The Tournament - Round 6

King Granda IV had spent less and less time on his throne lately. With the state of the realm as it was and the tournament holding the attention of his citizens, the monarch suddenly found himself with more time to spare than ever before. Every second spent awaiting reports from his advisors or scouts felt like another handed over to Demonkind. Shilahi's plan to raise morale with the tournament had placated many of the city's nobles and merchants, but he knew better than anyone else that it was only a temporary solution to a larger problem.

Gria's stockpiles and treasury were dwindling rapidly. With many of the country's farmlands abandoned, what little was produced by the city itself could barely cater to its original population, never mind the evacuees who impatiently awaited the construction of a town beyond the walls. It would be years before the city's economic strife would reverse--assuming it wasn't overrun by Demons in the meantime.

In truth, Granda was far past his prime. The opportunity to sire an heir had vanished alongside his late wife, who had stolen his heart with such roguish skill that the mere prospect of wedding another woman was out of the question. The Granda bloodline had persisted for generations, but like all things, it was destined to end, and its time, it seemed, had arrived.

Even so, Granda was determined to leave a celebrated legacy in his wake. It was that mindset which had preserved the king's vigour well into his twilight years. So pivotal was that desire to his way of life that it seemed to be just about the only thing keeping him alive. Though the guardsmen bowed their heads as he wandered through the castle halls, he was not yet blind to their plight--the threat which continued to loom on the horizon, and the Demonic attack which had decimated their ranks continued to weigh heavily upon their minds. To them, Heroes were but a legend. Reality was a far less forgiving mistress.

His destination was the alchemy lab. One needed only to follow the pungent stench of chemicals to find their way--a complaint that had persisted from the earliest days of his youth, and yet still the royal council found reasons to forbid its relocation to someplace less offensive.

Nothing but shadows awaited him as he threw the door open. Only, one of them happened to be moving. Fusala had taken to the lab like a luxurious bedchamber, evacuated only by the stern demands of Dorma or Lotte. Her unceasing dedication to furthering the offensive against Demonkind was a welcome attitude.

"Hello there, Your Majesty." She greeted dryly.

"Sir Lotte isn't here?" He wondered.

"No. He retired to his chambers for the night. Until then, he had been analysing the effects of Demon flesh when exposed to outside stimuli."

"Still he persists with this godless effort against my explicit instructions…" Granda muttered, "Might I entrust you with disposing of these unholy samples, Lady Fusala?"

"I am afraid I cannot do that."

"Don't tell me you're of the opinion that he's onto something."

"Sir Lotte has already replicated the effects of many low-level wind spells over the course of his experimentation." She reported, "He believes that by outfitting the general populace with crystals charged from samples of Demon flesh, many domestic tasks will be simplified."

"Has he not stopped to consider the potential ramifications of Demonic power?"

"He is not pleased by your insistence that his attention be diverted elsewhere. He truly believes that what he is doing is correct."

"What are your thoughts on the matter?"

"Alchemy may occasionally cross moral boundaries. My existence is a testament to that fact. But if we do not consider unorthodox solutions, it is unlikely that the world at large will be capable of recovering from this war in any reasonable amount of time." Fusala blinked, "We have recently discovered that Demons are recycled from the corpses of defeated humans. It is precisely that kind of morbid innovation which lends them their extraordinary numbers."

"Before Emir forcibly abdicated his predecessor, the Lunar Dominion relented in putting captured soldiers to the sword, instead demeaning them with harsh physical labour and torture." Granda replied, "But Emir did not take advantage of his enemies in such a fashion. Those who could be convinced became his allies, and those who could not were granted swift and merciful deaths. It is not always the way to copy one's opponent with such haste."

He paused, "...We have the Three Heroes at hand."

"Barion does not enjoy having his strength relied upon." Fusala revealed, "With the correct assignment of magical items and spellcraft--aided by Sir Lotte's research, Gria's army will almost certainly be as capable of destroying Demons as Barion, Dorma or Shilahi."

"Would that not trample their legacy? Deprive them of their birthright?"

"As new information presents itself, the faith of this world becomes increasingly fragmented." She answered, "It may be that the Hero's Legend is a farcical, artificial dogma created with the intention of neutralising any genuine resistance to the cycle of Demon Ages. Common men and women, or even soldiers, do not believe they are required to participate in the conflict when Heroes exist to bring it to a close themselves."

"-But is it that strife which creates Heroes? Or are they, too, purely artificial?"

"I do not know." Fusala admitted, "But recently, I have been enlightened to possibilities that far exceed the miracles of spellcasting. I believe that Sir Lotte's research may be the key to uplifting civilisation as we know it."

"Is there not a less morbid way to accomplish such lofty goals?"

"No." She answered dryly, "The far future of this world shall be indescribably complicated. We will master the art of animating constructs and golems not with magic, but with lightning. Fields of practical science will reach levels of complexity forbidding their exploration to all but the most determined of students. Even the lives of commoners will be enriched and complicated when methods are developed to automate the labours of farming."

"You jest. A society gripped by the pleasures of automation is one destined for stagnation."

"Perhaps, but progress cannot be halted. For as long as we live, we will seek more efficient methods of carrying out our daily lives--even moreso when the cycle of Demon Ages is brought to a close."

"Hm. We live in truly turbulent times." Granda remarked, "I appreciate your candid answers, Lady Fusala. If even half of this fair city's nobles were so straightforward, my hair may have retained its colour for another handful of years. But I do have a tournament to oversee, so I must bid you farewell."

"Goodbye, Your Majesty."

…

..

.

Shilahi tapped her fingers impatiently against the wooden table. In a matter of moments, she would be gracing the arena with her presence, but Dorma's words continued to replay in her head. Witilla was absent from the subterranean barracks, more than likely preparing for the battle herself. The amount of warriors crowding the room had dwindled to a meagre handful. They were top-of-the-line adventurers, raid organisers and master duelists, competing for the title of champion in the primary bracket.

The dwindling sounds of clashing steel echoing down through the wide stone corridors informed Shilahi that her time was fast approaching. She had lived in seclusion for well over 500 years, but the thrill of her battle against Leviathan had stricken her with an impatience reminiscent of her youthful self. Battle allowed Shilahi to place her emotions aside for the time being. The world's myriad troubles seemed to melt away when her attention was consumed by a worthy opponent. Only, her opponent-to-be would serve as a reminder of her woes, rather than a displacer of them.

By the time she had taken her spear and wandered towards the arena's portcullis, Shilahi remained unsure as to whether Witilla could be redeemed of her Demonic origins. At the very least, Dorma was convinced of her innocence, though the sorceress always had a habit of misplacing her trust.

The night winds blew calmly as she watched the wrought-iron gate shutter to expose the insatiable crowd. Witilla met her in the arena's centre fearlessly, but with an expression on her face that spoke of the girl's hesitation.

"Should I be grateful that this tournament exposed your existence, or wounded by the fact that even when trying to enjoy myself, I cannot be free from the machinations of Demonkind?" Her eyes did not meet with Witilla's, instead locking themselves to the spear at her side.

"...I don't know." She replied, "Is that what you wanted this to be? A distraction?"

"Be present to witness the final battle of tonight's festivities." She recommended, "-Then you will see why I was so insistent that it be organised."

"Do you intend… to let Manyu defeat you?"

"You know as well as I do how powerful he is." She answered, "But it's precisely that kind of opponent--no, it would be better to say that Manyu is the only opponent in the world who can tease out Barion's true nature. Whatever the future holds for us mortals… I'm almost certain that his current strength won't be enough to overcome it."

"Does that mean you believe me?"

"I'm finished speaking." Shilahi concluded, turning her back to the girl, "Express yourself through that rapier of yours. Ascertaining the truth is beyond me--only the battlefield can expose how authentic your ideals are."

Witilla wasn't certain how to feel as she retreated back to her side of the arena. Shilahi was an intimidating woman, but one who clearly had the best interests of her comrades in mind. Indeed, she was very much the sort of person to parley with actions rather than words.

The Hermit wasn't any less intimidating from a distance. As the trumpets sounded, she didn't launch forward like so many starry-eyed competitors, but rather advanced purposefully and with great caution, the tip of her spear glinting with a ferocious light as she approached. Neither of the two were proficient in the art of spellcasting bar Witilla's exhausting affinity for ice magic, and so the battle would be one fought largely with metal rather than crystals.

When the duo came within paces of one-another, the game had begun. Martial combat was ever a sport of distances and punishment--one mistake could lead to defeat, and one crucial prediction could just as easily secure victory. Shilahi had the advantage in reach with her spear, the dominator of organised warfare since its inception millennia ago, but in the hands of a master, any weapon was to be feared, and the two of them understood that truth well.

Shilahi was impressed by Witilla's coyness. She stood outside of the spear's range by mere inches, as if tempting her to make a committal movement. Like statues, they were frozen in place, awaiting the slightest hesitation from the other before making their move. From the readiness of their stances to the steadiness of their breaths, one couldn't possibly understand the thoughts racing through their heads.

Shilahi's foot twisted in the dirt--a minute adjustment followed by a spectacular sight; flashes of silver dancing in the empty air, accompanied by a horrid screeching that seemed to imply something between them had collided. The clash was too fast for a spectator's eyes to comprehend, but the exchange had told Shilahi all she needed to know about Witilla's expertise.

The girl brandished her rapier with a steady hand--one that had been engineered from the day of her birth to hold a weapon. Shilahi could scarcely recall the last time a blow of hers had been deflected. The occasion left her in such a dumbfounded state that, when Witilla moved to press the attack, she was forced onto the defensive.

The thrusts of their weapons seemed to defy reality, such that the two of them appeared almost as still as they had a moment before despite actively exchanging blows with one-another. It could have pushed Shilahi to tears--a swordmaster whose skill could rival her own, if she wasn't so concerned with parrying Witilla's endless assault.

As it often seemed when the secondary bracket was involved, the crowd understood little of what they were seeing, but remained entirely devoted to witnessing every spare moment of the battle. Without giving ground, the two combatants weaved around each-other's strikes, searching for dead angles and openings in their sporadic guards. Shilahi could have easily electrified her spear to render Witilla's blade useless, but what would be the point? She was overjoyed to face such a worthy opponent.

But their dance could not continue forever. A warrior's imperfections were ultimately their most beautiful features. Within defeat, a world of romance awaited. Witilla's swordsmanship was beyond that of a master's, but what she lacked in spades was experience--the kind of experience Shilahi accumulated over the years she spent journeying alongside Barion and Dorma.

No, engineered perfection could not defeat the tried-and-tested tribulations of hard work. In time, Witilla found her blows weakening, whereas Shilahi's--frenzied by the presence of an equal--only peaked in their ferocity. When the pivotal moment arrived, Witilla found her grip loosening, and not an instant later, the rapier was cast from her hand like a wheel of iron, landing with its ornate handguard jutting from the ground like an iron grave.

She closed her eyes, expecting the final blow to arrive, but found no such release. When she reluctantly opened them once more, Shilahi looked to be in no mood to cut her down, though that isn't to imply she was disappointed. Rather, the gargantuan woman was wearing a grin that threatened to wrap around her face.

"Hoh… it's been a while." She muttered, "Yes… it's been a very long time since I've so thoroughly enjoyed a fight…"

"You…" Witilla managed, "Aren't you going to kill me…?"

Shilahi said nothing, but chuckled at Witilla's timid flinching as she impaled the ground with her spear and turned to face one of the arena's entrances.

"I could feel your conviction." She answered, "Fighting for something… there is a part of my younger self in the way you struggle. It isn't an unpleasant sight."

She said nothing more, marching off with a satisfied grin, leaving the confounded Witilla equal parts relieved and disorderly.