@Mordenius: Thanks for that!

@Vinnydime: Thanks for your trust. That's why...your mewkat app is rejected :/. In fact, it is too good for me to handle; I can handle a semi-trollish bawssly Owlite, but not a ubertroll Mewkat. I don't have enough shots for Lars' full personality and traits to be exhibited, so better not to waste such a nice character in my adventure of epic failure. BTW I agree with you that killing and action are but the lowest form of entertainment a story presents; if there's such a story that where people only fight and make love, I'd trash it on spot. That's why I try to explore the character's thoughts, and be philosophical at times (albeit with very, very little success :<). Sadly, many kids/adult nowadays just love the pewpew action.

Random comment #1: Rick Riordan is so frequently quoted since he sucks. There's no life in his novels.

Random comment #2: To compensate for the zero productivity during the days of sickness, I wrote the entire Chapter 21 and Interlude 3 (8000 words in total xD) in two days. Now I am officially into Part 4. HUEHUEHUE.

Random comment #3: Chapter 22 will see the death of our first character app...Roland! /Cheer

Update alert: Next update on Wednesday. Guys give comments, or else...

/e ragequits.

^
Tru storeh. I guarantee.
Vinny, can I blatantly request that you cease posting apps for the time being? They are awesome, I actually enjoyed reading them, but well...give the others a chance! Give poor Vivi a chance (!!) xD. Also, I am too derpy that in the story, the Sepharynx isn't a sprite at all. It is...the child of something awesome. Thanks for the continuing support all along :3 I could actually gather your apps and make a separate post.

In reply to Fireofearth's comment
Gasp! You revealed my true identity!
Vivi is the official writer for "Ok-Yolos Cheerio", the official group for all fifteen years old that plays SK with the nickname "Vivid-Gluttony" or "Vivideus". He is an experienced writer, his past works including a 2.5k word fanfic "Shades of Darkness" that sunk to the lowest of the forums after two consecutive weeks of zero replies. Well, he did audaciously ragequit.
Vivi has received extensive training from the books "Grammarway" and "English in Use 1". Now you wonder where his subject-verb arguments come from...huehuehue
Microsoft Word 2007 proudly edits the work for him, checking any capitalization that Vivi missed. Yup, nothing else, since his Word is really that awesome(sh!t). Google Docs elegantly underlines for him any ugly typos he committed.

Update out tomorrow. More comments guys, and more apps from anyone except for the revered Vinnydime, who has already given me many great characters.

Btw if post 200 comes, what do you guys want for celebration? Vivi can do a serious drawing, record a Lockdown clip, write some spoilers for a story that he'll never write, or answer your questions about anything. What do you want?

Whenever we fear the night, think for those lurking round the invisible corners of your mind; they probably fear more.

@Vinnydime: A bullet is very devastating even if it's only a graze. Yeah, I know what that word means, but taken into account the great impulse force (not momentum), the average pressure per unit of surface area, we can say that a grazing bullet still hurts a lot. Besides, kinetic energy turns into friction during the hit, generating heat on the skin that further exacerbates the situation, damaging a much larger area of flesh.

@Topoyozariane: huehuehuederp.

@Sirius-Breaker: Perhaps I can give you a bumper sticker? Those kind of things you stick on a car? :3

@Fireofearth: It's not 100000 characters, it is 100000 words. I have approx. 550000 characters. Good luck at ur fanfict...Vinny fancy posting an app there? xD

So, welcome to the 19th time of epic failure (16 chapters + 1 prologue + 2 interlude). Something I gotta clarify:
1. I have 0 experience caring about the future of my younger brother.
2. I have 0 experience getting drunk and talking about love.
3. I have 0 experience starved and exhausted so much that I fainted.

So, this chapter is 100% not based on my prior knowledge xD. I just imagined what it could be =.=. Brace yourself for more epic failure!
Vivi has a busy week and couldn't write much; he'll do more this weekend and next week, next week is so damned free :3
P.S: This Chapter is short.

Chapter 16

The bus departed, its old diesel engine whirring and roaring, leaving Diana behind. Wiping sweat from her forehead, she inhaled deeply the cold winter air, its refreshing coolness seeping into her hot, stuffy lungs, relieving her of the broiling heat on the bus.

The vehicle’s silhouette disappeared, surface delinquent; paint had began to peel off, the surface infested with an ugly rust, dented in several places. It was strangely compatible with the apartments around; aged blocks of concrete, integral and stable inside but a disgusting view from outside. The white surface turned grey over the years, smeared with grease and dust; deep brown stains from the rusted water pipes had set into the walls, refusing to go.

She trudged along the mushy, muddy pavement. There was plenty of rubbish: glass bottles, aluminium cans, plastic bags of emptied confectionaries, visible to cause annoyance but insufficient to impede one’s movement.

Her bag was heavy. After ten minutes she had reached her block. She travelled up a few flights of stairs; there wasn’t an elevator. Extracting a key from her wallet, she unlocked the wooden door. It opened with a creepy sound; she’d need to oil the hinges.

“Hello Sis, you are back.” Sylf was at the table, encompassed in a mantle of dimly-lit yellow light. His head nearly buried into the table, he was apparently doing homework; his right hand moved at an incredible speed, the smooth scratching of pencil against paper audible at a distance. His left hand, however, was patting a strange object.

“Diligent boy.” Diana smiled, slamming the door shut. She walked over to the table, switching on a green table lamp placed at its far corner. A blazing white glow flooded the table and the child at it. “How many times have I told you to turn on all the lights? This will hurt your eyes.”

Her gaze confronting Sylf’s cute, innocent eyes, she softened, sighing, “Alright, just turn on the light next time. How’s school today?”

Talk about school. Sylf was instantly reinvigorated, describing the events of the day to his sister. “Sis, know what! We went to a field trip today. We visited a barrack just outside Haven, it was fun! Teacher said that we’re going to a natural study next week.”

Barracks. She frowned in secrecy; she never had much affection towards the Order. Regardless, she encouraged Sylf to go on.

“We’ve played a lot of games there. An officer even demonstrated how to use a blaster! I was totally thrilled! I tried the simulator on my own and got full marks; the officer was so amazed that he said I’ll become a good Knight when I grow up!”

“A Knight? Doesn’t he know…” that you don’t have a proper citizenship?

That was the main strain of her finance: neither of the siblings possessed legal Haven citizenship; they could not enjoy cheap housing, subsidies and education provided by the Haven Council. That was why Sylf had to attend the expensive private school.

“Of course he knows; but he was so amazed that he promised I could join once I am sixteen! Sis, I am so thrilled!”

Diana sighed. If there were two occupations she intensely disliked, those were medical practitioner and Knight; the former had a tendency of beating children to death, the latter always let someone beat himself to death.

But if...that probably implied a citizenship for Sylf; he would be recognised, even respected if he managed to rise through the ranks. Much better than the unknown future he would face once he graduated from the unrecognised private school.

But that could also mean death. Diana couldn’t bear losing the last person she love.

But then, he had mentioned getting full score at the simulator. No one else she knew had achieved that score---except for Nyx. Was it really her wish to hide his talent and make him live a life deprived of what he deserved? Was it Sylf’s wish to be a normal person?

Sylf’s imploring eyes she couldn’t resist. But agreeing to his cause now would be rash. She needed time to think…

“Fine,” she promised, “I’ll decide soon. Do your homework, Sis will cook dinner.”

“No Sis wait...you’ll have to prefer food for one more guest tonight.”

“What?” Diana looked around. There wasn’t anyone else.

“The kitten I have found today.” Sylf patted the lump of white fur sleeping soundly on the table. “She’s cute isn’t she? I’ll call her Serah.”

“Oh, I finally noticed. Are you really going to keep this thing?” Diana frowned.

“Can’t I, Sis? I’ll take good care of it.” that imploring look again; Diana’s defence was rendered null in front of the cute eyes.

“Fine, keep it.” she moaned, “Just don’t kill it within a week.”

Dinner was commenced and finished at a rapid pace, Sylf volunteering to wash the dishes. Diana felt irritated staring at the blank screen of her laptop; she needed some refreshment. Telling her brother to go to bed early, she went out for the cheap shooting range she always practised at.

------

Nyx fired. And fired. And fired again. His heart tumbled in a tumultuous surge of lust---lust for anger, blood, and death.

The rusty, hematic flavour of blood always appealed to him; especially when it lingered in the air, minutes after his victims’ demise, its rank smell replenished by the seeping of fresh blood, escaping wordlessly from the staling wounds.

Especially when it lingered around him ceaselessly, refuting every attempt for him to regain his composure. When it followed him, here and there, from Haven’s outskirts to the town centre...an inexplicable urge would arise within, to pull out his guns, to watch his leaden bullets mercilessly pierce the innocent bystanders’ craniums…

That isn’t why I joined Oculi. The assassination missions, though few in effect, opened him to another world, out of the run of the mill task to improve his gunning accuracy. Which wasn’t exactly a bright, glorious world.

Maybe that could explain why he was attracted to firearms. He was good enough in the Cobalt Guard---almost the best recruit the unit had seen in years; a few percent’s deficiency in accuracy won’t affect in anyway; he’d still be the most celebrated soldier around. But the idea of guns called to him---he couldn’t stand this imperfection. Over time, what had once been an action of filling the unfull became his ultimate goal.

The targets were moving at an extreme speed, a flurry of black in white in human eyes, traversing in an unpredictable three-dimensional motion, nearly impossible to hit. Nyx stood fifty metres away, and fired, pulling the trigger consecutively, the slight rotating motion of his wrist finetuning the direction of his aim.

Plates shattered, exploding into shards of plastic, dropping like the delinquent remains of a firework expended; they would be recycled and remaked. Another set of plates sprang into existence, five this time instead of four. Nyx glanced, then fired. Again they exploded, five clean shots cracking five plates.

This is not fun. He was not satisfied, the images of blood and gore persisting strongly, budding and growing with every attempt to pull the trigger. Growling, he trained his gun on the adjacent alley; there was no one. The VIP area only catered to those rich or with a background.

Some unorthodox ways, he thought. Toggling the control panel, he selected the option “Tomato”.

All of a sudden, the flying plates were gone. A tomato, lonely and red, appeared, fifty metres away and at his mercy. Which he didn’t have for such a pathetic fruit. The trigger was pulled; the tomato exploded into a mess of juice and skin.

More tomatoes were hurled into the air, bursting like spectacular shows of red dynamite. He felt bored. The shooting range no longer satisfied his relentless pursuit for precision---warfare may prove the only method available...but that would mean more blood and death?

A part of him actually welcomed that.

“What are you doing, busy shooting tomatoes?” a female voice chuckled behind, ringing with humourous delight. It was followed by the sound of a bag dropped onto the floor, some shuffling that indicated the owner was taking out something.

For a moment, Nyx bristled in alert. Was it some kind of hero claiming revenge for the fallen Kozma? His corpse may have been discovered by now. Then he relaxed, after identifying the owner of the voice; a curator he knew well. “Well” according to the relative standard of how much people he acquainted with, which was not a lot.

He shrugged, “I got time this evening. Why not? Why are you here then?”

“Ah.” she laughed, “I haven’t seen you in the normal area, so I conjectured that you are playing again in the VIP zone. Turns out I am correct. Can I join you?”

“Sure.” around Diana, Nyx tended to speak a bit more.

“As usual then; let’s start with our game. The winner has to get the loser a drink.”

They started. Diana went first, her Volcanic Pepperbox in her hand; one of the few things her abusive parents had left her.

“Your parents have committed suicide.” her foster parents told her. She cared little.

“They have entrusted you with their property...they stated that you could choose between a large sum of money and a few weapons; the one not chosen would be donated to the charity.”

Money...that meant a lot to her. She could move out early from her loving but incessantly annoying foster parents, to continue her education past high school; she could even start a small business.

That would also imply living under the shadows of her parents---even after their demise. Taking the weapons...that wouldn’t mean stepping out of the looming shadow. It would rather mean evasion from her past.

Her parents hadn’t left her the inheritance out of good will. One last torment. One last choice, in which neither options defined something positive.

She chose the guns.

A small target suspended far away, about sixty five metres, its size a small coffee mug. Concentrating, Diana took aim; her eyesight was good, the image still distinct and clear at such distance. The gun was heavy, her arm stooped little, oscillation reduced to minimum.

Ten shots were fired. Nine hit the target, the last passing a millimeter to the right. Diana put down her gun, disappointed, “I could never get a hundred percent; somewhere between I would miss.”

Nyx commented, “Nice gunning, I would say. You are better than most of the Cobalt Guards.” but not the Oculi, of course.

“You have improved a lot since you first went here.”

“Yeah.” Diana smiled, recalling her first encounter with Nyx a few years ago.

The girl walked hesitantly into the shooting range, picking the lane closest to the wall. Inserting a coin, ten targets sprang up, ten eyes that seemed to leer at her novicity. With much effort she hauled her Pepperbox to shoulder height, pulling the trigger.

“Luckily I didn’t go hour mode.” the girl murmured after seeing that most of the shots had missed. Still, ammunition costed a lot, in a city where the possession of weapons was frowned upon outside the army.

More practise, more failures. Out of the original targets, seven survived after four rounds of volleys. She groaned, pulling her hair in distress; now she regretted picking the guns, mastering them was surely not a piece of cake.

That was when Nyx entered. Walking to the lane next to her’s, motion swift and flowing like water; casually pressing a button, calmly raising his gun, pulling the trigger without an instant's hesitation.

The targets shattered in clear order. With each destroyed plate, Diana’s eyes expanded, finally focusing solely on the man’s gun---and his hazy blue eyes that perceived nothing but the targets. He seemed not to notice.

“Hey, how do you gun so well?” Diana asked. No reply.

“Hey, tell me! Why do you gun so well?” she pursuited without disheartenment.

“Practise and practise.” the man spoke, a voice flat and inanimate, perfunctory, totally uninterested in answering a more valid answer.

“Tell me!” she shook his gunning arm; the bullet missed. He turned, frowning, staring angrily at the transgressing girl, making her stagger back; then, inexplicably, his expressions softened.

“Very well. I’ll teach you…”

Their relation never went past the level of friends; but that was enough for both of them---neither longed for something more intimate.

“My turn then.” Nyx closed his eyes. Diana led him away from the lane to a random spot, spinning him for several times before releasing. Nyx readjusted speedily, eyes still tightly shut, facing directly the target.

Even without sight his aim was perfect. The gun raised in a perfect arc, the trigger pulled in a sure, unhastening way. Ten shots. Ten hits.

“Wow...you never miss.” Diana marvelled.

“Not for the last two years.” Nyx replied. Though he remained casual and nonchalant, his pride was palpable---one thing he seldom expressed.

“Good. Now buy me a drink.”

------

They sat at the bar, opposite to each other. Nyx’s complexion remained pale, unaffected by the alcohol; Diana’s face was a sanguinary red. She mumbled some strange tunes.

“Nicks.” she called him by his conventional nickname. “Chunelle has spoken of you a few days ago.”

The silence called for her to go on.

“She told me to find a boyfriend…and she said that you are a nice one. I’ll take this opportunity to confess that I also think so...don’t blame me if I’ve said anything wrong---I am drunk.”

“Good. Then what?”

“I’m afraid my future’ll be lonely. Sylf said he’s going to join the Order soon, in two years...then I am left alone. I hate that. I want to keep him safe and sound near me, but I know I just can’t do that. I don’t have a lot of friends; most of them are full of obnoxious gossip.”

“So, do you mean…”

“Yeah, I guess I meant that.”

Nyx sighed, a complex image in his eyes. Though he was situated at a casual, relaxing bar, the bloody bandage hidden under his sleeve reminded him of his true identity. “I am sorry I can’t, Diana. My profession...is different from yours. There’s no chance we would fit.” once you’ve seen my cold-hearted killing.

“Alright then.” she chuckled melodically. “I am drunk, anyway.”

Downing another cocktail, she discreetly wiped away the tears forming inside her eyes. Nyx...she was unsure what was happening between them; it was a sad affair anyway.

She feared it would never go beyond the shooting range.

------

For the hundredth time today, Erebus reflected on how stupid his decision was.

Leaving Deadstone was cool, exploring the world something he hadn’t done before. However, it was plain stupidity to tread the unknowns without any prior preparation---not even food or water, or an extra change of clothes. At first it was alright; near the snowstorm-ridden mountains he could call upon the will of the Triglav, bolstering his endurance and perseverance. Preys were easier to catch, sources of water easier to be discovered---he belonged there after all.

It was a different issue when the snow had melted and faded, the ground transformed from an endless carpet of sleet and frost to a barren blackness. There were few vegetation, fewer living creatures---even carcasses were much sought after by the beasts that happened to visit the wrong location. The smell of rotten egg---sulfur, diffused in the air, a pale, yellow mist that clogged his breath and tainted his coat. Temporarily diluted by the passing gust, he would take the chance greedily to sooth his burning lungs; for the moment the old mist was gone, a new stream of obnoxious gas was already rising through the chasms and creaks, ready to take control of the atmosphere

It was even more unintelligible to delve into the wilderness lacking a map, deficient of a tool that could guide his ways; stars twinkled in mesmerising sparks, confusifying. There was one thing he was certain of: he was not heading towards Ur. It was the opposite.

He had gone too far before realising; now there was no return. Go on, pray that he wouldn’t die before encountering the next source of food.

How long have I been walking? A week? A month?

He was the Crucible of the Mountain, its embodiment. That he believed; Triglav had responded to his calling, the mountain blessed him with extreme physique and foresight. How satirical. The boy that foretold future couldn’t tell his own way.

His stomach was numb, long past the time of caring. Hunger had departed, replaced by a sense of dull discontent that coursed through his body like cold mercury, sagging and dragging. Streaks of red existed on his torso, wounds that would not heal. Muscles were cramped, intensely sore from the exercise. He was lean, without a trace of fat, which means…

Once his carbohydrates were expended, his muscles come next. There was nothing to repair whatever damage his body sustained. A path of certain death.

His eyes were fuzzy. Grains of sand entered his eyes; he blinked, but no tears came out. His mouth was dry as sandpaper, his lips parched, losing the plump redness and covered with dead skin.

He crawled on. The charred, towering rock known as Blackstone loomed high at the horizon, streaks of crimson flowing down the crevices, bubbling, a wispy shriek that spoke of fiery destruction. An entangled mass of deformed rock formations inhibited the foot of the mountain, obsidian statues that braced timidly the crazy thrashing of lava and wind.

Around it there was nothing. The mountain, Erebus, a barren, unyielding field, the wordless sky and the shrouding mist. He was the little girl in Melancholy and Mystery of a Street.

A torrent of sandy gust whipped him to the ground. A slight thud was his reply. His face burying into the sooty ash, he felt the underlying warmth, suppressed beneath the sea of ash. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to get up. The soft ash was cozy.

His fingers bit into the ash, dragging his body forward. SLowly, slowly; he left a dented track amid the uniform ocean of grey, his white fur coat smeared the same colour.

I could stand no longer…

He had ventured much further than everyone else. It wasn’t enough.

------

The old man went into the room, carrying in his hand a hot flask of broth. The floor was stone, the walls blackened bricks; wood was too scarce for peasants like him.

The young man his son brought back was asleep. His cheeks were pale, sallow and unhealthy; his eyes shut tight, his features especially prominent due to the absence of fat that smoothened one’s countenance. His upper body was bare, strips of cloth dressing the lacerations on his lean, thin body. His white coat rested limply beside its owner. A large sack rested against the bed, some sort of secrecy he dared not open.

Not quite like an adult, more like a boy---that was his first impression. Beneath the naivety, however, he felt an ancient wisdom that the child couldn’t grasp.

His features spoke of a foreigner. What is he doing here?

It was two days ago; his son was on his way back home after a trading trip to Almire. Resources were scarce, much of the essentials unproduced; trading was their lifeline. A few hour’s ride from the village he came across the stranger, lying in the ashen ground, his life sinking into the depthless pit of grey substance.

He was ill and malnourished. His breaths were a trickle of chest-heaving motion, slow and weak, barely detectable; they feared he would die. Yet once fed something, he began improving at an astonishing rate.

Prying open his mouth, he poured the soup down his throat. He did it slowly, so as not to scald the boy’s mouth and pharynx. The boy swallowed without knowing. Then his eyes snapped open. its colour as substantial as the snowy mountain it represented, hues upon hues of grey and white, nearly colourless. He staggered in awe.

I am having dreams again. Why? He didn’t remember taking that potion.

The earth rumbled beneath his feet. It split, cracks snaking up the plain, up the mountain. The new chasms parted further, revealing below the massive chamber of lava that slumbered under the Blackstone: an ocean of crimson, purely liquid without a single rock. The heat began to rise, a steaming hotness that singed his hair.

Blackstone broke. A great crack that dented the top of the mountain, a cleavage that gave way to the tumbling lava--he watched in horror as the searing liquid flowed down the black mountain in a cacophony of deadly sentiment.

The lava river it gave life to had been big. Now it was huge, augmented by the fresh supply of fire; it became an avaricious snake, devouring rapaciously everything on its way, too hasty to consider anything other than satisfying its endless, fiery appetite.

He watched in horror as it rampaged towards him. He could not move. He was engulfed.

He woke up.

His body still ached, though not as strongly. A hot liquid streamed down his throat---the lava? A fleeting moment of panic passed before he discovered its sweet taste; some kind of soup. A haggard old man stood a few metres away, astounded; he smiled weakly at him, a token of gratitude.

With one arm he pushed himself up to a sitting motion; it was hard work, strength not yet returning to his muscles. He found his upper body naked except for some bandages that dressed his wounds.

Triglav. Are you here? He sighed in relief when he heard its reply.

The old man came near again, soup and a spoon in his hand. Erebus nodded, receiving the things from the man, sipping small mouthfuls of broth; it was delicious.

“You have waken, my boy.” the old man smiled in delight. Erebus studied him; haggard and quite wrinkled, thick hands and fingers that suggested hard labour; quite a normal person.

“Where are you from?”

“Deadstone Pass.” he replied.

“Deadstone...that’s far away. So you are one of the mountain tribes, I assume.” not only ‘one of them’...I am the Crucible. Erebus reflected silently.

“Why are you here? You don’t seem very certain of your way. There is nothing to be found at our village.” the old man continued, studying the boy; silver hair, silver eyes---even among the exotic tribes the features were extremely rare. The silver wasn’t a metallic one, imbued with a soft hue of very light blue; it rather suggested frost and snow.

“I got lost.” he stated in a matter-of-fact way. That was true.

The old man mused, mulling over this simple statement, “That was quite an epic journey, I would say. However, I would not question further---your belongings are over there, I didn’t meddle with them.”

“How do you feel?”

“Much better now. I guess I am going.” Erebus hopped down from his sickbed, faltering on the landing, staggering for a few steps before stabilising himself with the bedframe.

“I guess not, boy. You should rest for a few more days and eat something substantial. A broth won’t restore your vigilance quickly.”

“But time is running short…” he mumbled. The Blackstone would erupt in mere days. “I got to go. So do you.”

“Me? Why?” the man was curious.

“Blackstone...the mountain...it would erupt soon. If you don’t go now, you would die.”

“That was something I haven’t heard of in a while. Maybe your brain’s still a bit fuzzy after your sleep. Did you see it in your dreams?”

Erebus nodded.

“It probably just reflects your fear and apprehension, son. Nothing special. I have dreamed of those scenes a few times in my youth.” he laughed.

“I hope so too.” he really did. “Even if that isn’t true, I still need to go.” he retrieved his clothes, putting them on quickly, rushing out of the room.

“Speaking of journeying...are you sure you won’t get lost again?”

He froze in place.

“Come with me.” the man chuckled. “I know someone that knows the way.”

------

“Sodoma? Why are you going that way? Besides, you have went the wrong way, Sodoma is over in the east…” Bard scratched his beard, puzzled, standing in front of his great, lambskin map. It was a rare gift from a deceased traveller.

“I’ve got a friend there I want to visit.” Erebus replied. In fact, Sodoma was chosen due to its affinity with the Dark City, which’s location he approximated on the map. It was not shown.

Erebus walked south. The Blackstone’s great shadow faded slowly, transforming into a black prism that only occupied a small portion of the horizon. The soles of his boots produced a quaint squishing sound as they made contact with ashen ground. A bag was slung over his shoulder, some essentials in it: food, water and clothes. It did not came free: though the old man tried to supply him with what he could spare, it wasn’t much. In the end he had to trade his fur coat for some extra materials.

They would not listen. He sighed. The Blackstone grumbled, a melancholical roar that sounded like a bad stomachache. He knew what that meant---the Blackstone was indeed discharging its content.

I hope it isn’t true...they wouldn’t leave their ancestral home; life was hard here, harder elsewhere. If the Blackstone erupted and devoured them, they would probably embrace this fact resiliently, though unwillingly.

If the Blackstone indeed erupted and flooded...the ill omens would be true. The Skolver range will disintegrate, the Dark City will rise again, rejoicing.

He had no idea what he was doing. Not even the Crucible of the Mountain could resist the might of the darkness. Yet...he felt he should be there.

Bard traced the path. “Well, I would advise you to take the long route past Almire...but since you don’t have much time, go down here, across the Dark Caverns, then run along the outskirts of the Great Wilderness; you’ll reach there in due time.”

“Be aware not to venture into the Wilderness. There’s no way back. Actually, no one ever came back to tell the stories…”

Triglav hummed resoundingly. He listened with care; someone approached in a rapid sequence of lithe footsteps. It wasn’t actually someone, but rather, a wolf.

Pale fur, mane whiter than snow, a translucent blue that resembled flowing shards of crystalline frost, its movement akin to tides of glacier. Eyes cold like opal, paws untainted by the dirty ash, sharp, glaive-like claws springing, a long, lustrous tail whipping behind, specks of frost dropping from it.

Frostifur. You have followed me here? Erebus squatted before his wolf, patting its head adoringly. It howled softly, nudging its cold nose against his chin.

“Let’s go.” hopping onto his Frostifur, they sped forward towards the darkness rising thousands of kilometres away.

@Mordenius: Thanks. I was just about to kill a large number of Strikers. Thanks for providing me with a perfect victim!
By the way I dunno if you noticed, the Strikers are not affiliated with the Order anymore. OK some spoilers/clear-ups here:
1. The Strikers held a grudge with the Order; the Order tried to exterminate them by sending them headfirst against the Swarm, not providing any help.
2. The Strikers vanished somehow, the Order accused them of betrayal (ok I can't say much more...I haven't written to that part, but that is really important; directly relates to the logic of the story)
3. The Order covered them up, now almost no Haven people know about them; they became some kind of a taboo among the high-ranked Knights, something much hated for no reason.
4. Meanwhile, the Strikers spent 80 years suppressing the sleeping Swarm underground; it was a delicate balance, neither sides unable to totally eliminate their enemies; now, following something-that-happened, the balance is broken, and war resumes.

People, I am gonna ask you a few "what if" questions:
1. How would you react when Vivid says he's going to quit writing this?
2. How would you react when Vivid says the story is half a year from completion?
3. How would you react when Vivid says that he'll never write another fanfic after this?
4. If you are to give the story a score out of 50 from the following aspects (each rating 10 marks): Language, Plot, Characterization, Settings, Plausibility, how would you give the marks?

Chapter 17 is full of errr...stuff that intends to be sad but failed and turned out a hilarious piece of cr@p.

Chapter 17

Echo eagerly waited for her new sword. Her old one snapped yesterday after a particularly fierce practise with Edgar. She sat cross-legged on the dusty floor, tilting her chin to the left, lips pouting.

Septre stood on a small, wooden stool, a rusty iron knife scratching against a long piece of wood. With each sweep chips of wood fell, piling on the ground, a small mountain of sneeze-inducing flakes. With every passing second the piece of wood became sharper, deadlier, more like a real blade.

“Give me that.” Echo said, reaching for the sword.

“Not yet.” Septre smiled, his hand blocking Echo’s; she was stronger than him, but she wouldn’t exert her extra strength for such purpose. Instead, she sat back down, yawning.

He lifted the wooden sword between his eyes, observing carefully: a chip here, a cut there, evening out the imbalanced weight. He deliberately made the tip sharper and lighter, thick at the base and narrowing gradually. He made some final adjustments; carvings that both decorated the blade and fine-tuned the weight.

“Here you are.” he handed the intricately carved sword to his friend. She was instantly lit with delight. Slashing a few times, she nodded contently, the blade flying swiftly like a dragonfly. “This is great!” she beamed, hugging Septre snugly.

“Thanks! I’m out for more practise now!”

“What do you need swords for?” Edgar once asked Echo. Her reply was simple.

“To protect.”

Girls weren’t supposed to take up arms; that was what Edgar thought. Girls were supposed to knit, sew and cook, to support their family and friends, leaving the fight for the males.

At first he opposed her practising swords. Echo shrugged that off with her fierce determination; there was always a confident glow in her eyes, unwavering might that urged herself to learn more, try more, practise more, to excel. At thirteen now she was almost as good as a grown-up: strength was compensated by accuracy, stamina by speed. Edgar had to spar with her alone, as no other boys could match her.

“I’d rather make some swords for you. As long as you are in front of me.” that was Septre’s reply. He wasn’t a particularly strong fellow, thin and without muscle, his build short and small. One thing he was good at, however, was feeling. He could touch a sword, and instinctively identify its centre of mass and balance point; grasp it in his hand, he knew its movements, how the air would move around it.

He wasn’t ashamed of not fighting much.

They were out there, practising. Echo sparred with Hiros and Lance, all wielding wooden swords crafted by Septre. He stood some twenty steps away and observed; Echo’s strikes were fast, Hiros barely fending them off, countering chiefly with his strength. Lance was at the side, cheeks red and puffing but unable to land a hit with his miniature sword.

Around them was a field, cleared of obstacles and weeds; mostly sand with a few patches of lush grass, this was the kids’ main playground. A number of wooden huts were erected in an arc, surrounding the field. Most were inhabited, relatively well-maintained, but the others had already shown signs of decay: rotting, tilted wood with vines growing, doors loose from the hinges, floors untidied and dusty.

A lot had departed; more would follow. Living at the border area, clamped between the might of Almire and the Spiral Order wasn’t an exactly nice affair; lands were ruined, natural resources unexploited, destroyed instead, the fear of rampaging armies deployed from both sides.

Both armies boasted of discipline. They knew better: at such remote areas where the reaches of law were nonexistent, they could do whatever they want: pillage, farm, exploit the poor peasants, grasp them tight, squeeze every single Crown out of their body. They claimed not the ones to be blamed: if not for the corrupt officers that nicked most of their wages, why would they need to vent their anger (and greed) on the innocent villagers?

Such a system of economy. No wonder most had escaped for a better living: a man-for-hire, a guard or soldier at the fortified, Order-ran border towns, a worker at Haven---all better alternatives than getting trampled to death here.

To survive, only one substance was required. One that most lacked.

Strength.

That was why Septre’s village got to survive with relatively less losses. In a previous hunting trip, Edgar had pointed atop a small knoll cleavages inside the forest: those were inhabited villages at his youth, now falling to desolation; soon the dense forest would grow over it, enclosing the entire place. Not a trace would be left.

Hiros yelped. Septre turned to see his wooden sword knocked away by Echo’s. Then, with a precise thrust, its tip came to rest a centimetre in front of his throat. Grumbling, Hiros knelt down to retrieve his sword; with a wicked grin Echo smote his head hard, smacking him face-first into the sand, receiving an uproarious shout in return. Lance watched all these in sullen silence.

“That’s not a very nice thing to do, Echo!” a woman passed, scolding her casually. Miriam, the wife of Edgar, held a basket of laundry, heading back to her hut. She had large eyes and a straight nose, messy red hair. Not a really beautiful woman, but cheerful and buoyant, brightly attractive in her own ways.

She went over to Hiros, pretending to kick him. “Just kick his butt next time. Hitting heads make them stupid.”

Everyone laughed, including Hiros. Lance grinned a little. A gust of wind brought the trees around shuffling, whistling softly, seductively; the laundry in her basket took flight, white pieces of wings hailing against the sun; Miriam screamed dramatically, sprinting forward. A euphony of laughter ensued.

This was life. It seemed fun and nice, but only because everyone ignored tomorrow.

“What do you want to be when you grow up?”>em? same question, different answers. In Haven, this was a composition topic for the Elementary grade kids, which they either wave aside or babble some nonsensical dreams.

In the village, it was a hope. And a dream. Most of them were old, unable to work except for gathering fruits and greens. The adults numbered to no more than ten, all out hunting or working. There were less children, even less food; even if the whole village mutually prioritise the children first, the food supply could still be insufficient. Also the diseases and the beasts…

To reach adulthood was a miracle. To think of what to do next...seemed both imminent and fantastical. The children carried the hope of the village, yet there wasn’t any hope in the village itself. Withering, dying, it couldn’t last much longer.

“I want to be a pony rider when I grow up.” that was what a boy said. He was later found dead together with the only horse in the village. They later made bacon from the flesh---horse flesh, of course, not the boy’s.

They sat around a cauldron of soup. Edgar hunted a small hog today, so they were now having a meat stew. Everyone had a crude ceramic bowl, some soup in it, and a piece of bread; the pot was still boiling and bubbling.

“I want to join the army. I want to protect someone.” Echo said determinedly between bites. “There must be some way, but first I need strength.”

“Very good.” Edgar replied.

“I want to be a sword crafter.” Septre said, smiling. “That way I can craft more nice swords for my friends to wield.”

“A blacksmith? Well, not bad…”

“I…” Hiros said hesitantly. “I don’t know. I just want to be strong so I can change things…”

“Vague, but I would accept this.”

Lance chewed his bread. He did not talk.

------

Septre was busying crafting another wooden sword. This time, it was for Lance.

“Say again, what do you want?” he asked, scrolling over his pile of materials.

“A light, fast sword that I can hold.” Lance replied grumpily. He was even smaller than Septre, and two years younger. Always the sickly and weak one.

“Alright. But it must also be good enough not to break in one go. Give me some time, and I’ll craft you your sword.” he started working. Lance watched silently. After a while, the sword was finished.

“This…” Lance frowned, holding the short sword. Frankly, more an elongated dagger than a real blade. “How can I hit someone with this?”

Septre scratched his chin, embarrassed. “I wanted to make a special sword for you, something long and pointy that you can poke the others with, but I am not skilled enough. The wood would break easily if I do so. This is the longest I can get for you to swing without difficulty.”

Apparently, Lance believed not. “Give me your sword.” he pointed at the plain, long sword next to Septre’s stool.

“You want to try? Well, I guess so…” he shrugged.

Lance’s face turned real red. “No, I can’t do it…” “Told you.”

Echo broke in, cheeks red with excitement, panting. “What are you waiting for?” she roared, stabilising herself against the doorframe with her right arm, “Come out! Edgar is fighting with someone!”

“What?” both said instantly, rising, sprinting out.

“You know who I am.” the Almirian soldier pointed at the insignia embroidered on the collar of his beige uniform. “I serve under Highlord Phocas, the great Frontierlord.”

“Why should I care.” Edgar spat on the ground. “It has been made clear that soldiers should not disturb us peasants, no matter which faction are you from. Now go away.”

“Rules are rules, conventions are conventions.” the soldier drew his sword, a long silver blade. “Give what you have and your lives will be spared. Else…” he leered, “you’ll die.”

True. He could kill the entire village then refurbish that into some kind of great achievement.

“Phocas is bullcrap, so are his soldiers.” Edgar snorted, also drawing his blade, pointing it straight at the unruly soldier’s scarred nose. “If you want your filthy money, come get it.”

“Hmm?” the soldier wasn’t angered by the insult; apparently not much loyalty was in him. “I’ll teach you how to use a sword properly, son! Don’t grab the pointy side!” he belched in laughter. Edgar promptly ignored him, charging forward.

The battle ended in mere seconds. Edgar rebounded the soldier’s strike, then delivered a forehand blow that knocked him off-stance. The next attack struck his elbow, severing the arm. It dropped with the blade it held in a clutter. The soldier staggered back, clutching his newly acquired stump, eyes bulging in sheer surprise.

Edgar went forward, ignoring the shaking legs and bearded mouth that opened for a plea. His sword plunged into his throat, dashing his begging for mercy; the soldier went down unceremoniously, gurgling, blood gushing from his opened throat.

“Why?” Echo asked. “Why kill him?”

“To protect you, of course…” Edgar replied. “If I let him go, he’ll go back and report to his Lord. Then we are in trouble.”

Echo remained silent. I thought protection was saving lives…

“There’s a lot more to think about when you vow to protect someone. As long as there’s something evil, you can’t protect everyone.” Edgar sighed.

The kids blinked confusedly.

------

It was a few days later. A whole unit of Knights went pass the village, stopping to restock supplies. They were, of course, refused; the villagers didn’t have much to spare.

“Lucky they were Knights after all. Won’t harm us.” Miriam sighed, collecting the hung laundry. “If they were Almirians they would kill us.”

Edgar wasn’t so positive. He hugged his wife, helping her take the laundry. “We’ll see soon.” he said, a bit grim. “Take care, Miriam.”

“Where are you going?” she asked.

“I’m taking watch tonight. Take care of the kids.” he planted on her lips a kiss.

Miriam returned to the hut, went into the kitchen and started chopping carrots. Echo, Hiros, Lance and Septre---none were actually their kids, yet they bred them with much care. Echo and Hiros were kids from their deceased friends, Lance and Septre orphans that Edgar discovered on different hunting trips.

Ouch. Distracted, she found her finger bleeding from a blunt wound, pretty wide and deep. That would need a bandage. She thought, going to her room.

She was yanked on her way.

A Knight, dressed in his cobalt armour, his beard coated with white froth. There was a lusty, rapacious look in his eyes, gleaming with fury and desire---

She cried.

“Miriam!” Echo broke through the damaged door, crying. What she saw was a towering man, his body naked, his muscular back facing her, the bulging muscles grinning with a sinister look. Someone she didn’t know. She feared---an edacious aura emanated from the man, one that occurred when he was taken by nothing but sensual lust…

To protect.

She did the only possible action. Diving forward, the wooden blade plunged deep into the man’s back, splinters doing additional damage; he cried vociferously. Echo eyed nervously, then spotted a sword that rested among the pile of clothes. A real blade, blunt and unused, but solid steel indeed. Hastily, she picked it up. The man turned and struck with his great fist, punching her squarely in the chest. The same moment, she slit his throat.

Echo rose painfully from the pile of debris she created when threw back. Her chest ached heavily, breathing was shallow; she struggled in horror towards the figure lying next to the slain Knight, praying that she would live.

Miriam. Her eyes were dreamy---no other reason except for the departing life. A large wound was present at her stomach, a mixture of stomach acid and blood flowing, an ugly mess. Her dress was torn and shredded, parts of it dislocated from the areas they were supposed to shield. She laid sprawling on the ground, unmoving except for a few spasms.

Echo knelt down. Tears flowed.

“Didn’t...didn’t take me…” tears welled in Miriam’s eyes, too weak to fall. With her last strength she wiped the blood from Echo’s cheeks.

“I am sorry...if only I came earlier…” Echo sobbed.

“Then you would be the one killed.” Miriam sighed, closing her eyes, the heaving of her chest beginning to weaken. Echo mulled over the comment in remorse; she knew it was true.

“I am sorry, Echo. I can’t cook for you again. Tell Edgar that I love him...and good luck with whatever you are going to pursue.”

Echo howled in heartbreaking anguish.

“You have lost.”

Edgar was pressed to the ground by a few leather combat boots. Their grime-covered soles wriggled, smearing marks upon marks of dirty, refuse-flavoured brown on his shirt.

His sword was broken. After slaying one of the attacking Knights, the leading officer dueled with him; after a minute of fighting he came out the loser, knocked to the ground, his sword snapped into half by the officer’s raw hands.

His lips were tender like grilled sausages, split; they had exacted the revenge upon their fallen comrade through the way of punching and kicking him. Apparently they had not much love for the dead Knight, for their blows were painful but nowhere lethal.

Blood trickled slowly down his temple and lips. He squirmed forcefully, trying to rise again, but no use; the combined weight of several people were more than enough to force him down. His mouth bit into the dirt, his nose inhaling sand and bits of ash.

“He’s a nice lad, good enough...” one of the Knights suggested. “We could sell him to the slavemaster. Would probably earn us a few gold Crowns.”

Murmurs of “crowns!” echoed within the band of soldiers. Many of them drooled, eyeing their captive with greedy eyes. The beating soon ceased; they didn’t want to damage their good so to have it sold at a lower price...

All around the villagers came out of their huts, spectating the events, mouth gaping wide. The few children shivered, clutching some passing randoms for comfort; the older sighed despondently, unsure of their fate; Echo was nowhere to be seen. A young man brought with him his set of bow and arrows, hiding at an obscure corner, taking aim---everyone knew what he was going to do, silence their approval by default.

Great. Now more to add to my shame...

“No. Not to the slave market. Boss would be angry if we go back with one missing...” the officer frowned, crossing his arms. “Bring him into the fold.”

“What?” another soldier shouted. “Are you serious? This guy has just killed Ben!”

“A fine young lad indeed...that showed his skills. Boss won’t know which one is Ben anyway; as long as we still have the number of people that’s alright for him.”

“So we are taking him back?” the soldier asked casually, ignoring the hushes and shrieks of surprise that surrounded him.

Septre was within the crowd, mouth opened wide. Edgar had lost? And now they were bringing him away? Nonsense!

Echo approached from distance, weeping, her eyes red and sad. “They killed Miriam.” She informed him, sobbing, the collar of her blouse soaked with warm tears.

“What?” he was frozen in place, overwhelmed by sheer disbelief. The expression changed from blankness to one of pain, then finally of anger. “Let’s get to the front. We have to do something.” He said, pulling Echo forward. Echo checked her side; the steel sword was still there, ready to be used.

“Yes...for the moment.” the officer said. We will dispose him later. “If you go, the village is spared; if you don’t…” he gestured his soldiers forward, bringing with a few children. Lance. “That hostile gentleman over there is their example.” lifting his pistol, he fired. The young man waiting to ambush collapsed, falling from his hiding ground, his arrow plunging into his own chest.

Edgar rolled his head, looking left and right. The villagers were scared, horrified...all because of him? If they had complied, they would not have faced the consequences.

“Fine. I’ll go. Now release me.” he said dejectedly.

“No! You can’t!” Echo charged from the crowd, shouting, “They killed Miriam!”

“Miriam?” Edgar stilled. Silence swept over the village, the wind a slight, melancholic hymn, spreading a curtain of sorrow.

A minute passed. Finally, he turned. “I can’t. I can’t revenge...I can only do what I can to protect the village.”

“Even when your wife is dead?” Echo snapped. Septre tapped her shoulder; she realised what she had said, and silenced immediately.

“Sorry.”

“Say, what if boss really knows he’s not Ben?” a soldier asked.

“Good question.” the officer mused, “Let me see...take the boy over there.” he pointed to Lance, whose silver hair fluttered in the air, shivering. “Boss would like him.”

“You, new one, go over to get him.”

But you vowed to protect. Echo stepped up, her stolen sword gripped in her palm, confronting the approaching Edgar. He sighed, “Go away, Echo. There’s nothing I can do.”

“But you vowed to protect us!” she cried. “Now what are you doing? Miriam, Lance...yourself…”

“See the villagers around you. There’s not only you that I need to protect…”

“This is life.” he went past the brave girl, grabbing the muted Lance, returning to the band of soldiers, who laughed and booed at the shamed man. His face burned.

Echo froze in place, stunned by the contemptuous gazes of the soldiers. She wanted to go forward, to kill them like how she killed the raper. But she would only die. Somehow in her mind, she feared. Septre hugged her in deep sadness.

“I am going too.” she whispered. “So someday I can really…”

But I vowed to protect him...

Lance remained unmoved. Partially startled, partially lost in his own thoughts. The band trudged on boringly in the mud and groves. Edgar lagged behind,grappling firmly Lance’s spindle-thin arm,his steps short and awkward, the gait of a humiliated warrior unable to raise his chin.

The Knights---or so they claimed, exhibited no trait of chivalry; one resemblance was that the atrocities they carried out bore much semblance to the cleansing of heathens, Several shot the pair alerting, hawk-like gazes, dashing their hope to escape. Edgar knew what would be their consequence if they escaped: they would gladly kill them, then wreak havoc on the village. Their ruthlessness was well exhibited from the pile of corpses they gathered---all working adults, male and female alike.

The village couldn’t survive with such a loss of invaluable manpower...did Edgar’s sacrifice go in vain? At least they were saved for the moment.

But Miriam...Lance’s silver, moon-like gaze unnerved him.

Damn.

Lance offered no resistance. He knew he was a total weakling, that any action, no matter how vigorously, enthusiastically executed, would end in vain and futility. His protectors couldn't protect him; they were useless against the savage Knights. Could his efforts be of any use?

Echo drew her sword in defence of him. He was glad for that, hiding behind her thin but steady back, looking at her, cheering silently for the sword she held, a blade blunt, poorly worked, but embodied in it the extraordinary courage and determination of a small girl barely into adolescence. It felt so good to have someone care for him, to vow before him the protection of what he cherished.

That might be childish talk, but Echo was serious. Lance knew.

The emotions became conflicted when Edgar brought him away, Echo failing to stop him. He was disappointed, even betrayed; you vowed to protect me. A promise broken, a heart broken…

He was consoled when his gaze met one last time with Echo’s; there was pain, and unwillingness to resign, glistening in her teary, black eyes. He would always remember those pupils, black pearls which’s smoothness was juxtaposed by grief and sorrow. That moment, he knew she tried. He knew she felt sorry for him. That was enough.

Somehow, he was glad that she didn’t draw her sword in resistance; that would bring her death. He refused to see that happen. Still, there was a corner in his feeble heart that spoke of the incredibility of the others.

“Lance...I am sorry.” suddenly, Edgar sighed, squeezing his arm.

Lance replied nought. He refused to acknowledge the apology.

“I have no options left.” his face dimmed in grief, “Either I die, and then everyone else dies, or I sacrifice myself to save everyone else. I don’t have a choice. This isn't a matter of pride or justice, it is...what it is.”

Lance’s tacit gaze was taunting. Miriam and me?

“Curse. Curse it. They killed Miriam...they probably raped her, spoiled and ruined her dignity before killing. My poor Miriam...I am so sorry…” he broke into a weep. “But what can I do? She was already dead, and me beaten, my sword reaped from my reach...how can I avenge her?”

Lance wanted to sympathise, but it was hard to...when you are another victim.

“As for you, Lance...I am truly sorry. There’s nothing else I can do, and what I do is for the greater good for the village. Please forgive me, and endure this...we’ll find a time to escape.”

True. But have you considered my feelings? Sometimes it is not possible to shuffle the responsibility just by saying “for something greater than oneself”...

You are never that oneself you say.

“Why...don’t you trust me anymore?” Edgar murmured, fingers feeling the cold edge of the blade that emerged from his stomach.

He knew what that meant; the soldier guarding them had been slain, his sword taken. He didn’t know how he did it.

“I trust you still.” Lance stated placidly, a matter-of-fact way, his tone unhampered by the gross scene of spilling innards, quiet and calm. “However, I realised I trust myself more.”

He dared not release the handle---that would be too risky; Edgar still possessed enough strength to pull the sword out from his cleaved stomach and bring him too to hell. Which wasn’t exactly what he wanted.

Edgar didn’t turn, or attack. Rather, he let out a satirical cackle, blood frothing and choking in his mouth, “I told you we would make it through. Why now?”

“True, we would eventually make it through...maybe. However, there’s another thing I realised.”

“That is?” Edgar mused, completely unshaken by the fact that he was dying in minutes. Perhaps, when your fate was already so certain, you wouldn’t care about it anymore.

“I should grasp my own destiny…” twisting sharply, the blade squirmed through the mess of blood and gore, retreating through an entanglement of twisted, bloody intestines and undigested substances, bringing with it threads of blood and fibre.

“The only way to do it is through the sword I hold.” he was weak, very weak. But he would get stronger, wouldn’t he? Then he could…

He didn’t know how; still better than being controlled by another though.

Through the immense, stomach-wrenching (if he still had a stomach) pain he managed to squeeze out two words.

“Good luck.”

Lance froze in place. Lachrymose overflowed.

She woke in intense pain, dangled floors above the slippery, bloodstained ground. Chains bound her arms and legs, ruthless, rusty sets of chastisements that scraped into her skin, pressuring and damaging the muscles beneath. She swung, a pendulum in wide arcs, the chains rattling a cacophony of clinking noises, the centrifugal force and gravity creating tumultuous currents of parching blood that scourged her own vessels, unstoppable.

Her head, however, was free to rotate and scroll. Her body was coated in red, which’s flow would not be contained due to the repeated times of scraping and brushing her fair skin with steel brushes. They had been careful though; the bleeding wouldn’t harm her life, nor would the areas attacked suffer any substantial damage; all that mattered was pain, and pain alone.

Gradually, she felt herself lowered. The swinging increased in magnitude, an unpleasant motion that often crashed against the wall and rebounded. Each impact brought her exposed back, embroidered with a carpet of thin cuts, onto the cold, rough stone, inducing more anguish.

Her lips had been chewed to the point of deforming. The pain was so intense, she could hardly remember who she was. Involuntarily she shivered mid-air, her naked body simultaneously swept by a gust of extra-freezing wind and extreme horror. A murky liquid, mixed with blood, escaped, dripping down her thighs and legs.

I am Kel...I am not dead…

I would soon be. They were here again. The Eyes of the Order, dressed in black, leather suits, a grand assortment of syringes, knives and potions, their faces hidden under sunglasses and black masks.

“They have already confessed. Now it is your turn.”

“I know nothing.” Kel gritted her teeth, bracing against the resurging pain. Her body burned---she felt like an entombed phoenix, forever lost in its cycle of flaming rebirth, unable to escape and seek relief. How she longed for rest, either temporary or eternal! She would acquire that once she told them...then the world would matter no more, right? But no---I must not tell.

“They have confessed, but their knowledge is limited. They did point out one thing though---you’ll know more.”

“I don’t know.” She snapped defiantly, tears welling in her eyes. No, she couldn’t withstand it for much longer, but escape into comatose was not an allowed option. “If you want to avenge your fallen comrades, kill me.”

“They are not our comrades.” One of the men mused, chuckling. “They are merely dogs to serve a greater purpose. We are the Eyes.”

“So you wouldn’t tell?” another asked. When he saw her refusal, he sighed. “Fine, let’s get started...”

He plunged a few knives into her limbs; thin and needle-like, they connected explicitly with the ends of her nerves. Instantly, Kel howled, her bewildered shriek echoing hauntingly in the vastness of the chamber.

He pressed a button. The knives started vibrating. Her scream became a continuous, unstoppable cry of agony, one that seemed to vibrate and swing with the knives that antagonised her body.

Endurance. Hope I die fast enough? She knew what was happening; the knives would step by step damage and tear her nerves and tendons, making her limbs virtually useless...ten to twenty minutes would be enough to render her arms attached slabs of limp meat.

A potion was waved in front of her eyes, a dark liquid. “Extraction of Mesonychoteuthis hamiltoni dissolved in silver nitrite. Drink it, and you would tell everything...not before going through several nightmares though. The end would not be nice, I guarantee; what you couldn’t feel physically would be thoroughly compensated by the...sensations perceived by your brain.”

Kel paled. “No. No...” she whispered frantically, too weak a plead.

“Too late.”

Delving into a multitude of tormentous hells, the last thing that she saw before entering the world of darkness was a blazing golden phoenix that scorched her vision.

If people're still following, I'll start updating this again soon.
If there's no readers left, let this sink
What do you think? I have the chapters ready.

More explanation will come when I decide to update it again

OK, Christmas is near, I have two things in mind:

1. AMA. If you are bored enough, feel free to post a few questions you want to ask about me. I'll answer all; don't ask my private/sex life, cuz I got none.

2. I'll post my interpretation of Jesus Christ's story on Christmas Day. Beware that I am an Atheist, so I have a very different approach to his story...don't rage please.

Chapter 20

“Very well.” Ardern glowered at the composed, smiling figure. The detached swinging of his fan---and the single flowering purple swaying elegantly with it.

The burning sensation that dotted his body reminded him of how evil these Almirians were. Scarcely a few days’ rest was enjoyed before he was on the battlefield again; his wounds weren’t healed, but that didn’t stop him from fighting.

During his short period of recovery he was evacuated to the south, then transferred to another unit operating in the west---only a few from his original survived, too damaged and terrorised to fight.

“So you are the Knights.” the white-robed figure atop a mare of the same, snowy colour mused curiously. “Shorter and scruffier than what I had thought...would still be interesting to kill though.” The fan swung again, lazily, languidly, a light breeze almost undetectable that only managed to move several strands of his lavender hair.

“We are the ones that would kill you, sissy!” a Knight barked, his contemptuous words echoed by the spiteful roars of many behind.

We lost Blackstone, we couldn’t lose this one. Ardern thought indignantly; they were a bunch of uncivilised madmen that know nothing but fighting and slaughter. In the single day of battle the Order lost over four thousand, with double the amount crippled or decapacitated. A horrible number of comrades wouldn’t return to Haven; more wished they never would, for the physical and spiritual scars were too scathing to display to anyone else…

They deserved to die, everyone of them. He would deliver them justice, bring them to hell if there was one.

Instantly, he felt a bright fire kindle in his chest; pulling out his Honour Blade, he pointed it straight at the prideful rider. He returned the gesture by swinging his fan once again, a simple white piece of folded paper scaffolded by bamboo. The simple motion seemed unnaturally infuriating; was it really the swinging, or the person committing the act?

Though anger may flare, Ardern kept his calm. Relaxing his arm he nodded to the officer next to him, sharing a tacit knowledge of assent; they would wait for the middle and the rear before attacking.

“Ardern Hellinite.” he was taken aback by the comment; how did he knew his name? “Twenty-four years old, from a prestigious lineage that took part in slaying the Darkfire. Joined some kind of useless academy at the age of eleven and graduated in five years. Plenty of battlefield experiences, known for his calm judgement and motivating leadership; now a major in the rubbish Order’s army.”

“Am I correct?” the plant on his fan swayed again; it was a hyacinth, matching the colour of the rider’s hair. Each flap decelerated, slower and surer than the last, but not sluggish; swift it swiped through the air, more natural than an autumn falling leaf.

The rage was getting difficult to suppress, especially when it intertwined with suspicion and aghastment; how on earth could a stupid Almirian know so much about him?

“Oh, and though you are quite famed in the army, our intelligence didn’t list you as a threat.” mumbling innocently he added, the flat, factual tone strangely insulting.

Just a few more minutes...when they had all gathered, he could freely strike the proud, obnoxious Almirian from his puny horse. Just a few more minutes.

The figure saw through his rage, smiling, “If you are waiting for the rearguard, they won’t be here.. I’ve had them all killed thirty minutes ago.”

“Stop taunting me, you fool.” Ardern snapped.

“If you are looking for the main army…” he bit his lip thoughtfully, “My men should be almost back by now, taking the booty and anyone that surrendered. Some so-called ‘technology’ that I could gift to my female companions.”

“Stop. Taunting. Me.”

“Ah, here they are.” the annoying guy broke into a soft chuckle, pointing towards a band of soldiers approaching from the east. Squinting his eyes, his grin widened, “Looks like they’ve brought me a special souvenir…”

“This couldn’t be…” Ardern gasped. The soldiers mumbled in sheer disbelief.

“So good. General Dewca’s head would make a fine addition to my trophy room. Especially one without the heavy body attached.”

Who says a Hyacinth can’t kill?

Finally, he flashed out his weapon. A delicately carved mace with strange, thorny studs. The body was bronze, shimmering with an eerie layer of dark green rust; the studs blossomed in a beautiful violet, stained deep and dark by the consumption of blood.

‘Surrender or die, choose. Though I know both options sound the same to dimwits like you.” he chuckled softly. The fan swung teasingly.

------

“General Pabenheim, the Raven had entered the canyon with his guards.”

“Good. Continue your pursuit.” the fat general commanded confidently, smoking an expensive, high-class cigarette.

“Wouldn’t that be dangerous? We are not familiar with the geography of this place. What if they, say, ambush us? Roll some rocks down from the cliffs?”

“They wouldn’t do that if it would risk their stupid Lord. That is the reason for chasing fast---keep close to the Raven, stick with him, surround him; nothing could be done if they couldn’t separate allies from foes.” a condescending smirk was heard; the General teasing the impotence of his young, naive adversary?

“We will all move in, trap them before they exit the canyon, capture the stinking bird once and for all. Almire would be dealt a great blow if we captured one of its great Lords.”

“Yes, sir.” the officer bowed.

“Victory be ours.” Pabenheim saluted.

-------

Atop the cliff, Corvus stared remorsefully at the ant-like figures below. Clad in black, they fought valiantly, shedding every last drop of steaming blood, sacrificing their young, honourable lives for the defence of Almire.

They amounted to five hundred. Though neatly organised, he could spot the difference between them and his elites: lower individual combat ability, lower accuracy, slower movement and slower reaction. He dared not use peasants: they would be crushed in a matter of minutes; he dared not use his elites: those were hard to replace. Five hundred of his newest, rawest recruits was all he could spare…

Five hundred lives, despite the quality. Five hundred hearts that beated energetically, five hundred souls that hailed with all their courage and determination.

They were all good men. They were all loyal men. They were all going to die.

Three thousand soldiers flooded into the narrow canyon, the lust for killing rampant in the air; every corner of the canyon was rife with the heaviness of blood, defying the laws of gravity, rising all the way up into his nostrils. His nose was sore.

His men retreated deep into the canyon, towards the spot that would destine their fate. The rest of his men awaited patiently atop the steep, rocky walls, heads low, eyes closed, bowing in reverent silence to the brothers that paid their lives for theirs.

Corvus inhaled deeply, wiping his eyes as a precaution; no tears came out yet. How many would perish today?

I killed them.

------

The plan was perfect, flawless. Yet no one would carry it out. Corvus sipped his hot wine, the sweet fragrance dissipating on his tongue like an ephemeral snowflake, its beauty unsavoured.

His men seemed battered and exhausted; after the Princess had gone no more skirmishes were won; the Order overpowered them in numbers and technology. A few of the younger officers who didn’t know well the creeds of war stooped their heads low, disheartened gazes directed at the wooden table.

The meeting plummeted into frigid stagnation; no one agreed, or even commented, to Corvus’ plan. That was what he expected: in fact, he constantly interrogated himself with the legitimacy and righteousness of this plan, smiting himself for his disrespect.

No one spoke, no one dared breaking the silence, breaking the spellbound group of officers from their slovening muteness. That was until Arterin spoke up.

“I would go.” The young commander said softly, not particularly determined, a paradoxical confrontation of honour and death apparent in his tone. His eyes were sad, the vivid glint lost; his voice quivered when he repeated, “I would go.”

No one scorned him for cowardice.

“You must not.” An elder snapped, slamming his wrinkled fist onto the table. “You are the future of the Lord’s army, we can’t let you sacrifice for just a single victory. Step back, Arterin; you have choices.”

An officer sitting next to him patted his shoulder, words of persuasion poured like water flowing from a cracked jar, “We still have other means to win, Arte. Don’t waste your life on such meaningless endeavours; we would convince Corvus; it is not that you would be punished for this, right?”

Corvus sighed. He knew this wouldn’t work. “Alright, Arte. If you refuse I won’t deter you, you are already brave enough to voice out...”

“I would go.” When Arterim stated the sentence again he was composed and determined. “No one else wanted to sacrifice, do you? Corvus can’t do this by himself...so I’ll help.”

“We are losing too quickly, we need a victory to bolster our morale; it would be perfect if we could trade a couple of hundred for a few thousand of theirs, especially when it contains most of the army’s heavy weapons and vehicles.”

That would be quite fair a trade. If you are not the one to be traded.

“Besides...my death won’t bring us a single victory. It would turn the tide of the war.”

Corvus understood what he meant; martyrdom had always been one of the greatest weapons of motivation and inspiration. Especially when the martyr was one of his best officers and friends...the effect would be amplified ten folds.

“Very well.” Rising from his seat, he went over to Arterin’s and hugged him tightly. Whispering in his years, he choked out, “Good luck...and thank you.”

He could see his friend trembling uncontrollably under his steady, controlled posture. But the word had been spoken, too late to turn now. “May the Goddess bless you, Corvus; your success I should watch from above.”

He pointed at the sky. “We shall see again later.” He smiled.

------

It turned out that the volunteering of Arterin induced unexpected consequences; due to his uncanny resemblance with Corvus in speech and tactics, the army had mistaken him as the Raven Lord himself.

Hence the pursuit. The reaping of the unexpected benefit would prove difficult.

Among the blacks, who gradually showed signs of panic and discord, was Arterin, the magnificent blade of his igniting purple stars in the air. A horse that feared nothing carried the fearless warrior, trampling the Knights like a violet lightning. He slowly retreated, keeping alive as many as possible, luring the victorious Knights deep into the canyon’s snaking intestines.

Corvus dimmed watching atop the cliff; Arterin would never retreat and fall back if not for the purpose of this campaign. His stance was elegant, water unaltered by whatever obstacles that barred its way; free his sword’s movement, swift the violet spark.

The black group scattered, shrinking in size and number; Arterin kept the retreat in good order, finally reaching the end of the canyon; the hairline path broadened, light spilling wildly, a fervent, glamourous waterfall of life and hope.

So close, so far. The Knights’ pace hastened as they surged around the Almirians, fatigued but beaming in delight: the Raven Lord was finally in their grasp!

This is the end. In the sea of Knights that all eyed him as if looking at a thousand carats of gold, he remained unflustered. The proud gaze of his fell not on any of his men or opponents, but on Corvus.

How do you wish to die?

At your hands. My blood is too noble for those rodents…

Very well.

“Drop the rocks and the oil.” Corvus stated, his face a motionless mask. Then he turned and abandoned the impending carnage.

We shall see later.

-------

Kai should be happy.

While Clauswitz clung to his position through dogged willpower and self-destructive, rapid maneuvers, the Almirians regrouped with ease and comfort.

While the residue of the Order’s mighty invasion army struggled in vain to repell the constant harassment and recurring ambushes, watching their comrades fall one to one to their formidable enemies, the Almirians licked their wounds, shedded warmly in their watchtowers and citadels.

While the Knights huddled together, the fear of death and torture gnawing at their weakened souls that the thickest cobalt couldn’t protect, the Almirians smiled in confidence, shrugging off the sense of desperation so rife among them a week ago, pointing their honed swords to a brighter future, a land serene again without the intruding scoundrels.

While Hyacinth robbed the Knights of their food and supplies, wagons of delicacies roamed from Almire to Blackstone, casks of apple cider, dresses of wool, heaps upon heaps of dried bacon, a million loaves of bread; reinforcements in plenty, the revered Priests of War amongst their spirited, hailing ranks.

Finally, he was winning. After such an unendurable period of silence and defeat, the banners of glory fluttered in the warm winter sun.

The day was great, he should be happy. After organising his army and outlining the plan of offense, he accommodated in the Keep’s lavish guest room. Hot, steaming bath, enticing food and charming, spicy wine, a bed so fluffy and velvety; all luxuries he hadn’t enjoyed in days.

There was a moment, in the deepest of his dreams, when he casted away his worries and sorrows. It was a green field he visualised, the grass lush and verdure, buttercups and minty catnips flourishing, a splendid scene of life. He would sit placidly on a creaking, rocking chair, yawning cozily as the light spring breeze tousled his hair, sipping complacently a cup of herbal tea. There would be a girl that sit next to him; she was beautiful, exceeding fair---but he couldn’t make out her face.

The frigid morning sun shattered his yearning for the season. This was winter.

Donning his robe he skidded out of his room, through the portraits and vases that silently adorned the corridor. It was quite early, but the Keep bustled with activity, servants travelling hurriedly through the elegant passages, their heavy boots creating muffled cries on the thick burgundy carpets.

Pushing his way through, he quickly arrived at the destination. Pacing back and forth, his palms were soon slick with new sweat; taking a deep breath, he knocked the door. No reply. He knocked harder.

He was startled when he realised there was actually a reply.

“Come in.” a weak voice, no louder than the mewing of a newborn kitten, struck through his layers of confusing thoughts into his heart.

The door opened slowly. Kai took a hesitant peek, squirming his head through the gap. The room was in the same state of serenity, the carpets, walls and curtains singing in a unison of white. The only figure was the flower, replaced by a pink morning glory, the colour splashing passionately. And on the bed was Nyarla.

The twinkling, rolling beads of obsidian reacted first; tired were the eyes, the irises beamed with a mix of relief and happiness. The other parts of her face caught up: the lips, dry and slightly parched, that twitched upwards into a grin; the cheeks, scathed and bandaged on one side, flushed with an amiale shade of red.

“Nya…” his voice was trembling, “I tried to find you yesterday but you were sleeping. Glad that you are finally awake…”

“Stupid Kai, don’t be so emotional. Not the first time you’ve seen me, correct?” her hand, outstretched to ruffle his hair, was speedily intercepted by Kai’s, immobilised by his firm, unyielding grasp. “Never knew you would miss me so much.” she sighed dreamily.

Gently, he brushed his calloused, raw palm against Nyarla’s. The smooth, satin touch of the white gauze felt comfortable, but as soon as he remembered what that meant, his countenance dimmed with remorse. Her fingers were limp, lacking strength, resting on his palm, tickling giddily against his hard skin.

“So I assume we have won?” her eyes rolled again, “I guess so, since you have come back intact, and I find myself still alive.”

“That was pretty scary though, the bombs and all those wolfish grins that would rather rape me a thousand times over than cutting off my head.” Summoning her abysmal strength, she lifted her right wrist, then wrapped snugly in a cocoon of bandages and splints, and wiped her brows with it; they were dry, scrubbed clean and devoid of dirt, but she seemed resolved from the functionless act. “Sprained the wrist when I fell; no breaks though, it would recover soon. I am glad that...the day was over. We survived. Thanks for coming, Blackstone wouldn’t be here today if not for the sacrifices of your men.”

“I...that’s nothing. I couldn’t convince myself not to come; if Blackstone Keep has fallen, then next would be mine. We need some unity at the times of war.” He kept caressing her hand, the sensation at his fingertips altering from the feather softness of the bandages to the warm, substantial touch of skin against skin; such an intimacy he had always reserved for one girl alone, and that wasn’t Nyarla.

She sighed, as if disappointed by the answer, “I thought you would say we are friends...” her lips pouted gloomily.

“Well, that’s also a reason...” he quickly supplemented.

“It’s fine, I know who I am in your heart. Congratulations for your victory anyway, you have saved the day---and me.”

If only I did...if not for Atalia, none of us would be here.

“You now have the initiative to launch a counteroffensive, given the recent victory; most importantly, you probably dashed their hope to advance onto the capital and force a favourable peace before the nobles could fully mobilise.” Battered and fatigued, her mind was clear like crystal, analysing the situation thoroughly. “If my brain didn’t suffer concussion from my fall and remained intact, then the best guess is that the armies attacking Corvus and Hyacinth are all distractions; their forces are concentrate here---the shortest route to Almire. That’s the reason they would risk such great losses to secure a beachhead across the Blackstone River.”

“Morale, not number, is what determines the battle. Normally I could recommend you to go on and just eliminate them, but they probably got another hundred thousand men coming. Oh well...under normal circumstances I could conjure some tricks for you, but I am quite fuzzy today.” She wiped her eyes with her fragile hand, the rigid splints rubbing against her curved eyelashes.

“I won’t be operable for another week...I guess you are on your own this time. No problem, you did it last battle, you’ll do it in the coming battles. I believe you are as able as I am. Of course, feel free to tell if there’s anything I can tell.”

Except that I wasted the lives of so many, and almost accomplished nothing?

He was going to be stronger this time. He should have been.

“Say, what if I need full control over your army? I require the combined forces to acquire victory; my troops alone won’t work.” biting his lips, he prodded, “Is that too much to ask for?”

“I’m afraid not.” Nyarla was dead serious. Then a chuckle came out, her eyes dribbling mischievously in the sunken sockets, “Yeah, I’m afraid that’s not too much to ask for.”

Pushing herself up strainfully, she reached for the small cupboard situated next to the bed; as she moved the bedsheet slid off her body, showing below a simple, sleeveless gown and more bandages underneath. Most of her chest is wrapped up, together with her left abdomen. “Here, take my seal.” clumsily opening a drawer, she extracted from it a golden, stamp-like item with carvings of serpents on it.

Retrieving her arm, she explained, “This is the seal that I used to sign documents and authorise stuff; take this, meet my leading officers and explain. If they won’t listen tell them to find me---ow!” having overexerted herself, she suddenly winced in pain, the seal dropping from her strengthless, spasming fingers.

“Nice reflex.” she complimented, still breathing in rapid, shallow succession, as Kai scooped the seal and placed it into his pocket.

“Nya...I am sorry.” seeing the sorry state his friend was in, he could suppress his remorse no longer.

“Sorry for what?”

“Sorry for...everything. For my failure to protect you, to preserve the lives of your men.” his eyes narrowed into regretful slits, overshadowed by his long, dipping hair.

“You didn’t fail me.” her delicate arm wrapped against his; it was warm. “You never did.”

“What? But I…” he swallowed uneasily, “I let you get hurt. I nearly let you die.” each white, stainless bandage seemed to jump from her body, slapping him in his eyes, exposing below the naked, tender wounds occurring from Kai’s reckless charge.

“Remember what I told you?” her eyes were calm, black holes that engulfed both vision and thoughts. “Go on, Kai, end this. I shall be your firmest shield.”

“Did you end this? Am I your shield, from the beginning to the end?”

“Yes, you are…” glumly, he admitted, “But I am never yours.”

She chuckled, “That’s not a part of the promise. I may be a wicked, devious girl, but I keep to my words. I was behind you all the time, supporting; in the end you won the battle for us. I admit that it hurted a lot when I got pulled from my horse, but that was, well...one of the expected results.”

“The point is that we both kept to our parts, right? That’s good enough. Everything else...they are just additions that bestow flavour to the aftermaths.”

Kai protested, “But you are injured. You wouldn’t be---if you didn’t follow my stupid act to charge into that minefield.”

“They call you insolent, rash, I don’t; I would choose the same option and bear the risks. Well, I admit that I have been outwitted by that demolitioner, but what? That was my fault, not yours. Besides, think of the consequences if we didn’t charge. We wouldn’t have won. And there would be nothing left.” she pointed at his chest. “Neither of us.”

“I...uh…” Kai knew she was consoling him. He just couldn’t thought of a rebuttal when there was such a nice excuse to absolve him from the lingering guilt. At least Nyarla was fine.

“Stop meddling with an incapacitated patient. You have more to do…” she pointed out blandly, “For example, breakfast.”

He scratched his head, blushing; his tummy grumbled and growled. “I guess...I’ll go then. I’ll visit you later.”

The day went on well. Kai should be happy.

The Priests of War came, shattering his nice mood.

Izana told him Mira entered the Test of Flames.

“Why? Isn’t the pain eight years prior enough to stop her?”

“She doesn’t have a choice. She braved the Test courageously...now I am starting to treat her as a true High Priest.”

“She has the courage. She simply isn’t good enough.”

“When your opponent is the Halfblood Princess.”

------

“Wake up, wake up, it’s night no more.”

Engulfed by darkness Nyx felt strangely in comfort. The devouring night, how black and dim---he felt a strange sense of security in it, every part of his body---the torso, the limbs, the head, all blending seamlessly into the lightless void.

There was peace. No other side of him that would scream with bloodlust or mourn with sorrow, no fluctuation of emotions that all pointed to a single female figure, no souls and ghosts of those he slayed recurring to haunt the deepest of his nightmares. No bad feelings---in the darkness.

He delved deep into the abyssal pit; depthless, for one metre of free fall encompassed an eternity of duration; timeless, for every second gone soon returned, replenished with the flowing momentum of dimensions. The pit was bottomless, but he could see something. An eye.

Then he woke up.

The transition from comatose to consciousness should be a delicate process, a soul dancing through different fields of perception, across the different multitude of a threadlike boundary, altering between precognition and recognition, deja vu and true sight; it was exactly this moment that reality and dreams blurred into one.

Nyx had no such thoughts. As soon as his eyes snapped open he cried in pain.

“Peace, peace.” a soft, melodic voice materialised, a gentle hand that laid a towel on his burning forehead. “Keep still, I haven’t finished with mending your wounds yet.”

He looked up and found a ghost---her skin was that pale. Her eyes were watery, full of concern, scanning over his bare shoulders; her hands acted like motors, wiping the blood stains, retrieving the shards of metals, sewing the wounds, applying salves to the burns and cuts. A pair of gleaming, steel scissors she wielded with expertise. His T-shirt was soaked with blood, plastering to his chest and stomach; with a few cuts she pulled it off him, throwing it into a corner.

“You are hurt quite badly. When I saw you I thought you were caught in a crossfire---those were quite common around. Your weapons are over there,” she pointed to a bundle resting on the floor, “I didn’t mess with them, I know they mean a lot to you.”

“Thanks.” was all he managed to say. Gritting his teeth, he braced his mind for another surge of excruciation as more bullets were removed, more wounds sewn. The burning salve she applied to the blaster wounds were soothing, but insufficient in power.

“Sorry I don’t have anesthetics. Those are illegal, you know.” after tending to the torso she shifted her attention to the arms. “Your legs are considerably less damaged than your arms…” she mused thoughtfully, “Well...I had Sylf help me with that part.” her face reddened slightly.

“Why...where is this?” he croaked weakly. Diana produced a few rolls of bandage; they weren’t exactly new, but would suffice. “My home. Where else do you think it is? I have a...certain background in medicine and related stuff; you should be glad you dropped dead near my place; anywhere else and you would be shifted directly to the crematorium.”

“Don’t worry, your boss has spoken through your intercom; says that you have lost contact while fighting a group of notorious smugglers.”

Nyx nodded weakly. That was a subterfuge, he’d better live with it. “Thanks.” he reiterated, firmer this time, the Oculi training enabling him to concentrate. After wrapping his wounds she focused on his left side; adding a few more layers, she encased his entire shoulder and upper arm in gauze. “Your collar bone is fractured; though I have removed the bullet it may require long time to heal. I did my best and stabilised it for you.”

“Done for now.” a final clip from her scissors proclaimed the end of first-aid. Packing her kit, she added, “Your boss says that you are specially trained to deal with such kind of events; he tells me to leave you alone and let you rest. I’d better follow his instructions, right?”

Nyx nodded. Lying stiffly, he diagnosed his situation: serious blood loss, reduced usage of left arm. Apart from that, everything still functioned alright.

“Here are some painkillers you may want to take. Have some sleep now, you are having a fever and should be tired. I’ll bring in food later.”

Nyx stared into the white ceiling. He didn’t know that the apartment was small; with him occupying the room, she had to sleep in the living room.

He only knew what feelings she carried for him. Those eyes...words, the hidden enthusiasm despite the deep concern.

Do I feel glad rescued by her? Why? It wasn’t the joy of living---every Oculi had been trained to ignore death. It was...something else.

I must not go so near. Only around the curator were his worries resolved, his emotions returning from void. Her sparkling eyes, the pale skin, the traumatic past that was hinted in her mildly melancholic tone. All these appealed to him.

Not as a person, but as an anchor. One that harboured his feelings, keeping them safe from the outreaching tendrils of his cold-blooded side…

No. He could not persuade himself to get near Diana.

“We will never fit.” they could fit, but no one---no one at all, would let them.

But perhaps, for now, he could stay. A serene cat danced in the dark, the owner brewing coffee outside, her thoughts unknown even to herself.

------

Child of Darkness, refrain from the subsequent scenes.

Why should I? You are not the one I could trust.

Your action is transgression. Peeking into the past, slithering among the dead, you are trespassing my territory.

Awaken I shall fear you. In dreams I don’t.

I read you, Child. There’s something that baits you to go on, something falsely luring that ensnares the naive mind of yours. Back, Child, back; you belong here, in the darkness…

I don’t believe in you. There’s something I need to find out; and that, you can’t stop me.

Poor Child, you know nothing; the pest lurking in your mind isn’t enough to alert you? The deeper you dive, the more anguish you’ll discover...you have destroyed yourself, now you wish to repeat the process?

Shut. Up. But the pain was building, even in her restless dreams. Where was she? Somewhere shrouded behind the endless darkness, reaching desperately for the images that would not come?

Snarbolax. What’s your name?

It answered. No words were chanted, no images were weaved; a single pulse of recognition transferred between the two sentinels; then she knew.

Poor Child, how lost are you? The inquiries would only aggravate your sorrow; concealed beneath your innocence, but so palpable in my grasp…

You won’t bring them up; that’s as vain a threat I could get from one like you. So much I couldn’t remember...did I even possess the memories at first place? But I know.

The pain. It was tearing her apart; from a distant corner of her isolated mind the Snarbolax growled in alert.

Give it a go...things couldn’t be resolved without force.

The images came.

------

The ground was mushy and soft, the sodden soil sinking slightly from her weight; dewdrops crested the few blades of grasses, an effervescence of tiny bubbles trapped within each spherical bead. Worlds, worlds so different from her’s, came about in each droplet, a florid cascade of distorted colours and shapes, an imaginarium that no one had ever viewed from the interior of it.

The soil around her was especially wet. She sat up groggily, nails biting into the soil, instantly filled with the grey, lifeless ash. Her eyes stung as if sprayed with corrosive acid; she didn’t know why.

The sunlight was intense, a merciless light bulb that could wake the dead from their slumber; apart from the silent sizzling of transpiring steam, a film to thin to be sighted, the world was soundless. Wind swept, scattering the veneer of fresh, bloodstained ash into the air, fluttering like joyful butterflies flapping in their frolic. The wind was unable to rouse her heart; the hem of her torn, burnt skirt flapped as if drunk. But it was noiseless.

Her armour was cracked and tattered; the shoulder guards have completely shattered, the gauntlet dented and broken, several shards of metal biting hungrily into her flesh; the greaves were missing, her boots barely more than burnt pieces of leather. She rose shakily, performing a stiff stretch; pieces of her battledress peeled from her scarred body, clattering to the ground, the sound dull and raw.

The sun hurt, burning through her eyes; where were the tears that shielded them from the heat? She blinked, several times, but received none. Then she realised.

My tears have run dry…

Everything flashed back at once. Screaming painfully, she clutched her head, shaking indiscriminately like a rattling pellet drum, collapsing onto the ground.

The razor-sharp fang that plunged through her lover’s stomach. The spewing of blood, the greater sacrifice---

The look of astonishment when the blade passed through his undefended back. The gaze seemed to read, “Lucielle, where are you?”

And the sense of...what was that? It wasn’t anger, it wasn’t condemnation, it wasn’t even the simple notion of pain that occured when a sharp object glowing with heat passed through your muscles and inners.

There was only sadness and regret.

What am I doing? What have I been doing?

She wished to shout at the sky, roaring in defence of a man that she would never forget, of his acts and sacrifices. Around her there wasn’t any life; a deep crater she was in, extending in all directions until disappearing in the unfathomable unknown.

Of a man that gave her everything, and forgave everything.

Tears, come out...she wanted to repent. She wanted to weep, to weep away the sorrows and guilt that clustered animate in her tender soul. There was no tears.

“We could still do it. What are you willing to sacrifice?”

It turned out in the end, towards the end of the world, he couldn’t have her sacrificed---even when there was nothing more he could offer.

But you promised. It was the night before, when they engaged in an unprecedented experience of sensual passion. He promised to end this, to return the world its balance and safety. She believed in him not; actually, she suspected him, of his words and actions.

It was the flame within her that led to the ultimate tragedy.

In the end? He kept his words; this had been ended once and for all, the world again a happy place to live in. As for she...he never asked for promises; he gave them all.

The only regret was that he didn’t came back; the flame in her terminated that wish, which for a moment, seemed so true and honest…

If only she knew.

The one regret was heavier than everything else combined. Why had she acted? What foolish rationale backed her actions? She could think of many at that moment, but now…

It sucked. When the one thing she did for him at the last moment of his life was betrayal.

Bring me away, bring me to a place where I could never thing, nor dream again. Where my guilt would nullify with my soul...where Zytes had gone to.

The world was so benevolently cruel, willing her to live, to atone for her sins through a life of dread and repentance, of treading the world alone without any hope to love.

So let it be. It’s what I deserve…

The Fang. It had gone dark. Summoning it to her grasp, she ignited the world around her; a dark cyclone of searing flames, reaping the earth of whatever specks of life it detained.

The flame was dark, like dried, rotting blood. She was past caring. If she had changed, then let it be; she no longer loved anything, or just life in general---

How paradoxical, she still detested death.

------

The world had changed. She had slept for...how long? She didn’t know. The seam in which she woke had been named the “Great Chasm”; an appropriate name, as its creation split the futures of life and death. No one else seemed to remember---do they even recognise?

The world wasn’t the same. The Order had controlled Haven, its attitude hostile and warmonging despite the last war with the Night. Craving to assert its banner of might and chivalry, it declared on Almire.

The Strikers had vanished, not a single trace left behind. Somewhere deep underground they persisted, she realised; it was a part of the pact. There was her family, her friends, but she feared descending---

She feared facing those faces and hearts that reminded her so much of Zytes.

She wandered, aimless, on the vast tracts of wilderness. It was back when the outpost cities were unenacted, when the surface of Cradle remained wild and natural, untainted by the cobalt uniforms.

The wilderness was more homelike than Haven. The city had changed; it was no longer warm and cozy. New Haven had also changed; once she had sneaked into her old residence, a small, dimly-lit apart which she shared with Zytes.

It was dusty. And cold. A few empty beer cans wobbled sadly on the mouldy, greenish table, summing up the signs of human activity.

Lose the one you love, you lose your home.

Haven would be loved no more. There wasn’t anyone that she loved, or even liked---a stranger in a strange place she was.

Food wasn’t a problem; her darkfire sufficed in slaying and roasting the beasts; she never took more than enough, for there was no satisfaction in eating. Sleep wasn’t a problem; anywhere with a shelter she could survive, either in a hidden cave or under a small tree; her heart was too frozen to feel the coldness again.

At her spare time she picked off a few armies; it wasn’t as difficult, when you altogether stopped caring for life. There wasn’t any joy, any lust, and frenzy; there was nothing to be gained to slaughtering them with her menacing flames. She simply did it; then she realised that this time, there wasn’t anyone to protect her back.

She solely destroyed the Knights. Before her own betrayal, the Order had left the Strikers to survive the onslaught, only joining when the time seemed ripe. The Almirians, though completely foreign, offered her more help and friendship than she could ever imagine.

Those were nice times, when they sat together on rugs, sharing all kinds of drinks: cheap cans of beer, thick vodka that was from Zyte’s secret stash, a mild, honeyed wine from the south, a spicy, deadly ale brewed atop the windswept ranges of Almirian hinterland.

And...Vasha. The first few months were paradise. The next few...though the Swarm pressed on viciously, there was still something savourable. Now, there was none.

My powers are growing stronger day by day...what use telling about this now? Her lover was gone, his cause was gone, everything about him...all gone.

She felt herself encased in a static bubble. The world went on, she didn’t.

Still, things changed. One day when she woke up, grumbling as the blinding sunlight stung her eyes, she felt a strange tug at her belly.

Then another. Pulses of them.

She couldn’t believe herself. The blood of her lover, flowing again in her womb---

When she thought she would never love again.

For months more she ventured in the woods, nurturing the crystal inside her. Food she ate a lot, the extra fat stored reserved for the growth of the unborn. In safe places she slept, to avoid any slightest chances that would have the crystal damaged. All of a sudden, she seemed to care again.

One day she was hit by the sudden fatigue. It was then she realised she could solo no longer; her baby couldn’t be protected.

But where to go? Haven was distant and brutal, the underworld too risky and dark. Almire...

“If there’s one day you are fed up with Haven, feel free to find me. My doors are always open for friends like you.”

Rae’s words. She thought that was a joke, but now, that was the only possibility.

There’s a future, there’s something to hope. Lucielle set off, unsure where it would take her. One thing she was sure---sooner or later, she would return to her lover.

And Vindeus was more confused than ever. She wasn’t Lucielle. Who was she?

Meh I have been hiding from myself for too long.

I'll post Chapter 21 tonight/tomorrow.