Are prodigies born able to adapt to any difficulty they face, or are they born in difficulty and forced to adapt?
Partifolds were created to nurture those with nowhere to go into weapons. It's not always criminals—doesn't have to be. Sometimes, it's mercenaries or knights who desire to grow strong, or warriors scouted from a young age with a life of glory promised to them.
One thing always remained true: once you entered, you weren't allowed to leave.
*Ptuh*
Ralph spat on the ground.
He ground the saliva into the dirt with the sole of his boot. He looked up at Milo with his hands at his side and scoffed.
Sweat continued to fall from Milo's chin. Dirt that was cast around from the occasional gusts gathered on his clothing and skin. Heavy breaths made the boy's chest rise and fall.
Milo raised his fists to his face and looked at his opponent.
Damn.
One look at Ralph and anyone could tell he had experience fighting. Not in games like these, but out there, in wars and life-or-death battles. He had a picky attitude and listened only to those he considered stronger than himself.
He's only seventeen, but...
Milo looked at the scars that wrapped around Ralph's neck. One long line of dead tissue ran from one side to the other. His hands were the same. Large cuts showed his past mistakes and losses.
"Uh oh," Flio said.
Jackson sighed. He placed his hand on his head and rubbed his temples.
"Begin."
Ralph opened himself up. Both hands jutted out to his side as he held his arms wide.
Dick.
Milo dashed in. When Ralph was in range, Milo jabbed. Narrowly, Ralph dodged. He countered with a right cross, but Milo reacted quickly. He jumped back, escaping Ralph's range.
How do I approach this?
Throughout the fight, Ralph danced around Milo's punches. Nothing seemed to be getting either of them anywhere. At least, that's what it felt like to Milo.
From a distance, Ralph was slightly leading the fight.
His eyes were cast down at Milo's feet, waiting for something. Milo's left foot flinched, and Ralph ducked. Before the overhand was within range, Ralph was clear of its path.
W— How did he know?
*Thud*
Ralph's fist connected with Milo's chin, knocking him to the ground. Ralph kicked, and as Milo placed his hand to push himself up, his arm was swept by Ralph's foot.
The Partifolds held all sorts of fighters. Some were good, some were bad. But for those who thrived in such an environment, the others were nothing but children to them.
"Eugh!"
Milo let out a loud grunt as Ralph kicked him in the chest.
Ralph mumbled something to himself.
Milo clutched the sand as he scooted himself closer and closer to the edge. Slowly, Ralph approached him, ready to end the fight.
"Did you hear me?" Ralph asked.
Blood dripped from Milo's mouth. The cut from his previous fight had reopened. Metallic tastes filled his mouth. He spit.
Milo didn't respond. He used the time he had to stand and raise his guard.
"Never mind," Ralph whispered.
In an instant, Ralph was within range. He unleashed a barrage of attacks as Milo slipped between each one, waiting for his chance. The boy jumped back, but jumped forward as soon as he landed.
The strange maneuver caught Ralph off guard, allowing Milo's fist to scrape his cheek. Before Ralph could recover, Milo threw out dirt and sand from his right hand.
Ralph coughed and swatted the dust away, but Milo was already winding his hook.
*Crack*
Milo's fist buried deep into Ralph's side. The bone cracked from the impact. Ralph winced and retreated.
Now.
Without taking much time to regain his composure, Ralph grunted and charged in.
Milo twisted his back knee and dodged a cross, countering with his own left hook. Ralph's eyes widened.
But Milo missed.
Sh— Shit.
Ralph quickly reengaged. A quick punch sent Milo's head whirling, and another made him see black.
Milo opened his eyes to see the blue sky above. Clouds were absent from his view.
Something softly brushed against his face.
As he sat up, he realized he was no longer in the partifold but an open field of grass littered with flowers. All kinds of colors spread throughout the field. Pink and white with dark blue splotches. Red and yellow sprayed with orange. Every flower was unique. Every scent was pleasant.
Nothing obstructed the land—no mountains or trees. As far as Milo could see, the same sight stretched for miles.
Milo's left hand reached for his shoulder. The aching pain from his scar had vanished. He looked around.
A dream? Can someone think in a dream, though?
Against the blue canvas, Milo spotted something in the distance. He leaned forward and squinted his eyes.
A person?
As the words crossed his mind, the figure vanished.
"Hello, Milo."
Milo jumped and turned.
Before him stood a tall woman, her hair white and her skin pale. Draped over her, white silk hung to her feet. She stepped forward and approached Milo.
With every step through the flowers, life within them shook. Milo could feel the air, the flowers, and the sky.
They... love her.
"Who— Who are you?" Milo asked.
Trees grew from the ground and shrouded the area in darkness—pale bark illuminated under glowing moss. Small particles floated around in the air. The once-blue sky turned black, scattered with stars.
"I can tell you more," the woman said.
The boy nodded.
His mind told him to be scared, but his heartbeat slowed.
He stood and walked toward the woman. She smiled as he approached. A golden, honey-brown hue shone from within her eyes, like Milo's. Compared to the boy's, the strange woman's eyes glowed brightly.
The closer he got, the more beautiful she became. She had smooth skin and defined features, but her smile was soft and genuine.
She waved him near as she slowly knelt to the ground.
The trees around disappeared, and the flowery field grew once more. The sudden brightness of the blue sky made Milo squint, but he continued forward.
As she reached her hand out, Milo set his hand on top of her palm. She closed her other hand over his and closed her eyes. Seconds passed, but nothing changed.
Suddenly, Milo felt something in his hand.
The woman removed her top hand and revealed what was underneath.
A golden mask. Engraved in it were smooth, elegant lines. The corners pointed up, and the front protruded out to make room for a nose.
He looked up, and the woman nodded.
"A gift," the woman said, "from me to you."
His hand closed around the mask. He raised it and brought it toward his face, but something stopped him. Instead, Milo sat and crossed his legs. He placed the mask in his lap as he looked to the woman for answers.
"Kill the ones you know, bury the ones you trust."
"W— Wait..." Milo said.
"Danger approaches," she continued, "You must learn your weaknesses and master your strengths."
"Danger? From who?"
The wind blew, casting the woman's hair aside. The tops of her ears pointed back.
"The Apostles of the Gods."