Knights Apocalyptica

Chapter 31: Dangerous

Erec woke up in one of the priests’ tents—his head pounding and hands shaking. A priest hovered over him, reciting their holy words. They paused as Erec’s eyes opened. “Ah, back with us? Sir Boldwick said you’d be up sooner rather than later.”

A blinking notification was in the corner of his vision from his Blessing.

“I—“ Erec winced. Bruises lined his back. Everything was healing, but the pain of being healed meant he’d once more experience half of the pain he felt when receiving the wound. Erec struggled to keep his consciousness together as he replayed the red-tinted memories of the fight.

Soren had been using some kind of Talent. He was sure of it—no glyphs, no prayers.

In the heat of the moment, Erec’d given himself all the way over to the anger and failed. “I lost.”

[Indeed, you did. If it’s a consolation, while you lost the spar, It’s uncertain whether or not you would’ve lost the fight. It is impressive that you correctly identified his weapon wasn’t capable of doing you serious harm during that state, then altered your battle priorities to take advantage of that. More deductive reasoning than I’d predicted.]

The priest launched back into their prayer. Pain lanced through Erec. He pulled up the notification to distract himself.

Perception Advancement: Rank E - Tier 1 → Rank E - Tier 2

A fair upgrade. Had the reliance on pure instincts while tracking Soren driven him to new heights? The advancements were coming rapidly—was this what being in the Academy was like? The constant pushing forward and getting stronger was addictive. But how long would it be before it slowed again?

[That Talent the Prince displayed was quite interesting. I would love to analyze how he used the anomalous energy to manipulate your senses—I’d been trying to figure it out for some time. Perhaps some form of direct light manipulation? No, then again—]

Erec lapsed into silence and ground his teeth together. He let VAL go on as long as it wanted.

Soon enough, the priest finished and then told him to leave the tent once he felt up to it.

Instead, he lay on the cot. He turned the fight over again in his head. His choices had been wrong. It’d been a massive mistake to give over to the anger, and he’d sacrificed the fight with that obsession for victory. Not that he would’ve won with how they’d been plodding along with him drugged out.

He was competitive—and under the influence of Fury, that fault got driven to exceptional heights.

It also came with an unprecedented desire to achieve victory by decimating his opponent and utterly destroying them. Which he still found hard to explain. Did some part of him deep down want to destroy, or was it the adrenaline cocktail?

After a minute of silence, he came to a conclusion.

“I don’t think that plan is going to work.” The sedatives were too limiting. And the closer he got to using Fury, the more his reasoning vanished. It also limited the height of power given over by the talent. However, the most important reason it didn’t work was that it lagged his reaction speed. If Soren had been using a real sword, he’d have slaughtered Erec with all of those cuts. Using the sedatives with Fury wore him down too quickly.

There had to be a better method.

[Agreed. There were some complications in the experiment, even with it being aborted before fulfilling all of the objectives. That’s science for you. So, we begin the cycle again.]

They’d have to find a way to use it, a better method to leash Fury or direct it.

The flaps to the tent flung open. The Prince walked in as if he owned the place, which he might have. His empty face lingered on Erec on the cot. A mask that hid what was beneath. Had he come to punish Erec for breaking the rules of the fight? For trying to hurt him?

“Congratulations on the win. Sorry about the end there. I didn’t mean to cause you trouble. I lost control of myself.” Erec said

“I didn’t win.” Soren said.

“No, you got me in the neck; I’m the jackass who kept going and tried to hurt you after.” Better to own up to it.

“While it was unexpected that you continued your assault after I won the game, I’m left wondering. Had I a real sword, would you have charged in that manner? I don’t believe so. Nor was I able to determine how you tracked my movements without using prayer or spell-craft.” Soren pulled over a wooden chair from the side of the tent, sitting near the cot. His face was still blank. “Though you broke the rules, you fought with your all, as you’d vowed. In the end, you intended to smash my face with your fists, since you’d thought it the most effective way to counter my talent.”

“Trust me, I—I’m not sure that’s the best way to counter you. I don’t have control over my Divine Talent yet. I got frustrated with the fight and was stupid and gave in to it. I’m sorry for trying to harm you; that’s not normally me.”

“One apology was enough. I’m not here to hold petty grudges over other Knights learning how to fight. You did, however, keep your word, unintentionally or not. That fight took everything you had, and you turned it into a real battle in the end. I expected today to be a test of my patience as we played the Academy’s games, yet, I found a little something of value.”

There was a long pause as they looked each other over. Search as he might, Erec found nothing in the Prince’s eyes, no anger, no desire for revenge, not even a desire for a friend.

“This will not be our last fight. When we face off again, I expect you to be better. Challenge me. Few are willing to throw their full might against a prince, yet it’s amusing and convenient that you have little to no choice. There’s much to learn against an enemy like that.”

Soren gave a slow nod, then got to his feet. Then he left. He didn’t seem to care what Erec might say in return.

Which was fine; Erec had nothing to say in return for that. While the Prince might have accepted such a thing, he doubted many of his peers would look too fondly on him losing it against a member of the Royal family. And he couldn’t expect Soren to go around giving that same speech to clear the air.

It’d been a minimal risk, sure. But that didn’t mean there weren’t consequences.

He’d underestimated Fury’s power to make him lust for battle and victory.

Erec closed his eyes, hands still shaking. As soon as they stopped, he’d head back out. The test wasn’t done yet.

— - ☢ - — - ☼ - — - ☢ - —

Erec collected himself, then returned to watch the rest of the duels. Nothing particularly caught his interest in the rest of the first year’s fighting. Garin and Olivia already had their fight, and while Erec was recovering, Colin fought too.

Colin had lost to the red-headed Duchess’ daughter.

According to Garin, the girl stomped him. There must’ve been bad blood between them since she didn’t simply beat him; no, she spent a good five minutes embarrassing the hell out of him. She’d disarm him, force him to pick up his sword and disarm him again. Afterward, Colin ran off.

That was the least of Erec’s concerns; their ‘friendship’ was nowhere near the point where Colin would take to him trying to lend kind words. Not that Erec was in the state to give it. His body felt wrung out and barely functional, threatening to collapse.

It was a concerning situation to be in since he didn’t know what the test of resolve demanded.

Things got far more interesting when they got to the second year’s duels. They flashed a range of spell-work and prayer that drew out fanfare from everyone watching.

There were also a few Divine Talents being put on display.

But there was a single fight Erec both dreaded and kept on the edge of anticipation for.

“Bedwyr of House Audentia!” called out the Commander Knight.

If the cheering for Prince Soren from the first year was enthusiastic, the screaming, cheers, and whistling from the second years put the Prince to shame.

Bedwyr took to the field, his red hair bright in the sun, with a slight smirk on his face as he waved out to the assorted people calling for his victory. He scanned the crowd, then made his way to the weapons. He looked every part as a Knight should be. Valiant. Noble. Courageous. Erec clenched his fist and took a sharp breath; there wasn’t a particularly good reason to it, but he wanted to punch that smug look off the bastard’s face.

His hand began to shake again.

[Easy now, buckeroo. Keep that excitement locked away for science!]

“Mathias of House Valens, please make your way to the field and pick out your weapon.”

Even more cheering, as a large boy damn near twice Bedwyr’s size strode out to the field. Where Erec’s brother had his share of muscle, he was also compact, heroic, but well in proportion. Compared to Mathias—it was like a mountain versus a man. The initiate had to be nearing seven feet, an absurd build with muscle upon muscle.

His Strength must be through the roof, and trying to guess at any of his other physical Virtues would have been ‘high’ at the bare minimum. More cheering blared from the crowd. This was a much-anticipated fight from the second years, and as the first years caught on, they too began to call out and feed into the excitement.

Bedwyr picked a large dulled two-handed sword, tossed it on a shoulder, then took an easy stance on his place on the field. The big boy glanced at the assorted weapons before settling on a similar great sword.

Both just picked the biggest sword they could carry.

Erec shouldn’t have expected anything else, given everyone’s natural disposition, thanks to the damned Goddess.

“Begin!” shouted the Knight Commander.

The big guy smashed a fist into his chest—and a glyph formed at the point of contact. A second later, stone and dirt from the ground rose in the air and layered themselves, giving him a second skin of soil and rock. Bedwyr sat easily at the other side of the field, smiling as he let his enemy armor himself up.

And then the big guy stomped—a mist of silver haze around him. The air felt heavy as if it pressed down, gravity pulling Erec towards the ground heavier than before. Some divine talent? Or a prayer? Either way, Mathias went all out from the very start to gain whatever advantage he could. Bedwyr stood firm, at ease, but slipping into a fighting stance. He’s showing off for the crowd.

Like a rolling mountain, Mathias charged Bedwyr—sword swinging from on high and cutting downward faster than it should have. Bedwyr slipped to the right effortlessly as he did a white glyph formed in his right hand. Mathias roared, shifting the angle of his blade to try to sweep Bedwyr.

Bedwyr jumped the blade as it cut where his legs had been—and gravity suddenly yanked down on the crowd, jerking everyone towards the ground. Bedwyr recovered quick—a foot touching the flat of Mathias’ sword, only to spring off it as he vaulted the enemy. Erec’s brother flipped in the air, the glowing white glyph in his right hand making contact with Mathias’ head.

There was a flash of light.

The mud armor sloughed off Mathias.

But the big guy wasn’t done; no, the silver aura around expanded as gravity yanked everyone down harder and consistently. Bedwyr stumbled as he landed—nearly taking a hit from Mathias’ blade as he tried to take control of the fight.

Bedwyr caught the blade with his sword’s guard; his voice chanted in a booming tone as he began a prayer.

In a flash, Bedwyr’s blade shifted angle and skidded alongside Mathias’. Only for a sudden burst of light to explode from where the blades connected, throwing the swords away from another. That silver mist pulsed around the big guy—doubling the effects of gravity again.

But Bedwyr stood firm, stepping back and shifting his stance in a half-second. Then he stabbed forward, the point of his dull longsword stabbing right where Mathias’ heart was.

“Victory goes to Bedwyr!” The commander screamed, much to the delight of the crowd.

Bedwyr paused, offering a handshake to Mathias and a smile.

The other boy threw everything in his arsenal at him from the start. His Divine Talent, his defenses, and his Strength. Still, Bedwyr overcame him.

While flashy, it wasn’t overt and hinted that more was under the surface. Bedwyr displayed no extreme Divine Talent; nothing he’d done was earth-shattering in prowess. But each of his actions had been enough to meet and edge out his competition with every move.

By throwing all the pieces together—Agility to maneuver as much as needed, enough Strength to counteract the shifting gravity, and enough Mysticism and Prayer to counter spells or provide an important second’s advantage... There’d never been a doubt that Bedwyr would win the fight.

Rounded out and good enough in each area to win. That’s why Bedwyr was so dangerous. He wasn’t bad in any field. There were no perceivable weak points. Compared to Erec, who'd only managed to match his brother in a single field growing up, it was beyond frustrating.

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