Hiding in Plain Sight

January 20th, 2022

***

"I don't hear from you often Uriel, and this is the first thing you say? A request?" 

The man's voice came through heavy and out of breath. Grunts, shouts, and the clash of attacks served as background noise for the phone call.

"I know, I'm sorry. My training for the competition has eaten all my time."

Uriel felt better after hearing his voice. The deep baritone soothed him, recalling memories of a childhood when he'd tell stories to Uriel and his brothers. 

"So be it." A scream rang out, business as usual for his dad. "Anyways, you said investigate? Why? You've always handled your own problems. That's something I've been proud of."

"Because it's about the Scathhers — specifically, someone involved with Clare. There's a new guy at the facility named Jim who seems to know her, and I don't have the authority to look into it. You always taught us to be watchful of Seers and their associates. So I thought..."

Uriel trailed off.

His dad didn't need to hear the rest of the sentence, he understood. And in the same vein, he was proud. A wry smile appeared on his lips, one that shook the combatants surrounding him; a bunch of men and women who lay groaning in pain.

Their bodies were cut to hell, and their faces showed signs of delirium.

He didn't have a scratch.

He slung his longsword across his back. Uriel was pursuing a personal interest under the guise of looking out for the family - which wasn't wrong either.

Seers deserved intense scrutiny to avoid being caught in their ploys or plans. His son did the right thing.

"Alright. Try to get a duel or spar with him. I'll look at the data, and we'll go from there."

"...I already did." Uriel was nervous as he said it.

His dad picked up on that.

"You lost, didn't you?" 

"No! I won. I just took a few more hits than necessary. I was slightly careless."

Uriel hadn't meant to yell; the resulting silence was tough to stomach. He listened as additional screams and yelps piled up. Finally, a response came through.

"I'll head back soon. Bring the data with you by tonight. Don't be late."

 "Yes Dad."

The call disconnected. All in all, he'd say it went well. Uriel stored his phone and pushed through the revolving door of 'The Stakes Hotel', a cozy little place with five floors. Nothing fancy, but it was the closest hotel to the training facility. He took the stairs two at a time to the second floor where his room was located: Room 217.

The door swung open and then closed behind him, locked tight. Uriel didn't have a lot of decorations. Just a handful of picture frames on the nightstand. Inside were photos of his two brothers - both older - in victory poses. They had smiles and celebrations. 

The eldest was promoted to captain of a defense force — one of the few left who went out into the wastelands of Carson II. His other brother had accepted a full-ride scholarship for Stratelle Academy; the most elite in all twenty-five dimensions. The other academies were trash in comparison. 

Uriel reached into his dimensional space. Tonight was a new moon; it'd be extra chilly.

And also-

He retrieved a red set of plate armor.

-extra deadly. The walls at the far edges of the city would be sieged again. Uriel was fortunate, he didn't have to fight. But his brother would. He always put on the suit as a prayer.

Every time, every siege, the casualties climbed. Uriel believed in the families. They must be working on a solution in the background. He held onto that hope.

Surely, any day now, they'd announce a plan of attack.

***

Richter wanted to appear like he was clumsy and hot-headed, brute-forcing his way through the training. He brought his hands up as an arrow pierced through his left forearm.

It turns out that Vincent's data had a mess of weapons in his dimensional space. Firearms, throwing knives, needles, acids - any tool to get the job done. Anything to stay at range. 

He rummaged through the space like he was digging for gold. The most impressive find among them was an ebony bow with pulsing veins of red ichor engrained down the length. The string was a thick yellow. It was the first and only ranged option that yielded results against Richter's swapped Constitution. 

Namely because Vincent's data was able to imbue it with mana. A fusion of three types was enough to puncture his defense, and with it came the second of Vincent's Skills.

[Thread - 30%]

A thread of mana - maybe a tenth of the width of a human hair - connected the arrow in his forearm with Vincent's hands.

Richter's senses weren't that easy to fool. In fact, he'd known from the moment Vincent moved mana to cast the Skill. 

This thread was a physical, tangible material, unlike mana's usual gaseous form. He could touch it, pull it, break it — but that would be a waste. It felt like a conduit between them, a connection that could be exploited.

Richter sensed mana moving in Vincent's body. His own surged in response: He was a beat faster. 

They fought for control in a tug-of-war between minds, pumping the thread full of energy. A battle of will, mental strength, mana control, and mana quality. 

Vincent's data didn't stand a chance.

[Mana Surge - 100%]

The thread swelled into a thick rope, perfect for his needs. Vincent couldn't detach the thread fast enough. Richter yanked on it like a leash, rocketing Vincent toward him. There was nowhere to go in mid-air. 

He caught Vincent's collar in his left hand, tolerated the desperate blows, and twisted his hips into a vicious right.

[Mana Surge - 75%]

Three teeth ejected from Vincent's mouth upon contact. Richter's left hand released, letting the punch bounce his body across the floor in a bloody mess. Yet again, most mana had gone to waste, fizzling into the air. It was the only reason Vincent survived the punch.

'A desire to win no matter what. He does everything he can.' Richter wanted to learn how accurately the data mirrored the real deal.

Regardless of the intense pain and dire straits, Vincent always held a full hand. Richter had to respect it: the guy's tolerance was incredible. But that last punch gave him just the chance he needed. Vincent usurped control of the thread.

[Rupture - 30%]

The rampaging energy traveled the length of the thread instantly, searing through Richter's arm and into his waist. He lost mobility as the hamstrings in his thighs were cut. He was a statue. And Vincent knew it - taking time to recover from the punch.

[Mana Surge - 80%]

A slice to the throat ended it.

[Lethal damage sustained. Practice concluded. Result: Loss]

But what couldn't be observed from the outside... was what Richter observed on the inside. Even in the scorching pain of Rupture or the kicks to his liver and stomach.

Through punches and stabs and arrows to his vitals — chest and throat — Richter was learning. He used his Sixth Sense to map the inside of his bulky form. The last time he did this was when his normal body stopped growing a few years ago. 

Fighting and mapping at the same time meant progress was slow. Richter just had to hope he'd finish it in time. How long did he have until the assassination? Silas never mentioned a date. He wasn't even sure how it'd be carried out or what goal to set. Ten wins? Twenty? A win against Vincent's data with equalized attributes? He was shooting in the dark.

[Start!]

So Richter kept at it, losing track of time in the throes of a training incomprehensible for most.

***

"Alright, let's see what this 'Jim' has to offer."

 Uriel handed over the training prism, through which the data was extracted and played through a projector. The high quality gave life to the replay as the spar played in slow motion. 

He'd never seen his dad make such a face. 

It was quick — a mix of fury and concern. 

The replay finished without interruption. His dad didn't stop or chastise his performance once. Uriel wasn't sure what to say. He started to wish for a harsh lesson; at least it'd reassure him that everything was normal. The lack of response was unnerving.

"Dad, as our best Swordsman, what do you think of him?"

The man had a pensive expression. "I don't know, Uriel. I was a bit distracted. I'll have to rewatch it."

"Oh, well that's fine I'll just—"

"I will rewatch it later. You should head back, it's late."

Uriel nodded and left in a hurry. He wouldn't get any answers tonight, not with a mood like that. His father was right too. Distant howls and roars drifted through the wind.

If anyone could figure Jim out, it was his dad: Carson II's strongest Swordsman.

Yet that same infallible figure was leaning back in his chair, wondering where it had all gone wrong.

Julius Vander, the head of one of the three strongest families on Carson II. It took a second to click, but the memory came back — the conference of the families: Daul's death.

The three family heads watched an unknown man kill Daul with ease. Darkness and distance made it hard to see, but Julius remembered his face. And now he was staring at that man in a replay of a spar.

He leaned back in his seat, watching the replay on repeat. His thoughts were a turbulent mess.

'This was your idea, Silas? Hiding in plain sight? You're insane...' 

Maybe their partnership was a mistake.

***