Sparks danced in the air above the smoldering coals as their fuel cracked and popped as if angry they were contained in a prison of brick and glass. The small window into the stove had long since charred over so even the meager light they generated was unable to escape, the one victory they had. But the Lord of the manor didn’t care for their light, despite his name had difficulty controlling his flames. But that was okay to him, fire was meant to be wild and chaotic. It was a storm of heat and ash that purified all it engulfed. It revealed that which was hidden and tore away illusions. It would burn but those who survived would be better for it.
Perhaps that was why Lord Flameblade chose not to look into the rebellious counts. Of the small kingdom’s four counts, two were in all but open rebellion, insisting that another woman was the true heir to the throne. The third was a known recluse and often indecisive, in letters he simply stated he was loyal to the kingdom when asked. Many took that to mean he was either wanting to stay out of the conflict or still weighing his choices. Flameblade knew the truth, the count was intelligent, but a coward, often choosing to do nothing, paralyzed with and overabundance of caution. He held the north-west county, so in addition to dealing with monsters on two sides he had the smallest county both in terms of population and size. If he chose the wrong side he wouldn’t be able to stand up to the winners, and he knew it.
Only Count Rahkam remained openly loyal to the prince, for as slimy and annoying as the man was he was one of Bobert’s most loyal supporters. The man was skilled at politics and military command, though not outstanding in either. But he was smart enough to realize that if the rebellious counts won he’d be the first on the chopping block.
Flameblade listened to the fire crackle, swirling the last few drops of wine in his expensive crystal glass. The bottle had run out shortly after the sun had set, and only the soft glow of the fire and a pair of lit candles resting over the fireplace provided any light. It was far too dark to read, but was perfect for his current retrospective state.
So he sat in a soft chair drinking wine older than anyone else in the manor pondering the state of the kingdom. No one alive remembered but it had once been his dukedom, before the Shattering, but he had no desire to reclaim it. Instead he wished to trust the world to those younger than him and move on, yet it seemed like he couldn’t let go. Even now he was unable to ignore the storm brewing in the kingdom. Rebellion and a crisis of succession were bad enough, but reports were that the Mutts from the north had begun to swarm several years early, and in numbers much higher than average. If the four counts put aside their differences and rallied their forces to Templeholm it wouldn’t have been an issue. But none of them were willing to move while the current crisis continued, instead sending largely token forces of a couple knights each. Even that was more so they could try to find the woman they believed to be Bobert’s bastard daughter than any real attempt to defend the city.
Flameblade had killed tens, even hundreds of thousands of Mutts in his life for that was the reason his dukedom was formed. Everyone found it odd that each kingdom had one recurring threat from outside the kingdoms, but that was intentional. When the kingdoms had been united under the Tempest King he placed a single one of his loyal Storm Blades to hold off a specific threat. Flameblade had been chosen to counter the Mutts as he was uniquely adept at killing them.
But that was centuries ago, and Flameblade was the last Storm Blade. He wanted to ascend, rejoin his friends in whatever world they were now exploring, escape the constant politics. Perhaps if the kingdom he had once ruled was able to survive this storm, without his help, he’d be able to let go. It would be proof that whatever worries holding him back were groundless. He knew his friends would remand him for doing nothing as people died, they were good people, better than he deserved, but he couldn’t think of anything else that would let him catch up to them.
He suddenly stiffened, his thoughts torn from the crackling fire and veins of wine in his glass. There was someone in his manor he didn’t recognize. Instantly his aura flooded out to cover the entire grounds, all his staff were in their beds, save his head maid who waited in the other room, despite his insistence she go to bed.
The new figure was large, a male, heavily muscled and clearly skilled as he crept down the second floor hallway above where Flameblade sat. But the man didn’t react at all to the aura, keeping his hands up in front of him and remaining crouched, carefully placing each foot to avoid detection. What was he doing with his hands held out before him, at first Flameblade thought it was a fighting stance, but it looked more like the man was holding something, a weapon? A crossbow, he realized, his aura could pick up on heat sources but wood was a poor conductor of heat, rendering it nearly invisible to his senses. The tiny bits of metal holding it together were too cold to stand out, but once he knew what to look for it was obvious.
He sensed no one else out to the extent of his aura.
Downing the last of his wine, Flameblade carefully set the glass down and slipped out of the sitting room without alerting his head maid. By her breathing and pose he figured she was dozing on a couch, if not sleeping. He quickly climbed the stairs to the second floor and turned down the hallway to face the intruder.
To the man’s credit he barely flinched as Flameblade calmed stepped out in front of him, he didn’t hesitate to aim and squeeze the trigger of the crossbow either. The tip of the bolt glistened oddly in the faint light, perhaps a poison? Either way he wasn’t afraid of a single crossbow, ducking the shot and dashing towards the intruder. Before the bolt had reached the far end of the hallway Flameblade was behind the man, and brought his aura to bear in full. The man froze up as Flameblade placed a hand on the intruder’s shoulder.
The intruder was dressed oddly, his clothing was made of a thick cloth he didn’t recognize and colored in splotches of green, brown and black. In a forest with only his eyes the man would be hard to pick out at a glance, the Ascender decided. The intruder was quite fit, with thick muscles, but he lacked any of the marks on his body that would evidence hardship. The man’s obvious skill and muscles would have required intensive training which should have left its mark. Meaning this man was an Ascender, and a newly arrived one at that.
“You know, they call me Flameblade,” the lord said, his other hand going to the thin saber at his waist, even as the intruder struggled against the aura, “many seem to have forgotten why I was given that name, silly as it is. Perhaps they need a reminder.”
Flameblade’s grip tightened as the intruder fought to do something, anything, clearly sensing the danger.
He never got the chance.
\*\*\*\*
“Only two of you?” the lieutenant asked as the pair stumbled into the small hut they’d been given by the Count. Without saying anything one of the men placed a charred dog tag on the table, along with their clothes it was one of the only things that followed them into this world.
“He went in alone to scout out the manor at night,” the soldier explained at a questioning glance from his superior, “as you ordered the plan was recon only, with the two of us ready to run to his rescue if things went south, but he never emerged. When the sun rose some of the servants brought his body out… it was split in half at the waist, heavily burned. The manor’s lord, that Champion the count mentioned, left in the morning and his servants burned Grigor, we managed to swipe the tag after the flames died down.”
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“And you noticed nothing?”
“As per the Count’s warning we were too far away to hear anything, the only thing we saw was a small flash of light on the second floor, near where Grigor entered.”
“Like a gunshot?”
“More like… a flame? We figured it was someone with a lantern, maybe they searched the building after encountering him?”
The officer sighed, more likely this Flameblade was more dangerous than they thought. He’d figured the count’s warnings were overblown, that Flameblade was merely a skilled fighter with a bit of flare for drama. But to take care of one of his operatives without a sign of conflict? Unless he got very lucky, then chopped up and burned the body to make a point, the claims of supernatural powers was becoming more likely.
This loss was only the latest, and perhaps loudest, bit of evidence. First the Doctor claims to be able to contact their last world by waving his finger in the air, then one member of the advanced team says he formed a ‘vital core’ in his body that increased his strength. The feats the man accomplished were impressive as he showed off, but nothing supernatural. It was a long jump from there to the Count’s claims that Flameblade could ‘wield fire as a weapon.’ This was a new world, but even then he’d dismissed claims of gods and magic, perhaps it was time he accepted there was more going on.
“Other than his death, what else is there to report?” he asked.
“We counted four manor guards and double that number of staff, gardeners, maids and the like,” the soldier reported, “the guards were well armed, based on the technology of this world in any case, but seemed lazy. Only two stand guard during the day and never bothered to patrol the grounds that we saw. The staff seemed well trained, the garden is in good shape, but we didn’t see any evidence of any of them having any combat experience. Most of the servants are women in any case. There’s a small, walled village a half mile down the road, as reported, the guards there were more alert but worse armed. We spotted the maids making a trip to the village for supplies once, they took no guards but the road is easily watched from either the town or manor the whole trip, nowhere to grab them without someone noticing.”
He would have preferred more information on the inside of the manor, but seemed that wasn’t in the cards. Based on the Count’s plans they’d have to deal with the so-called Champion eventually, and so far he was the largest unknown factor at play. The Counts were easy to figure out, two of them wanted more power. Rahkam wanted to retain his current station, perhaps get on the new king’s good side by helping out. It seemed there was some beef between him and the two rebelling counts.
On his own, this Lord Flameblade shouldn’t have been an important player, Champion wasn’t a title from any feudal system he knew. He had no army, his lands amounted to his manor and a few dozen acers that he rented out to the local farmers in exchange for a portion of what they produced. Yet everyone spoke of the man like he was the lynchpin of the kingdom, around which it all turned. His power was feared, his opinion valued, and influence was undeniable despite having a seemingly minor position.
The Lieutenant would have dismissed it as some cultural oddity but Rahkam insisted that they couldn’t move without dealing with the Champion. But as to what his goals were they constantly drew a blank, he had power but didn’t use it. It seemed all he did was sit around in his manor and his presence alone was enough to prevent the kingdom to the south from taking advantage of the crisis in this one. Perhaps it was time to take this Vituss magic seriously.
\*\*\*\*
The Sky Vault was far more versatile than Nathen imagined upon first seeing it. Other than two rows of columns, a pair of fountains and the altar it was largely empty. But when he’d asked the custodian where he could take a dump a door had opened in the wall leading to a washroom surprisingly similar to those in his past world. When he mentioned running low on food the nearest column had opened to disgorge a plate of meats, vegetables, cheeses and bread. It seemed to have everything, up to and including more swords for when his inevitably broke.
“Seems like someone could stay here forever,” he remarked after the Custodian summoned the food.
“I control access to the facilities,” the construct replied, “should I feel you aren’t trying to pass the trials, or if I decide you can’t, no more food will be granted.”
“Then I either leave or starve?” Nathen asked, and the armored helm of the Custodian nodded slightly.
Since his first breakthrough he’d been fighting almost constantly, whenever he wasn’t healing or sleeping, and had yet to land a strike on the Custodian. The many of the benefits of fixing the facet were obvious, starting with his ability to push through pain and fight longer. He was stronger, faster and more focused than ever. But it was the last benefit he’d yet to fully understand. His ‘learn to fight’ ability, Personal Sword Style had begun to level up, as if it was as skill in a game. But he didn’t know if it was improving his sword skill inherently, or if it simply represented his improving skill with the blade.
Truth be told it worried him, was some outside force dumping information into his brain? He felt like it was his own skills improving, but he’d only been using a sword for a few months at this point, would he even know enough to tell?
“Your abilities are your own,” the Custodian explained when he’d mentioned his fears, “you’ve lived your life until now without the aid of your soul, so it feels unnatural. But it isn’t, it’s as much a part of you as your own mind. Unless you allow another being in through a pact none may influence your soul.”
“I get that, but… does that mean my soul somehow knows how to sword fight? How does that even work?” he asked, glancing at his fading bruises from the most recent bout.
“For your whole life you’ve been living with an arm tied behind your back, now it is unleashed and you are using both. Tasks that you’ve struggled with are now easier, things that once required effort are as easy as breathing. Your soul isn’t dragging you forward with mystical knowledge, your mind is holding it back.”
“But that implies anyone can learn as fast as I am,” Nathen pointed out.
“Everyone’s soul is unique, changed by anything and everything around you. Your parents, your personality, everyone you’ve ever met and everything you’ve ever done have all left their mark,” the Custodian lectured, “more then that your soul is the sum of everything you are, as unique and multifaceted as you are.”
“But shouldn’t the locals be able to use their souls as well?”
“They’ve lived their whole lives with an awakened soul, they grew up not having to struggle as you did. They lack a true appreciation of what their souls are capable of. They use it as a crutch to do things you do without, but we’ve gotten off topic. Many ascenders have the same concerns you do, don’t shy away from your abilities. They make things feel easy because you aren’t used to them, but they are as earned as any skill from your past world.”
“Easier said than done,” Nathen muttered as he stood.
“Too true,” the Custodian agreed as they began fighting once more.
\-\-\-\-
ABILITY Personal Sword Style: Basic HAS REACHED LEVEL 3
\-\-\-\-
Nathen shoved the message away, focusing on the thought that it wasn’t some outside system granting him the skills. That the whatever it was that drew his attention to flaws was his own, he was pointing out flaws to himself. It made little sense, but neither did a talking suit of armor guarding a floating sword seemingly made of metal shards. He tried to sink into the feeling, let it flow through him, after all it was a part of him wasn’t it?
Every swing, every blow, he focused on, but didn’t think about. Instead he allowed his instincts to guide him, what was he missing, what was he doing wrong? Why couldn’t he beat the Custodian?
It felt like a deeper issue than simply his grip or the angle of his blade. That was obvious to him now, something that might have taken years of training in his last world was easy for him now. No, he needed something more than simply knowing how to use a sword. The temple guard captain had told him he needed experience, but something told him that wasn’t the full answer. He was constantly getting experience, even now his sword sang with the exchange of blows.
The guard captain told him there were no martial art styles he could use, but he felt drawn to that thought. Could the Custodian teach him its style? No, that thought pushed him away, he didn’t need someone else’s style.
His soul was unique to him, the Custodian had said, shaped by his life. It was personal.
If he wanted his soul to help with his swordsmanship then it would need to be personal as well. He didn’t need another style.
He needed his own.
Nathen’s eyes grew wide in realization even as he continued to fight, he couldn’t learn a style from others because it wouldn’t be his. That’s what even his own soul had been telling him with ‘personal sword style.’
With a grin he changed his stance, playing around with different attacks or grips. He got punished as they failed, but his grin didn’t fade. If freedom was picking your own path and accepting the consequences, then he’d walk his own path with the sword.