Sayrin wore a troubled expression as he made his way down a ludicrously large bridge in Loterre.
It was one of many, several dozen stories up from the actual ground, but that was idiosyncratic for the city. Terraces on terraces, bridges and stairs leading up and up, layered like an elaborate cake by some insane baker.
Sayrin knew it was only possible due to their nation's abundance of Earth focused users. When the elite had powers to shape the stone to their will, they wanted to have nicer and more elaborate homes than would otherwise be possible. And of course, it wouldn’t do to be at the same elevation as those over whom you ruled, and so the upward expansion had begun just as quickly as the outward expansion. Multiply this over generations and you end up with the capital city of Loterre, unique in all the world for burying those less privileged in all but name.
As a 3-Star, and a captain directly under Orrin himself, Sayrin’s home was on a middle tier, with a view of the sky as well, making it exponentially more valuable than the same home on a layer below. However, at this moment, he wasn’t going to his home, but rather coming from it.
He had ascended one of the many lifts scattered throughout the city to ascend several tears to one of the peak terraces owned directly by the imperial family. They owned most of the higher tears, with only a few standout individuals or families being wealthy enough to afford them.
However, this specific terrace was unique for its purpose. Everyone in the city knew of the fourth terrace, and often simply referred to it as such. There was, however, a more descriptive and helpful moniker for the level: The colosseum.
There were four separate and identical coliseums, one in each of the cardinal directions, the four smaller ones in between each of them, and finally tents and smaller buildings between them selling any manner of equipment and vivations, boasting massive screens on which to watch various matches and events happening in any of the various rings. Each one was known for a specific… type of competition.
The smaller ones in the Northeast, northwest, southeast, and southwest directions were for 1-Star and 2-Star competitors, with the larger arenas reserved for the more powerful members. From there, each one would host various events. From one-on-one gladiatorial fights, to beast fights, to feats of strength and so on. Underneath each arena were massive training yards and pre-production areas for the challengers and challenges.
This was Sayrin’s current destination. He was headed straight for the western arena and would be going down below to once again spar with his son.
It was this that dominated his mind, pushing out all other thoughts. Of his wife, of the spatial user to the south, everything. He was solely focused on the upcoming match.
Even the resplendent arena looming ahead could not tear his mind from the thoughts currently occupying it. On every other occasion, he would stop and marvel at the magnificent arches cascading into the heavens, the ornate columns, the hundreds of gilded statues filling in the alcoves above, but no. Today was not the day. His son was all that mattered today.
He kept flashing back to the last fight- Sayrin scoffed quietly at himself. Fight? It hadn’t been anything close. Nothing as honorable, nothing as civilized.
Shaking himself, Sayrin took a deep, steadying breath. He’d done everything he could to prepare for this. Or at least, he’d tried to. He had to be the one to welcome him back into the arena with a formal sparring session, it was clearly stated in the regulations. Not because he was the father, but because he was the ranking officer on duty when the injury occurred. But he had been dreading it, was currently still.
He lifted his hand and stared at his open palm. His fingers were trembling. He could with this hand punch a hole through a battleship… but he couldn’t make it stop shaking. He opened and closed a fist several times, again and again. Reaching down with jerky, bird like movements, he withdrew a simple white cloth from one of his trouser pockets and wiped at his forehead.
As a 3-Star User, he should have long since left behind such mundane biological functions as sweating.
Should have.
Attempting once more to take a breath, Sayrin forced calm over his body, entering an almost meditative state for several seconds.
A couple people had come up behind him but seeing him calming himself before the doors to the training hall, they stayed well back and waited patiently. They understood or thought they did at least.
Eventually, sensing their restlessness, he opened his eyes before reaching out and opening the doors. The arena wasn’t simply for the stronger competitors, it was a requirement to enter. The doors themselves were the most dense and heavy stone Sayrin had ever encountered, and if he were not well into his path as a 3-Star, he doubted he’d even be able to enter. Someone weaker would have to be let in by a ranking companion or leave.
The doors slammed shut behind Sayrin with a resounding, crashing, foreboding boom. He moved deeper within the antechamber, bathed in the cool emerald luminescence from the glowstones and warm glow from sparking torches in their wall sconces.
The torches weren’t strictly necessary, the glowstones alone did a wonderful job illuminating the grand hypogeum and smaller isolated training areas, but nevertheless, the sputtering flames remained with near universal approval from the gladiators and practitioners.
Walking with a steely expression and taking on the air of someone with purpose, Sayrin marched down the central walkway towards one of the deeper areas. They were each separated by a waist-high, padded wall, and another few feet of crystal-clear stone, both as thick as Sayrin’s outstretched arm. This meant that as he walked by, he could easily see the combatants within, sparring, meditating, or large groups all moving their weapons in slow, identical patterns.
Sayrin breathed out, a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, a slight knot of tension leaving his shoulder blades. He hadn’t known when, couldn’t pinpoint exactly when it had happened, but this place was where he felt the most relaxed. The most at ease. As difficult as the coming hours would undoubtedly be, this place was Sayrin’s holy ground.
He arrived at the designated arena with time to spare, but of course, his son had beaten him here. Carcelo sat, kneeling on the ground. His enormous warhammer standing resolutely beside him, massive head on the sandy ground of the arena, ivory-blue handle straight up several feet in the air. He wore his dueling armor, so deeply green, it was nearly black. The golden-brown accents lining it shining like molten veins on a summer leaf. It amplified his relatively frail to appear bigger and bulkier, better exemplifying the strength within. His pale skin and dark hair were a perfect match for Sayrin’s own, except where Sayrin’s golden eyes were tinged with streaks of bright orange, Carcelo’s were pure and lustrous gold.
It was like looking at a portrait of himself when he was younger. He had his mother's nose, a small button compared to Sayrin’s slightly larger hook nose, and his mothers ears, sticking out more to either side than his, but still, this was his boy.
Sayrin’s leg trembled involuntarily in a spasm, almost making him fall to one side.
Righting himself, he quickly slapped his palms against both legs, before finally walking into the ring. The moment he stepped foot into the area, Cercelo’s eyes snapped open, and he smiled hesitantly, eyes earnestly looking for something on Sayrin’s face. Love? Respect? Adoration? Sayrin wasn’t sure what, but the upturned eyebrows, and slight narrowing of the eyes suggested he hadn’t quite found what he’d wanted.
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Softly touching his right fist to his left shoulder, he inclined his head. “Hello, father.”
Clasping his son's shoulder, Sayrin tried his best to exude confidence and power, what his son expected of him. “Please, Car, let’s relax and keep this as casual as possible.” Saying the exact opposite of how he felt in that moment.
It seemed his son had similar feelings on the topic, as he stiffly lowered his hand and looked evenly back at Sayrin.
“How's the leg feel?” Sayrin asked, soundly lame to his own ears.
“It’s good! Very good, feels better than the old one even!” He said this a little too quickly, too loudly to be natural.
Looking closely, Sayrin could still see that he was favoring one leg over the other.
“Good! Good…”
A thick, heavy weight settled between them, so palpable it almost felt real.
“Well, are you ready to begin?”
“Yes! Yes, absolutely, I’m as ready as you are!”
Sayrin sighed internally. If that was true, his son should have stayed in bed today.
Sayrin summoned his own dueling armor, made specifically for such occasions, and a broadsword as long as he was tall appeared in his outstretched right hand.
As was traditional, and as they had both done dozens or hundreds of times before, Carcelo accepted Sayrin’s blade, while Sayrin in turn hefted his son's hammer. At this point, Carcelo was still only a 1-Star, having gained a class only a year or so earlier, so a “heavy” hammer for him should have been nothing for Sayrin. He would have been, should have been a 2-Star by now, but…
However, the hammer was enchanted to grow heavier to match the strength of the holder, and in the span of several seconds, it went from being no lighter than a single tree branch, to weight an entire tree, to the weight of a forest.
They each gave several swings and practices for a few minutes with the others weapon, before wordlessly handing them back.
“I like that hammer of yours” Sayrin said with a laugh, as it fell through Carcelo’s fingers and crashed to the sand below, still holding the residual mass for Sayrin’s strength.
Kneeling down, face going crimson, he placed a hand to the haft for a moment, before finally picking it up, and throwing it over his shoulder, blunt edge down and spiked point up.
Without meeting his father's eyes, Carcelo turned on his heel, and marched to one side of the ring, Sayrin doing likewise.
He noticed, a stone settling in his stomach, that a few observers had stopped to watch the upcoming match. Not many, but… still.
Stopping and turning, Sayrin flicked his wrist and a sleek, angular helmet materialized over his head. From the outside it looked almost seamless with the rest of his metallic armor, only a small dark gray line where his eyes were. From the inside, however, it was like an observatory, made of the same crystal that the walls of their arena used. He had an unobstructed view of his surroundings and could easily see his son call forth an almost identical helmet, the same deep green to his own sandy brown.
They were using different weapons and favored different styles. They were so different in bearing and application of abilities. But ultimately, fruit from a tree tends to fall close to the roots.
Finally, he clasped onto both his wrist small metallic cuffs, with delicate engravings wrapping around its entire face, and a single small gem embedded within. One a rosey pink, the other a radiant bronze.
Sayrin allowed Carcelo the first move, indicating this with a slight nod of the head. He noticed and immediately took the chance.
Exploding forward, he opened with a wide, overhead swing, angling directly down like Sayrin was a pesky nail on a plank of wood. Of course, Sayrin could have easily sidestepped the blow, his perception, reflexes, and were a full two stars ahead of the younger man and gave their bounties accordingly. Likewise, he could have simply caught the blow, probably with just a single hand.
If, of course, this was an ordinary fight.
The small piece of metal began to grow warm as it was working its effects. Not burning, just a noticeable warmth. He had felt it the moment he’d equipped it, his active abilities felt just out of reach, an unnerving hole in his mind where his ever present and always ready to use abilities were. Of course, they did nothing for passive abilities, hence his trepidation and fear, but still. And of course, the second one increased the effective weight of his own body to nearly three times what it was normally, including his equipment and weapons. This meant that while he could still move, and move relatively well, he was under near constant pressure to simply stay standing. As for the incoming blow? He did the only thing he could: Deflected it.
Ripping his sword up and putting the flat of a blade at an angle to the incoming warhammer, he braced the underside with his other arm. As the hammer blow came, it jarred him with the impact of it, but was at least tolerable, as it slid harmlessly off to one side.
The absolute second he sensed the attack had passed, he shoved his blade forward, slamming the crossguard directly into Carcelo’s helmeted head before, causing him to stumble back. Light cracks appeared on the armor, before fading like footprints in the sand. Sayrin noticed he limped on his injured leg, he frowned under his visor. Clearly, he wasn’t healed, at least not fully.
But this was a test to see, and especially with observers watching, Sayrin wasn’t going to let up.
He chased after Carcelo, thrusting his sword point forward towards one of the pauldrons on his left should, and shattered it easily.
One. Two to go.
Sayrin could hear the growl from within the deep green helm, as Carcelo swung his hammer up from below to try and catch Sayrin’s chin. Swaying back like a reed in the wind, Sayrin dodged the-
Carcelo, picking the exact moment Sayrin’s weight was shifted back in the dodge, dropped the hammer and vaulted forwards with an enhanced blow from his armored gauntlets, and Sayrin noticed for the first time the spikes that blended in so well against the color of the armor growing out in spirals to be five-inch-long hooked talons.
“That’s new” Sayrin thought just before the claws struck the vambrace on his right forearm, shattering it as well.
One all.
It was at the exact moment of the armor, shattering like glass, that he began to feel it. The pulses in his mind, subtle at first but growing ever stronger.
“Oh gods” he thought “this needs to end soon” while at the same time, he said out loud “Excellent timing!” before returning to the offensive.
He switched up his style to one of pure, raw attack. He furiously swung, blow after blow at his son, who defended himself well with the four claw-like blades on each gauntleted hand. But what really surprised Sayrin was the sudden leap back, where Carcelo, as if he’d known instinctively where his hammer was, vaulted onto the very edge of his handle, and used his momentum to lift it easily over his head… only to smash it point first into the sand behind him.
Instantly, the sand at Sayrin’s feet solidified like quick dry cement, as he saw a trail of now hardened earth leading directly from him back to the hammer now buried in the earth.
He couldn’t see his son’s face, but he could tell. One could always tell. Carcelo was grinning like a fool under that visor, he just knew it.
Dislodging his hammer, Carcelo dashed forward and threw all of his weight into a level swing aiming directly for his breastplate, which would count for two pieces, giving him the immediate win.
Two things stopped him from landing the blow, however, and they happened at almost the exact same microsecond.
First, his left leg gave out as he swung, making the attack go wide and hit the couter on Sayrin's left elbow.
One to Two, his favor.
But at the same moment as Carcelo's swing began to lurch, Sayrin had thrust forward with his sword, aiming for the other pauldron on his right shoulder. The sudden shift, however, caused him to catch his helmet instead, shattering it as well as slashing his right ear.
The helmet counted for three on its own, giving the fight to Sayrin no matter what. The moment it broke, the bout was over. They both knew it. They both…
Sayrin’s head.. swam.
His opponent, blood gushing from the sliced ear, was grinning up at him. He was saying something, and then began to laugh. Sayrin smiled in return, feeling numb.
He needed to…
Needed to..
Without another word, Sayrin turned and ran from the arena, tearing off the bracers confining him until he could run faster than the wind in his wake, not looking back.