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Ed "Hallowed One" Summers

My head swims as I gradually regain consciousness, the world around me elucidating itself. I expend only a single moment of thought before struggling to move, realizing the chains and bonds holding me to a chair in a dark, unrecognizable room.

I move the Ether in my body, preparing a plethora of skills, but the instant they flow, pain yowls through my body. The agony comes from spikes piercing into my flesh, disrupting the flow of Ether. I attempt to force myself through the challenge, to escape, but the torture only worsens, more and more spikes entering until my Ether refuses to shift at all.

My head hangs as I gasp for air, the misery pointless. Instead of continuing the pointless struggle, I search for my captor. And he waits little time before showing himself, pulling a chair up to me. The only light is above him, casting him in down-light as Eli Weiss greets me.

"Sorry about this, friend. This is the only way it can go. I must follow the words of the 8th Prime. His divinations will be the key to our victory over the Gods. Too many of you endeavor to fight destiny, but only the Wastelander can bear the weight of the Apocalypse. But... I do have concerns that remain. And while we are enemies... perhaps irreconcilable, I must ask for your wisdom."

I grind my teeth in a mixture of agony and frustration as I stare at my once closest ally. So far, has he fallen since reading the past stories of the previous Prime. Ten years ago, he dug up a prophecy that the Heraldic Wolf, the 8th Prime, left behind.

"The ruiner of lands and the giver of sands is dammed to bear the weight of eternity. Upon the gates of Hell into the world's core, as the world collapses by the Elder's wakening spell, one shall seek to rebel, and he will assume the final farewell."

The man of knowledge has latched onto this omen, quoting that all other ones left behind from the Heraldic Wolf have come true, except for this one. And he says this final divination is the most important, left inside its very own book in the Prime's Archive.

I have attempted to convince him it is false, but he refuses to believe me, even if Vincent has never done as the prophecy says he has. Ruiner of lands? Giver of sands? That sounds more like Behemoth than the Wastelander. Vincent is a guardian, even if a not very present one, and sure, he can manipulate sand, but he's still a guardian. Yet, even with my urges, he continually endeavors to make it come true in his own ways.

There is nothing I can do but speak in my current situation. And... our goals are the same, if only different methods. So, I agree. Even if he may kill me, knowing that I aided humanity in some way will give me peace of mind as long as it does not include Kate, of course.

"Go ahead. What is your question?"

I speak roughly, my throat parched and unwatered, but I ignore the discomfort to focus on his mannerisms. There is always still a chance I make it out alive. Eli sighs, the man's old shoulders, similar in weariness to mine, sagging as if disappointed by my cold response. Too bad, Eli. You chose this path. You were the one to decide only you were right, that everyone else simply can't understand.

"How would one best hold back a Lord without Vincent?"

His word stuns me, the man of science, experimentation, and planning, projecting a measure of power to me. He wants to know how to fight Leviathan or Behemoth?

Is he mad? Even with Demonsbane I am no match. Once, only once, did I strike at Behemoth, travailing to aid Vincent. Never again. The bastard nearly killed me in five seconds from the start of the tussle and in the process, left me with unhealing scars. How Vincent and his sand can fight both at once...

The Prime is a legend amongst legends, the most powerful human ever to live, not merely to be living. Too many underestimate him and both of the Binary Lords. Each Lord could wipe out humanity if Vincent or another Prime were absent. While at the same time, should both demons cease to exist, Vincent could liberate the whole continent of Angels, allowing humans to far easier spread out. The duo of demons doesn't strike at the Pygmies because their Creator can match one; meanwhile, the Warmaster of the Nahullo, using the Pale Cavity, can check the other. Together, the Nahullo and Pygmies strike a fragile balance.

But to hold them back? That is different from fighting them head-on. Diversions and misdirections may work against Behemoth with enough preparation, but Leviathan would see through them all. To hold her back requires sufficient power as she can peer into any illusions with her intellect and hardly fathomed proficiency with Ether.

What is Eli planning here?

Why does he need to hold them back?

What is his goal?

My thoughts continue, and Eli merely observes my thinking, giving me ample time to ponder. The man is patient, even toward me, who he has captured and locked into a torture chair that disables my Ether flow. Eli is the most patient man I've ever met, and still, his knee trembles in anxiety. Is that fake? No. It's not. He's nervous. The next steps in his plan are either incredibly risks or... painful.

Am I?

Oh... I am.

I'm the preparation, aren't I?

That is... fine, I suppose—better me than anyone else. I push away those thoughts and instead focus on how I can be of help. Eli may have a wildly different path toward survival than I do, but they don't have to be entirely antagonistic, despite how much he might think they are.

In the end, I can only come to one conclusion. An answer that might not be one in the slightest.

"The best way to hold back the Binary Lords would be not to do it at all."

I give him a short answer, with hidden pieces beneath it, knowing he'll find them immediately. And just as I expect, Eli's eyes widen at my answer as he snaps his fingers at me. I can almost see the sparks flying inside the depths of his mind as he develops the idea in front of me.

"That's genius, Ed! Why fight them when I don't have to? I can make others do it for me! Oh... but how? Tonyun and Ytern rarely leave their abodes. Wait, no... Ytern left recently for someone, and Tonyun... I can get him moving if I locate Timemi. Perhaps... Yes. Bait. I need the bait to pull all the strongest together, not just the demons."

Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.

Eli stands from the chair, the creaks almost deafening in the silence after his maddened rant. The man walks forward and thanks me before walking away, leaving me in the dark silence again.

"I appreciate your insight. Now, I will have to put you back under. Can't have a threat like you awake until the plan unfolds. I may return for some more questions at another time, but for now, this is farewell."

The Underground Tree snaps his fingers as several figures surround me, each stabbing needles into my flesh. The syringes inject a liquid into my system, causing my vision to quickly blur before returning me to nothingness. My thoughts can hardly even fathom that this might be my last time seeing any form of light.

*************

Wyatt Graves

Twisting beneath a swipe of Tomas' claws, I flip myself around, and using the Bloody Palm, Arbalest myself backward. Sightlines shift as I catch my balance, pivoting to face Tomas again.

Air comes in heavy and labored from my lungs as I spend the moment recovering, the Wolf gazing at me with furrowed brows. I've spent many hours since he sent me off the wall training with this man over the past six weeks from learning Willful Strand. Marshall has been a rarity, but Tomas has come commonly, teaching me how to fight just as the Wall would.

Marshall Travis asked for only another month from his soldiers, but in total, I've been at Bent for two months, and the battles have only become more fierce. The men are running low, either from deserters, deaths, or betrayals. Yet Marshall refuses to retreat as reports consistently come in of slowed evacuations and problems in the escape of civilians. Johnny thinks it's Eli, and I'd have to agree, as the scheming old man is making issues for us even now.

But in the meantime, I've learned much, improving old skills and remastering some others. As I stare back at my opponent, I run through and bolster the Ether in my body for them to enhance me.

Reach, an aged skill that saved me several times before it lost much of its usefulness, has been vastly improved with Willful Strand. No longer does it extend my reach a mere inch or so. Now, it can move the flesh in my arm or legs up to an entire foot, increasing my height, gait, or wingspan while at the same time lasting longer than just an instant. The difference is vast in close quarters, surprising and providing me an advantage even against those taller than me. With it, my legs extend, increasing my speed as I prepare the miniature detonations in my air for a strike later.

Hone and Whetting, the duo of enhancing the sharpness of something, has only expanded further. Again, with Willful Strand, they have improved, mostly Hone, as the skill now extends a similar foot far from the edge of my hand, blade, or even the barrel of Lily should I apply it. The effectiveness has also improved. With Hone, I clad the Bloody Palm in a dangerous blade.

The following skill vastly improved by my recent enhancement is Arbalest, the Ether able to extend its influence beyond my foot or hand. Tomas said this one is not far from the level of a Dzil, only missing a few steps forward to reach one, and while those steps may be arduous and nigh-impossible, they would be rewarding. With it, I suffuse each limb, preparing them for instantaneous actions later.

And the final skill improved by Willful Strand is Daydream, well, also Insight and Madness, but those are simply range increases, allowing me to do them from further away. My Daydream, as I am best at letting the skill fade from focus and remain still, extends beyond the mere focal point and enhances the surroundings. My concentration lies on my knees, yet the loosening of chains stretches to reach my whole legs.

I only wish I had managed to improve Breakneck, but alas, I could not. To improve the skill any further would be to near a Dzil as well, and I have nowhere near the mastery for something like that.

And as I gaze at Tomas, the Bloody Palm does its job, transmuting the flesh of my hand into a bladed claw to match the Wolf's. Tomas returns the favor before we dart at each other, sand exploding beneath our feet from our speed.

My legs kick underneath me as I remove my Reach from my legs, lowering my height to evade a swing at my head as I backpedal and swipe out with a Reaching blade of flesh.

Tomas leans backward massively, the edge slicing a thin line of red onto his forehead as the man snaps back, his very jaws biting into my artifact. Pain shoots up my arm as the Wolf's teeth sink halfway through my limb, crunching into the bone with more power than a bullet.

Sucking in a gasp from the pain, I strike out with a kick, Arbalesting the limb toward Tomas' side. The older man merely endures the extreme strike, his whole body shifting under the weight as my shin impacts his ribs. And the man takes his other claw and sinks it into my calf, digging inches deep with his nails.

Fuck.

Tomas has the strength of Marshall, the speed of Kai, and far more versatility and cruelty than either.

I go to suck in a gasp of Ether to force a gap between us, but as I open my mouth, a voice booms across the air, Ether definitively enhancing the sound.

"Where's my welcome party, Travis? Oh, am I early?"

The words carry an accent, eliciting thoughts of concern from me. Is that the Pygmy we've been waiting for to show up? Azra? The Virtue? Tomas pushes me off as his eyes turn focused and almost rabid. The man forms my worries into words. My flesh remolds itself as he speaks, the Bloody Palm healing me.

"She's here. Azra. Follow me now. We are done training. Stick beside me always, and do not, under any circumstances, leave me, okay?"

Tomas points at me while growling out a series of solemn words, and I give him a thumbs up. The man returns with a shake of his head as he pivots and moves toward the edge of the Pit. With an effortless jump, he makes it almost to the top before stabbing his hand into the wall and flinging himself up the rest of the way.

Forcing myself into motion, worry gripping my heart, I follow him, leaping and climbing up after him with Chainlink Boots. My flesh mends rapidly from our training, the Bloody Palm doing its job for us two. As I do so, I hear cannons detonate their payloads, and gunshots grace the air hours before typical.

Not good. Not good at all. Most of us have fallen into a rhythm, and I think too many will be caught off-guard by this attack. Breakneck flows into my body as I preemptively form an Ironbound on my palm, just in case. Meanwhile, my saved Arbalest on my left leg propels me forward with extreme alacrity as I struggle to keep up with Tomas.

We hurry through the fortress, hurtling past soldiers gathering their weapons and similarly moving toward the noise. My legs kick me off the hard stone of Bent as distance disappears, and the wall in the distance grows closer. But as it nears, I notice dust and smoke rising from the towering structure.

No, no, no, no... not now! It can't fall!

I push myself even harder, Strugglers Defiance joining Breakneck as I nearly catch up to Tomas in gait. We turn corner after corner, achieving the fastest path possible to the main gate before turning the corner to the massive square that opens up to our destination.

My heart sinks at the sight of what lies before me.

The wall for nearly a hundred feet in both directions is collapsed inward, with stone bricks covering the entire square. The blood of many soldiers meanders in the debris as their bodies lie unmoving. Meanwhile, a short being stands upon the wreckage of the wall, an unwieldy object in its hands that looks like a javelin pointing upward.

It is Azra, the 8th Sigiled High Architect, sent to end Marshall. The Pygmies only have five total of these beings, and most are constantly fighting demons or other enemies south of the Pygmies. For one to be sent now shows the earnestness of the Creator and how they want Marshall dead and gone.

The Pygmy woman faces Tomas and me, the only two figures to enter her vision, as she beams, her face covered in violet fetter. Yet, that is not all; the weapon in her arms is similar, with eight Sigils as well. Behind her, three more Angels follow behind, each clad with magenta chains. One is a woman with some kind of weapon that spews light licks of flame as she stands, another is a man with mechanical wings on his back, and the last's gender is unknown, hidden within a steel capsule of an Armament.

Tomas puts his arm in front of me, pausing my movement as Azra speaks again.

"Aww... here comes the Cub. Where is your General, human? I come here for him. The rest of you can die to my lessers."

Azra steps down from the rubble with a light, unassuming step, her weapon pointing toward us with an unmistakable threat. She is small, built more like a disproportioned child, but the danger hidden within her is palpable. Tomas forces me to remain still with a tight grip. Inside my chest, my heart pounds thunderously at the threat as the Bloody Palm roars with the challenge wanting to stride forward without caution.

Tomas growls out a reply to the Virtued Pygmy, being stubborn as usual.

"Wouldn't you like to know, midget?"

The Pygmy's smile contorts slightly, twisting from jovialness to bitterness in a wink. Azra taps something on her Ordnance as he aims it at Tomas.

"Didn't your betters ever teach you respect? You are quiet when a better is present. How about... you die?"

A rumbling, disastrous sound emanates from the Ordnance in her hand as Tomas crouches slightly. I join him, and the Bloody Palm reacts in turn, an extensive bony shield forming from my forearm to protect my upper body.

And the rumbling only increases as Azra smiles, and for a split second, I see utter whiteness. Oblivion. Death. But the next, it fades, a man stumbling next to me, holding his left eye. Johnny grips Fate Sealer with his other hand as he curses Tomas and me.

"Can't you two not antagonize her? Marshall is on his way. He had some... issues getting up this time."

The latter half of his words are whispered as he ambles forward. Meanwhile, Azra has only a fading memory of what happened as Johnny Glitched her backward the moment she began to use her Ordnance. And as such, she bursts out toward Johnny.

"How did you get here, River Tamer? I did not see you arrive."

The gunslinger slides forward on his feet, closing the cylinder on his gun as he does so in a kind of threat. Azra seems to not care about his actions and nods backward as the Angel with armor approaches her.

"Yes, High Architect?"

Azra shakes her head of hair and points the Ordnance toward Johnny.

"Deal with him for now, Acrid. Amirin and Timune, wreak havoc and kill as many as possible so the little ones don't struggle. Today, we take over this unbreakable wall."

The High Architect orders her. Meanwhile, Johnny simply stares at her, waiting. And when she finishes speaking, the one in the armor, Acrid, prepares to strike Johnny. At the same time, Azra raises her Ordnance to us once more. But before she can even begin to charge it, a projectile lands in the center of the square, shooting debris and dust into the air as a silhouette gradually forms in the center.

Then, that figure removes itself from the smoke, revealing the muscled form of Marshall Travis as he steps up to meet Azra. His skeleton, tall and mighty for a human, towers over the miniature Azra. The Wall comes with a proclamation of his own.

"You may seek what is mine, Azra. But... it can only be over my dead body. And... do you remember what happened to the last Virtue who tried me?"

A deep breath fills Marshall's lungs before his threat ends with a pronounced edge. The man reaps a single step forward as his fists clench, the sound of them closing similar to a cannon's firing.

"Their skull lies embellished in my study as a paperweight."