6th Jan 933 - Seventh Epoch
The last lumps of pre-dawn indigo leached from the sky as the day readied itself. Below, the barracks lay in shadow, but the training grounds pulsed with life. The relentless clang of steel on scarred wood echoed through the lingering quiet.
Across the hard-packed earth, a tall figure crunched, his worn boots carrying him towards the yard's epicenter. There, a solitary youth moved, a whirlwind of focused fury. His practice blade became a silvered dance, each strike a blur against the battered training dummy, etching new wounds into its scarred tapestry.
"Henry," the newcomer's voice rumbled with weary authority, laced with a hint of dry amusement. "For pity's sake, you trying to kill it before sunrise? The poor thing looks like it's about to cry uncle."
His rhythm unbroken and breath misting in the chill air, Henry grunted. Sweat plastered dark hair to his brow, yet a flicker of pride touched his intense features. "Morning, Captain. It yielded sooner today. Progress." He finally lowered his blade, but only slightly. "Just forty more strikes."
A challenge gleamed in the Captain's eyes. "Fancy a proper spar? Shake off the last dregs of slumber?"
"Gladly" Fierce anticipation surged through Henry, a spark of untamed energy in his posture. "Fifteen minutes. Then the world." He completed his drill, the final strikes delivered with punishing force. Immediately after, he collapsed, chest heaving, lungs burning.
Perspiration slicked his body, but his recovery was unnervingly swift. Within moments, his breathing evened, and a faint, shimmering vapor hissed from his skin, a subtle testament to the strange energies coiled deep within him.
A man constructed like a weathered oak, solid and enduring, Captain Jacobs watched the proceedings. Time and countless trials had carved his features, and he regarded the world with the sharp glint of a honed axe. Beneath a gruff exterior, a sardonic wit often lurked. He waited, an unspoken ritual, precisely fifteen minutes elapsing before he hefted a heavy iron practice sword and stepped onto the grounds.
"Right then," Jacobs chuckled as he settled into a guard stance that was anything but relaxed. "Let's ascertain if today's the day I finally put you out of commission for a week."
An expectant hush descended over the training yard, disturbed only by the sigh of wind through the leaves clinging stubbornly to the ancient trees bordering the space.
Motion exploded without warning as Henry launched himself forward, his blade a silver blur aimed at Jacobs's sternum, seeking a swift victory through sheer velocity. But the veteran Captain, forged in countless battles, met the onslaught with uncanny grace, a minimalist sidestep effortlessly turning Henry's lethal thrust aside.
Before Henry could recover, Jacobs's counter flowed seamlessly. Blazing with silver, arcane light, his heavy blade swept in a devastating arc that made the air hum.
Undaunted, raw instinct screaming, Henry reacted. Retreat was impossible; he twisted desperately, channeling his own nascent, volatile power into his defense. A faint, fluctuating blue aura flickered to life around his sword, less refined, less stable than the Captain's silver glow, but fiercely present. He brought his blade up, angling it to meet the incoming blow.
CLANG!
A physical shockwave shuddering up Henry's arm, jarring his teeth. The sheer weight and arcane force behind Jacobs's strike were immense. A buckling in his knees preceded the jarring impact that drove him to the ground, taking his breath away. His muscles screamed in protest, threatening to give way entirely. Yet sheer grit, and the strange, stubborn energy within him, allowed him to hold his ground, his blade still locked against the Captain's, trembling violently. The gulf in their strength was undeniable. Just too strong.
Before he could even begin to process recovery, Jacobs flowed into the next attack with ruthless efficiency. No pause, no mercy. Seeing Henry grounded and vulnerable, he drove his knee strike straight towards Henry's unprotected face. It wasn't about swordsmanship now; it was about ending the contest.
Survival instinct seized him. Faster than thought, faster than pain, he threw up both forearms in a desperate, crossed block. A sickening crunch echoed through his forearms when Jacobs's knee connected, rattling bone against bone. Pain flared, white-hot, along his arms, but the block held, barely. It deflected the worst of the blow, yet the raw kinetic energy transferred was still enormous. He was thrown backward as if struck by a charging bull, tumbling and skidding over five meters across the packed earth before crashing into a painful heap.
Stars burst behind his eyes. He gasped, lungs aching, the world tilting crazily. Scrabbling in the dirt, ignoring the screaming agony in his arms and the throbbing in his skull, he tried to regain his feet. But Jacobs gave him no quarter. The Captain closed the distance instantly, his sword already descending in a vicious, overhead arc, not a killing blow, perhaps, but one certainly meant to disable, to break bone, to emphatically end the lesson.
This time, however, Henry was marginally more prepared. Driven by adrenaline and desperation, he rolled hard to the side. The Captain's blade smashed into the earth where he'd been a split second before, throwing up clods of dirt. Coming up onto one knee, Henry angled his own blade instinctively, meeting Jacobs's recovery swing with a sharp, jarring parry.
CRACK! The sound echoed in the pre-dawn stillness. Seeing Jacobs slightly overextended from the force of his missed blow, Henry spotted a sliver of an opening, perhaps his only one. Spinning low on his heel, ignoring the protests of his abused body, he countered with a swift, rising slash aimed directly at the Captain's exposed flank.
Got him!
THUD!
Agony, absolute and blinding, erupted in Henry's jaw. The world dissolved into white light and searing pain. He found himself slammed backward again, hitting the ground with stunning force another five meters away, the air driven from his lungs in a choked gasp. It wasn't the sword. In the instant Henry launched his counter, Jacobs, anticipating the move with uncanny prescience, had pivoted and delivered a short, brutal punch with his free hand directly to Henry's jaw. There was no wasted movement, just pure, calculated force applied with devastating precision.
Henry lay there, stunned, tasting the metallic tang of blood, his vision slowly swimming back into focus. Dimly, he registered a thin tear in the Captain's tunic, high on the side, his slash had grazed the target, a testament to his speed. But the punch had served its purpose perfectly, interrupting the counter, protecting Jacobs, and sending Henry sprawling in agony. The spar was effectively over.
After changing and strapping on duty gear, breakfast was the usual spartan fare: dense bread, watery chicken stew, bland potatoes. Fuel, not flavor. Sustenance over satisfaction. Jacobs joined his customary table, exchanging boisterous greetings with other veterans. Henry piled an oversized portion onto his plate, his movements economical, focused.
"Still eating for two, Henry?" Torsan, the youngest of their immediate group, inquired with wide-eyed disbelief at the mountain of food.
"Dry bread and stew's fine." Henry mumbled around a mouthful, never looking up from his plate as he ate with an odd, focused intensity.
"Eight years of that madness," Daniel, the squad's quiet mage, noted with rare sincerity. "Just for the dedication, you deserve a medal."
Henry finally looked up from his mountain of food, a faint grin touching his lips. "You try eating like this, mage-boy. Your insides would probably catch fire."
"I do strength training too," chimed in Lumos, a hulking youth built like a younger, less-weathered Jacobs. "Still can't stomach half that much." He shook his head in awe.
Jacobs laughed, ruffling Henry's damp hair affectionately. "None of you work day and night like this maniac. Kid needs the fuel." The group chuckled, the familiar banter a shield against the brutality of their lives, a bond forged in shared hardship. Henry returned his attention to his plate, devouring the food with focused determination.
By seven, Henry and his breakfast companions emerged from the mess hall, heading towards the city gates, their figures silhouetted against the burgeoning light. Two more figures in uniform waved them over.
"Sophia! Melly! Over here!" Torsan called out, his youthful energy a stark contrast to the weariness etched on some faces.
As Melly approached, her vibrant red hair bounced with an energy that seemed barely contained. Sophia followed, more reserved, her neatly tied brown hair framing a warm, thoughtful face.
"Whole team's assembled," Melly chirped, her energy infectious. "Must be a big one today, right? Heard the Captain muttering about D-rank, maybe worse."
"Let's hope not," Daniel replied calmly, his usual stoicism fixed, though a flicker of concern creased his brow. "Seven of us for a standard D-rank feels excessive."
"Anything worse is tempting fate," Henry added, a sliver of genuine concern beneath his half-joking tone. He knew how quickly 'worse' could turn deadly.
"Maybe just a routine patrol?" Torsan asked hopefully.
"Not a chance, kid," Lumos gently knocked Torsan's head. "Captain's got that twitch in his eye again. He's chasing promotions."
Sophia turned to Henry, tilting her head slightly. A knowing, warm smile touched her lips, one that seemed to see right through him. "Friday, isn't it? Did you survive the Captain's fifteen-minute death match this morning?"
Henry managed a pained smile, wiping a trickle of blood from his lip. "Survived. Minor fractures, internal bruising, cracked jaw. Nothing serious."
"To last that long against a Rank 3 officer that's impressive tenacity," Daniel noted, a rare hint of admiration in his tone. He then glanced at Torsan. "Think you could manage fifteen seconds?"
Melly's grin was full of mischief. "Go on, Torsan!"
Torsan shook his head emphatically. "Five hundred soldiers here, and only Henry's crazy enough for that weekly ritual. No way in hell."
"Listen, kid," Lumos added, his words carrying a weary respect. "I challenged the Captain exactly three times. Spent a total of two months in the infirmary for my trouble. He doesn't hold back."
Sophia smiled softly at Henry, the warmth in it went beyond than mere camaraderie, concern, perhaps, and something more complex still. The shared laughter eased the tension momentarily, their fellowship a fragile shield.
Then, Jacobs finally appeared, but the usual smile on his lips was gone. In its place was a frown, his jaw tight, and his eyes scanned the squad with a heavy silence that extinguished all conversation.
"Command posted over twenty scout missions this morning," Jacobs reported in a low, heavy voice. "Three-quarters are missing persons cases. Two to seven people per case. That's over sixty souls vanished in just the past few days."
A undeniable unease settled over the group, the weight of the number stark in the morning air. Jacobs scanned their faces. "I've picked a D-rank recon mission. Nearby village, Lykuzt. Decent leads reported. Should be manageable." His tone lacked its usual confidence. That slight hesitation, that flicker of doubt, spoke volumes more than the official rank designation.
The muscles across Henry's shoulders tightened. His hand found its way to his sword hilt - an unconscious reflex whenever something wrong. A D-rank mission. The numbers didn't add up, and that contradiction planted a cold seed of doubt in his mind. Whatever awaited them in Lykuzt, 'manageable' was a dangerous, perhaps fatal, understatement. The forest, it seemed, was developing an appetite.