17 hours after new Chapter. 0 comments. That's rare. And it's on a Saturday.

I'm going to bump with some fun numbers.

Did you know:

It is the 34th day since Vivi started writing this stuff.

Vivi spends approximately 2 lessons every day at school writing, plus about 1 hour at home.

Writing a chapter spends 3.6 hours. Writing a interlude spends 2.8 hours.

Vivi never writes more than 205 words in his first 20 minutes of writing.

The best duration for each writing session is about 2.2 hours, the efficiency drops to 700 words an hour after that.

Vivi is 300 pounds. (Joking.)

Vivid needs 4 more Specific Character Applications. Everyone is encouraged! (not joking)

Vivi could use 100 comments and 10 constructive comments. Thanks!

http://imgur.com/op5mI8f,QQIgP0A
First pic is Elis' failsketch, next is a failmap. Enjoy

Questions and Updates:

First of all, using McDonald WiFi again...gotta attend a university fair in 30 minutes, no Chapter 8 for today!

Second, I want to brief you on my progress: Currently I am on Chapter 15, at 68800 words, a speed of 4000~5000 words/1 chapter per 2 days. I plan to do ~50 chapters, which means about...err...140k to 175k words more to write! At this rate, I can finish this in ~70 to 90 days, which means before my birthday :3

Is this too much to read for a simple fanfic? Or do you actually prefer more? And...how are you finding this so far? Acceptable? Palatable? Cr@ppy and sucking to the point you want to smash bits off my head? Please comment

Third, does people bump a thread when they find the content good and want to comment, or when they find stuff hasn't been updated for a long time and decided to tell the writer to do so? Does that means I'll get more comments if (lolz) I post less often? xD

Finally: (The Spoiler that Never Comes)

"Nicks."

"Yeah?" Nicholas replied to a whispering Lance. Lance never called him with that nickname.

"Nicks...Nicks...Nicks..." Lance kept murmuring, his eyes focused at some distant mirages unknown to his friend.

"What's up, Lance?" Nicholas was genuinely puzzled. There was something strange...for certain.

Suddenly, Lance turned, sighing heavily. "That Nicks..."

"What?" was he talking about me?

"See that Nyx on the other team? He aims so well." unlike you, Nicholas.

"I wish I had him on my team." instead of you, Nicholas.

"OASKOJGOAKOSDJFAO!!!!!!" Nicholas exploded in fury.

Haven Tribune: Flashnews

Some random terrorist got into the Coliseum and shoved tonnes of dynamite into the battlefield. There were loud explosions; a player on field said that he saw enraged limbs flying everywhere. However, spectators complained about the lack of visual effects, and requested for a refund.

This is the umpteenth case today. Haven Police said they cared no more.

"This is certainly a great specimen, much alike to the Blast Cubes we discovered years ago. We must grasp this opportunity to fuel our latest research on the plausibility of human meatbombs." Vivid, chairman of the Haven Mad Science Committee.

I decided yesterday night to ragequit. This morning I found myself writing again.
#Lifeisstrange

@Mordenius: Yup, as you can see in this chapter, there are indeed some Gremlins that have survived; they live in Emberlight. However, I doubt if I"ll have any major roles for a non-humanoid creature. You can still apply though, I'll try my best.

Song: Warcraft: Night Song
Drums roll. So will heads.

Chapter 8

Auresque swallowed more coffee. It was bitter and thin, having lost its warmth during her distraction. Even so, she was glad that she didn’t make her own coffee---she used coffee sachets; the previous experience had proved to be a biological disaster.

Her arm throbbed. She had the bandages changed yesterday; the swelling had subsided, but the flesh was still a tender pink next to the ugly, deep-red scabs. Hard and unyielding, the crusted scabs adhered tightly to her arm, constricting its movement. Her legs were much better though.

Xyver came by, a fluffy, cotton pillow clutched in his arms. His pace was slow, drifting, his expression woozy and uncertain; he would blink for several times, rubbing his eyes, before identifying his friend and saying “hi”.

Auresque smiled. Xyver was strict and serious, but his uncommon other side deserved some hugs.

“Good to have some sleep. Aures, why don’t you get some?”

“I am not tired...yet. Perhaps later.” the slur in her speech was noticeable.

“Negative. The black under your eyes are so big that you seemed like a zombie. And look---you should comb your hair.” he spotted the mound of emptied instant coffee, “Stop living on coffee, and especially your coffee. Have someone make it for you.”

“You know Mira isn’t here.” fourth night since her disappearance. Auresque didn’t know why.

Fourth cycle of tranquility. The Swarm could have appeared any moment, but they didn’t. They could come any moment.

“They might come any moment, and as the team leader, I am obliged to be the first to react.”

“True, but if you are barely conscious, what can you do? Run the alarm, go out, then get smacked heavy on the head? That won’t be pretty. Take a nap, I’ll monitor the situation for you.”

Auresque couldn’t fend off her companion’s insistence. “Fine,” she sighed, “I’ll have a little nap.”

As she proceeded through the corridor to her room, her com-unit rang in alert. Quick beeps, ear-piercing; the headquarters requesting a direct conference---emergency. “I am sorry I’ll have to wait.” she said as she stomped to the control room.

“Greetings, Evera,” Auresque yawned as she greeted the figure on the screen, a beautiful woman with ash-blond hair with a very light hue. “What’s the business of you calling so late? I thought you would be playing chess with Asta now.”

Evera’s expression was grave. Auresque decided to shut up immediately. “What’s wrong?” she demanded.

“We need you to retreat immediately.”

“Retreat?” that was a shock. “But we had just defeated another wave of the Swarm.”

“I know you had. Unfortunately, the others haven’t.”

“What?”

“Eight hours ago, a large assembly of beasts emerged at Sector D. Defences were soon overran. That’s the single largest insurgence of the Swarm we have seen in months.”

Sector D. Auresque was worried. She had friends there. “Echo and Skiron?Are they fine?”

“I’m afraid not. Skiron is alright, but Echo is severely injured when she tried to save her apprentices.”

Apprentices. Auresque never knew her old friend had progressed so far.

Evera’s tone was grievous, “We also lost three Strikers and more apprentices; that was the most number of deaths inflicted in a single assault so far. I could only hope that they fought to the last moment, died in valiance, and were not consumed by the Night.”

This is serious. “So, what do I have to do?”

“Evacuate now. We have dispatched an emergency unit to maintain the perimeter; however, the journey to the elevator is on your own. We are now setting up a base of action at Depth 24 to provide further assistance.”

“Now? It is midnight!” she found herself exclaiming, “You want us to break through when they are the strongest?”

“It’s now or never, unfortunately.” Evera’s opal pupils flashed seriously. “Give them more time, and they’ll have you surrounded. Then its not just a few Swarm Seeds you’ll be facing---it’s going to be tens. Hundreds. We don’t want to lose anyone more...the night has already had enough.”

“I see. We’ll retreat now.”

“Ah, and one thing more: After reaching Depth 24, please go up to Emberlight with Xyver.”

“Why? I don’t want to leave my team.”

“A special request from Lance. I don’t know the details, but he probably needs more help on the surface. He has called me, explicitly choosing you two.”

“Lance…” Auresque’s heart thumped in excitement as she heard the familiar name. But no, she would have to cross the sinister darkness before that; can she?

“Auresque. When you get to Emberlight, please go visit Echo; console her. She is very...depressed, after watching her apprentices die.”

“I will.”

The night whined in melancholy.

“So we are out here, dashing through the unknown at the middle of the night.” Xyver grumbled irritably. “Curse the Swarm.”

Through the thick forest they dashed, never stopping. The booster had been configured to create medium-speed, continuous boosts at low energy level. Even so, Auresque’s was on the verge of depletion. The last time she checked, only a dangerous 17% remained.

The wind swept. Leaves rustled. Distant shadows howled in nostalgy. Bleak the starless sky, bleaker the cold, condensing mists, masking in its opacity whatever malignance Night had to proffer.

Despite their superior physique, her team members had started to show signs of fatigue, swaying and panting, their steps becoming unsure and floating. Her vision blurred as her eyelids entered a period of sporadic convulsion.

She placed another shard of Crystal into her dry mouth. Chewing hard, it sent a tingling sensation off her tongue; first numb, them extreme, profoundly acute, blunted needles pricking torturously at her tastebuds. The sudden jolt of electrical discharge sent her eyes fluttering open, her mouth gasping for air. Then she swallowed the shard.

“Coffee is bad, narcotics are addictive; Crystals kill.” Auresque recalled her tutor’s advice. How ironic when she actually died from overreaction to Crystal Energy withdrawal.

Her feet sped, twin propellers in an ocean of rotten leaves and carcasses. The effect was temporary; how long before it wore off? Her Crystal supply was dwindling; she could only acquire those in Emberlight.

The forest seemed never to come to an end; arrays of trees, one after another, sheltered the sky like narrow archways; a corridor that led nowhere, so dark and vividly tranquil that not even reflections were possible.

The sky was never the darkest. It was always an intermediate, the colour of slate, varying with the depths of night, never an absolute jet black that characterised our blank imagination. It was overhead, as always---hidden between the darker leaves, twigs and branches, vying to pronounce itself.

“Great. We are about to leave this cursed forest.” next to her Xyver said. His Skolver coat was a prominent silver in the moonless night.

“How do you know?”

“See, right above us it was more dark. In front it was less dark, more of a very dark grey, the colour of night; which signifies that the trees are growing sparser and sparser, blocking less of the night. Which also means we are nearing the edge of the forest.”

Auresque squinted. She couldn’t make out the difference stated by Xyver---the colours were fuzzy, messy patches of ink. “Good to know.” she commented anyway.

It was true. Soon they were at the fringe of the forest, a minute or two’s journey before they got out. After the forest were the plains, easy to navigate and comfortable to walk on. Then there was the elevator.

Her teammates whispered in relief; the worst part was over, the worry lifted; in openness they feared nothing.

The first streak of light had been painted on the skydome, an unpronounced speck of white the colour of dead fish’s belly, barely luminescent. Dawn would break in half an hour.

We had been running for so long. With this realisation came a strong purge of fatigue. I could barely sustain for much longer…

The first Striker had ventured out of the forest. He let out a shout of joy, satisfied by his progress so far. Then it turned into an unmuffled scream of sheer terror.

Startled, Auresque advanced to have a look herself. It was terror.

Trojans.

Wispy riders clad in polished dark armour, deathly menaces atop pale skeleton horses. Gauntleted wrists, metal brushing crisply against the hilt of phantom swords; fledging shoulder plates, rattling rhythmically in the zephyr.

Their eyes spoke of hate. Scorching fluorescent bulbs, opaquely luminous, flickering wrathfully in deepened sockets. Their faces were blurs, clamped in their Shadowsteel helmets, inexplicable wells of reverberating sorrow disguised as vengeance.

No one knew what they were; some said they were the Swarm’s servants; some said generals and commanders; some argued they were separate entities; some suggested they were an enslaved race; most said they were evangelical antagonists---down on Cradle for some purpose that no one really knew. Well, that absolved them from further explaining.

One thing everyone admitted: they were very strong. No consensus of how strong they were existed, probably due to the lack of reliable witness and information; one could be stronger than a normal Striker; one might be able to destroy a whole army. Who knew? However, most tended to ignore this and flee anyway.

“Unbelievable…” Auresque muttered. It had been over a year before she had encountered another substantial creature of Night. The last she had fought and killed earned her the position of vice-team leader, which she didn’t appreciate---having spent her next month rehabilitating on a hospital bed.

Believe it or not, the Trojans galloped. It wasn’t a fast charge; the bony horses seemed to charge at a leisurely pace. However, the team was compelled to stay, giving up the chance to evade.

The eyes. Mesmerising chants of silent songs, lullabies of the incandescent night---

“At least they chose the wrong time to attack.” Xyver mused, unaffected by the entrancing sight. Unsheathing his Leviathan, he ran forward to engage the dark creatures. “Together?”

“Nah, the rest can’t manage.” Auresque answered, pulling out her bag of Crystals.

“We’ll split then. I’ll have one, you another. The rest can gang up on the remaining.”

“Sounds like a plan.” she swallowed more Crystals. Not a single piece, but a handful of it. She complained, “I’m immune to all spices from now on. I wonder if my tongue’s still there.”

One Crystal made her stay sober. Ten Crystals...enough to supercharge a Great Colony. The excessive energy worked its way into her secretion glands, instantly tripling the secretion of adrenaline and endorphin. The parts of her body worked like overheated clockworks, producing ATP at an unimaginably, ultra-unsustainable speed. Her muscles flexed freely---they acknowledged the fact that there would be an astronomical amount of energy to spend.

Auresque felt reincarnated. A tide of passion, differentiated from any recognizable emotion; it was ecstasy, the sensual pleasure of being high. She couldn’t stop. She also couldn’t stop thinking about the last days of her tutor: the extreme, hysterical emotion, each surge more intense. She remembered how her literally snapped back and died when she had run out of supplies.

This is how its like. Fear was absent. Only passion. And strength.

In a second she emptied a clip. Six silver bullets shot from the golden Peacemaker’s muzzle, bouncing off the Trojan’s shoulders, chest and helmet, leaving tiny but marked circles of white, eroding slowly.

The Trojan galloped, its curved sword poised high, ready to have her cut down. Secretly, she tapped into her boost, building up its explosive power. As the Trojan was on her, she dashed, skidding in a large arc, circling around her target. Fluidly the Trojan turned, bringing its sword down in a wide slash, covering the trajectory of the flitting gunner.

The acceleration was 3.2g---the highest she could afford without being disoriented. Sensing the threat, she rotated her arm, which brought her entire body into a violent, swerving motion, and fired. The various mirages of the slashing blade disappeared, forcibly halted by a treble of silver bullets which clanged against the gauntlet of its swording wrist, shrieking in the sound of a high-pitched, off-tune glockenspiel.

“Eat that, you troll.” Auresque spat as she leapt, discharging the rest of her clip in a flurry of motion. Before she landed she had had the Peacemaker reloaded, firing from below while dodging another strike from the furious Trojan.

Frenzy gradually overtook her; she found herself laughing at the futility---both of the Trojan’s inability to catch her and herself’s to take it down. Her speed had not peaked, still increasing despite well over her previous limit.

In this sense Crystals are really alike to narcotics. A sane corner in her head formulated.

The Trojan continued to gallop, slashing and hacking constantly, only to find its targets vanishing shadows. Another strike, this time the earth rumbled; it had missed and crashed into the grassy earth. Auresque flashed into existence behind, her expression a sinister grin, a piercing bullet spinning into her nemesis’ unprotected throat.

“Ha! Take that!” Auresque found herself snarling. The Crystals really have an effect on me.

Obnoxious gusts of black smoke sublimed from its throat, a hissing not unlike water boiling in a kettle. The bullet vanished in its unknown texture, a pebble lost in muddy water, and never reappeared.

How come? The Trojan launched another smash, the bullet not even a scratch. Rolling away in haste, she discovered her speed waning---the effect of the Crystals was past its apex. Shooting low, she aimed explicitly for the knee joints of its skeletal horse; it collapsed quite spectacularly.

The Trojan tumbled for a brief moment before regaining its balance, standing among the pile of calcite building blocks, apparently angry. The brevity was not enough for Auresque to take definite aim, though she did spot something.

A Swarm Seed.

The glaring eye of undisputed malice, the single most unwanted gift from Night. Elegantly crystallised within a tetragonal antiprism of amethyst, it stared hauntingly into her Crystal-induced ecstasy.

Lost child, you have no idea what you are fighting for.

She shuddered when the Trojan shielded its vulnerable back from her gaze, a paradoxical sense of relief.

A whole source of death and destruction, singularly focalised into an entity.

How strong is that?

The sky had paled, losing its substantial mysteriousness. A tint of yellow was amidst the white, creeping like a snail towards the deep-blue quadrants in the west. Soon dawn would break.

The Trojan pounced fiercely, intending to finish its opponent before sunrise. Creatures of Night---they belong only to the incandescent night, where sorrow and hatred were their blankets of comfort.

Not good. Auresque regained her original posture as the effects of the Crystals subsided. She was not really glad. She narrowly dodged a horizontal decapitation, flung back by a power kick watching blood spew from a new neck wound. The Trojan proceeded, its boots slithering across the grass, as fast as how quick she flew backward. She tried to fire, but her hand was shaking; her finger slid off the Peacemaker’s smooth handle, failing to make a shot.

Oh right. She did not fear the oncoming blow---probably too tired to think properly.

The blade didn’t descend. A powerful pair of arms wrested the Trojan’s raised arm from behind. Xyver dived forward and tackled the Trojan, both tumbling onto the ground. For seconds they appeared to draw, but the deadly creature gained the upper hand, pinning him to the floor.

“Quick! Fire at its back!” Xyver roarred.

Auresque could see the other Trojan galloping over to find its escaped target; there were deep dents in its breastplate, quite spoiling its cool look. It must be extra-mad, Auresque thought. Better to take down one before the other comes.

She fired; the bullet chipped shards off the purple crystal, failing to do any major harm. The Trojan, alerted by this action, hastened its attack. Pressing Xyver firmly with one hand, it elevated the sword with the other.

“Aures! Use the Crystal!”

I planned to use that to stay awake after this...Auresque thought bitterly. Speedily, she flicked the last sharp of Crystal into her blazing Peacemaker. Sitting up, she held the gun firm with both hands, aimed, and fired.

The recoil sent her sprawling on the ground. The nascent phoenix scorched the earth, sparks of golden majesty embroidered the sky---or was that the first light of dawn? She blinked, searching for lost traces of the yellow glow, as the Trojan collapsed.

Then everything was over. Mellow warmth radiated the grassland, extremely weak but confidently existing.

Morning has broken. Blackbird has spoken.

The Trojans puffed out of existence. The crystals cluttered; Xyver quickly plunged his sword into each of them. They were cleanly shattered.

Auresque lied on the floor, eyes fluttering to a close.

“Need a ride?” Xyver offered. When his friend did not reply, he bent down, stroked her messy hair, and lifted the sleeping Auresque onto his back.

“I think you need one. Now let’s go.”

For now, the worst was over.

Auresque woke on her way to Emberlight.

The elevator was a creepy affair, a square piece of metal elevated through unknown means. It was large in area, able to house a few dozen if packed in tightly; no one ever did that, though, as an unfortunate squeeze could mean your friend free-falling off the unfenced edges a thousand miles into oblivion.

It travelled through rocky channels, vertically built; the mechanics behind were completely unknown; there were no cables, no wires, no energy supply, only a lone plank of rusty iron ready to ascend or descend upon detecting passenger.

The elevator rose steadily, soundlessly. It was dark; peeking up, a single dot of light swarmed in the dark rock surfaces; glancing down, an endless sea of black purity without a single trace of colour. The silence was often observed for an hour before destination was reached.

Auresque yawned, rubbing her eyes lazily. “What time is it?”

Xyver sat beside her, his hand resting on her shoulder; he withdrew quickly seeing that she was awake. “It’s one in the afternoon now.”

“So I haven’t slept for long.” she yawned again; the fatigue was not yet out of her body, but she felt much more comfortable now.

“So, what are we doing next?” she sat up and started fiddling with her Peacemaker.

“The journey to Emberlight is five Depths; about two hour’s ride. We boarded the elevator at eleven, after dispatching the members to their new leaders.”

“That’s a long ride. You must be bored.” Auresque blinked.

“No, not at all…” Xyver seemed to blush, difficult to identify in the lightness condition, “Evera told me that the next elevator to surface is at six. After meeting with the headquarters we’ll still have a few hours of free time. What are you going to do?”

“Hmm…can’t remember what I did in my last free time session. Must be too long ago.” Auresque pondered, her fingers rubbing against the metallic wings of her Peacemaker. “I guess I’ll grab my payment, go shopping and restock my dwindling supply of essentials...and visit Echo.”

“We have salary?” Xyver was completely surprised...and overwhelmed with an emotion akin to sorrow. Auresque shot him an emphatic, “so sad” glance.

She chuckled, “Nevermind, I have some spare changes to buy you an ice-cream. And is that the exit I see?”

The elevator gradually decelerated as it approached the source of light. A faint, ember glow emanated the duo aboard; a dim, orange luminosity with a grayish hue---the trademark lamps of Emberlight. Finally, it stopped level with Emberlight’s slate, metal-paneled floor.

She stretched her body and yawned one last time. Smiling, she extended her hand to Xyver, still sitting on the floor, overflowed with guilt of not claiming his payment. “Let’s go?”

An octet of Strikers guarded the entrance to the elevator; four of them were in grey, ash-like coats, the other four in leathery sashes. With a nod they gave way to the duo---authentication was hardly needed in the society of Strikers, where the circle was small and everyone knew of each other.

Emberlight was essentially a huge bazaar with accommodation. A huge square of metal-plated space, rumoured to be the base of a palace long evaporated, housed the myriads upon myriads of booths, stands, food kiosks and auction houses. Inhabitants and visitors were numerous---both in terms of number and species; Strikers, Gremlins, wild beasts, kats bored from conjuring, extremely intelligent robots, any sentience you could imagine.

The passage from the elevator to the headquarters was short and convenient; devoid of haggling merchants and noisy performers, the area was exclusively claimed by the Strikers. No one fancied delving down beyond Emberlight, anyway; the risk too huge, the reward about zero.

The headquarters was comprised of buildings surprisingly modest and old. A few undecorated concrete blocks, their surfaces last furnished decades ago. Auresque pushed open the door, glad that the air-con didn’t malfunction.

Few resided in the buildings; most were at the fields, training on the frontline or busy incapacitated in the hospital. The Grand Master himself was based in Depth 23; his assistant and the finance director did their work here.

Through the hall, turn left, enter the third room. They had no hassle navigating the minuscule structure; there wasn’t even a second floor. Xyver knocked on the wooden door.

“Come in, Auresque and Xyver. Do take a sit.”

They were greeted by a middle-aged woman, deeply immersed in her world of paperworks and planning. She read through the documents laid out while typing with her left hand at an extreme speed. Her right sleeve hung down emptily; multiple scar presented themselves on her face and forehead; she had retired to this position only after sustaining injuries which severed her ability to fight again.

Without looking at the duo, she began, “Lance had called me yesterday requesting help. He had chosen you two, and I think you know very well why. The elevator starts at six sharp, do get there in time.”

“Anything else?”

“No.” she shrugged, “I don’t know a lot more than you. Lance will brief you on what he’s doing when you get up to surface.”

“Madam,” Xyver asked, “How about our salary?”

“That’s not my responsibility; find Cosimo next doors. Ah, tell him to pay you extras for pillows and blankets---its a long ride and its cold up there.”

They split ways after receiving their Crowns from the angered director. Auresque laughed hard when she heard Cosimo’s grumbling complaint of fund shortages.

“I’m going to buy some stuff, maybe food and an ice-cream. And you?” Xyver asked.

“Well, I plan to shop later; I’ll visit Echo first.”

“Right. See you in an hour or two.”

Xyver strolled leisurely down the streets of Emberlight. Streets, or rather the area between each tightly cramped stall reserved for haphazard walking. He would march over the obstacles, which often paled in comparison to his height.

He entered a street shrouded in the mingling smell of snacks. Fifteen minutes later, he emerged with a jelly hotdog, a bowl of mushy peas and a strange concoction of milk and tea, claimed to originate from an orient recipe. He had no idea what ‘orient’ meant, but enjoyed the exotic drink nonetheless.

He went into the Gremlin zone. The bag of coins jingled in his cloak. The sum, all translated into gold Crowns, was heavy---years of his delayed payment all into one. “What to buy?” he mumbled, uncertain what to do with this considerable sum of purchasing power.

The Gremlins quirked with their customers, ranting about their extra-fine weaponries. Xyver skipped those; he was content with his Leviathan, and besides, what they sold always malfunctioned.

It proved to be a disappointment for anyone not intending to end his life early. He, luckily, possessed the patience to survey the whole street. He stopped at the last stall.

The Gremlin called Helix chirped at the rare customer. “‘Ello, sir, what can I do for you?”

“How much does these Crystals cost?” Xyver pointed at the pile of blue shards.

“These cost a lot. Crystal Energy of the finest quality, mined and refined exclusively in our mines hidden somewhere in the forests---truly pristine quality, I guarantee.”

“Stop exaggerating. Just tell me how much they’re worth.” he prefered to be extra to-the-point messing with these nasty pranksters.

“Well…” Helix quirked, his eyes rolling like a tumble dryer, “30 gold Crowns per 100 grams.”

“That’s a lot.” Xyver only had about 200 gold Crowns on him. “Give me 300 grams. Grind into shards of about this size.” he approximated the size, which he had often seen Auresque take, with his fingers.

“Deal. Enjoy your Crystals!” the Gremlin laughed real hard.

The hospital was not far from the headquarters, a modest building with much capacity; Striker was a high-risk occupation after all. At times it may house 5% to 10% of the total Striker population; luckily, most could return to active duty in a short time.

Auresque had to pass several other wards, all fully populated, before entering her friend’s. Some of the patients she knew, some she didn’t, but that didn’t matter. They were all one part of the big family called Strikers.

Echo’s bed was beside a window, but she was not affected by the cheerful sunlight. She sat gloomily, her back propped up against the metal frame of the bed. She looked normal enough for one in her status, but Auresque could make out the depression in her posture.

“Hello, Aures.” she said weakly. Her head was relatively unscathed, with just a few bandages here and there beneath her black hair. Auresque couldn’t see more; what else laid damaged beneath the white sheets?

“How are you?” this overtly generic comment was all Auresque could manage without risking to provoke her unstable friend. However, even such a simple comment seemed to make the fragility before her crack.

“Aures…” her voice trembled, a deep, miserable remorse, “I failed to protect them.”

“It’s not your fault, Echo. They came so suddenly, in such great numbers; you should be happy that you saved the rest of your team.”

“No, Aures, you don’t know.” steady was her voice, steadier the unremoved sadness, “It’s not the first time I have failed anyone. I even failed Lance.”

“That wasn’t your fault, either. Lance wasn’t hurt, he was still safe. And that was so long ago…”

“That was my fault. I failed to protect him, I failed to keep my promise. You didn’t know how heartbroken he was when he got wrested away...and my sword was still in my hand.”

“That was a wooden sword according to what he told me, Echo. You did the right thing.”

“I didn’t.” she laughed grimly, “This time, I had my sword; a real one, not the wooden joke I had years before. Still, I failed them.”

Her tone grew dimmer and dimmer, entranced in her own world of grievous guilt, “They were engulfed in the darkness...I tried to grab them, to cling onto them, to bring them back to this side of the world. Then...something clawed at me, it bit into my arm. In panic I released my grasp---and my apprentice was no more.”

Her voiced cracked. Raising a right hand wrapped thickly in bandage and gauze, she scooped the teardrops flowing freely down her cheeks. Auresque only partially understood that emotion---to have lost someone you pledged and assumed responsibility, to fail his expectations in the worst available method. That understanding was a third-person one---she could observe, think and empathise.

She didn’t experience.

Echo continued, her eyes concealed in the sad arc of her eyelids. “My apprentice...he was facing me before he died. He told me clearly in his eyes: I had him betrayed. He was frantic, almost glaring, clawing to anything he could grasp, then...he was no more. All the time I was there, letting pain overwhelm me.”

“Echo, I know, you lost a lot of teammates and apprentices today. However, you managed to save the rest---and yourself. Isn’t that also an achievement?”

“If I had known of this earlier...I maybe able to save them all.”

Echo...Echo was what her name suggested. The resonance of the others, never herself, never for herself. There was no way Auresque could walk Echo out of this chasm. “Okay,” she sighed, “Take care. I am leaving for the surface now. Wish you a speedy recovery.”

With that she departed the hospital.

Auresque hurried to the entrance of the elevator. Xyver was already there, waving amiably. As she approached he handed her a small paper bag, “Here, I help restocked your Crystals.”

“Thanks!” Auresque beamed. “These could last me for months of battles.”

Xyver smiled too. Suddenly, he clutched his friend’s wrist and pulled her forward despite her complaints. “Let’s go?”

It would be a real long ride.

What does the Trojan mean when it refers Auresque as the “Lost child”?
What is really lost behind the heavy veils of depths and darkness?
After seven Chapters, Night has finally risen. It will not stop.
Listen to the echoes of reality.

@Vinny: True, school is tightening its deadly grasp on my poor soul...*sigh*. This is definitely my last fanfic (also the first lol), I may do a sequel if I get to finish this somehow, but nothing else.
OK I know what you mean, I'll update only twice a week now, if there's an interlude in between there'll be 3 times a week.
Also...it is always good to have a random comment like "Awmaigad Nicholas is a noob" or "pl0x nerf hXc Atalia" :3

@Effer: Cute.

@Mordy: I agree grammar is an issue.

@Sirius: Stark is here! I remember him mentioned somewhere near Chapter 11~13 and even got his own 250 words in Chapter 14!

The core question of this fanfic: What is Night? Everyone knows that lol. What I mean is...what is the nature of Night? Is it something evil, or just a madly assertive being that wants to reclaim its lost planet? Or...something else?

Song: ICE---Majestic Phoenix

Chapter 9

They sat in a carriage. She faced the front and he faced the rear. The carriage rocked and rambled, the passengers rocking dreamily with it.

Kai read a book as the horses trudged on, lifting their hooves agonisingly in the deep snow. He didn’t look up, entranced in his artificial world of conquest and romance.

Mira was genuinely bored. Without a book, she could only choose between staring at her host’s ruffled, untied hair, which tumbled down his shoulder like waterfalls, or the bland wooden planks behind; none she found too appealing.

The carriage rolled on, toiling noiselessly in the falling snow. Inside, its occupants remained soundless. Occasionally Kai would flip over the yellow, crusty pages of his thousand-year old epic, allowing the stiffened pieces of parchments to yawn in complaint.

She rubbed her fingers around her new scarf; it felt good. A silver piece of material, thin threads of metallic strands of wool intricately woven into a considerable piece of fabric. Each individual string was sinewy and strong, once combined they composed a miniature section of a cool, flowing stream.

“A silverweave, Mira. Let this be my gift of reunion.” Kai smiled innocently as he handed Mira the exquisite scarf this morning when they boarded the carriage, as if that was no ordeal; Mira recalled from her previous lecture that a modest piece was worth hundred of gold Crowns.

“Why can’t we just ride, say, horses?” Mira had complained.

“Security, Mira, security. Imagine you ride a horse, and somehow your precious hood drops, and someone that knew you spotted this wonderful young lady in front of him...that would be spectacular, yes, but spectacular nonsense.”

“Just be careful. Who would know me after such a long disappearance? Horses are so much faster than carriages...I’d rather walk.” Mira growled at her friend’s indolent grin.

“I would prefer extra care; besides, it is not bad at all to have a ride with someone like you…”

They proceeded slowly, an unsailed boat on a windless ocean. Seconds turned into minutes, minutes into tens of minutes, an excruciating, monotonous boredom that determined not to end. Brushing against the silverweave’s special fabric could not satisfy her increasingly heated mind; to break the silence she asked, “Kai,”

“Yeah?” his response was reflexive as he instantly rose from his repose.

“Are you really sure that helping me is a thing you should do?”

He scratched his fringe, his lips pouting, “I thought I had that sorted out clear yesterday. Maybe your memory is messed up after your excessive drinking last night; I’ll specify again: It is my personal decision to help you, and I didn’t think...too much, in terms of profit and gains.”

“My father always tells me I am young and could afford to lose a lot; he couldn’t. That’s why in first place he decided to step down and install me as the one in charge.”

With the last sentence the wooden box returned to its previous stalemate. “Can I have a book?” Mira asked tentatively.

“Sure, you should have asked earlier.” Kai grinned proudly, retracting from under his cushioned seat a dusty chest full of books. “Now which genre do you want?”

The carriage trudged on for eternities more before stopping. Kai stepped out first, and Mira followed next.

“This is...the kitchen backdoor.” Mira frowned.

“Yeah, I suppose that’s the most secure entrance you could possibly hope for. Now put on your hood.”

The kitchen was a huge place, teemed with cooks and waiters of all ages, genders and sizes; lunch was over and they were now preparing for tea; a arduous task which involved the production of massive amounts of pastries, cakes, and tea. Mira’s stomach protested sourly; she realised that she hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast.

Out of nowhere Kai produced a cupcake; splitting it into half, he handed the part with more chocolate to Mira. “Guess you hadn’t eaten a single grain.” he joked, “You must be as hungry like as the angry Snarbolax on my coat of arms.”

They broke free of the kitchen each harvesting several delicious snacks. They toured round the luxurious maze of the palace, shrugging off the plethora of strange gazes. Kai minded not; but Mira did. Cautiously she whispered, “Kai, where are we going?”

“To the King, of course.”

The King…

With each passing second her footstep grew heavier. With every reluctant moment it faltered, displaying her inherent unwillingness to face her past.

Why? Why am I shying away from this?

Up the stairs, past the corridor; the ornaments grander, the grandeur exuberantly extravagant. Doors were passed; chambers entered and left; haunting portraits reflected dauntingly in the millions of mirrors; burgundy tapestries were skipped without a look, lush carpets stampeded upon without a comment.

Mira tensed. Each step became a harbinger of the next…

The door creaked open. A man tired and worn-down by the pleasures and plights of life. Draped in his prismatic majesty, he looked blank. “I was informed to receive a special gust this afternoon...I did not imagine to be you, Mira.”

Mira gulped, blinking several times before uttering, “...Father.”

What she didn’t say, she alluded in her tone.

You have grown older. Have I?

“Scorched earth is never high on my list of strategies.” the Princess commented as she viewed the shifting scenes of barrenness atop her legendary ride. The other Riders followed closely, their Duskers sprinting at top-speed through the abandoned road.

“Princess, that’s the most cost-efficient tactic, exemplified by eras upon eras of battlefield. They are waiting for you to return; before that they can hardly do anything.” her faithful lieutenant Vercin replied. He was not afraid of refuting his Princess; she never punished anyone for being honesty.

“True, but this is a new era. See their ranks? Weapons? Those strange vehicles? They are completely different. I’ll say scorched earth is useless against someone who could carry loads of supplies and food on vehicles that run twice as fast as our best horses and load twenty times as much. The only way to stop them is a nice, clean clash heads-on.”

I wield the greatest flames in Almire. “Scorched” earth...it weighs my flames down.

“Ah, true, Princess. However, the army could not win without you. You are their morale and leader; they could only wait for you to lead them, and slow the Order’s progress through any means possible.” Vercin was perplexed. Contrary to the previous offensives which focused on ravaging the border and looting, this attack threatened the very heart of Almire; it thrusted towards one singular point---the City of Almire.

“Overstatement. There’s Corvus and Nyarla. Kai and Hyacinth could also put up great resistance. What matters is their will to do it---my father has grown too weak to properly command them.”

A scout has returned, his cheeks a bright, ripe red from the ride. “Lord Corvus’ camp is half an hour’s journey to the north. He is fielding his troops for battle.”

“Half an hour’s ride...let’s go, we’ll join him in battle.” the Princess flashed a vicious grin, brandishing her deadly Fang in the air. “Let’s go, Fang.”

As you wish, little Princess.

Corvus was there to welcome the Princess. He wore a black, dull set of armour that only shielded his torso, exposing his tanned arms and the inky tattoos etched on, which mimicked the spread of a raven’s wings. His hair, slightly purple, tumbled in locks.

“Greetings, Atalia. It is good to see you again.” reverence was evident in his voice.

“Guessed me dead, have you?” Atalia laughed.

“Of course not; but it has been a long time...I am genuinely worried.”

They proceeded among the ranks of soldiers. Upon witnessing the Princess and her trademark volcanic Fang, they shifted apart to create a spacious passage, much akin to the legend where a mysterious holy person swept the Great Sea in two. When they saw the flaming Vog she rode, they cheered in unison, roaring and shouting her name in veneration.

“Turns out even among my own troops, you are the favourite.” Corvus stuck out his tongue.

“I always am. Sorry that you only know now.” Atalia shrugged.

Corvus’ troops were dressed in black, the signatory colour of his family. Banners flew high, black ravens holding an arrow in its fearsome claws. “How many do you have here?”

“About four thousand; two thousand being my regulars; crossbows, cavalry and such; the rest are levies which I field to err….absorb the damage.”

“I get what you mean. How do you deploy your troops?”

“Ah, I know what you’ll ask next: Where can I fight? You’re always like this, Atalia; even if not commanding you still want to fight as a normal soldier.”

“Corvus, you are always the clever one.”

“That doesn’t stop me from stating the obvious that you could hardly fit into my army. I always play the defensive; it’s the same this time, I just can’t tell my men to charge into their fire; that would be ordering them to suicide.”

“I see. Skirmishers at the flanks, crossbows at the centre covered with pikes? That’s an old strategy. You’ll probably break before they got worn down. You need more than that.”

“Talk about ingenuity.” Corvus shuffled through the ranks of his crossbows. They straightened up immediately, clutching their weapons dearly less they misfire, and waited for their Lord to pass. “I got these.”

“Firearms. Kai must be jealous.” Atalia shook her head. Despite their increasing prevalence in warfare. she strongly detested them. Fang is all I need.

“The result could be devastating if we could lure them, limit their speed and fire at close quarter. I got about two hundred pieces at the moment, enough to shatter their morale; then my crossbow can sweep in. But first…I need someone to destroy those armoured vehicles for me; they are too stout for my soldiers. Can you manage?”
‘
“Ah, that seems a nice challenge.” Atalia minded not the underlying danger. Fang, bestow again upon me your immeasurable power.

Wish you success, little Princess. My power be yours.

A tall man came over, dressed in a set of black plate armour, a gigantic lance in his arm. He bowed to Corvus; as he looked up his eyes bulged in surprise.

“Is that…” he gawked stupidly, “the Princess?”

Atalia smiled. “Yeah. Let’s begin, shall we?”

The room was hot. It was deep into winter, the paletted windows of the conference room slick with frost; inside, the broiling heat of tea repulsed all tangible traces of coldness. Mira wasn’t sweating; the silverweave kept her aired and cool. However, her palms did, as she rubbed them nervously. She tasted her tea, sipping the steaming liquid from the porcelain cup; the rim was hot, the handle starkly cool; lost in the swerving, white steam, she desperately avoided the King’s deep, thoughtful gaze.

The tea was hot, almost scalding. A thin trickle along her tongue into her throat, it numbed her mouth, stripping its ability to taste but bland heat. She attacked the cup restlessly; one more moment of drinking is one less moment of confrontation.

I have come all the way here. Now I am stepping back?

The Night had risen. Unity between all factions was compulsory. She must speak up, to inform her father of the events. Now.

Yet, to speak, to confront her adopted father, was not different to opening the Pandora’s Box which she had buried on her way down to the Depths…

It was her father who broke the silence. “It has been long. My first glance brought me back to my first encounter with Saika. If not for the hair…”

“How is she now?”

She had died, you fool. Mira wanted to shout at her supposed father. The images, deeply planted in her mind, surfaced, popping and bubbling wickedly following the opening of her Box. After so many years, she trembled.

Mira knew little of her mother. She had bedded with some halfblood, gave birth to her, and sent her to the Temple at three. The only thing she did...was probably to request her former lover to adopt Mira as daughter. Which she didn’t appreciate much.

Mira was fourteen, locked in the cell after the failed Test of Flames. Her mother, with her flaming hair and burning swords, walked through the gates unopposed, the guards overwhelmed by her sheer beauty and hidden ferocity. She couldn’t find the key; she comforted her child when she destroyed the iron bars with a clear strike.

She had told her to go south, past the towns and farmland, past the mountains and the Citadels; she shall be guided to the forests, where she would go down to the Depths and join her friends.

“What if they don’t like me?” Mira asked tearily, her body shaking frailly from the burns and cuts she had sustained in the Test; they had pestered her, lurking, leeching on her pain. She couldn’t sleep.

“Mention my name. They will never reject a descendant of Lucielle.” then, she proceeded to hand Mira the essentials of the journey. Her ceremonial cloaks, a spare change of garment, a hood, Crowns and weapons; she gave her the curved blade with a serrated edge which she had practised with, the sword known posthumously as “Winmillion”; she had wanted to give her the Combustor as well, but she never got chance---

After minutes of battle, Saika fell; specks of blood animated her red hair; a alluring flower blossomed gloriously on her blouse. Mira could just identify the victor’s look as she stumbled and ran, tears spilling freely, tears of horror and sorrow.

Atalia.

“What are you doing, coming after such a long time? Your sister has not quite forgotten your failure.” the King’s cold, emotionless dialogue brought her back to life. There was more warmth when he mentioned the word “sister”, than there was in the entire conversation.

I am a mere promise to your lover. Only Atalia is your true treasure. Mira was not embittered by this; the first time her mother brought her into the palace, she already knew. My singular usage is for you to show the public how devoted you are, to have a daughter devoted to the Goddess.

But that she didn’t abhor, either.

“Father…” the disyllabic word was pronounced with much difficulty. “I come here as an ambassador for peace.”

“Peace? Between what?” a man torn by politics, his voice was weary.

“Between Almire and the Spiral Order.”

“That’s impossible.” the King spoke slowly, surely, in a matter-of-fact way. “I don’t know where you had learned this nonsense; my answer is simple: no.”

“But...father! The Night has risen. We must act before it consumes us; embroil Almire further in the war, and we are digging our own graves...all of us. Even my friends down couldn’t survive. Father, I need your help; speak, and we could stop, cooperate, and fight against the common danger.”

The King sipped his tea placidly, then shook his head, a slight, unpronounced motion, as if afraid of offending anyone. He is hesitating. Mira knew. Years ago he had been so proud and confident when he displayed her to Kai and his family. Now…

She summoned her courage, pledging something she seldom made---an empty promise, “We have Lance operating at the other end. When the peace comes, it would be an honourable one.”

The King entered a state of meditation. Mira waited patiently, watching every droplet of steam condensing into droplets---the tea was a dark red, but when each individual vapour liquified, they turned colourless.

Finally, he said weakly, “I’ll think about this. But...I need to talk to your sister. She won’t be very happy about this.”

What if she never comes? What if she comes after the apocalypse? What if she didn’t want to end this at all?

“Oh, Mira, I can arrange a room for you.” he suddenly added, as if that one room could compensate so much she had missed.

“No thanks, King. I’ll seek shelter in the Temple.” she answered gruffly, rose, and exited.

Father. Not only have you grown older, but also weaker.

Have I grown stronger?

Mira exited the palace from the kitchen backdoor. Kai wasn’t there. Alone she crossed the city, heading west; the winter wind blew on, chilling and merciless; snow had started to assemble, a great quilt overlaid on the cobblestone streets, only inches thick but quickly gaining substantiality. She pulled her hood low, its woolen fabric soggy from the melting frost; the weight seemed to drag her down, dragging her down to a world deliberately forgotten in vain.

Afternoon, but the gales howled; darkened the sky, dimmed its faint, scant sunlight; vanishing scents of amber choked in the clogging depths of drab density. Fleeting flakes of subzero aqua pelted against her pretty cheeks, scratching, clawing, proclaiming ruthlessly winter’s sovereignty.

The streets were empty, as they were a week ago. Careless wanderers floundered out of existence, to shelter in somewhere safe and warm; she doggedly carried on.

Dragging her fatigued body through the heavy snow was difficult; twisting her damaged soul to confront the ghost of her past...was excruciating.

If I hate this. Why am I going on?

It was a great relief when she arrived at the Temple. A truly gargantuan structure, great interlinked domes adorned with marble and silver. However, it had lost its former illuminations of glory---most of the domes were empty, unworshipped, unused at all; though it still possessed significant influence, its worshippers dwindled.

Mira remembered this clearly; having spent ten years residing and training, there was no way she could erase the location from her memory.

The third dome from the left; that was where she lived. With much effort she toiled over the remaining hundred metres or so; a light shimmered in the distance, an unstable yellow glow created by burning oil. It was a woman clothed in a white cloak, an oil lamp in one hand, a blanket in the other.

“Please come in, Your Highness. There is food and bed ready for you.”

Gratefully, Mira received the blanket. “How do you know I am here?”

“Your friend has informed us of Your Highness’ coming earlier. We are able to prepare.”

“Friend?” did she meant Kai?

“Yes, Your Highness. Lord Kai has arranged for you; he said he was sorry to leave without you, but he had to engage the enemy. He would find you for tea later.” the Priest smiled mildly, “Your Highness, welcome back to the Temple.”

The clocked ticked again; the short arm passed five. Mira didn’t know it was that late; the sun had already set, and the entire structure stood in solitude, bracing against the shrieking coldness.

She settled in her room, a small, stone cube swept spotless; no windows, a plain bed, table and closet; the mattress was hard, the table rough and wooden, but she had no complaints; you couldn’t expect much from a Temple, anyway.

Her cloak was already soaked; the silverweave scarf was miraculously dry. She was happy when she discovered a change of clothes in the closet; quickly she changed into the plain, purple-and-black cloak.

A knock was heard on the door; Mira opened to meet the same Priest that had greeted her at the entrance. She brought with her a small tray of food; a thin broth, rice and some vegetables; meat and wine were never served, but Mira didn’t was too tired to mind. “They told me to give you some time for rest; if Your Highness may, join the evening prayer after you had finished.

She had constantly prayed after her departure. Evening prayer was an entirely different affair; monotonous reading for up to an hour, she began appreciating its solemness and graveness as she matured---back in childhood it was akin to torture; even worse, after the prayer it was bedtime. The night she hated.

Down the hallway the steady prayer reverberated; the tenth time today, the millionth time in history. Many would question its futility: if the Goddess never answered her followers, then why pray? Mira hadn't thought of that. All she needed was faith.

Priests, all of them, male and female, high and low, knelt in unison, their multi-coloured cloaks still, silent, solemn.

Exalted Goddess, divine Goddess,

Watch us from Thy watchful eyes,

Judge us with Thy just palms.

Praise Thy followers of the faith,

Guide the fallen and the astray.

O Divine Goddess---

Guard us from the Night’s sinister gaze,

Shield us from its malevolent reach.

…

Night never dies, but bestow on us life.

Kai rode through the night, leading his troops to the frontline. It was cold, but the storm had subsided after sunset; less blinding and better for navigation. His troops, draped in purple furs, resisted the chill stoutly.

He had left the City in the afternoon, after receiving a message from Nyarla, his friend and fellow accomplice on many a raids. In haste he gathered his elites, a thousand in total, and set off south; his father would bring the reinforcements later. He could not afford to be late.

The Order was trying to cross the Blackstone.

The river of lava, impassible in summer except for a few natural rock bridges; in winter, still formidable, but Kai knew that it wasn’t unbreachable with the Order’s technology.

Blackstone. Beyond that was Nyarla’s citadel, Blackstone Keep. And beyond that...his citadel. Then the City of Almire.

Never knew things have evolved so far.

Two hundred kilometres apart, the road to Blackstone Keep was long, its condition dilapidated by the snow.

Lucky I got the best horsemen in Almire.

Through the night they rode, until the moon rose, zenithed and set. At the break of dawn they reached Blackstone. Nyarla’s soldiers were assembling outside the Citadel, disciplined pikes and swords in neat order. Horses toiled to tow the great monstrosities from the arsenal: Cannons.

The four great Lords of Almire: Corvus, Nyarla, Hyacinth, and Kai. Each had their own specialty, together they form the core of the Almirian forces; Corvus’ projectiles; Nyarla’s foot and artillery; Hyacinth’s scouts and logistics; Kai’s horsemen.

Kai hadn’t seen Nyarla in some time; a young woman, a year or two older than him, with flowing silver hair and ruby lips. Most mesmerising were her eyes; whirling goblets of chaos, enigmatic impulses of overtly complex contrivances. A better plotter than executor, she was forced into pitched battle by the invaders.

Clad in her beauty---silver ermine cloak, cerulean velvet sash and high boots, her expression was nowhere as dainty as her dressing.

“They’re about to begin.” she said grimly.

The Knights surged over the rocky bridges. The swordsmen raised their shields and braced for impact. The pikemen charged forward, halting the Knight’s advance. The Knights fired.

Behind Kai smoke rose. The artilleries fired, launching hundreds of pounds of iron and lead, pulverising the Knight’s vanguard; their armour and guns were useless against the sheer force of destruction. Nyarla mounted her horse and charged into the fray. Mayhem ensued.

“Time to kill.” coolly, Kai directed his horsemen. Within a minute they were all back on their mounts. The horses snorted in excitement, whinnying impatiently. The battle didn’t start as planned, but he deemed to change the tide. A black bolt, his expert cavalrymen shot into the Knights, blinded by the smoke and unable to fire effectively. They clashed.

Mira, wait for me. I shall have tea with you when I bring peace.

Atalia smirked. The vehicles behind screeched to a halt, burning, searing, evanescing. Out of the putrid black smoke she rode, the crimson baton held high, a bright beacon in the chaotic wreckages.

Crush the van, outflank the wing, crush the rear. The derelict carcasses of charred technology did not awake the attention of the Knights; they charged valiantly at Corvus’ ranks, unaware of their comrades’ fate.

The battle is over. She leered as her fearsome squad of Riders massacred the rear. The poor Knights, they never stood a chance---hardly a shot was fired before they were silenced. Their polished swords remained unused, tucked tight in their belts.

The blood embellishes thee, Fang.

Around her the Riders spreaded out, their blades unsheathed, eager to bite into armour and flesh; their rides howled, sickening, crying for the insatiable lust of blood. The daring Princess rode at the foremost, skewing her foes with the tip of her fire-imbued sword, slicing apart limbs and digits with its raw, unadorned edge. Foes...not foes at all, mere targets for slaughter---

That does not satisfy me, Fang.

Ah, little Princess. If that’s the case, look forward.

A few Riders screamed in agony as a torrential rain of bullets and energy orbs tore through their bodies. Stained and tattered by their own vermillion, they slumped dejectedly, their lives broken abruptly from the savouring of victory.

“Ah. The reserve. How could I forget.” Atalia reeled, returning to her usually asserted position of vanguard, sprinting towards a fresh cohort of soldiers, guns and vehicles. The Vog growled a rumbling howl, carrying her forward to the fray, tails of wicked flame spewing from its hind.

She had not be unscathed---the hostility left quite a few marks on her; the loss of blood, no matter how insignificant, had coupled with the tiredness of the ongoing battle and wore her down. Her muscles were getting sore; she found it demanding to have the Fang raised so high.

“Princess, may I suggest we take a rest and let Lord Corvus deal with them?” Vercin advised after seeing his Princess’ nearly unnoticeable wobble atop the blazing Vog. He had sustained a considerable number of wounds, which he had bounded but still hurt.

“Negative. Corvus’ muskets simply can’t handle. Otherwise he won’t request my help. I don’t want to spoil such a great victory---he’ll surely kill me.” she patted her lieutenant's shoulder reassuringly, “Don’t worry; the Princess never dies. I still have enough strength.”

And enough desire for the flames to power me for another day or two. She didn’t add.

Fang, I need your power. Let them again overflow me.

Sure, little Princess. Wish you success…

Atalia yelped in delight as fire enveloped her dragon scale. She knew...it would only tire her more after the flames dissipated; she only wished to cling to this moment.

True heir of the Fang...Vercin bowed in deep respect while commanding his troops to resume the offensive.

“Vercin,” the Princess added, “Take those wounded and evacuate them to somewhere safe. Get some rest yourself. I am going in.”

“Pardon?” completely dumbfounded, the hardy warrior reiterated his question times after times, “Princess, are you sure you really want to go in? On your own?”

Her grin was blazing sharper than the flames. “The Princess never dies. And if I do, I can only die once. Take care.”

With that she started. The phoenix returned. The Vog exulted in lust. The world discoloured, the eccentric Princess once again charged into the vividly painted destruction.

pl0x nerf Atalia?

I am not dead. I have not abandoned this fanfic. I am still writing.

And as usual, I am still an epic failure! :D
Enjoy the epicly failed Chapter 10, where Diana and Ardern made appearances.

Song: I'll think of it later, will update

Chapter 10

Diana had a dream.

In the dream, it was always dusk. A fine autumn evening, cool, lax, beautiful. The sky was always streaks of bloody red in the west, an invariable sapphire with a luminous quality. Celestial objects pressed into the hundreds of hues of dusk, diamonds twinkling for ever more.

Night was on its way to claim the city. Sunlight had dimmed, in its place street lamps and neon lights; apart from the isolated islands they illuminated, Haven was an ultramarine ambiance, evolving deeper with each passing moment.

She stood outside a building; a three-storeyed apartment with white, scrubbed exterior, maroon-tiled roof, and a door; the door was seldom open.

She saw a girl walking on the street, moving hesitantly towards the house. The hem of her blouse drifted absently in the night wind; its flimsy white fabric could not hide the scrapes and bruises on her ivory skin, blotches of unappealing decoration; some were new, some were old: red, purple, black and blue.

The door opened. The girl entered. The door slammed shut. Diana blinked; the window had suddenly turned dusty, as if desolated and ignored for years. She could not see through.

She knew what happened next. The father would bellow, demanding from the daughter why she didn’t attend medical school today. The daughter would hustle in a corner. The father would strike.

He slapped. She fell. The daughter didn’t cry out, but sobbed softly. The father was merciless. He struck, first with his belt and then with his cane. First it hit her arms and legs, igniting the red flowing secretively under her anemic ivory. The sharp tip of the cane would rip open her flesh.

Bruises and lacerations. The girl outside the house would know with her vaguely understood medical terms. But it was more than what two words could describe; she knew the ghost of her past burned.

The scene would change here; a thunderstorm would brew. Distant cracks would make themselves known. Diana would shiver.

Her mother would join in the fray; screaming a volley of intimidating questions, she would ask, “Why…”, “Why…”, “Why…”...

It would penetrate the glass and into her ears, a thousand monosyllabic flies drumming inexorably against her brain, feisty to taste the content inside.

The slaps and whips subsided. The dull sound of flesh against flesh echoed. Diana winced. Bruises popped one after the other. Then muscles. Then the bones. They snapped in silence.

Broken fifth metatarsal. Fractured second proximal phalange. The observer started to chill.

The beating intensified. They would stomp on her, spat on her, rage at her. First they preserved her; now they willed to destroy. Driven by a great sense of disappointment, their daughter didn’t seem a daughter at all; merely a rag doll to be punished. At least her brother was asleep.

They struck the joints. The limbs. Sickening crunches displaced the silent cycle of disintegration.

Tibia hairline fracture. Glenohumeral joint dislocation. Shattered patella. The girl outside the window wept, banging hysterically against the unyielding glass.

Stop.

The father, an expert in anatomy, hit hard; her solar plexus, knocking the wind out of her, inserting into her stomach a whirring drill of excruciation; her temple, sending dizzy jolts of painful disorientation up her brain.

The girl inside wailed. The girl outside wailed.

Stop. You are killing her. A hot liquid streamed freely, washing away the dust on the window, leaving trails of clear tear; the other side of the window remained obscured, but finally she could have a glimpse of her past---

Then the knife struck. Severed external carotid artery?

Diana’s neck was cold. A sublime coldness. And wet. The knife lodged.

Screaming, she woke.

The first thing she did was to reach for her own throat; her fingers collided with a hard, metallic surface. Frantically, she traced its contour with frantic fingers; it was smooth and circular, enveloping the entirety of her soft neck.

Not the knife. Just my bangle.

Fumbling with the clasp at the back of her neck, she detached the bangle, a compact piece of silvery steel with simple geometric carvings; its surface was plated by chromium, the hardest metal known to man.

Gingerly, she brushed her digits against the right of her neck; a jagged scar, lumpy and red; collagen replaced skin and flesh, a distorted brand indelible to her body. At least it wasn’t bleeding.

She hurriedly put the bangle back on. Its snug hug comforted her.

So long. So haunting.

The fluorescent clock at bedside displayed the time to be six thirty. A single ray of sunlight passed through the heavy curtains, spilling onto the floor. Kicking off the quilt, she quickly rose; Sylf was asleep, drooling cutely.

Diana changed quickly. Tearing off her pyjamas, she put on a white blouse and a pair of blue jeans. Entering the bathroom, she observed her hair while brushing her teeth; it was messy and tangled after the night of nightmares; she had it tied back with a small golden bangle, garnet studded.

Proceeding to the living room, she made coffee. Her apartment was a tiny area; one bedroom, one bathroom, one living room, that’s all. At the far corner of the living room was a stove and a small fridge. A cheap coffee machine was present---Diana didn’t bother making coffee.

Coffee was ready; she cupped her palms round the plastic mug, which heated her frozen hands; she sighed with satisfaction. It didn’t snow, and sunlight ample, but even inside the apartment it was cold; it was as if the atmosphere had crystallised and refused to be heated. Next she made toast. While drinking her bitter espresso she toasted the bread; three pieces: two for Sylf, one for herself. Sylf loved to eat a lot. When the toasts were ready she had them buttered; munching one she checked her watch---it was not even seven in the morning. She had to arrive at the museum at eight forty-five, so she still had an hour before she set out.

Better to work on the thesis paper. She was halfway through her research; thanks to the museum she worked at, she could freely access the millions of historical files stored inside. During her first year of self-study she studied Haven History as a whole; the second year she started to fill in the blanks.

She switched on her laptop. “The Missing Year”.

“Morning, Sis.” the clear, melodic voice of a certain boy was heard behind.

“Hello, Sylf. You’re up early today.” without looking back she knew who it was; after all, there were only two inhabitants here. “Toast is ready.”

The boy with curled hazel hair yawned cutely, rubbing his foggy eyes; still in his pyjamas, he waking was apparently incomplete. As he sat down at the table and grabbed a piece of toast, Diana went over to the fridge and poured him a glass of milk. And more coffee.

Sylf’s head perked. He protested, “Sis, I can do this on my own. I am fourteen.”

“How about this?” Diana laughed as she wiped drool marks from her little brother’s cheeks. Sylf blushed instantly. “Little adult, do you never wipe your face?”

“No, Sis…” he mumbled, “I am grade 8 now…”

“Ah, you are not even into puberty. I guarantee that’s not a nice affair.” Diana emptied her coffee. “Now behave and be my nice little brother. If you manage to finish breakfast in 5 minutes and get changed as soon as possible, I could perhaps bring you to school…”

“Sure, Sis.” Sylf beamed, wolfing down his toasts, “Haven’t done that in a long time.”

“Good boy…” Diana mumbled as she caressed the cute boy’s hair; half a head shorter than the already very short Diana, he would have a lot to catch up with when he grew up…

It was eight fifteen when she arrived at the museum. Work would start in half an hour, so she took a rest at the employer’s lounge; a plain room with plastic chairs, tables, microwave ovens...and more instant coffee. Liquor was only served for the night shift, when the late visitors partied with the welcoming curators; scrubbing the mess was another issue.

She extracted the laptop from her tote bag and started typing; no after long her associates flocked in, yawning, dozing off, paper bags of breakfast held in their hands.

“Morning, Diana.” a fellow curator sat opposite to her, scowling slightly. “So early today, huh?”

“Good morning, Chunelle.” Diana’s gaze remained on the screen, her fingers drumming rhythmically on the keyboard. “Went to bring Sylf to school so I am early.”

“Ah, that kid!” Chunelle bursted into a round of rowdy laughter. Her face was red like apple cider---maybe she had drunk a lot of that? “Seriously, Diana, don’t pay so much attention to that kid; find yourself a boyfriend and life suddenly gets better.”

So she had not only drunk a lot, but also had affairs with her newly claimed boyfriend. Diana formulated. “...No.” was her reply.

“Why? Come on, see what charm you possess? Hair, eyes, lips---they fit with the golden ratio! And god, look for yourself; you are so cool in that low-waist jeans.”

Diana was genuinely irritated. Chunelle might be company for a can of beer or two, but at such supposedly bright times in the morning, she was hardly more than a very ridiculous nuisance; no, not obnoxious, but not far from it either.

“Please shut up and let me finish my paragraph. If the residue of alcohol still tempers your muddy cherry of a brain, have an extra dose of caffeine---you may consider eating the coffee powder raw, the bitterness may help wake your hormone-spammed brain.”

Chunelle blinked absently, profoundly confused. Finally she uttered, “But...but...Diana! You are twenty-five. If you don’t find someone now, when you are less hot, you won’t have a chance…”

“Yeah. Thanks for reiterating the temporality of life. Thanks too for refraining from carpet-bombing me with your illustrious record of sensual epitome. We can talk more when we get off work. But my answer remains no.” she rose, taking off her fur coat; its getting warm.

“But Diana!” Chunelle exclaimed, “That boy is really a good one. You can hardly find such nice kids around! Look at mine...his ability is doubtable. At least your boy won’t have such a problem.”

“I’ll consider when Sylf grows up, I guess. Not before that.” lifting a microphone into her pocket, she headed towards the history section. History wasn’t the most popular part of the museum; on weekdays the visitor count per hour could approach zero. Who cares though, there’s pay.

The day turned out as expected. She had counted seven guests so far, and only one required her curation. Lunch would arrive soon---her tummy had begun its riotous grumble. She counted another thirty-five minutes before she could head out for lunch.

Leaning on a glass display shelf, she scribbled on her notes; some were useful, the outlines and logical flows of her thesis, some conjectures she had brainstormed in idleness; others were plain scrap; doodles, scribbles and a few lines of ballad. She had always considered herself a quasi-romantic personality.

The door squeaked, squirming. Footsteps carried on...to her section? When the new visitor stood face-to-face with the distrait curator, she realised she had drawn a gun.

What? When the visitor approached, she felt the image yanked from her mind. Why?

The visitor’s first inquiry was oblivious. Sincerely, with an expression of someone forever isolated from the rampant society, he asked, “What year is it now?”

Well, he was either an amnesiac or a joker, Diana thought. Still, she answered politely, “Sir, it’s Haven Cycle 80. Eighty years since the landing of Skylark.”

“Eighty…” the stranger mused, tugging the silver fur collar of his greatcoat. “Now, would you please show me the history?”

She found it hard to remove her gaze from the stranger’s silver hair, curled, opaque with a texture that resembled moonlight; a snow lion’s mane without its overt, self-indulgent ferocity. “Follow me this way.”

They entered the passage of time, the most elaborate set-up in the entire museum. Renowned for its huge capacity of boring knowledge, it was also the most unvisited area. The stranger seemed to absorb all of these with interest, however; he listened attentively, studying the exhibitions, a pondering realisation present in his expression.

The history rewound, from the relative peace lately to the ages of turmoil past; conflict had subsided to a manageable level in the recent quarter of a decade, but before that, it was a free-for-all: the Order and Almire engaged in a series of fruitless brawls with local warlords struggling to the seat of prominence.

The visitor expressed his preferences, stating that he was more curious towards the military; Diana explained accordingly, tracing the eighty years of bloodbath all the way too its root.

The Midsummer Campaign, the final major effort the Order committed to subjugate Almire, which ended in the indecisive victory at the Battle of Tavast; peace was signed due to the immeasurable losses amounted on both sides. The second Siege of Haven, the last time Almire would advance into the Order’s heartland. The Clash of Three Lords, so called since it claimed the lives of three dignitaries: the King of Almire, the Grand Master of the Spiral Order, and the Lord of the usurping Principality of Lowlands.

She continued, to the first clash of the two powers, the establishment of Frontierlords, the chronicles of Lucielle “Darkfire”, the human warrior who fought to defend Almire.

When the name Lucielle was pronounced, the stranger shuddered. Out of curiousity, Diana asked, “From what I know, the Darkfire was tried posthumously at the martial court for high treason. What does that name mean to you?”

The stranger had regained his composure. “Nothing special,” he smiled coolly, “just reminded me of a...predecessor of the same name.”

“By the way,” he questioned, “what happened in the first Haven Cycle?”

He finally noticed. Not many would discover this obvious fallacy---most simply regarded the first year as a year of “nothing done”, a lull before the great storm, a rare, welcoming rest between the journey and the battle.

But that’s not the case. Things did happen in that year; only concealed. She was only able to conclude after extensive research that something really horrible happened. She would even use the word dark to describe. That was what she was working in her thesis---the lost year of Haven. She wouldn’t be able to reassemble the piece of jigsaw perfectly---far from it, but at least she could determine that something was hidden behind the veil for a purpose…

“There’s no record for the first Haven Cycle,” she answered; somehow, the stranger’s gaze of ridicule, emanating from his glinting crystalline eyes, unrested her. She added promptly, “Of course, that’s what they say…”

“That means there are other sayings?”

“Yup. If you have time, perhaps I could explain more...”

“Ah, I guess not.” the stranger smiled, a thoroughly amiable expression which conveyed the sole message of “no-thank-you”. “Actually, I know what happened. It was sorrow.”

What? “Wait! What do you mean by that?” she knew that could be the key to her thesis, to rebase her piece of dark surmise to something multiple levels greater...or was it the key to more?

“Nice to meet you. My name is Lance.” he turned and left the museum. Diana tried to catch up, to ask for more, but Lance had already vanished beyond the barring door, his beautiful hair blazing one last time in her eyes.

“Lance…” the name was mulled over for several minutes. The cold indifference, the cool look that “I am in charge”...it reminded her of someone.

She decided that he looked a lot like Nyx.

I am the Lord of the Storm, protector and patron of the east. So the linen sheet claims.

Unto the end of my life, I shall carry this responsibility with honour and dignity. Now that my time has come, I have no more to remorse. Battles I fought a many, victories I have claimed; the Goddess has blessed me with strength and perseverance, I return the favour with glory and success, with my fearless defence dedicated to Almire and its Goddess.

So, the owner of this text was not only a High Lord, but also a cocky one. Hiros could almost grasp the condescence in the text. He wasn’t a particularly forgiving person, but for now, he would spare the piece of linen’s life.

As long as there’s a sword I can find. He smirked, laughing atop his horse. All around his peers glared with a contemptuous rage; they were not lucky enough to find a mount they could afford. Their pace was fast; assembled into a column of the Order’s troops, the mercenaries were designated to reinforce the crossing of the Blackstone, and take part in any subsequent conflicts. Not known as the most trustworthy of warriors, a number of Spiral officers were dispatched to exercise discipline and punishment whenever necessary, bringing with them more soldiers than the ragtag men-for-hire could ever hope to defeat.

They were discontent. Looks of malice looks were shot upon the officers as the mercenaries imagined sweetly how could they torture and plunder them one day. Hiros didn’t have such thoughts; not due to cowardice, but simply due to his goals:

Get another blade. Fight someone worthy.

With my dear blades I fight. With them I grasped victory and escaped defeat. With them I fought, I dueled, I redeemed the title of Lord of the Storm. They changed my fate---with them, I altered that of many more.

The last of the great swordsmen. Hiros thought. That would be quite an adequate title for Windchaser’s owner---if he was indeed what he claimed to be.

Deliberately, he rode at the front of the column, as near to the regulars and commanders as possible. Far from the maddening crowd, alas...and much easier to overhear things. They were still some thirty kilometres from Blackstone; the tumultuous flow of incinerating lava rumbled bellicose in the backdrop.

The leading Knight’s intercom emitted a blue light; in a hushed voice he replied, his voice sounding like a set of whirring gears from far. Perking up, Hiros silenced, listening to nothing but the officer’s faintly distinguishable conversation.

First attack...harsh fighting...many losses...repelled...Lord Kai...reinforcements…

Ah. Hiros felt anticipation kindle within. Not only would there be a fierce fight, but also notable swordsmen...the Lords of Blackstone and the Winged Snarbolax. Would be good.

Now, I often shake in the dark. In the silent of the night I would wake, listening to the weeping of ghosts and shadows. My hands tremble; my blades shiver incessantly in my grip. My sight ails; I strike at shadows, everything are mere blurs. When I write this message, I am disgusted by myself; holding a pen seemed so difficult…

So far gone is the era of my blades. I knew that. The end had started long ago, when I was still young. They came; that changed everything. The battle with the Night were the blades’ final stage, beyond that they began to fade. I knew that. With my blades I have fought on for many more years, but I knew that…

No problem, mate. Hiros thought. Whatever you think of your blades, I am reviving them for you. From his back he extracted Windchaser, brushing its smooth, flat surface against his arm.

Around the officers barked orders to hustle. The regulars broke into a jog, followed by the unwilling mercenaries. Effortlessly, Hiros hastened his pace to a comfortable trot. On his horse, he finished the last of the message.

I am old. Dying. What my enemies failed to wrestle from me, time did in a click of its fingers. I am not defeated...merely disqualified by the changing of the era. Now my swords rest in peace, useless, forgotten, my frail heart their only solace. But soon I would die.

Windchaser is here for you to wield. Whoever that enters and acquires the sword of swiftness, I have faith in you. Use it to your purpose, and one day, you shall reclaim the title of the Lord of Storm…

My other blades are asleep. They decay, slowly, in the crypt that I had prepared for them. They have company; my friends and foes alike, their blades all rest with mine. Yet they wail. In their sleep they wail.

Whoever you are, you have become my heir. Find them in the Grave of Blades. Redeem them.

The Grave of Swords.

A chorus of noises rose; screams, wails and moans, propagated the distance between them and the battlefield. They were near.

The closer they were, the hotter. The Blackstone exhibited a natural hostility---one that was not directed at anyone, but rather, life itself; it blubbled, popped, streams of red-hot magma overflowing the blackened, obsidian banks. Sometimes there would be explosions; the natural discharge of the long-repressed intensification of heat and pressure, displayed in one go in a spectacularly woven prominence.

The Grave of Swords. Where was it? Hiros possessed next to no information; he was quite sure that if he questioned anyone about this, they would probably bestow upon him the honourable fellowship for the mentally unstable.

Why bother? Hiros wasn’t a particularly conserved person...he never was. Passivity had its own benefits. Just keep finding; one day he would have it discovered.

“Greetings, Colonel Bernhard.” The reinforcement column met the main army. The dignified officers decided to greet in a simple, unfashionable manner. How rare.

“Greetings, Major Ardern.” The burly officer stocked with weapons all over his body replied loudly. He had a great beard, flaring with strength in all directions, a radiating mess of black hair; flakes of skin and spit lodged between.

“General Clauswitz has been waiting...he’s an impatient person, you know.” Bernhard’s gruff voice scratched unwelcomingly against Hiros’ ears. “He requested your unit to be deployed to the left wing immediately. We still possess the bridgehead, but losing momentum.”

“Alright.” Ardern saluted, then turned to address his unit. Unsheathing his sword, a cerulean Honour Blade with edges sharpened and plated with a rhodium-titanium alloy, he hefted it overhead; the soldiers cheered, and advanced towards the river.

Hiros was mildly surprised, and thoroughly amused by the officer’s caliber. To use a sword in the Order meant two things: either that you were too impotent to fire a gun, or that you were so omnipotent that no one dared question the sanity of your choice.

“Soldier.” Ardern spun to address Hiros; immediately he noticed the discord in his officer’s expression: it was not a battle-hardened, frosted face which’s naivety would be scrubbed bare by the years of deaths; it was new, young, with the blind optimism of someone who still sometimes romaticised war. He estimated Ardern to be about his age.

“Get off your horse; I don’t want you to fall when you cross the Blackstone. Its hot below.”

I am starting to like this person. Hiros grinned as he dismounted. I’ll try to save you when you fall.

The soldiers marched on, across the thin yarns of bridges that criss-crossed atop the fearsome Blackstone. Below flames spurred. Above the noon sun blazed. Beyond the battle raged.

Mixed emotions were exhibited on his comrades’ countenances; anticipation and excitement; fear and reproach. Hiros was the only one to smile.

Grave of Swords...I’ll come for you. Just let me finish this fight first.

Windchaser, are you ready?

He unsheathed Nightsong, and they were no more.

Beasts, zombies, deadly entities, fallen angels, guardians of the shadow, creatures of the Night...who cares. He unsheathed his blade, and they perished.

They advanced, heads drooping, charging blindly, their nightblades deadly accurate despite their inability to see. He minded not; once he unsheathed Nightsong, the nightblades paled in comparison---merely toy swords, withered and crushed in a single strike.

They advanced, heads tilted, snarling, their claws woven into a blind fury of sharp atrocity; despite their blood-driven frenzy, they attacked in waves, forming inescapable formations of offense. He minded not; to escape was never on his list of options, not even a plan Z. He unsheathed Nightsong, and their lusty ferocity paled in comparison to the inanimate blade’s palpable desire for crimson.

Find me find me find me take me take me take me......

The voice within him yelled, trapped in a wrong dimension where its effect was limited to almost none. In any other world it would be a prized collection, a piece so rare that kingdoms would war for its mere ownership. Blacksmiths would gladly brawl each other to death just for the opportunity to temper it.

But here...there was no blacksmith except for Septre.

Take me take me take me forge me forge me forge me......

Ah, I am coming. Septre mused to the voice. Just a moment longer.

What was rumoured to be a creature of the Night appeared before him. So it is true. Septre thought. The day before he had arrived at the border outpost of Ashendale; sitting at its only bar where muddy water was neatly disguised as beer, he overheard some rumours. Visiting the town asylum (which was pretty big by the way), he questioned a warrior who had unfortunately suffered from a mental breakdown following his journey into the cavern.

“Monster…! Huge, silver tree! Four eyes! Eight legs! Sixteen arms! Coming for me~!” he would scream, then faint. Septre lamented this poor guy personally.

“Ironwood Sentinel.” he stared, amused, at the monstrous slab of sentient wood. Drab silver surface, its glow lost in time; four eyes, spacing the monster’s voluminous cranium evenly, inseparable into pairs; they studied him coldly, a feral viciousness intertwined with the great Lumber’s innate artificiality.

“I have no idea why you are here…”

Break it break it break it crush it crush it crush it…...

“Could you just get lost and rot?”

Wield me wield me wield me fuse me fuse me fuse me……

The battle ended in seconds. The Sentinel brought its numerous arms down in a hailstorm of silver fists, intending to crack the ground if it couldn’t crack its opponent’s skull. Septre’s decision remained simple; swinging his gleaming sliver of death in a wide arc, it decapitated all sixteen trunks of arms. Ironwood? Simply too weak. He wouldn’t even consider it a forgeable metal.

The next strike came from a backhand arc. With the intensity of a tidal wave tearing down Indonesian wood huts, it splitted the Sentinel in two; a great sound of torn wooden fiber was heard, and the creature of the Night was no more.

Come to me come to me come to me……

The chaotic flow of a voice suddenly calmed. In clear intonation it spoke to him one last time.

I am what you want.

Then there it was. A pristine crystal of darkness, a perfect hexagonal prism without a flaw, without a scratch, without a minute’s deviation from the perfect angle. It was a piece of metal, he was sure---the slight, periodical droning, the electric lustre, the invisible sparks induced in the air; it couldn’t be anything else. However, it also possessed other characteristics---a purple opacity, a very little degree of translucence that gave it a crystalline quality. Deep, whirling patterns could be spotted by a sharp-eyed person; Septre knew what that meant: the steel had just set.

Shadow steel...rumoured to be the parting gifts of a forgotten god, they were rare to the point of legendary; the last verified piece provoked a war between the Lords of Almire; that was over a century ago, before the Knights had arrived.

I am what you desire. Burn me. Shape me. Fuse with me.

Nightsong hummed softly against the celestial piece of steel. Lifting it up, Septre was surprised by its extraordinarily light weight---and toughness.

So you want to be my perfect blade? Follow me.

Normally he would return to his residence as soon as possible, riding through the day and night---but for now, he embarked on for another direction.

...Haven.

ENRAGED BUMP!

@Sirius: :O take care! Stark will appear, I assure you, though he's not a major character.

@Mordenius: He's actually not rude, he just loves his character, which I can very well comprehend. Btw, it is solely my problem to write in advance and still take in character apps while writing, me bad. Thanks for the bumps anyway :w:~!

I see that most of the guys are attracted to the great new roleplaying threads :w: I can't say I'm not sad, not much people bother reading a petty fanfic the length of a novel but only 0.5% as good lololololololololololol
I got really flabbergasted when I discovered I have already written over a typical Percy Jackson novel :w: ermagerd, what have I done with my time...

0. Vivi is in first person today.

0.5. Next chapter out tomorrow.

1. immoral bump here. huehuehue.

2. Thanks for the bumps Fireofearth though I would also appreciate some constructive criticism from you!

3. Mord, I am taking character apps any time, but if it is too late in the story then you know what I'll do with those new apps...one scener with some not-so-spectacular death...right now I have barely written past one third of the story so I guess it's ok.

4. At 93k words now, could reach 100k in 4~5 days; will have some final major/semi-major character rolecasting then.

5. Found out my words per hour is hardcapped at about 1.2k ;--; probably from my typing speed rather than how fast I think trololololololol~

6. Got enrolled into Hong Kong Model United Nation conference for the school, so cool :w:

7. I may post some spoilers in another writing style later today, tell me if u like it or not...more comments! MOAR COMMENTZ!

This Chapter takes a break from the previous and explores some less important (but still vital) details. Mordenius appears, he is not the dicky bomber at the previous Chapter. Stark, Justiani and Rolend also appear! So good!

So I prepared a condensed version for those who wish not to read the entire thing. Here it is...
Lance is sad, Nicholas tells him to play some GvG.
Rubius and Rolend have some random meeting with the enraged Spiral Order.
Mordenius and Justiani takes Rolend for a drink?
Nyx does some spying action.
Kai reviews some derp.
Stark catches a smuggler...
Erebus leaves home!
End of Part 2, wait for the interlude!

Chapter 13

Swords are gone. Lance thought bitterly. Travelling along the streets of Haven, he clutched the sack of swords instead of carrying them on his back. Today, he needed more comfort.

Frosty, but not so cold to penetrate his Skolver coat. The ground was overlaid by a veneer of sleet, crunching and melting upon his footsteps. It was morning; Saturday, when most people received their valuable day-off and decided to sleep till lunch.

For now, he was far away from the city’s turbulent dwellers. He was on his own, a privilege he didn’t even receive in his sleep; some rowdy gamblers or drunkards always rioted next door. This time he took to ponder.

Swords are no more...now he finally understood. Why swords were no longer seen in the world above. Why swords were unused, unmentioned, forgotten. Why people no longer acted in the way of swords.

That’s overdue...for eighty years. Haven’s history started eighty cycles ago. His swords’ ended when it started.

The other day at the tavern. When he faced the gun, he felt hopeless. Mighty his swords were, they could not match the piece of equipment operable without prior training or talent; he would be destroyed before he got there, to strike his blades into his enemies.

This is unfair. He tried to console himself. Yes, it was unfair. They were prepared; he wasn’t. Their weapon could range; his couldn’t. They possessed technology several hundred levels higher than his pieces of steel and silver. They had the advantage; they had the initiative. But what? In any battle one side must possess the advantage---else how was the fight supposed to be resolved?

“There is only one chance. On the battlefield you are already dead.”

He was confused. He was confused whether he really wanted the answer.

Divine Avenger…

Nicholas was there to meet him at the Coliseum. Not the one he had visited, but a smaller one located at the other side of Haven. Less competitive, less deadly foes...unwelcoming for Lance, but suitable for today’s purpose.

“May I introduce to you: Mankey, Kia, and Starvenus.”

“Mankey?” Lance frowned. The queer bartender at the tavern?

“Yeah; his other hobby that does not involve mixing dangerous alcoholic liquids is playing Lockdown. He’s pretty good, though he needs more training.” Nicholas laughed.

“Alright.” Lance shrugged, indifferent at the comment. “Let’s start then.”

“Guild Lockdown?” Lance asked quizzically. They were still sitting on the sofa, everything around them turned into a gigantic mess. The air smelled rank with gunpowder and blood; Mankey busily scrubbed away the blood, hands trembling.

“Yup.” Nicholas sipped his drink, smiling in delight. “The Grand Master rarely makes appointments with peasants like us. Even if he does it would not come true in a few months. We don’t have time for that, if things are indeed as dire as you said.”

“So what’s this Guild Lockdown business for?” scowled Lance, oblivious of the suggestion.

“The Grand Master meets the victors of the year’s Guild Lockdown and Lockdown tournaments. Its a convention---or should I say ritual: he would invite them into some special units of the Order. And of course, nearly everytime he was rejected.”

“If all you need is an opportunity to meet him face-to-face, this is the time. You haven’t accumulated enough points to enter the personal Tournament despite your awesomeness. However, my guild is eligible to enter the Guild Tournament; no prerequisites are required, once you got enough people in your guild you can join.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Ah. Welcome to the guild.” from a hidden corner under the sofa Nicholas fetched a pen and some paper. With his tremendous writing speed he scribbled an invitation, handing it to his friend. Lance took tenfold the time Nicholas spent to write to decipher the illegible handwriting.

“Reality Echo…?” he asked.

“Bingo. Actually the guild is derelict, everyone continues their own lives and spend absolutely no time doing stuff as a guild. But at this time of the year we do gather briefly and do some Guild Lockdown. Never made past third round, but this year’s different: we got you. Tournament starts in a few days so you’d like to start training my guildmates now.”

“Does this work? Seems risky to me.” Lance questioned.

“That’s another problem...in the preliminaries we would suffice with you; into the knock-out stage it may not be enough. Frankly, all Haven’s best warriors fight here; even some from the military. I could perhaps call upon…” Nicholas counted, “One, two...two of my friends that probably matched your strength, but no more. Curious to know whether you have any friends or acquaintances that you could invite?”

“So we need two more? I could provide…” Auresque and Xyver.

Lance examined his pupils. Mankey was the typical gunner with a blaster and a pulsar; its quality was much lower than Nicholas’ Polaris, but still a formidable sidearm in battle. Starvenus had a blaster, with a rapier as sidearm. She grinned confidently.

Kya wore a coat of synthetic materials. It was grey and resembled in form Lance’s pristine white garment. Typical Lockdown gear. Lance noted. He wielded a large, sturdy sword, light emanating faintly from its silver surface; according to Nicholas’ explanations, this was a Sealed Sword---a new experiment of the Order to seal elemental and shadow energy into swords. Old-school fanatics supported ardently, but this proved to be a failed attempt to revitalise the application of swords in battle; the energy infused was not enough to create major impact. Nonetheless, it became a handy piece of Lockdown equipment.

This is getting interesting. Lance thought when he spotted the semblance between the Sealed Sword and his Divine Avenger.

Divine Avenger...have you any use in Lockdown?

He wasn’t sure.

Rolend stood next to the Ambassador, legs apart at shoulder width. With a firm stature he surveyed the numerous dignitaries present at the meeting: Tedius, the Order’s Grand Master; Kozma Jr, Major general and quartermaster-in-chief. Also present were the Chancellor of Commerce from the Haven Council, a few prominent traders, and Rubius.

Master of the greatest guild ever to be constructed, he dressed in such casual ways that it didn’t fit his status at all: T-shirt, jeans, hair dyed red like a punk though he was already thirty. He whistled, unaware of Kozma’s glaring looks, and chewed a cookie.

And of course, the Ambassador, Harun, whom he acted as a bodyguard.

“Ambassador Harun, you should have already known our intention.” Kozma cleared his throat.

“Huh? I have no idea of that.” Harun feinted surprise, “One moment I was busy having tea in my residence, the next moment I was summoned to the meeting. Such etiquettes for treating a foreign ambassador.”

The Chancellor spoke, “Mister Harun, we have already sended you several messengers concerning the affairs; where were they now?”

“Rolend? Where were they?” Harun asked, a ridiculously puzzling look on his face.

“Sir, those intruders attempted to trespass private territory. I knocked them out promptly; then following your advice that excessive killing is not good, I chucked them into the sewers.” Rolend bowed, stating one word at a time. Kozma glared, bristling. With ease Rolend shrugged that off.

He was Rolend after all. Top student of the Lowland Military Academy, proud member of the Cobalt Owls, bodyguard in chief of the Ambassador---many a sharper glares he had endured in his military career. This was no problem.

Tedius began in a firm tone, “I request that the Principality of Lowlands severe all trade connections with Almire immediately. Shall you not comply, face an intervention.”

“Ah, a soldier at heart; that unexpected honesty.” Harun mused, “However, I don’t quite understand what you mean. We never had trade with Almire; there’s you blocking in the middle! How are we supposed to sneak hundreds of cargoes of goods under your watchful eyelids?”

“Stop this nonsense.” the Commerce Chancellor snapped, “Everyone knows you have some hidden paths that we can’t find.”

“If that’s so...then?”

Rubius interfered, “As a side note, I would like to announce here that my guild, The Empire, would not support such an atrocious act of embargo. It would benefit no one and hurt everyone.” especially me, he didn’t add. “My guild will continue its commercial activities as usual. If you are discontent...feel free to intervene.” he winked.

Kozma was enraged, but could do nothing; The Empire was vital for Haven’s daily operations; many crucial lifelines had been grasped in its all-reaching tentacles: food, advanced firearms manufacturing, Crystal mining, just to name a few.

The traders also interjected. “We have halted all trading activities with Almire and Ferrum; not complying to the Order would mean a similar fate to your country, Ambassador.”

“What a nice bunch of patriotic merchants,” Harun joked, “strange combination. I don’t believe Titania would so easily bend though; you’ll probably need her metal more than she’ll need your exports.”

More glares. “Ambassador, you do realise what you are saying...will provoke a full-scale war between the Lowlands and Haven?”

“So you can? Rolend, read them what you’ve found.”

Rolend obliged, reciting, “Out of the Order’s three hundred and forty thousand regulars, sixty thousand are deployed in border defence and maintaining order; over a hundred and fifty thousand are currently engaged with Almire, more than half of them unable to withdraw within any time soon.”

“That leaves you with a hundred and thirty thousand. This amount we are ready to defeat…”

Tedius’ eyes glared with furious contempt. Taking deep breaths, he tried to calm, saying, “Ambassador, please consider before you speak.”

“Is that? Please explain. I have the whole afternoon. Rolend, would you mind getting some tea?”

Rubius yawned, rising, leaving the conference room. “I don’t have your idle time. I’d rather spectate more Lockdown, have fun with my guildmates. Thanks for the invitation though, Grand Master.”

“Thanks for protecting me, I’ll be fine here; they’ll be framed if I died here no matter what the cause of death.” Harun entered the gate of his mansion, situated in the western side of Haven. “You are dismissed for the day.”

Roland bowed. “Ambassador, it is my responsibility to guard you. Perhaps…”

“No need for that. Its safe here. Assassins are not everywhere. I’d suggest you go elsewhere for now, have a drink, have a girl...it’s never too late to do that.” he smirked. “I know you haven’t had a chance to visit downtown Haven since your arrival.”

“May I refuse?” Rolend answered politely.

“I am afraid not. This is a order you have to obey.”

Rolend shrugged, exiting the gate of the Ambassador’s mansion. On the streets he wandered aimlessly; he didn’t bring with him his pouch of coins, so there would be nothing to drink, no girls to have.

He found himself surrounded by an array of Knights. They were dressed in cobalt blue armour, with elaborate helmets that reminded him of horse faces. They donned capes---long, flattering pieces of burgundy, with the Order’s insignia---a horse head embroidered.

One by one they unsheathed their blades: ascended Caliburs, the best sword that can be acquired in the Cobalt Guard. Tempered for at least ten times before completion, they were sharp and stoutly built, their surface gleaming, flawless; not much used in actual combat, they were often employed in the elite unit’s tavern brawls. That was handy.

They snickered, trying with difficulty to avoid his hostile gazes. They snickered in derision; Rolend could hear them talk about “the false Cobalt”.

“Problem with me?” while working his temper was exceptionally flat; judgement always came before emotion. But now...he remained his normal self. His pride from his prestigious lineage forbade him to bow and swallow the taunts, and instead resist; what the Cobalt Guards wanted him to do.

“Of course.” they shoved a guy out. He shouted loudly, “You are a false Cobalt! Go home and kiss your mommy’s teats!”

That guy flew backwards immediately, tumbling over several trash cans. Rolend’s blade roared; it highly resembled the Caliburs, but several sizes larger, broader. A Leviathan, retrieved from the initial archives of the Skylark, its number perhaps less than ten in total.

“Taste my sword.” he snapped. Caliburs were knocked into the air, a spectacular storm of swords. As he proceeded a hand stopped him from behind.

“Wow, wow. Don’t rage so much, man.” a mellow, giddy voice rang from behind. He turned to see another man in Cobalt, though one without a helmet; his hair was black and unkempt, his goatee ridiculously trimmed.

“Come this way, man.” he laughed, shoving Rolend away from the squabbling Guards. Behind him another man snapped coldly at Guards, criticising their impotence. Rolend noticed his strange outfit; a thick set of grey, electroplated armour with glowing electric lobes sticking out from behind. A demolitioner?

“Those guys are getting more and more outrageous.” he shrugged at a safe distance from the Guards. “I hope the special units at your place behave better.”

The demolition had caught up with them. Smiling, the Cobalt guy introduced, “Hello there. I am Justiani and this is Mordenius. We used to hang around with another pal of our’s, Stark, every night. But today he’s out on a mission, so we two are left alone...perhaps you would like to join us?”

“Err….sure?” this is getting clumsy.

That night, Rolend literally wobbled back to his place, retching on the way. It was so insane.

A slim figure materialised. His light brown hair blended in the lightless night, wavering softly. His eyes, however, gleamed with a piercing precision. Blue like Crystal’s glow.

“Nyx calling.” he called through the intercom hidden behind his ear.

“Please state your discoveries, agent Night.” the voice crackled on the other side.

“Rolend Erasmus, Cobalt Owl of the Lowlands, bodyguard to the Ambassador---a harmless target. I suggest to remove him from the potential threat list.”

“Thanks for the information, agent. We’ll work on that. You are dismissed for now.”

Swiftly, he blended into the shadows, his black T-shirt fluttering in the cold wind. A spark of light kindled far away, a few hundred metres, barely visible to the normaller’s eyes. He felt strangely compelled to do something.

He drew out his gun: a black piece of technical mastery which provided maximum stability and zero recoil. He had exclusively requested for the absence of aiming aids.

He took aim. He fired. A second later, the light went off.

Breathing contently, he withdrew his gun, vanishing in the darkness.

Nyx.

His back was sore when he woke again. It was late in the morning---ten o’clock perhaps? His stomach rumbled; he hadn’t eaten anything in twelve hours.

He rose, stretching his tense, painful tendons and muscles. The chair he spent the night on was ornate and plush, with a comfortable cushion; a chair nonetheless, incomparable to a normal bed. Hesitantly, he reached for the room. It was not locked.

“This is your battle, Kai. End it with your own sword.” those were Atalia’s words.

Kai looked at her. Then he eyed his friend, Nyarla, lying on the ground. Her white ermine cloak was tattered, torn into strips of expensive yet bloodstained fabric; multiple holes and gaps were cleaved, exposing below the gruesome wounds. The purple waist sash turned an ugly, muddy brown, stampeded by the trampling boots, lying despondently not far from its owner.

Her cheeks were pallid; much blood had withdrawn. Her pearly eyes shut in pain, brows slick with cold sweat. Even so, she tried to hold her black scythe---the only object that was her protection. Not in good shape, both Kai and Atalia had to acknowledge; they could only be glad that they hadn’t molested her.

Grimly, Atalia bent down and examined her. “She needs immediate treatment.” she agreed. Kai moved forward, but was stopped by her dragon scale clad arm. With the other she scooped up Nyarla, placing her onto the majestic Vog.

“That’s a...Vog?” Kai’s mouth gaped. The flaming wolf snorted proudly, pillars of flames billowing from its nostrils. Fire blazed, but didn’t burn the passenger on board.

“Explanations come later. I’ll bring her for care.” Atalia leapt onto her ride.

“You aren’t fighting? Our troops are already tired…” Kai questioned.

“This is your battle. Do what you can and end it. I’m sure you can.” the Princess smiled, waving to her friend. “Good luck.”

After the fiery shadow had disappeared, Kai was alone. After a few minutes his soldiers caught up, breaking through the falling ranks of Knights. The Blackstoners were amongst them, looks of urgency upon their faces as they queried the fate of their Lord.

“She’d be fine. The Princess is with her.” he spoke with a weariness, not wishing to spend effort on conversations.

Beneath his garments his body ached intensely, a combination of injuries and fatigue. His right arm was intact, if sore and tired; that was enough.

“Come with me. End this once and for all.” he commanded with calmness. The troops cheered.

Kai watched with deep sadness as the last Knight sank into the boiling lava, his pleads for mercy engulfed in the bubbling, thousand-degree hot liquid. Pleads turned into agonising death cries, which turned into silence. Kai knew not even his bones would remain.

So ends a day of war. So much done on the field; what else off the field?

Dusk had came when he returned to Blackstone Keep. Being informed that the doctors were patching up Nyarla, operating on her, he decided to wait outside her room; then he fell asleep.

There was no one in the room, save for the figure on the bed. Serene her face, the bloodstains and dust washed clean. Her eyes were still shut, but comfortably, her eyelashes curving elegantly; her lips pouted slightly in sleep. A bandage wrapped round her forehead.

The walls were white, the tapestries depicting chrysanthemums and lilies, still lives that moved not in the sleeping room. Several large vases erected, smooth porcelain surface reflecting glimpses of himself, a haughty, tired person. Stalks of white rose emerged from the tall vases; they blazed bright, but lacked the vivid liveliness inherent in their red counterparts.

There was a window, but thick linen curtains barred much light from entering. The room was an eerie silence, painted a pale glimmer by the lack of light. A serene white that matched the person on the bed.

Her lower body was covered by a sheet, which ended just above the abdomen. No clothes were present; numerous bandages, gauzes and splints sufficed to conceal her fragile body. Kai kept staring at the bandages; faint patches of red were visible beneath the white.

It was my decision that hurt you. You were my shield...I wasn’t your’s.

“No use staring at her like that.” Atalia said, shutting the door. She was tired, though not as overwhelmed as him. Having her dragon scale armour off, she wore a simple red dress.

“They’ve given her quite a lot of painkillers. Won’t wake until tomorrow…” she sighed. “Kai, you did good. That was really a difficult match, but you managed to win.”

“I didn’t...I let them hurt her. So many others. I failed her.” and also Mira...now the war is so far from being won.

“Did you?” Atalia mused, the conceit returning in her tone. “Nya wanted to defend her homeland; you accomplished that goal by feeding them to the river. You didn’t fail her wish, Kai.”

“......” Kai remained silent.

“Anyway, I shall be going now. Take the opportunity to kill more enemies, win more battles.” she smirked, “If you don’t want to fail her, this is the way.”

“I don’t have enough soldiers left; over a third are dead and wounded. Insufficient to launch another attack.” Kai stated, sinking his head between his palms.

“Ask Nya to grant you command of her forces once she wakes up; pretty sure she would agree. As for your own troops...I can send your father a message on my way.”

“Where are you going?”

“Almire, of course.” she stepped out of the room, her dress brushing against the floor. “And good luck. Watch for the Blackstone; it may be your help.”

“Stark, we’ve caught this strange gal. Apparently a smuggler from Almire.” one of his teammates dragged a frantic woman forward. She clutched a large bag with unknown contents.

“Third we have today. These rats are certainly running rampant.” another commented.

Rather young, naivety present in her desperate gaze. Inexperienced, he would say. A year or two into the field, fresh, not composed to face the stark truth of the profession. There was a feral hostility in her gait; beneath her shirt and pants muscles strained dangerously. She shotted a despicable glance at Stark, full of blind defiance.

“What’s your name?” Stark demanded, drawing out his dueling sabre. The girl spat.

“What are you doing, being impolite to the team leader?” her captor was enraged; for one moment he released his grasp, freeing out his hands to deliver a powerful slap.

One moment was enough. Out of her bag the smuggler snatched a circular disk, tossing it backward, biting into the captor’s abdomen, its jagged, raw edge slicing his intestines to ribbons.

“Get her!” the surprised captor screamed shrilly, before collapsing to the ground, thrashing wildly, his innards spewing, crawling on the ground like maggots.

More disks spun, darting out at every direction. They were controlled by invisible puppet lines, Stark realised, when he discovered that the black gloves the girl wore was some kind of metal-weave. Hands were sliced, innards spilled, heads lobbed.

Gremlin technology? Stark had the sense to speculate. They had gone extinct---or what the Academy claimed, but their arsenals were still somewhere ready to be salvaged.

“Get the disks! Don’t let her control them! Bury them into the ground!” a team member shouted. He snatched a disk, burrowed deep in his shoulder, with his bare hand, snapping it into half and burying it into the soil beneath. The others followed; soon only a disk or two remained. Scowling, the girl brought out another weapon---a sword.

Much easier. Stark charged forward, knocking the sword out of her hand. When she tried desperately to fist him, he twirled, knocking her on the temple. She fainted immediately.

“Stark, what to do now?” the clever guy shouted, his hand held on his shoulder to staunch the flow of blood. The others were busy tending to their wounds, salvaging from the dead whatever they could use.

“That’s for the day. Bring the wounded and the captives, we are heading for Sodoma.”

“Sodoma, for what?”

“The Oculi, of course...probably to the torture chamber.”

“Serves them right.” they leered in contempt.

“It seems that someone is in trouble…” Auresque peeked from atop a tree, not far from the scene of battle.

“Wouldn’t say the girl is worth rescuing, though. See how deadly she kills.” Xyver winced. “However...if they indeed got something out of her, then Emberlight is in trouble.”

“Let’s go?” Auresque landed with lithe swiftness. Her Peacemaker gleamed.

“Sure. Follow them. Lance could wait.” Xyver laughed.

They pinned him to the ground, ten, twelve adults, all piled atop his small body. He tried to straighten the collar of his fur coat, but his hands were rendered immobile. He could hardly breathe.

One extracted from his pocket a small, ceramic flask. Uncorking its wooden stopper, he held it to his mouth; his nose wrinkled with disgust as the volatile scent of alcohol and drugs poured in.

Sensations a many he experienced, all in a second. Spiciness flaming on his tongue, followed by extreme pain, a boiling streak of poison streaming down his windpipe. Dizzy, the world went dizzy, people departed him, spinning, and locked the door. He alone remained in the cavern.

Then euphoria came. Hallucinations, myriads of them, flashed into existence, intruding every corner of his mind, violating the very concept of sanity.

Noooooo……

He howled at the unbelievable spectacles visible to no one else. This couldn’t be...this simply couldn’t be! Clutching his head painfully, he thrashed around in insanity. A sword. His sword, the faithful Triglav, rested beside the door, shining in serene stillness. Heaving it, he smashed. Meanwhile the mirages continued, the next faster and more distant than the previous.

Not until the cavern was devoid of destructible parts than the tribesmen unlocked the door, peeking in cautiously. They entered, one by one, bowing.

He began speaking.

“I see...a mountain defrosted and melted. A river that would flood and engulf every soul. A focalizer of darkness, resurrected, hailing what’s beyond the horizon.”

“Man, he’s getting unreliable lately.”

“Maybe we gave him too much to drink this time?” an elder stroke his beard, calculating, “Klaus, remind me to decrease the volume by 25% next time we feed him.”

“I am going. Leaving this place.” he announced. “Don’t ever stop me.”

The crowd hushed. The strong men wanted to spring forward, capture him as in last time. Then they saw the massive sword he held like a feather. They stepped back.

The elder spoke, “What’s wrong, Erebus? It’s all good in Deadstone Pass…”

“Feed me that potion, you do expected truth from me?”er nodded. s is the truth. The ice is no more. Fire is rising, the key to many a horrors yet to face. Darkness is on its way.”

“What...what do you mean?”

t means I am going. Deadstone shall not survive this.”

They encountered in front of the Palace. The day was clear, the Palace’s royal outline proudly erected, a bizarre mix of red and white. She wore her decorated cloak. She wore her flaming dragon mail.

“Mira.”

“Sister.”

“You are back.” she was bitter.

“You are here.” she was scared.

“What was not done shall be finished. The Test of Flames---I shall be your judge. And tester.”

“Sister…”

“The Blackstone is rising. I don’t have much time to spend on you.”

“Let this begin...and end, soon.”

Interlude 2 is here...too busy to type anything.
The special, non-human application are here tomorrow, meanwhile, enjoy another interlude of epic failure!

Interlude Two

It had been two months since the Swarm insurgence. Everytime Lucielle used her blade, that came to her mind; even amidst the howling monstrosities she couldn’t supress it.

At least I don’t have to face the Swarm...Vasha had that liability left to her, when she died; when Lucielle selected the Fang of Vog and decided to live on.

Burn, monsters. Burn. Fang lashed out wildly, tongues of saffron biting lustily into the black, ugly beasts, burning through their stocky bodies. Hissing, they collapsed, a charred, putrid circle that surrounded her.

And of course Zytes. He was the Grandmaster. She was his swordbearer. He paved the way; she guarded his back. The majestic Divine Avenger walked at the front, purifying the terrifying darkness with its golden glory.

Zytes carried on, cleaving pockets in the horde of beasts. By hundreds he fell, their bodies dissolving into black vapour. By thousands they flocked, screaming, screeching, oblivious of the greatsword that barred their way, madly into death, a fiery fury of blood.

“Curse this.” Zytes swore. “We aren’t getting anywhere.”

“Go on.” Lucielle answered from behind, bolts of fire sending the dark creatures to explode. Blackened bits flew everywhere, their thick carapaces and claws turned into makeshift grenades, piercing into the hearts of their kin.

“Just go on, you have me at your back.” a Trojan materialised, a pale rider wielding a great blade. In three moves she cracked the blade; the next sent the Trojan’s emotionless head flying. Its skeletal ride whinnied sadly, crumpling into a derelict pile of bones, pulverised by the overreaching beasts.

Foes had taken this chance to pounce on her. Instincts, purely instincts, had led them to attack her exposed left side where the Fang could not reach. They snarled, brandishing their razor-sharp teeth, a fowl, rancid scent dispersing from their saliva-swamped mouths. Drawing out her other blade with her left hand, she deflected the hits in a single swipe. Insufficient in power, it could not repel all attacks; a claw sneaked through and left on her shoulder a nasty mark. Grimacing, she spun round like a storm, the Fang instantly shearing through its neck.

It didn’t have a chance to taste her blood.

“Is your arm fully healed?” Zytes’ question was barely audible; his care for her clear and obvious.

“Fully functionable.” Lucielle flexed, replying, “Just continue with your work, I’ve enough business to do here.” more crimson bursted. More darkness dyed profoundly black. Smoke rose.

“Sure.” he looked up. New Haven’s structures dwarfed in front of the endless mob named Swarm. Soldiers in cobalt stood in ranks---standard Spiral Order Knights, swords gleaming a sea of light. They, however, refused to aid their Striker brethrens, probably afraid of confronting the Swarm’s might in full. Grand Master Achillus was among the first rank, a set of binoculars glued to his eyes. Zytes didn’t know what his face was like. He bothered not imagine.

For the past two months the Strikers braced the brunt of impact, forced to take on the Swarm without the Order’s support. The Order had only participated in a few skirmishes, their main forces largely intact. Even Almire proved more helpful; Prince Garith’s cavalry helped a lot, so were the young Lords of Basilia and Hexus. They had since become his friends.

The number of Strikers had dropped rapidly. When Skylark landed there were a thousand. Now, just over four hundred. A hundred years of grudge Achillus solved with subtlely...Zytes could do nothing but fight. For his beloved Strikers.

I wonder how much would remain in the end. Or is it none?

Divine Avenger radiated a beautiful aurum, its aura cutting unopposed into the mounds of flesh, a miniature sun beaming its presence to every corner of the world. Beasts fell. Beast returned. In the single second of lull he would nudge forward, a few steps at a time, towards the place called home that seemed so far away, so unattainable…

The earth rumbled. He found his swordbearer dual wielding. Both swords were on fire. “Forward, Zytes. Your back is safe in my hands.”

“Roger.” suddenly, he turned, planting a kiss on her brows, before concentrating back on the monsters. Her flames intensified; was that a manifestation of blushing? Interesting.

She didn’t protest; an awkward silence followed, when neither spoke, focusing instead on the battle. Out of the calm eye the storm raged on, dark and menacing.

If one could indeed be lucky enough to spectate this battle in a panoramic, 360-degree view on the sky, he would surely muse at the spectacle. An endless sea of dark energy, swarming, tides after tides that shuffled and splattered. Amidst were boats; small enclaves of light and humanity paving their way through the bloodthirsty ocean. Strikers; they rattle, but never capsize; they perish, but they never fall.

So is our fate. It had started a few hours ago when the Swarm starting flooding towards his camp. Intelligence claimed not to have detected this insurgence; Achillus apologised gravely through the intercom about his scouts’ impotence. But behind his officers snickered.

Here they were; trapped inside the ravaging maelstrom they fought for their own lives. Scattered into small teams they fought, grinding to dust enemies after enemies, struggling in a desperate stand for their lives.

How much would remain?

They were not far from New Haven; a few hundred metres before they reach safety. However, taken into account their currently velocity, home suddenly seemed so distant.

“Looks like a friend is nearby.” Lucielle remarked. “Let’s join them?”

“Sure.” another enclave was created nearby; some kind of friends. Bit by bit they moved towards, cutting thinner the wall that separated them; finally, after falling the last monster, they saw each other.

“Greetings, Zytes and Lucielle.” she spoke, whipping her long, curved blade. The material was elastic, springing between targets, cutting them down at once. Behind her swordbearer cleared the monsters with a heavy, double-handed axe.

“Nice to see you here, Pallas.” Zytes grinned, joining the fray. Lucielle followed. The dipole transformed into a square, bashing through the numerous enemies.

“Master of the Swords, I have seldom seen your swordplay before.” Lucielle spoke coolly. In contrast her blades seared, wisps of crimson spluttering everywhere.

“Good. Watch now.” Pallas chuckled, her sword a meteor passing swiftly through the beasts, its long, flashing tail ripping open their bodies. Suddenly, the blade lodged in a bear’s claws; reflexively, she pulled a throwing knife from her waist, slamming it into its brain. At the same time the swordbearer’s axe chopped the arm clean off.

“Thanks a lot, Alioth. Watch your own back though.” the sword bounced, plunging into a particularly nasty wolf’s eye. The axe turned, lobbing more heads.

“Where’s Saptaris?” Pallas asked.

“Should be here any moment. Unless Kozma really wants to stop him and they engaged in a brawl. Kozma can’t win though, so at the end he’ll still be here.”

“Highly likely.” Lucielle smirked, lashing her fire out in all directions, clearing the field.

“Yeah...I can see now. He’s coming.”

Jets of blue and green vapour shot out of the ranks of cobalt, shockwaves trailing behind. A hundred or so in a triangular spearhead, tearing effortlessly through the Swarm’s unprotected rear. It took the beasts ten seconds to fully react---too late. Guns blazed. Swords screamed. The Strikers steamrolled. Well into the battlefield they disintegrated into smaller arrows, each dashing at full speed, snaking past the millions of beasts that blocked their way.

Speed. Twenty metres they scaled every second, yet still able to aim. Most were gunslingers, silver guns on both hands, neatly sniping enemies; the swords covered any that got near. At such velocity the momentum was enough to knock out the enemies, but still, they slowed at each advance.

“Saptaris, can you hear me?” through his intercom Zytes spoke. The Swarm possessed a peculiar ability to dampen all electromagnetic waves, effectively sapping the use of long-range communication. However, at such distance, it was still possible.

“Yes, master. How are you today?” Saptaris was enjoying the battle, answering happily.

“Beware. They are getting nasty. Try not to lose so much men.”

“Nah, its fine...oh wait.” he turned to discover his teammates cut down one by one by the ever-increasing mass of monstrosities. “Curse that. I’ll meet with you as soon as possible.”

The four swords continued their arduous, unending journey of bringing destruction to the destroyers. Zytes laughed as the enemies in front of him exploded into a million bits, their deaths so sudden that they forgot to snarl one last time.

The gunslingers materialised, dressed in black-and-silver ponchos with a stiletto embroidered. Most had visors on; the leader had a mechanical eye.

Saptaris, Master of the Guns, Deadshot, had arrived.

“Good. Now let’s find the others and finish this. I am hungry.” Zytes laughed again.

She treaded among the dead.

Dead, bloated bodies, slick with mucus and infected by fungus. Spots of blue, green and deep red, the signal of decaying haemoglobin, visible on the humans but concealed by the beasts’ black coats.

White, expanded eyes, stiff and opaque. Light could no longer pass through, and if it could, the fallen would see nothing. She wondered; what was dying like? Was it eternal darkness, a world immersed in black purity, where you remained speechless, blind, unmovable, till the end of time? Was it just a simple void where the definition of existence no longer existed? Which was better? She would likely never find out.

Liquids. Wet and dried, colourless and coloured. Blood, black and purple and red, crusted, solidified, flowing, weeping. Pus, the colour of a gravy-toned sun, slick and thick, slimy and smelly. Body fluids: crystal clear tissue fluid that tasted salty, yellow, rank urine that actually tasted salty; many others, churned into a disgusting lot after their owner’s demise. And tears. Seas of them.

She knew with what they were composed. She knew not what they meant.

Blood; were you fierce, brave, vainglorious? Were you just an unlucky victim caught in the spiral of obliteration, your vessels emptied without prior consent?

Tears; were those tears of joy, of conquest and victory, the last gift of a dying warrior to his followers? Were those tears of regrets, of things started, carried out, but unfinished, the dying wish of a fallen hero to his friends and comrades?

Were those simply tears of pain and sorrow?

I don’t like this. She admitted. Night had gone too far.

She had seen lives perish. The Owlites, forced into their crystallin chrysalises, but not before the wailing death of half of their race. The Gremlins, into their destruction still resisting valiantly; blood flowed in them before it departed their severed arteries. They had blood and tears…

The Royal Jellies, turned into pools of slick, pink goo, where the beasts feasted hungrily on. Was that their blood that the Swarm had drunk and indulged? The Snarbolaxes...she herself kissed the blades.

I sense your sadness.

I do cry…

They are losing. Dying. Soon the world is our’s again. Which despicable thread of emotion still lurks in your weak heart?

You should know my nature. You know what I am.

Alas. That’s why you can never overpass me. What is desired by our servants, you possess none of those.

True...what can I do? Night, this is your war. I could but watch.

True...after endless eternities Night shall still remain. Without light there’s Night. But you...you shall perish.

I never knew that. I always regarded us as relative concepts.

Also true. That’s why I never sought to destroy you. But now, I feel that I can imprison you…

……

Ah, you haven’t noticed. My power grows greater day by day. The battles...the bloodbaths...life, brought blemishes and defects by my Servants, contributed to my omniscience. The perishment of lives isn’t my strength...the lust is.

Come, my Servants. Guard her tight.

……

She could tread no more.

“We are nearly there!” having broken past the strongest resistance, Zytes turned, hailing his fellow Strikers. “We shall party tonight!”

The crowd cheered, laughing and bellowing, slapping each other. He didn’t. There was much more to be done tonight...resting the dead, repairing the damaged. Aftermaths in plenty.

The Swarm jeered in reply, a cacophony of noises. Roaring, they launched a finally assault at the escaped preys.

“How much longer?” Lucielle asked, puffing. She carried a wounded girl on her back, one of the last recruits before the Skylark had landed. Contributing to her exhaustion was a large gash at her side, inflicted by a boar-like creature’s tusks.

“A hundred metres...I would say the balance is in our favour.” he said aloud. Then he closed by, whispering in her ears, “This is getting difficult. We have expended all of our forces, now we have nothing left. It’s all or nothing.”

“Saptaris. Pallas.”

“Yeah?”

“We shall be the vanguard. Everyone follow behind. Leave no one!”

“Nicely spoken, Zytes…” Saptaris approached. “But what is that?”

What is that?

The sky swarmed with screeching flaps. A massive heard of insectoids, a hundred times larger than your normal butterfly, flapped their cardboard like wings, diving straight at the exhausted Strikers. A malignant cackle echoed between the sun-obscuring horde.

“I never knew the Swarm had aerial capacity…” Pallas mumbled. Now they were in great trouble.

The new enemies---greavers, as they were to be called later, weren’t so picky. Many went for the Strikers, but more dived straight for the Knights behind. Perhaps they smelled fear in them? Unprepared and busy watching the brawl, many Knights had but taken out their popcorn; in fact they would have done so if not for the lack of preparation. Now they became food to the Swarm.

“Gunslingers please fire at will. The wounded should be placed at the middle; swords protect the perimeter.” Zytes commanded calmly. Gently, Lucielle placed the girl onto the ground. The girl whimpered.

“What’s your name?” Lucielle asked, squeezing a feigned smile.

“Mel…” the girl whispered, crying.

“Alright Mel. Everything would be alright. We will get through, then tonight we will party.” at heart, Lucielle teased the obscureness of the comment; then she withdrew to encounter the Swarm’s renewed fury.

“They would not get in.” Pallas proclaimed, now extracting another sword from her back; a greatsword, which she wielded with both hands, laid waste to the protruding heads and limbs.

“They shall not get down.” Saptaris promised solemnly. Every gunslinger dual wielded; simply uneconomical to do so, as the greavers were in such numbers that shooting blindly would guarantee hits. The fight depended on the caliber of their guns...and the endurance of their trigger-pulling fingers.

Still they descended. Hundred fell each second, but their fall only pelted the dogged Strikers. Step by step the aired mass came down, an inescapable, chittering dome.

Gunslingers cried in pain, their torsos punctured by needle-like thorns. Some were poisonous, the others were not; all were deadly. Struggling, they shielded the weak spots: necks, eyes, with one arm, firing with the other.

The Swarm descended with increasing velocity.

“We could not win this.” even Lucielle had to murmur.

Is there still hope? Zytes prayed, fully recognising the futility of the act. Even if the Knights were willing to help, they would still need to defeat their portion of greavers. Which was very difficult if not impossible.

Help came eventually. Arrows crossed the dark sky, penetrating the clouds, kindles of fire enlightened. The dense carpet of greavers burned, their cretin wings spectacularly aflame; bits of ash fell here and there. Meanwhile, horsemen broke through the final layer of the Swarm, connecting the Strikers once again with the outside world.

“Quick, get out!” Zytes yelled, commanding his Strikers. Then he studied the cavalry present, which he estimated to be around a thousand in number. They garments were uniform: leather armour, a purple robe on top, bows and knives ready in their hands.

The leader reeled his horse, approaching Zytes. He was easily distinguishable from his ornate robe and wing-like accessories spreading from his back.

“Hello, you must be Zytes.”

Zytes nodded.

“I am Rae, captain of the Winged Company. I hope we are not late.”

“Ah, you are not. Thank you for saving the day.” their talking continued during their gradual withdrawal, the Winged cavalry still shooting down numerous airborne beasts. “However…” he smirked bitterly, “you have invited your whole crew to death. This would not end well.”

“We shall see.” Rae laughed. “A day more is a day worth cherishing.”

Night knew everything. He saw his minions trying to open the way to the next Terminal, their advance halted the Depth before. At the front of the resistance was two Strikers: one the colour of ashen cherry blossom, the other of flaming amaranth.

“Very well…” he mused. His Servants trembled. “What should I give them?”

“My Servants. Wake your gelatinous brethren.”

“Let the nobles reclaim their lost glory...under the banner of the Night.” he smirked.

Sorry guys for the lack of update, I've been quite sick for the last two days. Brain's all fuzzy and cannot write anything efficiently.
Update out Tomorrow.

I'll take the time to brief you on the new set of character applications...
Basically it's very easy. I have a few animals (yes!) you can choose from. You can put down anything except for how strong he/she is, role and plot in the story, and final state (dead/alive). Background and personality can be posted (preferred actually) but I may change some of them to accommodate the story.

To make things simple, you can include a description of their human form IF you think that creature is good enough to be able to turn human.

The creatures you can choose from are:
1. A young Snarbolax
2. A lone, lost Sepharynx
3. Some random wolves, preferably Frostifur.
4. A ranting Gremlin? I dunno about this...
5. A fully formed Owlite which looks like a giant winged serpent.
6. A cute Mewkat <3

GL HF, and bump this to 150 posts before tmr! xD