The forest road was a dark thing, a winding strip of hard-packed earth swallowed by the dense, ever-reaching branches of ancient trees. When S.K. had first arrived in Blackhaven, he had appreciated the trees. They were a welcome cloak, a generous shield from the prying eyes of the city watch and any who might recognise him. Now, as he hurried away from the same city, he dreaded them. The encroaching foliage on either side of the route seemed to lean in, the branches stretching like outstretched hands ready to grab him. Each snap of a twig sounded like the cocking of a bow, each shifting shadow a silhouette of a man with a drawn sword.
S.K., for a man so obviously malnourished and weary, was moving at an unnervingly brisk pace. His breath came in shallow, ragged puffs, but his feet were a blur. Two heavy, oversized boots with soles that seemed to bend the laws of motion were strapped to his feet, each one a testament to his craftsmanship. With each step he took, he covered the distance of fifty more, unhindered by inertia or friction, his body cutting through the air like a bullet.
He hadn't been an Artisan for nothing, after all. He had created them for exactly this kind of situation, knowing he couldn't outrun his attackers on foot alone.
A knot of apprehension tightened in his gut, a cold, hard lump of dread. The feeling had been gnawing at him for the last hour, ever since he'd left the city's gates. He could feel them now, a group of predators moving with a lethal grace through the undergrowth, their movements so quiet they were almost a part of the forest's natural hum.
They were close.
Too close.
He didn't turn to look, he didn't need to. He could feel the cold, sinister auras they exuded like ice on his skin, a chorus of dark songs that hummed in the air behind him.
He pushed himself harder, a grimace of pain twisting his face. His lungs screamed, but his boots answered the call, propelling him forward with a series of jarring bursts. Just as he felt the energy closing in behind him, he made a split-second decision. He threw himself into a roll, the move clumsy and undignified for a man of his former station. At the very same moment, a black chain shot out of the shadows, wrapped itself around his ankle, and pulled taut.
There was a loud clatter and a sharp crack of leather. He had released the boots, his quick thinking saving him from a broken leg. The enchanted boot flew from his foot, still caught in the chain, as he rolled and crashed into a tree several metres away. Luckily, he had used Flow Reinforcement to strengthen his back, otherwise he'd have sustained serious injuries. Still, it wasn't pleasant being tossed through the air and having the wind knocked out of him.
'I'm not built for this,' he thought as he coughed and came up on one knee. His eyes, though tired, were sharp, scanning the treeline for the source of the attack.
A man stepped out from behind a thick oak tree, a look of mild surprise on his face. He was in his late twenties, with close-cropped hair and a light stubble. He wore a simple leather cuirass over a canvas tunic and in one hand was the barbed chain with S.K.'s boot dangling from it. It was his other hand, rubbing the back of his neck, that drew S.K.'s attention.
A tattoo of a rose pierced through by a sword was etched into the skin on the back of his neck, a mark S.K. recognised. The man was one of them. An Azure Rose Knight, or a former one. He tossed the enchanted boot aside as if it were worthless and smiled, a gesture that didn't reach his eyes.
"That's a nasty little trick, Professor," the man said, his voice a low, casual rumble. "I've been told you've got a lot of them. Saved yourself a trip to the healer, didn't you? It's a shame about the boots, though. They looked like good work."
S.K. just chuckled, the sound dry and without humour.
"You can have them, boy. They're a trifle." He said as he threw the other one at the man. The man caught it and looked down at it with a strange expression, as if he was looking at garbage. He then smiled and threw the boot away.
"We're not here for your trifles, Professor. We're here for you. Just come along with us, and we'll be on our way. No one has to get hurt."
S.K. let out a dry, hacking laugh.
"And give you what you want? To become your little slave? To create weapons for your vendetta against Nordhelm?"
The man's expression soured. He sighed and shook his head, his hand passing over the tattoo on his neck.
"Nordhelm, huh? Professor, you don't know what's actually going on. You couldn't possibly understand."
As if on cue, the forest floor came alive. More men peeled away from the foliage, their forms indistinguishable from the shadows until they were standing in the open. They surrounded S.K. in a wide, menacing circle. They were all former Rose Knights, their faces grim and determined.
S.K. knew that he couldn't fight them off because it was common knowledge that these knights had at the very least achieved the Saint Stage of Ascension while he was still a Vortary, one stage below them. Again, while his own Trait had powerful offensive capabilities, he wasn't a fighter, and so the application of his Trait couldn't be used in combat but instead for making Artifacts. The odds were against him, and he knew it.
The first man stepped forward, his voice a low growl.
"You have two choices, Professor. Either you come with us peacefully, or we'll bring you back in pieces. Either way, we're taking you back with us."
S.K. took a slow, measured breath, the scent of damp earth and pine filling his lungs. He felt a deep sense of calm settle over him, a familiar feeling from his days as a teacher. He had always been an Artisan, a creator of beautiful and powerful things that he made to help people, all thanks to his Trait, 'The Hierophant', which had dominion over spiritual energy and Souls.
The first Resonant of this Trait allowed one to perceive the 'health' of a soul or a location or object with spiritual energy, allowing them to sense the purity or profanity of its Flow.
The second Resonant of this Trait allowed users to imbue a fragment of their own souls into a target and manipulate said target through the soul fragment within them.
Of course, there were limitations as at the Vortary stage, the Hierophant was limited by the number of fragments they could create. Also, this ability, naturally, wouldn't work on beings of a higher stage and was less likely to affect anyone of an opposing Trait class.
S.K. had used these abilities to discern whatever material he was working with and imbue them with his own soul fragments so as to bring out the maximum potential of its characteristics for the best functionality. That and his mastery of the theory of Arrays is what made him one of the best Artisans in the world and also what made him a target for these men.
Humans were different from Artifacts; their very souls, the spiritual energy within them, were far more complex and complicated than the residual Flow lingering in a nail or a tooth. Even now, as S.K. looked at their souls, he could see aspects of purity and aspects of profanity swirling around each other like tornados and rippling like tidal waves in the ocean.
Trying to fight them was out of the question because he'd only ever been able to infuse his own soul in objects. Even if he could do it to humans, there was a limit to how many soul fragments he could break off, and there were just too many of these men around him. That, and the fact that they were all Saints, meant it wouldn't work anyway. While there may be some with a Trait class that his own opposed—the Cosmic Class that would still be affected to some extent—he didn't know who that was, and they probably had some resistance or Artifact to protect themselves.
'Tch, what a pain in the arse,' S.K. thought as he rose to his feet.
For over a decade now, assailants had been chasing after him in order to force him to help. Different groups, from assassins to sellswords, and all because he said no when that man asked....
'After this, I think I should go pay him a visit.'
An aura of indigo energy swirled around him in an anti-clockwise rotation, his Flow switching to Anti-Flow, and the air around him becoming heavy and oppressive. The men charged at him.
S.K. in response simply threw his sack into the air, and as the various Artifacts flew out of it, he imbued each one with a portion of his soul.