Aris looked at himself in the polished silver mirror, natural light filtering in through the long, rounded window, reflecting off of the golden mosaic tiles embedded in the far wall. His body was -- so he mused -- beautiful. A living sculpture of gilded brass, with only his lower body covered in a plain white linen cloth. His metallic skin shone in the light of the early dawn, a shade lighter than most of his kinsmen, with dark, coppery curls framing an angular face with full lips and bright green eyes. He smiled, his teeth shining with a silvery, golden sheen.
Magnificent.
He produced his silver lyre from its earthenware container, and strummed an easy melody. He opened his mouth, and ran through a simple set of vocal warming-up exercises. As the sibilant, pure notes drifted out of his chambers and into the streets of the oasis city under his family's rule beyond, Aris came back to the thought he so often had. His kind -- the scions of Gold, or Golden Devils as others insisted on calling them -- were destined to rule this world. Not just the barren sands around them, but the mountains and fertile plains from whence they were once driven. None were so magnanimous towards their mortals, none so cultivated, none so clearly set apart from the teeming masses as them. Their bodies were impervious and glorious, but most importantly reflected their golden souls and unyielding will within. No wonder their vassals would seek to imitate them and that the heavens hated them so -- their splendor was awe-inspiring, other-worldly even.
But he drifted off. He set his lyre down and went about getting dressed. Today, not in his richly embroidered tunics or his white chlamys, but in legionnaire garb. Less than a week ago, he broke through to the first Heavenstage of Essence Gathering after near four years of cultivation, marking his departure from the world of mortals, into the world of immortals, into the world of Clan affairs. It had not been pleasant of course, strengthening bones and lungs, muscles and organs with Qi was...disagreeable. But this was the least of all trials to be faced. He was a son of gold, his father a Core Formation Legate, his granduncle the
Chartoularios Tou Kanikleiou. His legacy was glorious, and he would have to endure many more torments great and small before he would be found worthy of it.
He donned the lamellar armor and sheathed his saber, the Spiritual Bronze seemingly trapping the azure light of dawn playing across its surface before it slid into its leather sheath. His father was there to see him out, one of the only occasions he had ever seen Andronikos Kalokagathos in this house. His father doesn't need to say much, his chartreuse eyes make his message crystal clear, his Dao of Glory further enhancing the effect. His officer's lamellar seems to glow golden, the crest on his helmet casting his face in a corona of light. A statue of a hero of old, the moment of their triumph forever immortalized in unliving bronze, now living and breathing.
"Do your duty", those unyielding emeralds spoke clearly. His father nods almost imperceptibly, and Aris is into the courtyard and out of the gate.
--
A sound like a gong struck. The instructor's dark bronze fist -- almost earthen dark, marked with countless scars like warped metal -- strikes Aris' abdomen again, and he is projected a solid meter backwards, his feet never leaving the ground. His back remains straight, bearing the immense weight of a large clay jar filled with sand above his head on outstretched arms, as he has for the past ten minutes now.
"KALOKAGATHOS! YOU. ARE. MOVING."
A light step forwards and Instructor Tsyprios' fists strike true again. A meagre fragment of his true might – Aris' Bronze Shirt technique would not withstand much more. Withstanding is relative however, as it feels as if his spine is being thoroughly shaken by each casual expression of force. His instructor harrumphs and moves to the next disciple in line, all clad in light training tunics. The next one in line – Leo Kalenos, Aris thinks his name is – is not so lucky. He flinches minutely and the strike smacks him onto the tiles, the large clay jar filled with sand held above his head crashing onto the pavement with a heavy crack, spilling its contents across the training courtyard.
"KALENOS. PATHETIC. GATHER UP THAT PRECIOUS DESERT SAND AND THEN DO TWENTY LAPS. YES, EVERY GRAIN."
Tsyprios has moved on to another victim, and Aris adjusts his hold on the disgustingly heavy jar. Near five hundred beginning Essence Gathering Cultivators in their cohort, standing in one of the many, many elevated courtyards of the Dawn Fortress, the air filling with small grunts and puffs of exertion. Trueborn clan sons and daughters, talented commoners, or even vagrants and wanderers, all supposedly with some small spark of talent which would potentially set them apart from the rest of the teeming masses, from those that might strictly speaking be called cultivators, but would never amount to anything.
Leo seems at wits end, piling loose sand onto a shard of pottery the size of his torso, only to fall off again.
Aris sneers.
This was easy of course. Not keeping the jar up – his arms were falling neigh off – but seeing the purpose. A soldier obeys, unthinkingly. The perfect legionnaire is a body conditioned to do one thing, obey as an extension of the will of the commanding officer. Whether the order was to scrub the latrines, form up in formation, or collect every grain of sand in the desert, the legionnaire obeys until he can no longer move, or his orders are changed. That is the first lesson many are still to learn here. The plight of their Clan demanded perseverance in the face of adversity, no matter how great. His comrades, each holding a similar jar above their heads, cast uncertain glances at Leo and the waist-high pile of sand at his side, the unspoken question clear in their eyes.
The point wasn't to continue for some indeterminate amount of time until you assumed the instructor would be satisfied, the point was to continue until you collapsed.
Leo cast up a look of mild desperation in Aris' direction. He looked down, the image of his father steeling his gaze and spine.
It was high time they learned this lesson.
"Leo. You will be collecting sand for days. There is no shortcut. If you get started now, you might make mess at the end of the week. Don't let the Clan do-."
A dull thud, and sand streams over Aris' head and back.
"KALOKAGATHOS. YOU ARE WASTING SAND. DO PUSHUPS UNTIL KALENOS FINISHES CLEANING UP."
Instructor Tsyrios stands with a palm outstretched in an easy form of Emperor's Flying Fist, turned towards Aris from some fifty meters away.
Aris puts the now empty jar with its bottom blown off down, brushes the sand off of his shoulders and out of his hair, and drops down without a second thought. He plants his fists solidly on the stone, and sinks his nose down to ground level, while Leo takes off his tunic and turns it into a makeshift carrying bag. A leader leads by example. Aris' nose touches the ground.
One.
Noon next day, Leo is still picking individual grains of sand from between the flagstones while the rest of the cohort practice their formation drills and Bronze Arhat fists. Five thousand six hundred twenty-six.
In the afternoon, a light sandstorm sweeps over the fortress, coating everything in a thin layer of silky reddish-yellow sand. Tsyrios casts a glance down at him. He does not so much as glance upwards. Eight thousand ninety-three.
Two days later, Aris' pace has slowed to three pushups per minute, and black spots dance across his vision like so many buzzing scarabs. Leo has managed to gather up an impressive mountain of sand, filling a dozen of the large clay jars, but he cannot walk without stumbling and his hands are trembling fiercely. He is on all fours, scraping grains from between the flagstones with his nails half a meter from where Aris is parallel to the floor. Suddenly, a weight bears down upon Aris' back, and his arms give out. He turns his head while pressed to the floor, and sees Tsyrios standing on his and Leo's backs, one feet planted solidly in between their shoulder blades.
His instructor opens his mouth, but Aris is faster, and pushes off with all of his strength, managing to lift himself half a meter off of the floor before his arms give our again. The Instructor frowns, and folds his arms, remaining stable in spite of one his supports moving.
"Up, Kalenos."
Nine thousand three hundred ninety-six. Nine thousand three hundred ninety-seven.
Leo scrapes up sand with one hand, holding himself upright with his other arm. Aris fixes him with an iron look, and gives him a cut nod.
Tsyrios looks up to face the rest of the cohort, who are running through body conditioning exercises. Slaps, palms, light kicks, repeated hundreds of times to harden bone and skin.
It is evening before Tsyrios steps off of the two legionnaires, having bellowed exercise after exercise to the cohort. While his fellow recruits are panting heavily and recuperating from the drilling, Tsyrios' foot touches down upon the sand-dusted pavement stones, and with a casual expression of spiritual pressure every grain of the blasted substance is blown off of the courtyard.
"COHORT. DISMISSED."
Aris and Leo stand up on wobbly legs, Leo needing a steadying hand to prevent him from collapsing. They move to their designated barracks with halting steps, their comrades in arms giving them – and Tsyrios still standing next to them – a wide berth, afraid they'll somehow invoke a similar body-wracking disciplining as them. That doesn't stop them from giving them cloaked stares, a mixture of fear, respect, halting resignation and careful appraisal playing across their visages.
"Kalenos. I didn't see those twenty laps."
The declaration sends a visible ripple through his partner, and he looks ready to collapse. Aris steels his spine, and starts off on a light jog. He does two laps before Leo manages to steel his courage and join him. Their drill instructor beholds the spectacle with an inscrutable look. The rest of the cohort slows down to behold the encore, pity and dread now clear as day in their eyes.
They are still running when the last recruit leaves, barely going faster than a light walk. Aris runs behind Leo, pushing him forward whenever he flags or stumbles. Tsyrios beholds the scene with no change in expression.
The twentieth lap done, Leo collapses like a sack of rice flour. Their instructor doesn't say a word, turns around, and walks out of the courtyard, towards one of the stairs leading to one of the higher outbuildings.
He looks down upon Leo, and sneers. Such weakness. His hair is golden, but his skin yet lacks the metallic sheen that sets their blood apart from the rest of the world. Yet he was a son of Gold all the same, and his blood would be spilled for the glory of the clan and its manifest destiny all the same.
Aris lifts him onto his shoulders, and carries him to the barracks. He doesn't grace anyone with a response, or even a grunt of exertion, and no one seems particularly keen to interact with him, casting questioning glances his way when they think they can't be seen.
Only when Leo is dropped off with his
contubernales and Aris finds his bunk with rough-spun linen sheets, does he allow himself a deep sigh. He collapses into dreamless sleep the moment after.
--
Aris glances at the men and women surrounding him on their training courtyard. Somehow he seems to have attracted a following after that little stunt. Their basic training was coming to an end, with some qualifying for specialist training, others without particular talent would either be permanently assigned to a legion as a footsoldier or go back to whatever backwater they came from. He was a shoe-in for Vanguard officer training, his cultivation keeping pace with the fastest of his cohort.
They stood at ease, waiting for the morning roll call, all clad in their full legionnaire armor, spear held to their side, burnished shield on their back. Leo stood to his right, his chin in the air and back as straight as a ruler. He had attached himself to Aris like tin to copper and seemed to have found his resolve. He was no true commander, no leader of men, but he would make a sterling campmaster or drill sergeant one day. Until then he was a valuable right hand to Aris – he had made sure that his ambitions were aligned the same way as his. If all went his way, Leo would go to the Vanguard together with him.
The gong sounds, and everyone snaps to stand at attention.
The expert that comes walking down the stairs to their part of Dawn Fortress at the head of a gaggle of instructors is unfamiliar to them. A long bronze beard with a green-white sheen and shiny lamellar, flanked by Tsyrios on his left. No rank markings.
"At ease, cohort." The senior speaks with a carrying, sonorous voice.
"Today follows your formal graduation from basic training – for those continuing their training here, greater freedoms and access to the contribution board will be made available, along with specialist training in your chosen or assigned niche."
Aris can't help but frown – the expert hadn't introduced himself, nor was there any way to identify him. He moved his thumb downwards, and Leo picked up on the gesture immediately – be on your guard.
"You have trained and cultivated for one year in a controlled environment, preparing for orderly formations, tests of tactics and martial valor. What you have not yet gotten a taste of – is chaos."
There it was.
"The chaos of all-out cultivator warfare."
He holds up five jade slips, tied to long red ribbons.
"From now until the evening gong strikes, you shall war amongst one another. The last five standing shall receive one of these slips, charged with one hundred and fifty contribution points and one rare technique from the clan archives. Recruits going home can instead convert the contribution points to a large amount of mortal wealth."
Five for an entire cohort? Enough to encourage cooperation, also enough to foster dissent in larger groups.
"You may use whichever tactics you please, but intentionally lethal violence is prohibited."
The mysterious senior snaps his fingers, and suddenly the entire cohort is standing among more greenery than any of them had seen in their lives. Outcroppings of what look like trees – if the palm trees and small fruit-bearing trees of the clan lands had grown to a hundred times their size and gotten a layer of wood-like armor – surround Aris on all sides, the space between them filled with shrubbery, bushes and ferns the size of at least three men. Aris' comrades in arms are spaced around somewhat unevenly, and flashes of bronze can be seen from where the other recruits were dropped among the forest greenery.
"Juniors, begin." The voice of the elder echoes from somewhere.
No time for bewilderment. Leo is by his side in a heartbeat, shield raised and spear brandished.
He breathes in, and bellows on top of his lungs, the sound making the very air vibrate.
"TO ME IF YOU WANT TO LIVE!"
Hyperbole of course, but combat was not the place to mince words.
A few of Aris' followers seem to not like their odds with him, and make a beeline away from the group towards the nearest copse of trees. Most of them remember their training well enough to form up in a rough cordon around him, shields raised, spears outstretched. The few carrying a bow take up archery positions behind the shieldwall. Most of those not part of Aris' little group and within sight are visibly conflicted. Run away and be swept away by other groups, or join but risk being ejected in the endgame in favor of more loyal retainers.
An enemy taken out now is one that cannot form up to threaten him later, so he doesn't give them the chance. The loyal ones had joined him, and an indecisive soldier that could turn on you was as good as worthless.
"Split up in threes, take out the stragglers in sight, retreat at the least sign of organized resistance." Aris points at three of his most loyal sycophants. "You, you and you, stay here."
His group slowly splinters and the impromptu squads charge the indecisive stragglers around his position. Most stragglers break out into a dead run, some find their courage and put up a fight – altogether awkward affairs, both sides uncomfortable with hurting the legionnaires that were up until two minutes ago their comrades in arms. Instead of clashes, these turn into probing standoffs until one lashes out too hard for friendliness, whereafter the retaliation follows, Aris' squads stabbing at limbs with spears, but more often resorting to blunt force to subdue and disarm. They and their equipment dissolve in orange sparks as soon as they suffer any serious wounds or are disarmed and pinned down.
One or two drop down their spear and shield and raise their hands in surrender when they are charged. They dissolve into the same ethereal lights the moment their hands go in the air.
Aris eyes one of the trees thoughtfully.
--
An hour or two had passed. It was difficult to keep track of time here. The sun wasn't visible through the canopy, and based on the patterns of light between the trees it also hadn't moved.
After taking care of the stragglers, they had taken up position around one of the larger trees, building an impromptu platform between the branches a few metres up. A cordon had been set up around the tree, driving sharpened branches into the soil, one of his underlings that had received rudimentary array training carving a basic defensive array into the tree's bark. Ferns and bushes had been cleared for a clear line of sight – barring the trees – for a few dozen meters.
Legionnaires handy with a bow had doffed their lamellar and painted themselves with mud, taking up positions in the trees around their headquarters. Barely hidden to someone with the heightened senses of First Heavenstage, but enough for a few seconds of surprise. Others crouched in the underbrush nearby, ready to ambush stragglers. A few designated scouts flitted between the trees, reporting on the movements of other groups. So far so good.
Aside from the occasional straggler, they had already managed to lure three smaller groups into their killing zone by a scout being intentionally seen, then running right into their headquarters. By the time they saw the fortifications, they had been surrounded. That trick wouldn't work on the more astute commanders, but it was a good way of thinning out the playground. Off in the distance, sounds of faraway combat and shouts could occasionally be heard, but seldom close enough to pinpoint their location with certainty.
They were down to about twenty, bleeding the occasional scout to ambush or accident, the rate of attrition having seemingly increased the last half hour or so. He guessed that no more than eighty of his cohort could still be in the running. The longer they could stretch the advantage their numbers and defensible position offered them, the better it would bode from them in the endgame. Yet
some among his cohort were not entirely without intelligence, and would try and seek him out because of the danger he posed. By now, most others should know where he was – he wasn't exactly difficult to find.
Leo nudged his arm atop the platform and nodded towards a patch of brier. A heartbeat later, a scout staggered out of the underbrush and burst into the cleared area surrounding their tree, small scrapes and cuts dotting his frame, his rough tunic torn in multiple spots.
The smaller man – black haired and brown eyed unlike his kin – bellowed breathlessly towards the platform. "They've got us surrounded! They're picking us off one by one!"
Aris brought the whistle he had whittled out of a small branch to his lips, and blew a sharp note. They jumped down, and he marshalled the troops.
--
They snuck through the underbrush, everyone having foregone their armor and shield in favor of lighter garb. Leo was fifty meters ahead of them and out of sight, but Aris knew that he would be resplendent in lamellar and with raised shield, appearing to any onlooker as if he was carefully picking his way through the forest alone, well expecting an ambush at any moment.
They stealthily trailed him in a rough V-shape, hoping to trap the would-be ambushers in a vice of their own making. Once they reached the perimeter, they could move along it, picking off small groups of ambushers one by one, like a Golden Mouth Worm ceaselessly devouring hungry ghosts one after one. A far more effective strategy than merely staging a breakout.
A tinny clang sounded from ahead, and he signed to his followers, who passed on the sign to those further along the line. They briskly moved forward, finding Leo in a small clearing, locked into combat with four other disciples.
His motions were fluid, moving shield and spear in unison like a shieldtailed snake, parrying his opponents' spear strikes with his shield, trapping their spears in the nook of his arm or between his spear and shield, closing into close quarters before kicking them away and rounding on another enemy, his viper-like spear thrusts nicking and destabilizing. His goal was to not get wounded and keep them fighting, nothing else.
The ambushers catch wind of their presence quickly, but by then it is too late. They are surrounded, and are smashed to bits onto the anvil that is Leo.
Under Aris' direction, their group splits up to root out as many of the ambushers as they can, before they catch wind of their prey now having become the hunter and flee. Well, that and to thin the herd – there were no twenty slips, and the more he could avoid messy intra-group conflict for the prize, the better. They would rendezvous back at their tree when it was clear the enemy group had fled or when they had done half a revolution.
He thought on the legionnaires they had just taken out – hadn't they all used strips of their tunic as headbands?
--
They had booked a great deal of success over the last twenty minutes, only suffering a single casualty. Disguised as members of the other group with improvised headbands, they hadn't even needed to move stealthily. Aris and Leo had painted their hair and face richly with mud so as to not be recognized. Even if the rest of his ten-man group could deceive the ambushers for a few seconds, the two of them would be recognized immediately under normal circumstances. The second group they had encountered had provided them with valuable intel – one of them had surrendered immediately and had been more than eager to talk at length about their group's tactics in return for a promise to let him go. A promise which Aris of course intended to keep – he was a man of honor. One turncoat legionnaire was hardly a threat.
Apparently they were led by one Achelous and he had amassed a truly massive group of some fifty legionnaires by promising one thing – to lay Aris low. Hah – he had known some in his cohort disliked him. He supposed it fitting that talentless vermin would envy him, but the sentiment must have been more widespread than he had assumed, if this Achelous could rouse so many to seek him out specifically. Of course, numbers beget numbers, and some were undoubtedly motivated by pragmatic considerations – but a disquietingly large amount all the same.
The tattler had also told them the location of their base and their signals – delivered through brass horn blasts. Apparently one in their group had an innate bloodline ability to shape metal with his bare hands.
This opened up interesting new possibilities. With most of Achelous' group encircling Aris' previous position, their headquarters would be ripe for assault. That Aris could deal with this Achelous himself was a nice bonus. But they would need to be quick. His thoughts briefly went out to the other ten person half of his initial group. Maybe they'd manage to meet up again before this game ended. Maybe not, in which case he hoped they would sell their hide dearly. War and sacrifice went together. Here, their sacrifice would further his cultivation and enable his glorious ascent in the Clan.
He bade the tattler to lead them to his headquarters. After some convincing, he was persuaded to act as a decoy, pretending to head back to their headquarters to regroup – Aris' group of eight following on his heels, ready to strike when they were distracted. It was to his benefit really, the more recruits Aris' group took out of the running, the likelier he would end up as one of the five survivors. Or he would get caught up in the crossfire and be eliminated. That too – would be an unfortunate sacrifice.
They closed on Achelous' supposed position after a brisk jog, their infiltrator moving towards the small gorge where the group had entrenched themselves.
Suddenly a horn blasts, once, twice. According to their informant, this was the regroup signal. Aris would have to be quick, soon the encircling troops would be filtering back to fall back to their headquarters.
Their informant walks down the slope as Aris, Leo and the other six encircle the lower position. As their decoy hails his group, Aris can vaguely hear a loud voice bark orders. Between the ferns and few meters below, he can make out the figure of the legionnaire to whom the voice belongs – a tall scion of gold, his skin just every so slightly dusted with a bronze, metallic sheen. The rest of the group is partially obscured behind a rock formation and a fallen tree at the bottom of the gorge. About eleven. This would be fun.
Aris brings his wooden whistle to his lips and readies his saber and shield. His heart pounds in his head with excitement, and he needs to focus to keep himself from breaking out in a manic grin. Leo is on the opposite side of the gorge, a near vertical rocky incline compared to the more gently sloping side Aris is crouching on.
A brief, shrill note, and Aris is on his feet, charging down the slope towards where the group has formed a semicircle around their decoy, peppering him with questions. Commendably, they turn around immediately, shields raised and ready for combat. Their decoy immediately breaks out in a dead run, which makes Achelous' group waver, casting minute glances at his fleeing form and the charging enemies. One breaks rank and flees after the traitor.
Then Aris is upon them. One of the recruits breaks formation to lunge forward, seeking to impale him in his chest before he reaches the bottom of the gorge, but he overextends dramatically. Time seems to slow, as the legionnaire to his attacker's right also breaks formation to try and flank him. Aris looks over the shoulder of his assailant, moving as if trapped in amber. The first of his group have made contact with the enemy formation, one already looking perilously close to being impaled by multiple spears. In the middle of the semicircle, he now sees Achelous clear as day, a rictus of restrained, tamed fury on his visage. As seconds seem to stretch into hours, the face of the enemy commander slowly turns towards him, purpose and excitement flashing through his eyes when he recognizes Aris, played out like a jade slip recording at one tenth speed.
The present catches up, and suddenly the world is again a riot of sound and movement. Aris intercepts the thrust, holding his shield over his head and ducking under the strike, the spear point scraping against the bronze, as Aris uses his downward momentum to leap inside his guard, ducking lower and angling his feet so he slides the last half meter of incline down, leaving gouges in the soil and dead plant matter. His saber lashes out from where it was held parallel to the ground, and attempts to shear right through his opponent's knee. The spiritual steel connects with the bone, and before the weapon is halfway through, his opponent dissolves in thousands of muted, orange sparks.
Just as he thought.
He plants his leg, and uses the momentum from his previous swing – almost entirely conserved by virtue of his opponent dissolving into thin air – to follow through with an upwards swing, catching the second charging recruit on his helmet, ringing it like a bell and throwing him back a good half meter. His adversary's dazed follow-up thrust is easily parried by Aris' shield, and he closes in as his opponent retreats, using his superior reach to prevent Aris from using his weapon to its deadly effect. One, twice, thrice his spear is parried, before Aris deflects the spear outwards to his right, appearing to put his own weapon out of effective reach for a counterstrike, but Aris leans into the movement, and dashes forward with his shield. The two bronze surfaces smack against each other, and as Achelous' follower takes a half step back to avoid being thrown off of balance, Aris whips forward with his head, and headbutts his adversary full in the nose, the bronze of his skin and skull crushing bone.
As his instinct tells him his back is no longer secure, he quickly follows the headbutt through with a swing aimed at his opponent's spearbearing arm, carving a deep gouge before he kicks him squarely in the stomach, his shield raised too high in fear. Using the kick, Aris lifts himself off, blocking the
jian strike aimed at his back with his shield, crashing down with his saber held aloft, using his downward momentum to shear through his flanker's sword sheath, held above his head as a parring rod, and into his opponent's head. He dissolves into sparks immediately.
Aris turns to his previous opponent, now having recovered from the headbutt but still bleeding profusely, advancing cautiously. Aris finishes his turn, and winds up with one turn more, then releases his shield, the disk aimed as a projectile straight at his opponent's face. He has but a moment to look surprised, before the edge catches him clean above his mouth with the crack of bone, and he too is whisked away.
Three down. Now he can't help but grin.
He turns towards the rest of the battle, and sees Leo jumping down onto an unsuspecting soldier from his platform meters up, almost impaling him all the way through before the recruit disappears.
Aris meets Achelous' gaze, his twin sabers wreaking havoc among Aris' followers, having just eliminated one of his with a double guillotine strike, which would have easily beheaded him were it not for the magics enforcing the rules of the little exercise.
Aris breathes, and bellows – not loud enough to shake the earth, but loud enough to be heard by all of his.
"VICTORY IS NEAR!"
He charges his adversary, blood singing in his veins.
Aris' saber clashes with his opponent's two. Achelous is a talented swordsman, Aris considers as his every strike is parried, the sharp ripostes driving him back, step by step. Once or twice he even manages to penetrate Aris' guard entirely, his sabers nicking or grazing, but drawing no blood through his bronze skin.
He is good, but not nearly as good as seems to think he is.
Achelous drives forward in a classic guarded thrust, saber pointed towards Aris' neck, the weapon as an extension of his outstretched right arm, his other saber held across his chest like a shield. The logical thing for Aris to do would be to bat the saber and its sharp point away to where it can't do him harm. But that's not what he does – he lets the point and edge slip through his guard and rasp through his mud-caked tunic and over the bronze skin of his shoulder below, this time drawing a thin line of blood, and wildly stabs at Achelous' face.
An illogical move, which Achelous easily parries with his off-hand saber, but between the force of the blow and him having bled away some momentum by managing to hit Aris' shoulder, he takes half a step back to steady himself, his main-hand saber hovering limply in the air for just a moment while he completes the movement. Aris takes advantage of the minute opportunity and lashes out with a kick, striking the pommel and his adversary's hand, sending the weapon spinning into the air and away.
Aris follows through like a starved wolf, saber clashing with Achelous' single one held in his off-hand, not giving him a moment pause. He is rattled, and forced into an awkward fighting position, Aris not giving him a fraction pause to change hands.
Then Achelous makes a second mistake, force of habit moving his right hand forward as he parries with his left. In a flash, three of his fingers are gone, his face contorting in pain and rage.
His moves become wilder, more erratic, sloppier. A sideways backhand slash goes wide, and Aris hooks his saber behind the pommel, draws his opponent's arm close, and twists it by using both sides of his weapon as a lever. His elbow pops, and the saber falls from limp fingers. It speaks to his tenacity that he lashes out with an elbow strike with his other arm immediately after, but he too slow by a league, and Aris kicks him back, knocking the wind out of him.
His opponent is nearly doubled over, his visage red with fury, seeking to stem the bleeding from his lost fingers by pressing his hand against his chest. His left arm hangs limply to his side.
Around them, the fight has nearly concluded.
Aris clears the blood from his weapon with a swing, and plants his saber tip-first into the soil, hands folded casually over the pommel.
"Do you yield?"
His opponent regains his bearing, the adrenaline of battle slowly fading from his limbs, and reason returns to his bloodshot eyes. He stands up straight and casts a furtive look around and finds his faction defeated. Aris has four men left.
He nods, his expression one of a man who just suffered a bitter, but not unexpected defeat.
"Your chances aren't looking so good any more, Aristoteles. Five against the rest of my troops. But this bout you win. I yield." He bows his head, and he and his dropped weapons disappear.
Aris can't help but scratch his head – had they even properly met before?
--
It didn't take very long for the first of Achelous' soldiers to return. In twos or threes they came back, Leo and Aris lying in wait, his other three followers playing the part of Achelous' men holding the fort. They crushed four groups of ambushers, losing two men to the last three-person group, before things went quiet.
The tattler from before made a surprise reappearance, having taken out the recruit fleeing after him. Seeing as they were down to three, he argued that they might as well let him join to round the group out. He didn't know that the other half of Aris' group might still be in the running, but temporary reinforcements wouldn't hurt in this situation – Aris strongly doubted he shared the same enmity for him as Achelous did. Besides, even though he wore a wickedly long
yanmaodao on his belt, he doubted the lithe man was much of a threat, going by his clumsy movements and nervous, timid demeanor.
Still, the timing was suspicious, to appear the moment they were down to three and would not turn down an extra man. Coincidence or duplicity, for the moment it mattered not.
After his appearance, everything went very quiet. No more groups came. No faraway shouts or the echoing clang of metal.
He could try signaling his remaining soldiers by whistling, but anything they might hear, anyone else might too.
The light had also begun to change – still bright enough to see, but it had a reddish cast to it. That must mean evening was approaching.
After waiting half an hour more, they set out towards their original position. The four of them crept along the forest floor, the dusklight making their movements appear stark and loud.
Halfway towards the tree, something rustled ahead of them. Then suddenly, one of larger trees
sank into the soil with a great, wooden moan. Someone fell down as the tree moved, crashing onto the loamy soil with a heavy thump. Their fellow recruit – so he guessed – had fashioned a cloak from his tunic, covered with leaves and twigs, his face and hair completely matted with dried mud. If Aris had to make a guess, he had been hoping to wait the exercise out. It seems the elder in charge had other thoughts however. Reassuring.
He protested loudly, but they made quick work of him. The moment he disappeared, a grey cross symbol appeared on the backs of their right hands – the character for ten. They were closer to victory than he thought.
As they continued to make their way to the tree, the symbol changed two more times. When they reached the clearing, the two arcs on their hands spelled out 'eight' clearly. What they found when they emerged from the underbrush, was a site of battle.
The impromptu palisade was trampled or broken in most places, and the platform had fallen to the ground. Small spats of dried blood were visible here and there.
Waiting for them, were two anxious followers of his. Spears brandished, they were crouched against the bark of the tree, alternately scanning their environment, and looking at the number displayed on their hand. The cautiously rose, intently peering at the four of your as you came closer. Their eyes lingered on the newest member of their four-person group.
As he came nearer, they gripped their weapons tighter. Right.
Two more out there. Six here. Eliminating them would give the four of them a near-sure chance at one of the prizes, and they had the superior numbers to make it happen. Solid reasoning, but he wasn't just thinking of the short term. He had to win, yes. But he couldn't be seen as a callous and dishonest commander, all too happy to spend the lives of his men for own gain. If he could avoid it, he would not shed the blood of those who had been loyal to him, even if they were talentless, sycophantic hacks and parasites.
He raised his hands.
"Be at ease. I do not intend to harm you, nor will I condone violence against you. We will seek out the two last soldiers, and if we are still six, we will duel for the prize."
They lowered their weapons, and the four of them approached them. The timid traitor on his left, Leo to his right, the final survivor of their ten-man party to Leo's right.
"Now, tell me first what happened he-"
Surprisingly, he never saw the man move. In the space of heartbeat, their turncoat had his long
yanmaodao out, and nothing remained of the leftmost of the two survivors but a few rapidly-dwindling sparks. His expression was stone cold, not a ripple crossing his features. Not a trace of the timid man from just seconds before remained.
The fourth member of their party to Leo's right drew his saber. Aris' follower whose companion was just struck down leapt to the obvious – but wrong – conclusion and lashed out in panic with his spear, catching his fellow soldier with the brandished saber in the throat. He was gone the moment after.
The turncoat adjusted the hold on his weapon. Aris had his saber out in a flash, aimed at the turncoat's neck. Leo moved around Aris, to strike at the turncoat's back. The sole survivor turns around, eyes darting around wildly, bringing his spear to bear against the to him unknown assailant.
The man who had surrendered immediately and ran away from violence – the man who Aris had assumed was a coward –
blurred again, the wicked curved weapon shearing through the final survivors neck. Aris' saber was a breath away from the traitor's neck. Leo's spear would impale his heart in a mere moment.
Then everything flashes white, and they are on the training field again.
His saber completes the movement, sweeping downwards, the blade quivering with the force of the blow. Their cohort stands at attention behind them. Leo is to his right, the tattler to his left. The two other winners stand further to the left. His three followers who just now suffered life-threatening injuries are off to the side. Looking dazed but none the worse for the wear.
The wolf in sheep's clothing that was the nervous legionnaire flourishes his long blade, no trace of blood to be seen, and sheathes it with practiced ease. When he looks at Aris, his face is the very image of timid, mildly confused benevolence. He cast a friendly smile Aris' way, eyes near closed. Black hair, green eyes. No trace of bronze anywhere.
The elder stands before them, arms folded behind his back.
"Behold. Leo, Aristoteles, Diokles, Philo and Sun. The five winners of this trial. Though one could argue that those who learned a valuable lesson about the nature of war are the real winners."
The elder winks at no one in particular – though Aris swore that for the briefest of moments, the mysterious elder looked at and
through him – and suddenly is gone. The five winners are left holding a jade slip.
Diokles – now that he knows the traitor's name – turns around towards the rest of the cohort, and manages to shrug confusedly at someone, a goofy smile playing across his features.
Aris had indeed learned a lesson here. He thumbed the smooth piece of jade in his hands.
He knew with ironclad certainty that this Diokles would grow to either become one of the Clan's greatest assets, or a mortal threat to its survival. If it was the former, Aris would find a way to bind him to himself. If it was the latter, he would destroy him.
His duty demanded nothing less of him.
--
(A/N Well, this one got a bit out of hand. I wanted to paint an image of who Aris is and introduce two characters that will probably be recurring in his story (if it isn't cut short prematurely!). This is also my take on the crossbreed between crazy xianxia wushu bullshit and the organised military drilling that probably constitutes the Clan's training regimen, running with Alectai's Gold Standard but adding my own interpretation. Takes place during the previous turn, prior to the good seed update.)
@occipitallobe I'll take a cultivation bonus for next turn.
