the War?
“Doesn’t seem like it,” Remus eventually replied, “our first fight has been my most successful, and that wasn’t exactly a fabulous showcase of my fighting skills.”
For a nanosecond, the boy appeared to have frowned at the past bout’s mentioning. His lips reverted to a straight, unrevealing line so quickly, Remus was forced to rethink what he’d thought to have seen.
“I was going easy on you then,” he said hurriedly, “you’re losing now because I’m not holding back.”
Remus didn’t know whether to cringe or laugh. One scrap on the chin was evidently enough to mar Tanguy’s ego irreparably. Without a doubt, there was the possibility that he had been somewhat restraining himself, but the trainee was trying to make it out as though he had been fighting with a blindfold and both arms behind his back.
“So . . .” Remus raised his arms and pushed a leg forward in a fighting stance. “This fight will be how you would normally face any other equal fighter? Mark usage excluded of course.”
His lips quivered. “If that’s what you desire, you can count on it.”
Each word was forged out of the clear-cut parchment of honesty, and Remus smiled. Perhaps if he could hold his own against an Emblazed, them being handicapped or not, that would be proof enough that the last two Passings hadn’t been entirely fruitless. The two exchanged a glare that held no anger, no frustration; only concentration, as Hadrian called for the spars to begin.
Remus dived forwards, throwing an arm back in one rapid breath. Skirting out the way, Tanguy gave Remus a bemused look, as his opponent unleashed a barrage of flying kicks and blows, not unlike a tornado of disembodied limbs. In all their previous fights, Remus had never come on this strong right out the gate, and they both knew it.
Tanguy didn’t refrain from punishing him back.
In a duck so fast it was triggered out of pure instinct, and not any decision of his own, Remus skimmed away from a kick, jumped to the side of a flinging fist, and now closer than ever to his opponent, aimed low — for his stomach. Tanguy didn’t even bother to intercept the blow, vaulting aside with casual grace. Skidding forwards, his legs not quite able to keep up with his speeding body, Remus very nearly toppled over. Well, perhaps he would have escaped receiving a face-full of sand, if it were not for the brisk series of blows hammering down on his back.
Legs forced to buckle, Remus embraced the fall, strategically entering a roll, bouncing back up in record time, and kicking Tanguy in his pompous gut before he knew what hit him. Remus couldn’t be sure whether it was pain, wheezed breath, or simply bewilderment that kept his opponent from immediately striking back. Tanguy’s teeth clenched, and this singular action somehow altered his demeanour wholly.
Punches bursted forward in a frenzy of predatory rage, with Remus left scrambling to block, duck, and most likely of all, endure them. For twenty whole seconds, his string of successes was cut frustratingly short. One good kick cannot be the most I get after day after day of hopeless beatdowns!
The centrepoint of an aura of ire all his own, Remus danced with his enemy. Blows were traded, sand was sent billowing in the air with a terrible eye-watering tendency, and all concept of time was lost. It was a routine of violence, a showcase of cruelty at its finest. Thinking was a requirement of the past — his body was the puppet of some inward aptitude, developed over Durations upon Durations of drilling in stances and foot formations into himself, with the consistency of an insane person. Remus was only vaguely air of his nose bleeding out like there was no tomorrow, but as there was no feeling in his body from the waist up, he didn’t let it deter him.
One lucky sweep of his right leg, and Tanguy was sent to the ground. He shifted back up in laborious movements, just in the nick of time before Remus could properly pounce on him.
The two launched blows in perfect unison, both combatants' cheeks turned a nasty shade of purple. Adrenaline could only be relied on for so long, and the pair — grudgingly trudging on as they were — could ignore the grip of fatigue and pain no longer. Punch-drunk, they grasped against one another, throwing weak punches at the other’s back that wasted valuable energy for all the good they did.
Blinking idly, Remus realised they were the only combatants left still fighting. For a second, he doubted this. They were only on their first round, there was no plausible way they could have dragged it out this long . . . but the empty sand pits encompassing the two stated otherwise.
“Alright boys, let's get this over with,” Hadrian began, before erupting out with: “sudden death! This one round decides the victor. Now stop hugging each other like newly-weds and give us a fight!”
The Mercenary was positioned at the head of the rest of the gathered trainees, also on the sidelines, at the platform overlooking the pits. Through his eye that was not becoming gummy with dried blood Remus didn’t know the owner of, their astonished expressions bore into his eyes.
The words seemed to spur a second wind in both Tanguy and Remus, and they vaulted away from each other — grains blasting upwards in their midst. With so many eyes watching them, neither of them would be able to bear the burden of defeat.
You win this round, or die trying, Remus cemented to himself, in a resolution he didn’t believe to be extreme in the slightest.
As the two threw pensive blows, not wanting to be the one to open themselves up for a swift defeat, Remus focused a portion of his mind on channelling his Ichor. It wasn’t until the advent of a Boundless Vault at Foot-Soldier Rank that he would be able to truly accelerate his healing process at will with full effectiveness, but there was no harm in trying. Directing your own blood is odd. A close analogy would be swishing your hand through a tub of water to direct the current, only at a much more meticulous level. Directing the tide of gold to his most battered areas — namely his bloody nose, bruised chest, and the cut above his left eye, Remus felt as though the pain was numbed somewhat, but ‘healed’ was another matter altogether.
Finally, abiding by the pleas of the screaming trainees, Tanguy took the plunge, flying towards Remus with a grave expression, as if he were a servant of the Grim Reaper himself, commissioned to strip Remus of his soul. Remus sure hoped that when he did perish — if immortality was out of the question — that the creature tasked with ferrying him to the afterlife wouldn’t be nearly so stone-faced.
He dodged the first blow, which was followed up thrice, none of the hits landing. Dread crept up Tanguy’s face, an expression that Remus would be sure to savour for years to come. Dread quickly gave way to desperation, and Tanguy sent one last wild kick Remus’ way. The move was so unorthodox in its trajectory, it managed to strike Remus’ wrist with shattering ferocity. Crumpling backwards, Remus saw nothing but red, instant loathing birthing in his heart, eradicating all, and any sense of level-headedness, dead in its tracks.
His hate would pave the way for his victory. Time to pull out an old trick, he mused to himself.
He struck out. Relying on instincts more than ever, Tanguy flung himself to the side . . . whereupon Remus let him accept a faceful of his real blow. It didn’t take anything more but a firm kick, and Tanguy was on his knees, hand clutching onto his nose.
Remus laughed like a villain, high on the sweet taste of success. “Twice! You really must practise handling feigns Tanguy, but hey! At least now we have matching nose-blee-”
Several things occurred at once.
The most urgent to grasp the extent of his focus was Tanguy grunting in fury, uplifting a hand squarely ahead of Remus. The air suddenly grew to a foreboding heat, a slither of fire erupting out of his palm. Hadrian burst onto the scene, as if by teleport, and grasped Tanguy’s lofted hand. The snaking spire of flame crawled up his arm, only to fade, revealing a forearm completely unscathed. Hadrian’s look of visceral disgust made Remus want to run all the way back to his snugly home back in First Rite, and he wasn’t even the target of the intensive look.
“Out. Now.” The Mercenary muttered, pointing towards the hall’s exit behind his back. “Go before I lose my temper anymore than I already have.”
Tanguy appeared to hesitate for a moment, but quickly obliged when Hadrian’s glare didn’t back down.
Catching his breath, Remus was exhausted. All the excitement had dispersed from his bones, and the only thing preventing him from crumpling into a pile of limbs atop the sand was Hadrian’s hand, tugging his arm upwards.
“By virtue of disqualification, Remus wins!”
There was a resounding cheer that Remus would have enjoyed substantially more, if he wasn’t one false move away from face-planting into the wooden curb of the pit.
“The bout was to fight without use of one’s Mark, and in the last twenty minutes, it has become abundantly clear that Tanguy did not possess the capacity to do so.”
Twenty-minutes! The last of Remus’ brain cells not fully spent for the day internally cried, no wonder I feel like death.
“Tanguy will no longer be joined with Remus, and he instead will draw for his opponent, as is the typical way of doing things. Unless anyone feels compelled to challenge him directly?”
Through his one eye not dried shut, Remus saw several hands shoot up.
Hadrian nodded at the volunteers, as if this was the proper way of things. “A nice line-up, this will be. I do believe sparring against Remus will be a good opportunity for you all, to sharpen your hand-to-hand combat skills that have been left in the dust for so long, in favour of spurting flame madly instead. His next combatant will be decided later, though, for whoever that will be, you will be required to wear a Progress Calibrator. ”
Some excitement was sparked at this, which immediately proved misplaced.
“Don’t get your hopes up, it's not for anything fancy. I’ll badger Veida into setting it so that the gadget will send a warning, if it ever so happens that an incident like this occurs again, and someone tries to use a Mark against Remus. We were far too close from possibly turning our guest into ash. Incineration of your fellow trainees will not be tolerated.”
Slowly, everyone filed out of the hall, with a half-conscious Remus bobbling from side-to-side as he trudged his way forward. Dazed, he struggled to grow excitement for his cueing line of future fighters, all likely to mess him up with equal skill.
If today was anything to go by, he had quite the series of Durations ahead of him.