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Chapter 155 - Not a Swordsman, But a Beast
🕑 Added 2022-05-12 20:06:37 +0000 UTCChapter 155
Not a Swordsman, But a Beast
Sylas was feeling many things at this particular moment--confusion, awe, anger, some more confusion, irritation, hope, and quite a lot more confusion. Forcibly sitting by the Prince's side, his lips sewn shut, listening to the effective history of this world, he couldn't help but realize that what he knew and what he was being told... had absolutely nothing in common. In fact, it seemed as though his summoning and Valen's fate were entirely coincidental, in a strange and macabre way. Then again, if he was supposed to march south with Valen... how was the Prince ever to discover this place? And learn all these things?
Something doesn’t add up, Sylas concluded. It was either that the one-eyed man--thing--whatever they were--was lying about most of what was said, or that Sylas’ conclusions thus far were so far off the beaten path they were in a completely different dimension by comparison. Besides, this was a little bit bigger than just ‘putting the Prince on the throne’--no, not little. Fucking gigantic, Jesus...
“This... it all sounds like too much,” Valen mumbled. If even Sylas felt his head hurting, he could only imagine how the young Prince was handling it.
“It is,” the one-eyed man said. “But it is not the easy times that forge heroes, Prince. If you feel like it is too much... you can simply walk away.”
“H-huh?”
"Time is eternal," the one-eyed man continued. "In time, undoubtedly, another bearer of the Eye shall be born. However... the strength of mankind will continue to wane."
“...” Something is off, Sylas concluded. If even all the combined races were unable to defeat the Gods in the outright war, the hell kind of a chance do we alone have now? Or is he implying that the Visitors will help us or something? Plus, he’s doing all the things I was doing when trying to con--convince Valen.
“I... but I’m just a cripple!” Valen protested. “I can’t even walk up a flight of stairs, let alone lead people into the war--against Gods no less!”
“But you can fly,” the one-eyed man said, grinning. “What worth are legs to those with wings, young Prince?”
“I...”
The more Sylas thought about it, the more he didn't like that he was silenced. Valen, clever though the Prince was, came into the conversation with an overwhelmed mind already. He didn't know to ask the right questions. Additionally, if the man truly was vehemently opposed to the Gods, why did he barely spare a glance at Asha? The virtual embodiment of the Gods in the Mortal World?
"Cast your doubts aside," the man said as Sylas decided to break out whatever ephemeral chains were cast onto him. Perhaps it was impossible for everyone else in the world--but not for him, he was confident. The reason being a very simple one--his Way. "You are meant for far more than simply an adorned Throne! Your Bestowed Gift is the proof of it! When mankind falters and the dark begins to seep inside their hearts, you shall become the Light to guide them proper! It is your destiny, young Prince!"
Destiny my ass, Sylas grumbled inwardly, urging his slumbering energy to awake. It felt as though it had completely frozen in place and in time, as everything was unmoving--including his blood. Hm? Aren’t I used to my blood not moving? Rather than focusing on his energy, he instead focused on his blood--the indescribably magnetic and regenerative substance that he had absolute control over. Sensing it standing still, he first began to stir it--bit by bit--drop by drop, as he used to do when he first attempted practicing Derrek's Way.
“The Eye, though magical, cannot see within,” the one-eyed man said. “As such, you cannot see your potential. But I can. And I see a magically bright future full of potential. I see a herald. Will you be the herald, young Prince?”
“I...” Valen lowered his head, seemingly uncertain still. Aah, hold out little Prince for a bit longer, Sylas sighed, continuing to stir the droplets of blood. It was a long process but, as he suspected, it was working. Bit by bit, his body was beginning to wake, like a slumbering dragon slowly being stirred and spurned.
“Believe in yourself,” the one-eyed man said. “And fulfill the prophecy.”
The man extended his arm toward Valen, open-palmed, a faint smile on his face. The Prince stared at the hand, a complex look in his eyes. There was desire there as there was fear, a bundle and cauldron of emotions that seemed a hill too large for someone so young. After all, the Prince was twenty--though a man in some arbitrary age, he was a boy still. He was only now beginning to grasp himself wholly, let alone the world at large. And the words, tender like the freshly-ripe plum, swayed him. They were an evocation of things deep desired by most young boys--a want of being a hero.
The truth was, though, that there were no holistic heroes--for the world could never make them. On a path of a hero, men are broken like poorly made blades. Every last one of them. But though some stay on the ground defeated, others stand up. But they stand up changed. Suddenly, there is darkness to their naivety--understanding that all the heroism in the world cannot stand on its own.
Stories of heroics hide the falls, hide the doubts, hide the inner demons that plague; Valen was only beginning to grasp it, fighting with his own mortal inability. He was beginning to accept he was both strong and weak--but was not there just yet. He was fighting back the tears, the anguish, the sense of unfairness he felt. Hiding them deeply, falsifying the bravado the same way most boys do. And now... he was being sucked into the whirlwind of the story that he was trying to write.
“F-f-fancy words,” Sylas’ abrupt and hoarse voice broke the heavy silence, shocking both Valen as well as the one-eyed man--the latter one far more, it seemed. “Cocker, were you a conman too when alive?” Sylas fought against seemingly supernatural forces to slowly move his body, his bones creaking under the pressure, some kind of energy resisting them. But it was futile. If the bone resisted, Sylas broke it. If an organ didn’t want to work properly, he destroyed it. He bled like a waterfall, but he moved, a sight so macabre Asha closed her eyes to not witness it.
“H-h-h-how?! HOW ARE YOU MOVING?! IMPOSSIBLE!!! NOBODY CAN MOVE UNDER THE AEONIAN LAWS!” the one-eyed man erupted, standing up as well and drawing back some distance.
“You’re movin’, ain’t you?” Sylas grinned, his teeth bloodied. “Now,” he craned his neck back and forth, the snapping sounds echoing out. “I have some questions.”
However, before he could ask those questions, he reached out for the scabbard and drew out his sword, slashing forward and meeting a surging force head-on. Two blades intersected, the screeching sound of the metal jarring the ears. The one-eyed man stood in front, both hands on a long and embossed blade of violet. Tiny sparks of light repeatedly blew from the surface of the sword like the cracks of lightning.
“Quite inhospitable of you, eh?” Sylas’ grin widened as his blood began to boil. It has been a while since he’d been in a proper fight. His body, by and large, yearned for it. In many ways, he was the truest himself when fighting someone or something.
“Who the hell are you?” the one-eyed man growled, though had calmed by now. There was clarity in the eye as the two men snapped back, ending the standstill. “How can you ignore the Laws?”
"I dunno," Sylas shrugged. "The better question is--who the fuck are you? And what the hell were you trying to do to Valen?"
“This is my home,” the one-eyed man grinned suddenly. “You don’t get to ask the questions.”
“Oh?” Sylas grinned back. “I guess I’ll need to beat the answers out of you then, eh?”
“You can try.”
“As a wise man once said,” Sylas mumbled, slouching into a fighting stance. “There is no try, only do.”
Sylas heaved forward, his muscles bulging, the sword cutting through the air and racing toward the one-eyed man. The latter swung back, from below up, meeting the sword squarely and repelling the strike before retaliating, stabbing toward Sylas’ heart. He dodged, shuffling slightly to the side, moving forward into the man and stabbing back. The man quickly moved back, trying to gain some modicum of distance while continuing to swing his blade.
Within the hall of the white, the sounds of the swords clashing continued to echo. Sylas was the aggressor--no, rather than merely an aggressor, he fought with no regard for anything. He completely abandoned defending, happily taking stabs in exchange for hitting his strikes as well. Slowly, the one-eyed man began to realize he was falling further and further into the hole.
After all, unless someone was able to kill Sylas in one strike--they would never win in a war of attrition against him. He was effectively immortal short of being beheaded, and engaging in a long-term battle with him was one of the most painful forms of suicide.
The man stirred the blade with energy and knocked Sylas back some ten feet back before moving out as well, creating separation between the two. His clothes were disheveled, though there were no traces of blood. It wasn’t strange--after all, the man wasn’t made of flesh and bones, that much Sylas had realized a long while back. He wasn’t yet certain exactly what he was made of, but it didn’t matter--as he could still clearly hurt, which was enough.
“You’re no swordsman,” the one-eyed man said. “You’re a mad beast masquerading as one. Without your body, you are nothing.”
“Uh, aren’t we all nothing without our bodies?” Sylas cracked a joke, heaving the longsword over his shoulder. “Besides, should you really be talkin’ ‘bout bodies, Mr. I’m-more-a-ghost-than-I-am-a-man?”
“Your Way is an anomaly, I admit,” the one-eyed man said. “But you can’t stop it.”
“Stop what?”
“What is meant to be.”
“... y’know,” Sylas’ tone grew darker and angrier as he lowered his head. “I was tired of this horseshit eighty lifetimes ago. Every time I find someone with some answers, it’s always this vague garbage that gets tossed around. It’s never a name, it’s always a ‘he’, ‘she’, ‘they’, it’s never a place, it’s ‘there’ and ‘here’ and ‘over yonder’, and it’s never nothin’ concrete. Tell me--what in the name of tarnished fucks does ‘what is meant to be’ mean? Do you think you’re somehow coming off as ‘cool’ by saying this junk?”
“You have no right to know, little one,” the one-eyed man replied. “You may have stopped in today, but the Promised One will listen to us, one day. He has to. It is foretold.”
“Foretold, huh?” Sylas mumbled, letting the sword down and dragging it across the stone as he moved toward the man. “You know what else is foretold, you ugly fuck?”
“What?”
“You,” Sylas said, pointing at the man with the sword. “Hanging on the tip of my sword, choking on your own ethereal blood, begging me to end you. And spilling your guts of all the answers I want. Aye, ‘twas foretold. ‘cause that’s how things work, you dumbass.”
Comments
Jonas Sørensen
Damn cliffhangers
