Veida sighed, unfamiliar landscapes spreading out ahead of her.
An entourage of Flame Clansmen were at her back, those that made up her allocated half of the trainees. Since their bases were crushed from wrathful Unbounded, and Cyrus was forced off to the front lines to deal with the source of all their problems, she and Hadrian had been left in charge. They’d split the trainees, and many of the other resources they now had to manage, as strictly in half as they could.
Of course, the pair of them weren’t unfamiliar with leadership duties. More times than Veida could count, Hadrian’s status of second-in-command had compelled the both of them to oversee the sect in Cyrus’ absence.
But never for this long. Never when such daunting pressures threatened to crush them. Pressures like the four remaining Right-bearers.
Veida almost paused right there. For the sake of not impeding her legion, she marched valiantly on, the dark thoughts never quite leaving her mind.
Since that scandal with the raging Unbounded, they’d departed the territory whilst reconstructions occurred. They’d been taking refuge in the largest ruin they could rent in the city proper, though that hardly fitted them all either. Times had been tough, tough enough to compel them into a potentially disastrous decision. The location of which they were traversing towards now.
It was all Enos’s fault, she knew. The originator was the only Unbounded who possessed the might to cast down Divine Rights upon his subjects; even the history books spoke of it. Every century or so, they would appear. Abilities always varying, from unleashing poisonous gases, to bearing weapons of incredible power. Power of legend, that allegedly surpassed even that of Supreme Steel.
In this current iteration, it was hard to pinpoint who was the strongest of the five. Nova’s incomprehensible mastery over Infinity, or the Pet-Keeper’s untouchable vitality.
Over the literal dozens of Right-bearer generations she had read about, some dark inclination within Veida recognised a pattern. One that kept her up at night.
They were getting stronger. Each new set of the Divine Rights had slowly but surely become more cumbersome to deal with. To the point that this current quintet had been yet to perish for several decades. The first, once discovered, had all been slaughtered within a Rebirth. A time where they were the ones fleeing from humanity.
Oh, how the tables turn, the depressive thoughts poured.
Thus far, they’d only been able to kill the weakest link: Milap. The details surrounding his death, as known to the wider public, were mysterious. The Chaos Clan had reported the Splintered Ranked as dead. Their story was that he came roaring towards their base, and was quickly dispatched by the rest of their forces. That also explained why their entire base was a pile of ashes the morning after.
It was all a cover-up, of course. Veida had heard all about that fierce conflict from Violet’s own handwriting. Then, later, in person. The fact that she, Remus, Koa, Elmore and Donovan, had all managed to kill him was a miracle. She felt a burst of pride at the news Remus had dealt the killing blow, as hard as it was to believe.
Yet things still looked dour. That was only one out of the five dead, after decades upon decades of their hellish terror. If they wanted to kill the rest of Enos’s servants before the originator’s plans progressed, they had to pick up the pace.
Because that was what this all accumulated into at the end of the day: Enos’s schemes. The originator must have been behind the current push at the front lines, and, perhaps, may have even commanded Nova into reducing the Chaos Clan into his puppets.
Humanity as a whole had often put away their own discrepancies for the sake of a greater cause. This meant dealing with the Unbounded. When the raging fiends, power-drunk and imbedded with a collective saviour-complex, had first descended, sects had ceased their fighting. Or at least targeted the brunt of their attention to push the heavenly friends back. It was the only part of humanity’s past that gave Veida hope. Hope for the entire course of their future.
Now more than ever, they had to double-down on that tunnel-vision. If clans stopped all the in-fighting, focusing on the most immediate issue instead, things maybe wouldn’t look quite so glum.
Veida exhaled again. If there was any take away from all of this, it was that they weren’t hopeless. Multiple sects had been rushing towards the front lines recently, and not just their Foot-Soldiers. In some instances, the entire populace of one clan. That was the kind of action they needed more of, and the kind of action Veida was taking right now.
It sounded frivolous, but her meltdown with Violet was a constant dark cloud over her psyche. It brought her great shame, each second of her breakdown played in real time in her head. She’d been so shortsighted . . . but Veida tried not to be too hard on herself. When you read nothing but the insidious acts of Unbounded for all your life, had held your very brother’s bloody body after one of their stray attacks, an undying hatred for all of their kind was only natural.
That prejudice sometimes bubbled to the surface when she thought of Violet even now. Yet one good apple in a sour batch didn’t incline her to change her ways.
Veida would love nothing more than to see Unbounded wiped from existence. Only her own experiences with Violet, and the fact she was sure the girl desired that annihilation perhaps more than her, made Veida more than happy to work alongside her.
She swivelled round, viewing her troops as one full unit at her helm. “Hault!” She shouted, their destination in walking distance. “We’re almost here.”
Before she turned, she spotted Tanguy in the crowd. He held himself a little more self-consciously these days. Shoulders hanging low and expression conflicted. Nevertheless, Veida could still identify a rejuvenated loyalty in him. A desire to make amends.
Her eyes dawdled on him perhaps a little too long.
Once more, she faced the faint lines of the outer barricades. “The front lines are upon us.”
It was time to join the rest of the world in doing some good.
----------------------------------------
“Attack me.” Remus told Violet with absolute conviction, wielding his bloody chains in either hand.
She looked at him, bemusement clear on her upturned lips. “You’re the boss.”
The Silver Cavities were everywhere in washes of grey, and in terms of familiarity, like a second home to Remus. Well, only as far as he could walk without risking contracting Rot, or injury. Remus managed the initial chamber, and one third of a descending passage before it became too much. He suspected raising his resistance to that level of suffusing Infinity would be possible, based on the fact when he arrived at this chamber, he was close to vomiting guts.
Now he could train, pushing his body to both its physical, and his Bank’s limits. Doing the former presently was his final preparation for the second bout.
Violet had a pile of pebbles at her feet, as well as a few scraps of leftover Supreme Steel. The second lot could deal some real damage to Remus, but Violet wouldn’t throw with full intent to harm him — or so he hoped.
The pain, then, would serve as motivation.
Real, truly concentrated Supreme Steel made with a master’s hand could leave injuries gods couldn’t even heal. But standard Supreme Steel was rare enough on its own. Remus hoped he would never be on the receiving end of such terror.
Violet raised her loaded hand.
Remus instinctually dodged the first stone. He swerved to the right, the sound of rock shattering eliting a shiver.
“What?” Violet rightfully frowned. “I thought you were using your chains.”
“I am. Little hard to focus when jagged rocks are flying towards you.”
“It will be even harder to focus in the midst of battle.”
Remus shook his head, chiding himself. She’s right.
He raised the chains again. Two clumps of Supreme Steel flew towards him. Now that’s just cruel.
A flare of silver collided with the first, sending tremors up every other link. It disconcerted Remus, sabotaging his reaction time. A pang of pain struck his forearm, like malevolent fumes were consuming the entire limb.
He cursed. Violet didn’t laugh, or shout out some scoffing challenge. “I’m not enjoying this, you know.”
“You don’t have to. Now stop the chatter.”
Back into position. Remus inhaled, pictured himself as the only force between his clan and some evil intruder, and snapped into action.
The shackles became whips, flying in his hands. They danced like protective snaps, successfully countering three projectiles. One slammed into his side, but he managed a gagged cry, “keep going!”
They kept coming, and soon his mind stopped thinking all together. Aching pains began to litter his body. Some part of him, in a dangerous split second while Violet picked up another clump to toss, warned him. He could be jeopardising himself for tomorrow. Another pleaded for nothing more than to continue.
The downfall progressed in much the same fashion for an unspecified time. Down here, in the Silver Cavities, amid the ferocity of training, time was as volatile as water.
Remus hit his stride, his body ceasing to be. Only the chains existed. Only his great weapon, blocking shot and pitiful shot; the world needing nothing more. It was a contentment of adrenaline and frantic movement. A existence of hot, riotous motion.
It took him a prolonged moment to notice the attacks had stopped. His chains still jangled in the air, slumping to the floor at the same time as he. Perspiration poured down, the metallic links of Steel, however highly concentrated in Infinity, scathing hot.
Remus dropped them, realising only the protection of his Ambition had shielded him from a pair of nasty burns.
Violet stood, nothing on the ground by her feet but scattered pebbles. Her eyes looked to the smoke rising off the ends of his chains. “If you keep that up, you probably won’t need to use Tanish’s might to set those things aflame.”
Remus settled his breathing, leaving the links to cool off on the floor. He took a seat by Violet’s side, a distant look already making his gaze glassy.
“Remus.” Violet frowned. “What’s on your mind? There’s no need to make your mind ache as much as your body. You don’t have to make up the difference.”
He stifled a laugh. “Tell that to my overthinking brain.”
“Come on . . . what’s on your mind?”
Remus scowled this time, but it was a scowl of confusion. “So much that I can’t pinpoint my thoughts.”
“Battle nerves?”
“Maybe.”
“Just get some sleep, alright?” She insisted, and the annoying part was Remus knew it to be rather good advice.
Remus grumbled agreement, entered the tents they had set up, and stuffed himself under the covers. Adrift all of his raging thoughts, he took one final examination of his Bank, at all the intertwining tubes. It was like a map illustrated in pearly white, a chalk outline of a town that didn’t exist. The town of his inward spirit.
If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.
It stretched to encompass his entire midsection now. Remarkable progress. The kind that only occurred to one in a thousand, and something that he should be jumping for joy over.
And yet all he could focus on was the image of that bandaged hand. The speed of his Bank was dwarfed tenfold by the rate the Rot was sure to have conquered Andreas’s body. The image of a trickling hourglass flickered back and forth between the accelerating disease. Back and forth, back and forth. With each new look at his great grandfather all the more vile. There was no skin, merely a calloused layer of ruinous tissue. Thick and leathery in the small portion of skin shown, in what slowly became a mummified body with each accelerating image.
Back and forth, back and forth.
The last grain plummeted. The last image of his great grandfather cursed his eyes, worse than any unholy visage Nova could force into his brain. The corpse was unrecognisable.
For an hour, rage burned through Remus, and he became nothing more than a vessel for the emotion. He cursed the Supreme Fiend a hundred times over, slathering with hatred, his fight at dawn now seeming trivial.
He had nothing to worry about. Whoever his opponent was, they were nothing more than a stone in his path.
One Remus would crush with his bare hands.
----------------------------------------
He didn’t have many aches or pains, thankfully, when he sauntered into the waiting room. Remus’ body had healed swiftly, and that wasn’t all. His streak of luck continued when he was called up first to fight.
Remus punched into his palm, didn’t even look at the rest of the brooding people in the room, and let the unveiling doorway shower him with light. He breathed in deep, feeling the vexed looks pierce his back, feeling the sun’s rays caress his body, and the way the morning wind rustled his hair.
He was itching to fight, and wasn’t disappointed. Remus hardly had time for some last minute stretching before his opponent arrived.
Not too intimidating, from the first look. Pink cloth adorned a man’s body, a mail coif sliding down to the back of their nape. What really caught Remus’ interest, however, were the other articles with which the man equipped himself. A score of trinkets jangled across his body. Metal gadgets, too obscure for Remus to identify individually, but he could put a name to their whole.
Instruments.
The Music Clan? Remus felt his confidence drop a little. He wasn’t familiar with the clan, despite them heralding from First Rite. The most he saw was a performer or two at an inn, acting the part of a bard and singing their hearts out.
He spent too many seconds trying to work out why exactly one of them would be here. Like with the Mark of the Carpentry god, Arcus, the Music Clan was far from combat-oriented. Remus eyed the jingling of musical instruments, dark suspicion arising.
“In the right corner . . .” an announcer called, overly cheerful to a sickening degree. Like ripe fruit. “Remus. A man of dubious origin I’m sure not many of us are blindsighted to. Originating from the Carpentry Sect, but with the adopted power of Ambition deity Arcus blazing through him!”
Oh, they don’t know how literal that is.
“His first fight stirred up a storm! But how will he fare in his second bout? Is he just running on beginner’s luck, or will he continue his streak of victory? Well, a worthy challenger approaches-!”
The crowd jumped up in their seats. That many people gathered here, none of them looking like they were holding out hopes for the front lines, told Remus all he needed to know about the nature of this set-up. This was a business at heart — an underground fight club that promised would-be fighters the chance of sneaking into the front lines. All they had to do was stick it out for a few matches, probably landing on a fighter every once in a while who found a liking to the limelight.
Anything Makalo had told him was purely a lie.
Remus supposed being gladiator wouldn’t be the worst job in all of Descent, though he didn’t fancy fighting for no other purpose than providing entertainment, and shallow pay.
The announcer tore apart his reverie. "Nishad, hailing from First Rite and the Music Clan, is a man who shocks and dazzles! The logistics of how one of his clan fights, however frivolous a question, may be a topic that befuddles you, dear viewers. Especially if you have never seen this show-stopping youth in action before. But I assure you, ladies and gentlemen, that no such doubts can possibly be harboured, once you see the punch he packs! So sit back, relax, and enjoy the spectacle of the evening . . .” the rising sound of a drumroll rushed through the air. “Remus. Versus. Nishad!”
The trembling song of a cymbal announced the start of the fight. Remus didn’t wait around.
He flew into the air, looked down at his opponent, and watched. Maybe a boring move, true, but Remus was a pragmatic man. He had no idea what Nishad was capable of.
Slowly, not showing the least bit of emotion on his stubbled face, Nishad groped a set of wind pipes. He blew into them with startling speed.
Almost more startling than the invisible wall that slammed into Remus. The winds knifed him, turgid and unrelenting in their advance. Remus crashed into the sand pit below, a dust cloud shooting to suffuse the atmosphere. Flames whirled out of a wild flourish of the arm, clearing the air, and Remus gritted his teeth against the pressure.
It was nothing worse than what the Silver Cavities could provide. He told himself that over and over, and the crushing force seemed to subside.
Remus saw Nishad move towards another one of his toys. This time, he wasn’t so slow to act.
Flaming Gold burnt to life, and he flashed by the Music Clansman. Remus made to jab. Nishad grasped a strange iron pole. Both actions seemed to encapsulate the universe for all of one moment. One moment that taunted Remus’ fickle attempt.
Iron exploded, slamming into Remus' chest and taking his breath with it. His movement to Thick Skin had been a tad too late. A nanosecond quicker, and he might have made it.
His back was pressed into the arena wall, sick erupting from his mouth. He looked down to an iron beam pressing against him. One that was impossibly long, and one that had most certainly not been there a moment prior.
Sickness and pain slackened his thoughts. Did they have some kind of speed-focused Vault? Either that, or Remus had acquired a sloth’s urgency overnight.
His hands turned boiling hot, and Remus melted his escape from the beam. The seething liquid bubbled in the sand, but Remus paid it no mind.
There was no time to think. Deliberation would lead to hesitation and distraction. Two recipes for disaster; poisons that would only impede him. Action took priority.
Flaming Gold still roared through him, like the blood of a dragon. Upturned hands behind blasted him ahead, a streak of flame trailing at his feet like the tail of a comet.
The lashings of wind redoubled, pillars of iron flying his way. He flew between them all, but lightning-quick motions still allowed Nishad to draw his next tool of destruction.
Birds flocked down in Remus' path, appearing ahead of him as if pulled from the skies. He screamed, a volley of fireballs sizzling them all down to their feathers. Obsidian formed across his flesh, like a second skin, far surpassing the range of his obsidian fists. He made the layer as thin as possible. Any more, and he was at risk of overburdening himself and dropping like a stone.
He was feet away from Nishad. He saw the terror stir in the man’s face; thrived off it. Another blast of iron jabbed towards him. Remus hardened his obsidian fist, plasma quaking out of the gauntlet. The iron imploded, hitting the side wall. Remus had nothing to stop him. Nishad was his.
At the last second, he implemented Eruptive Will into his fist. With nothing but anger alight in mind, he punched.
Thin air, that is.
The air exploded at the end of his jab, grains below rearranged. He rolled as he descended, somehow landing on his feet. Remus snarled, head flickering to a man on the other end of the arena.
Nishad held aloft a new instrument, and it was obvious even from here that he was sweating bullets. Blood dripped down his brow, from where Remus' blow had just barely grazed him.
Remus saw all this in one split moment, still high on the momentum of landing. He used it to swivel into another flight, clutching on the chains that had thus laid in wait, encircling his torso.
He drew them in mid-air, whipping them into either side. They dug into the arena walls, and Remus used his makeshift swing to accelerate. One tug was all it took to push them free again, dislodging brick in the process. Sending him shooting off like a catapult.
As he barreled into Nishad, the Music Clansman had no time to react. This time, Remus winded him. In the same motion, he grasped the man’s neck, holding on like the clansman was his last lifeline. There were no words exchanged. Remus simply waved his free hand across the man’s tunic, turning the rosy shade a tar black, and setting a row of the instruments aflame.
Nishad struggled, spinning in circles and wrestling for something. His fingers finally landed on one instrument, and he tugged a string.
A great tempest hit Remus like a smack in the face. His hand slipped from Nishad’s throat, and in a split-second stretch, he reached for the man’s tunic. He was this close to destroying the rest of his arsenal, if he could just-
Two more tugs of the string sent Remus hurtled back again, the cloth in his hands torn off with an audible rip.
His chains struck the ground, anchoring him from being blown away like a leaf on the wind. But their hold in the sand was unreliable at best, and Nishad was already gone. Remus screamed inward and outwardly, considering how unlucky he must be to not destroy the one teleporting instrument on his enemy’s person.
A flaming storm blasted out of him, consuming a third of the arena in a second. He watched it expand from a dot in his palm to the enormous sphere, knowing full well it could be a waste of resources. He maintained it anyway, eyes landing on the fleeing clansman immediately.
Their hands scrambled from instrument to instrument. Lashes of water turned to steam against Remus, sacrificial birds charging forward with the dull hope of reaching him. None of them did. The ground at his feet trembled, but he avoided any major protrusions jutting out of the shaken ground. Remus watched as other flimsy, one-trick attacks all failed to penetrate his walking sun.
The fatigue crept up his body, sapping his might like greedy, infestive bugs invisible to the naked eye. He ignored it all the while, deadset on enclosing Nishads position.
It wasn’t like he planned on taking his time anyway.
“Surrender.” The voice resonated past the boundaries of his dome. It was the same last second chance he gave to all of his opponents who deserved, morally, at least that last escape. He solemnly hoped Nishad wouldn’t take it.
The man didn't say a word, and Remus pounced. The chains flew out of his hold, encircling their waist. They were boiling from his fires, and Remus let them burn against Nishad, and all of his wretched instruments. He wasn’t so cruel as to set the man on fire, but it was damn tempting.
When Remus was happy that all of the tools were successfully charred, and the man’s shrieks of agony upset his stomach too much, he instructed again: “Surrender.”
Then Nishad looked all around. From piercing Remus with wide eyes and a mouth ever-so slightly agape, to the raucous crowd. He even spared the announcer a trembling lip.
“ . . . and the Music Clan exile has been put in quite the predicament! Will he accept Remus’ mercy, or charge on to the bitter end?”
Remus frowned. Exile?
He looked down at Nishad with something approaching pity. He let his chains slacken ever so slightly. So they would still keep the man enclosed, but wouldn't hurt him quite so badly.
Besides, he had long since ceased his dome from hell — he could afford to stretch out his energy and Infinity a little longer.
“What does he mean exile?”
Pure hatred was in his opponent’s face, and he didn’t hold it against him. “My clan-” He spat on the floor. Remus didn’t fail to notice there was blood in the mix. “They think my use of their powers to be a monstrosity.”
Ah. Now things made sense. Remus could see where the clan was coming from, with their legacy of pacifist assistance and general good intentions. But he knew better than anyone how much good a subversion of a non-combative Mark like this could do. Their profits had the potential to double, if not triple if they took the time to put down the pitchforks, and listen to what their kin had in mind.
“It's all that damn Damosh’s fault.” He shot Remus a last venomous look. The kind that seemed to touch his soul. “And now I might not get into the front lines because of a bastard like you!”
Then he screamed.
Really screamed. The chains slipped out of Remus' hands, both of them preoccupied with blocking his ears. The sound persisted anyway, an unreal pain blazing through his head, as a shrieking Nishad ran. Remus crumpled to his knees, his body afflicted with a tremble he just couldn’t shake off. He saw the ruined tunic the man wore, charred jet now, and the grisly burns Remus had dealt to his body.
There came a cataclysmic pop. Remus felt the Ichor ooze out of his ears, a prolonged ringing sound grasping all of his senses in a chokehold, demanding the attention. It was hard to look at the brightside here, but at least he couldn’t hear those shrieks any longer.
There wasn’t much else good. Remus could feel the alertness being beaten out of him, consciousness slipping away faster than Nishad’s cloth had.
He was going to lose the fight at this rate. He was sure the commentator was yelping about precisely that, yet even the ringing had ceased. If this much damage had been dealt to Remus, he dreaded to think of if anyone in the crowd had suffered similar injuries.
He screamed into the soundless void, exchanged a look with Nishad, and prepared to do something very brave, and very stupid.
Or at least the latter.
Eruptive Will surged in the soles of his feet, every other ability put to the wayside, paving the way for his last spectacle of the morning.
His body shot forward. Remus was a surge through the silent world, pure energy incarnate.
It was the fastest he’d ever moved, the living, unstoppable embodiment of lightning in a bottle. This time, Nishad would have no mercy.
His punch collided with their jaw. He imagined a great snapping, the noise of the universe being torn apart, and he would be the man to do it.
Nishad would have been knocked unconscious by the initial contact, he was sure. The wall the man subsequently smashed into couldn’t have helped, however.
Remus shambled back towards the waiting room, only vaguely noting he’d accidentally entered Nishad’s entrance. The ringing in his ears returned, which he hoped was a good sign. He didn’t worry too much though, as he took the first free spot amid a room of concerned strangers.
Emblazed healing . . . will make short work . . . of . . .
He allowed himself to fall asleep right then and there. Tripling the apprehensions of every upcoming fighter quite sufficiently.