“For all our efforts, all our knowledge, I am left feeling as if we barely know a thing. It is exciting, is it not?”

~Unknown

Imprisoned was the titan, bound by colossal chains forged in the fires of conviction. Stripped of armor wrought from pride, it bore a mantle of bloodthirst and violence. Unceasing was the titan’s thrashing, for it yearned to be free. The chains held firm. They always did, leaving it imprisoned beneath the roots of a dying tree.

Barbed, the titan’s bindings grew, and so the titan bled. Greedily did the tree drink of its diluted potency, yet in doing so, so too was the titan fed, and so the titan grew.

The chains held firm. They always did.

Until they didn’t.

No omen heralded the sudden upheaval. Screaming winds tore the air. Calamitous quakes ruptured the earth. Fractured, the titan’s prison did, as once immutable chains warped and shattered. An opportunity. A chance. The titan mustered its might and heaved.

Yet bound it remained.

Impossible. Broken lay the links. Loosened were the restraints… all but a few. Bloodthirst. Violence. Housed by the mantle were the greatest of the chains, endlessly intertwined and buried deep within the titan’s flesh. So long as the titan bore them, it would never be free.

No. Strength surged from deep within the titan, answering the tormented call of the wind with a roar that threatened to rend the world asunder. Massive hands engulfed the chains. Muscles bulged with untold strain. A threshold loomed before the titan, and there was nothing it would not sacrifice to cross its bounds.

The world stilled. Once more, the titan heaved.

Flesh ripped. Sinew tore. Pieces of the mantle were ruthlessly excised in chunks, trailing chains and gore as the titan unmade itself with brutal efficiency. From the jagged wounds oozed silver ichor, and as it covered the titan’s form, so too did its form begin to change. At that moment, the titan did not care. It could not.

For the first time in a long time, the titan was free… and it was needed.

***

Mana erupted from Tulos’ Core Skill, flooding his system as he rushed towards Rosita. There was no time for reflection or introspection, to weigh conviction against the agony he heard in every one of his beloved’s tortured cries. The decision was made for him.

Rosita stood with her arm outstretched towards Vigil’s writhing form. A diversion. A distraction. A break in concentration. Something needed to be done to disrupt whatever Skill was at play.

Mana-sharpened senses searched for an opening in Rosita’s stance and spotted several.

A ruse, reawakened instincts screamed at him, sharp as the day he set them down. She saw him. She was ready for him.

She was not the only one. The instant Tulos started to move, Rosita’s subordinate rushed to intercept him. Lithe muscle and mana enhancement carried the man easily across the distance, each foot barely touching the ground.

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Adrenaline set Tulos’ heart to hammering, eliciting an involuntary thrill as restraint gave way to the elation of fully embracing Weapons [Axe] for the first time in over a decade. Tulos' weapon of choice, the large battle axe from his time in The Capital, remained out of reach, propped casually against the door of his workshed. The common hatchet on his belt was a poor substitute.

It would have to suffice.

He did not remember transferring the weapon to his hand; the action existed beyond thought. Every step practically thrummed as possibility rushed to the forefront of Tulos’ desperate mind. Power. Momentum. At their core, there was a deceptive aggression to the axe forms ingrained into Tulos by his teachers and refined by his Skill.

The standard issue short sword worn by his opponent had already been freed from its scabbard, and Tulos could only be thankful that interior spaces and city walls did not favor armaments known for their reach. He was still at a disadvantage, but it was not insurmountable.

Tulos curled his free arm over his neck and torso, willing to use the bulk of his extremity as a shield as he swung the hatchet in an overhand chop. Mana from Strength [Body] joined in perfect sync with Tulos’ Core Skill, saturating his muscles to the edge of injury to throw every ounce of his considerable mass behind the strike.

It was a desperate maneuver that bordered on suicidal. A well aimed sword thrust could severely injure him, lethally so. Tulos felt the haft of his hatchet threaten to splinter under the force of his white-knuckle grip. Even in death, he would not release the weapon, nor would its momentum cease.

Every one of Tina’s screams hardened Tulos’ resolve. When sword parried hatchet, Tulos learned a piece of valuable information; he was prepared to throw down his life in the exchange. His opponent was not.

The swordsman immediately launched into their counter-offensive, a display of agility that highlighted the difference in Tier between the two fighters. It was that same agility that allowed them to seamlessly transition into a frantic defense when Tulos was able to match the pace. It should not have been possible, yet disbelief did little to alter the deadly reality.

There was no time for Tulos to question the seemingly bottomless well of mana erupting from his core, only to direct it towards the fight. Every form had a name, and as Tulos flowed from one to the next, so too did his mana fuel their might. River Stone to Foot of Bear, Backwards Claw and Mountain Cliff.

The names were secondary to the sheer brutality and aggression of every chop or domineering piece of footwork. Conversely, his opponent's sword lashed out like a serpent in a series of artful thrusts, transitioning fluidly from defense to offense; the favored sword school of Sentrodah’s guardsmen earned its reputation for good reason.

Every second stretched endlessly, and it was impossible to tell how many had passed. Too many, for the sudden spasm of agony in Tulos’ leg signaled a turning point. Reckless mana enhancement always had its risks, and Tulos forcing his Tier One body beyond its limits was sufficient to invite them.

Torn muscle refused to obey. The sudden lapse in Tulos’ footwork created an opening, one his opponent exploited without hesitation. That was the first cut, the first of many. Hot, burning pain accompanied each kiss of steel. Having lost the momentum, Tulos’ opponent seized the tempo. With the tempo, they dismantled Tulos’ defense.

Mana could only compensate for blood loss for so long. As Tulos crumpled to his knees, so too did the heightened efficacy of his Skill start to wane. Along with the budding mana pains came the vague sensation that a System Window was awaiting his review.

Tulos did not notice it, nor did he hear whatever snide remark his opponent made from behind their outstretched blade. He saw their lips moving, but could not hear anything over the deafening sound of the blood pounding in his ears. Surprisingly, a killing blow never came. Perhaps it was because of the hatchet still locked in Tulos’ grasp. Even in victory, his opponent remained cautious.

Weakness threatened to seize Tulos. Strangely, he wondered how he must look, brought low like some wounded beast of burden. Gradually, his vision grew dark and… no, that was wrong. It was not just his vision. A dark shadow had fallen over everyone. His opponent was glancing skywards. Something was blotting out the sun.

Tulos mustered what little strength remained to him and fixed his face into a rictus grin. The shadow brought with it a noise, one that pierced through his growing fugue in defiance of all things sensible. A whistle.